Gwen had never been particularly interested in the occult, but at that moment she would have traded her father’s entire kingdom for one tiny, pathetic trickle of Arthurian magic.
She just needed enough to turn back time, sprint to the orchard and remove that damned diary before Arthur could get his hands on it. She trembled with rage every time she thought about it, but she wasn’t angry at Arthur – not more than usual, at any rate. She was furious with herself.
She should have burned it years ago, but it was the one place she had allowed herself to voice her most closely guarded secrets. Some part of her liked that she had a record of first sightings, brief encounters – every scrap of Lady Leclair that she had been able to collect. There had been precious few of them: a nod from across a courtyard when Bridget had still technically been a squire, shadowing a knight from a neighbouring county; brief glances in Gwen’s direction when Bridget was paying her respects to the king during the tournament; an incident where Sir Blackwood, the Grand Marshal, had tripped over his own hem and they had been the only ones to laugh.
She had collected rumours too, throwaway remarks and the tail ends of stories she had overheard. People said that Lady Leclair could fight off two grown men by the age of twelve. They said she spoke six languages. They said that a stable boy had tried to grope her once at a regional tourney, and it had taken him six weeks to regain full use of his legs. Everything Gwen had heard about Lady Bridget Leclair just made her want to know more.
She had been there the first time Lady Leclair entered the lists, had watched with her heart in her mouth as she went out in the first round to a chorus of boos and jeers – it had just been all the sweeter the next year when she’d won, and kept on winning for weeks, until she’d been knocked violently from her horse and forced to retire. Gwen could have sworn that just once, during a golden August evening as she sat next to her father in the royal stands, she had caught Bridget staring at her intently when she thought Gwen wasn’t looking.
All these memories were tainted now, thanks to Arthur.
It felt wrong to withhold the finer details of what had happened from Gabriel, but the sight of him sliding into the chair opposite her in their private dining room that evening, wan and exhausted from a day of royal duties, gave her pause. She had been pausing like this for years, never quite sure how to talk to him about Lady Leclair, occasionally testing the waters with a passing comment about the knight’s choice of armour or prowess in battle, but never able to take the next step. She was sure that she would tell him everything at some point – she had to, she had never withheld anything from him for this long – but, as always, she told herself that it simply wasn’t the right time.
Their parents had been called to a private dinner with the elderly archbishop of Camelot, so Gwen proceeded to tell Gabriel approximately half of what had transpired since they had last spoken, the cracks in her story conspicuous despite her efforts to paper over them.
‘G, I don’t really understand how this is some dastardly plan,’ he said, rubbing at his temple.
‘Do you need me to explain it again?’ said Gwen, biting into a gooseberry and wrinkling her nose as her mouth flooded sour.
‘No, I grasp the basic concept, I just … You caught him kissing somebody? And now you’re covering for him? Why?’
‘Charitable spirit?’ Gwen offered, and Gabriel raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s agreed to be civil, Gabe. It’ll get Mother and Father off my back.’
‘But if you just explained that he’s up to no good, they’d probably call the whole thing off. What aren’t you telling me?’ He looked very, very tired, and it made Gwen feel even worse for lying to him. She stared down at the picked-at plate of fruit in front of her, her throat feeling suddenly tight.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, trying to smile at him and only managing a grimace. ‘I just want a bit of peace, and … this seems the easiest way.’
‘All right,’ he said slowly, reaching out and patting her arm so awkwardly that Gwen laughed. ‘But, you know, if you need—’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know. Just … It’s fine, Gabe. I know what I’m doing.’ He considered her for a while, and then sighed, reaching for an apricot.
‘So,’ he said. ‘You and Arthur? Besotted sweethearts?’ Gwen put her head in her hands and nodded. ‘Well. This should be interesting.’
‘What are you wearing?’
Arthur was sporting an elaborate jacket that was all brushed velvet and polished gold hardware; walking next to him, in a simple peach dress, Gwen felt distinctly underwhelming.
‘That’s not a very good start,’ Arthur said, smiling pleasantly at her. They were heading north, past the orchard, towards the drawbridge that would take them out of the castle and down to the tournament grounds. She saw her mother glance back at them and smile approvingly as they crossed the moat, and then they were being hustled through a back entrance by a fleet of guards and escorted to their seats in the royal stand. The king and queen sat first, taking pride of place in the hardy thrones constructed strictly for outdoor use; they were wildly luxurious compared to the tight rows of narrow benches in the other stands.
The ornamental sword Excalibur was already in place directly in front of her father on its own little plinth. It was large and ornate, modelled on the original, protruding from a slab of glittering rock. The winner of the tournament was allowed to hold it very briefly during the closing ceremony while the crowd cheered for them – and then it was hastily reclaimed, lest they drop it, or try to yank the sword from the stone and proclaim themselves king.
