Up until the moment all the shouting started, Arthur had been relatively convinced that his father was just being miscellaneously unhinged; he had been both baffled and furious, but not surprised. It didn’t seem out of the realms of possibility that his father might just be in the mood for tying Sidney up and holding his own son at swordpoint, after all. Unlikely, but not impossible.
When he heard the distinctive sounds of panic – the deep, brassy command of a guard shouting ‘Protect the king!’ – he finally realised that this was no aimless midlife crisis.
‘What’s happening?’ Arthur shouted, struggling against the guards that held him, craning his neck as he tried to catch a glimpse of the tournament grounds behind them. ‘For Christ’s sake, what the hell have you done?’
‘Shut up,’ his father said, striding along beside him. It had started to rain, light but steady, the drops pattering loudly on helms and armour. ‘For once in your life, shut up and listen.’
‘Not until you tell me—’
‘Not until you quiet down.’
‘Fine,’ Arthur said bitterly, wincing as his leg dragged.
‘I have formed a very advantageous alliance,’ his father said, practically spitting with excitement, his face ruddy and flushed behind his beard. ‘An alliance that will restore glory to our house, and our name.’
‘I was about to be married,’ Arthur said through gritted teeth. ‘To the princess.’
‘You should be pleased then, that I’ve found a better way forwards,’ his father said dismissively. ‘The king obviously thinks little of me, and you certainly weren’t going to argue my case or show me preference despite the fact that we are blood, something you made very clear in that delightful hate mail of yours – and I see no reason why I should wait around for the scraps of whatever the king was willing to spare. No, no – we’re being offered real power, Arthur. As befits us. When Lord Willard takes the throne—’
‘Oh fuck,’ said Arthur, his eyes widening. ‘Jesus. You haven’t.’
‘Think he has,’ Sidney wheezed; he’d been punched quite hard in the solar plexus after they tied his hands, and Arthur was glad to hear him perking up.
‘This isn’t funny,’ hissed Lord Delacey, rounding on him.
‘Actually – I agree,’ Arthur said disjointedly, as a guard pulled painfully at his arm to keep him moving. ‘It’s far from funny. So, just to get me up to speed, we’ve joined…
This is an ousting? You’ve signed me up to a coup?’
‘If everybody cooperates,’ his father said, wringing his hands as he spoke, ‘it will be a – a relatively peaceful transfer of power.’
‘Right, because that’s definitely going to happen,’ said Arthur. His mind was racing; was the king still alive? Was Gwen? Gabriel? The further they got from the tournament, walking through the eerily deserted campgrounds, the less he could guess at what was happening behind them. ‘Do you know how embarrassing it is to stage a failed coup? You have to go all-out, and then, when you lose, everybody knows you completely and utterly shat the bed.’
‘Shut up,’ his father shouted, and Arthur flinched away from him, unable to go particularly far. ‘You’re in this now whether you like it or not, Arthur. The king should be dead by now.’ Dead? Arthur’s supposedly healed ribs ached. ‘We are to rally the second wave and lead them in to claim the castle. Do as I say – and as Lord Willard commands – and you shall be rewarded. There might even be a place for you on the king’s council one day, if you play your cards right. If only you had listened to me before, instead of throwing yet another tantrum – I thought I had sent you a very clear message about where that path would lead, although I admit, things may have got … out of hand …’
Arthur attempted to parse this. Somebody had recently told him they had a message for him, and as he tried to recall who, he felt phantom pain rack his body again – because, he realised, the next moment he’d been lying on the ground as they kicked his ribs until they cracked.
Arthur’s mouth fell open. ‘Jesus Christ – that was you? Next time you ask somebody to deliver me a message, you might want to tell them I’m supposed to be alive to hear it. You – you utter bastard, you prick—’
‘It was never supposed to go that far,’ his father snapped, as if Arthur were overreacting. He rather thought he was under-reacting. ‘You needed a reminder of where your loyalties should lie, and you had made it obvious you wouldn’t listen to reason. I regret that they were so … enthusiastic, but the point still stands—’
‘I’m going to kill you,’ Arthur spat at him, straining uselessly against his captors. ‘Although, hey, maybe I won’t have to! Do you really think that if you win today, the people of England aren’t going to mind that you’ve baselessly attacked the capital and bumped off their king?’
‘Baselessly?’ Lord Delacey said, with a humourless chuckle. ‘Arthur, you’ve always been an idiot about these things. Willard hasn’t been laying low; he’s been laying groundwork. His claim to the throne has always been as good as the king’s, and he’s been slowly gathering support back to him all these years.’
‘All those uprisings? In the north?’ Arthur said, stumbling again and finding himself yanked up by the scruff of his neck.
‘Ha! No. They were nothing. A distraction. Divert the king’s attention and troops northwards, leaving Camelot undefended – that halfwit Stafford nearly lost the last of his hair ensuring that one went off properly.’
‘Lord Stafford?’ Arthur said, trying to recall the last time he’d seen him – their conversation in the Great Hall, Arthur drunk and melancholy and telling him…
‘Yes,’ Lord Delacey said with grim satisfaction as they neared the treeline. ‘Yes, you accidentally proved yourself more useful than you’ve ever managed to do on purpose. I did have to embellish a little, so the truth of your reluctance to be in any way useful to the rebellion didn’t shame me. It certainly helped things along with certain factions to hear that the prince plans to abandon Camelot, run away to the seaside and take all the crown’s gold with him to waste on books …’
‘That’s not what he – God, you miserable tosser, you—’
‘Be quiet, Arthur, you’re wasting your breath. Now that the king is dead, and his heir is next—’
Arthur inhaled sharply. ‘And what about the princess?’
‘I’m sure your betrothed is safe. She has her uses – in fact, I think Willard plans to marry her.’
‘Right,’ Sidney said thickly from behind Arthur. ‘Fuck this.’ There was a gasp and a crunching sound, as if somebody’s nose had just collided with something very hard; Arthur rather suspected it was Sidney’s forehead. A scuffle followed, during which one of the guards holding Arthur upright abandoned his post to keep Sidney contained; with a sudden fifty per cent increase in freedom, Arthur finally managed to twist around to look back up towards the castle.
There were men in armour running and riding towards them, swords and faces bloodied. Sidney, having put up a good fight, was on the ground again. Seeing no reason why his father might not just order him killed this time, Arthur did the first thing that came into his head, and let his body go completely slack so that the guard only half holding him promptly dropped him. He threw himself on top of Sidney, both of them grunting at the impact.
‘Arthur, will you just— Well met, my lord!’
Arthur’s face was buried somewhere between Sidney’s shoulder and his ear, but at the sound of approaching hoofs and his father’s simpering reverence, he heaved himself over to look at the new arrivals.
The infamous Lord Willard was sitting astride an enormous grey horse, a dark cape billowing at his shoulders, not a spot of blood or dirt on him; the Knife was with him, absolutely drenched in gore from head to foot. Arthur watched with horror as hundreds more men poured from the copse of trees behind them, armoured and armed and clearly raring for a fight. Lord Delacey had gone to speak to Lord Willard in hushed, self-important tones, leaving his son crumpled on the ground.
‘What the hell are we going to do?’ Arthur said, muffled by Sidney’s chest, feeling hopeless. If the king was really dead – if they’d taken Gabriel and Gwen too – then it was already over.
It was unthinkable.
‘Agnes,’ Sidney moaned. ‘I didn’t even – I never even slept with her, Art. I fell in love with her, like a pillock, so now I’m going to die when I haven’t seen so much as a tit since the spring—’
‘Good Lord, Sidney, shut up,’ Arthur grunted, rolling away so that he was looking up at the greying sky, rain falling softly on his face. ‘Shit. This is very, very bad.’
‘Maybe … maybe they’re not dead,’ Sidney said. ‘They’re not stupid. And this lot have come fleeing back, so they didn’t win on the first push. And – and our lot have got a castle.’
‘They weren’t ready for a battle though,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘They were ready for a party.’
‘Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean—’
‘Arthur,’ Lord Delacey said sharply, nudging Arthur’s face with the toe of his boot. ‘Get up. You too, boy.’ He bent down so that only Arthur and Sidney could hear him, an extremely alarming smile fixed on his face as he hissed, ‘Get on a horse, and don’t make a fool of yourself.’ He straightened up again. ‘The king still lives, but no matter.’
Arthur exchanged a desperate glance with Sidney. If the king still lived, it stood to reason that everybody else did too.
‘We will be on the front line,’ continued Arthur’s father. ‘Leading Lord – King – Willard to glory. It’s an immense honour.’ He strode away to meet the man who was bringing round his horse.
‘They’re alive,’ said Sidney. Arthur gave him a weak thumbs-up. ‘Although … front lines.’ Arthur flipped his hand to give the appropriate thumbs-down.
‘Willard’s just hoping we Delaceys die first,’ he said bitterly, reaching over to untie Sidney, who, once freed, put an arm under Arthur’s shoulder and heaved him up. ‘So he doesn’t have to invite my father to dinner parties.’
Lord Delacey glanced sharply over at them, but nobody was trying to stop them from leaving any more. It seemed pointless; who up at the castle wouldn’t assume them both turncoats now, after everything Arthur’s father had done? They’d likely be killed on sight.
Someone brought armour, and it was parcelled out to them in a rush. Arthur let Sidney dress him; he tried to help with the fastenings but found his hands too shaky and fatigued to do much of anything. He was cycling through their options in his head. First, and most obviously, they could run. They could make a break for it as soon as they were ahorse, flee and wait somewhere safe until they knew who had won the day. Either way, he’d likely be on the run for the rest of his life, labelled a traitor by whichever side claimed victory.
Second, they could stay and look out for their own necks. If Arthur did live, which was hilariously unlikely, he supposed he’d just have to accept whatever measly life his father and Willard offered him from that point onwards.
But that was a life in which Gabriel was dead; the king too, and perhaps Gwen with them – so neither of the first two options would do at all.
‘They think I’m a traitor,’ Arthur said suddenly, as Sidney led a gleaming white horse towards him and pushed the reins into his hand. ‘Because of what I told Stafford. That must be why they wouldn’t see me. They think I’m part of all this.’
‘Had been thinking that myself,’ Sidney said grimly, before going to fetch a horse of his own.
‘Shit,’ Arthur said to the horse; it stared balefully at him, as if willing him not to do anything that might bring about both of their demises.
‘So – are we running?’ Sidney said, eyeing up the messy line that was forming, newly arrived horses being brought forward into the mayhem with rolling eyes and nervous, skittering hoofs.
‘Can’t,’ Arthur said, grimacing at him. ‘You should, Sid. But I can’t.’
‘Sod off,’ Sidney said mildly, patting his own horse on its tawny forelock. ‘Fat bloody chance of that.’
‘Hmmm. I suppose now would be an excellent time for me to have my very first idea.’
‘Yeah, keep working away at that,’ Sidney said. He cupped his hands to boost Arthur up into the saddle; Arthur almost fell back down, but with a few heaves managed to get himself up on to the horse, with no guarantee he would stay there.
Arthur was thinking, thinking, thinking. Eventually, it all seemed laughably clear.
‘Do you know what the first sign of civilisation was, in people?’
‘What?’ Sidney said distractedly, handing Arthur a sword. He tried to give him a shield too, but Arthur couldn’t bear the weight, so he kept it for himself.
‘Ashworth told me when I was little,’ Arthur said, shakily sheathing the sword on his third try. ‘They think the first sign of civilisation was a healed femur.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Sidney said, mounting his own horse with a grunt.
‘It’s a bone in your leg.’
‘I know it’s a bone—’
‘Just ask me why, Sid. I’m trying to do something here. Indulge me in my final moments.’
‘Fine,’ Sidney said. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ Arthur said, as Lord Willard himself pulled ahead to the front of the line, ‘it’s a bad break. It doesn’t heal by itself. Other people have to care about you – bring you food and protect you while you heal – when really they should just leave you behind to die. They have to make sacrifices that make absolutely no logical sense for their own survival. They have to defy all rationality, in the name of love.’
Two standard-bearers stepped forward on either side of Lord Willard holding thin scarlet banners, each emblazoned with a black tower. Close to the tournament grounds, Arthur could see the king’s forces gathering, disciplined lines of men with their heads held high. He could also, he realised, just about see the king – his bannermen made him easy to spot, looking enormous astride his horse even from this distance. There was somebody next to him armoured in light, lustrous gold, leaning forward to calm his agitated horse.
Arthur thought he probably knew who that was, too.
‘I feel,’ Sidney said apprehensively, ‘like this whole femur thing is symbolic. Because you didn’t break your femur. And that – that can’t be a good sign.’
‘Well,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘If we’re going to die here, I reckon we should let history remember us as reprobates for all of the questionable things we actually did, don’t you? Not as filthy turncoats for my bastard father.’
Sidney’s gaze was steady. He nodded just once.
‘You don’t have to follow me, Sid,’ said Arthur, reaching over to put a gauntleted hand over Sidney’s. ‘Part of me would really rather you didn’t.’
‘How many times am I going to have to tell you,’ Sidney said irritably, ‘to sod off.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Arthur said, unable to keep himself from smiling fondly at Sidney, his stomach lurching as he wondered if it might be for the last time. ‘In that case, Sidney Fitzgilbert – I have decided to make a series of poor decisions in an attempt to clear my name in the eyes of those I love, most likely culminating in our untimely deaths.’
‘Well,’ said Sidney, shaking out his shoulders and then settling into the saddle, chin stubbornly raised. ‘Good of you to announce it this time. Usually, you just crack on.’