Gwen sat down with Gabriel on her right and Arthur, still smiling that infuriatingly benign smile, on her left. She saw a ripple of interest travel through the crowd, and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course they were all muttering. She never came to the tournament escorted. Arthur was a novelty, and he was probably loving it. A quick glance at him confirmed her theory; he ran a deliberate hand through his hair and then turned slowly so that his face was in profile, stopping short when he met Gwen’s glare.
‘What?’
‘Are you quite finished preening?’
This rebuke didn’t seem to land. ‘Put your hand on my arm,’ he said quietly, and Gwen snorted.
‘Thanks, but I’m really not that desperate.’
‘I mean, I’d say you are, but that’s a matter for another time – put your hand on my arm, and laugh as if I’ve said something terribly funny. For your parents. For the people.’
‘Why don’t you put your hand on my arm, and laugh as if I’ve said something terribly funny?’ Gwen hissed back indignantly. ‘It’s more realistic anyway – it can’t look as if I’m succumbing to charms of yours that don’t exist.’
She expected a retort, but instead she felt Arthur’s hand alight gently on her elbow; he leaned towards her, as if they were deep in private and amorous conference, and then tossed his head back prettily and laughed.
‘He’s good at this,’ Gabriel said quietly in her ear on her other side. Gwen flinched.
‘Stop watching,’ she said, through gritted teeth.
‘I am good, though,’ Arthur said, winking at Gabriel, who looked thunderstruck and quickly turned back to face the arena.
‘Don’t wink at him,’ Gwen said. ‘The point is to make it seem like we’re getting together, not that this is some kind of … mildly incestuous free-for-all.’
‘You have a truly terrifying mind,’ Arthur said, leaning back in his seat. ‘God – is that – that’s not Excalibur?’
‘The real Excalibur was lost,’ Gwen said slowly, as if explaining something to an infant. ‘Surely you saw the replacement here when you visited as a child?’
‘You’d be surprised how little attention I pay to things that don’t interest me,’ Arthur said, although he did seem interested in the sword; he was craning his neck to get a better look at it. ‘Why is it in a stone? Didn’t some odd woman chuck it out of a pond?’
‘Reports differ about how it was obtained,’ said Gabriel, sounding as if he were trying not to smile. Gwen was surprised that he was being so talkative – but then, he never passed up an opportunity to wax Arthurian. ‘And we could hardly present somebody with a pond.’
Arthur’s brow furrowed. ‘So that’s, what – Excalibur version two?’
‘Actually,’ Gabriel said, ‘it’s Excalibur Nine.’
‘Excalibur Nine?’ Arthur spluttered, as if this were the most hilarious thing he’d ever heard. ‘What happened to Excaliburs two through eight?’
‘They – I don’t know, they kept losing them,’ Gwen said crossly. ‘In bets, or just … in battle. Stop laughing, for God’s sake. Someone stole Eight, probably sold it to some Arthurian cultists somewhere, but we’ve had Nine for years.’
‘Oh my God. Can anybody just … pull it out, and bagsy king?’
‘No,’ Gwen said. ‘Well, I think it might be made so that nobody can remove it – but then, they’d want Father to be able to take it out, if he had to. Seriously, Arthur, stop laughing, be quiet …’
Arthur’s glee was drowned out as the first knights to face each other in hand-to-hand combat were announced by the Grand Marshal, to fanfare and applause.
Gwen listened intently, until she realised that two generic Sirs had been announced.
‘She’s second,’ Arthur said, having finally recovered, and Gwen snapped around to look at him.
‘What?’
‘I walked through the competitors’ encampment before I met you. She’s second, fighting a rather elderly man with a duck’s feather in his helm.’
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ Gwen blustered.
‘That would be a lot more convincing if there were more than one knight I could be referring to when I say “she”,’ Arthur drawled. Gwen felt herself blushing and straightened up a little to try to maintain her composure.
The two knights approached the royal stand, helms in their hands; unable to bend the knee in their armour, they bowed awkwardly, and Gwen’s father genially inclined his head in response. A woman in the front row of the neighbouring stands threw out her favour, a posy of flowers; the knight it was intended for missed it spectacularly, and then stared sadly down at it, unable to reach for it without toppling over.
‘Why were you even back there with the competitors?’ Gwen asked out of the corner of her mouth.
Arthur grinned. ‘Talent scouting.’
Gwen’s horrified response was cut off by the roar of the crowd as the two knights were given the signal to raise their swords and fight; they circled each other for a few moments before the taller of the two stepped in to strike, and then suddenly they were grappling, landing clumsy blows that rang out even over the sound of the bystanders.
‘There’s no art to this,’ Arthur sneered, leaning back in his seat and dangling one arm over the edge of it to look artfully fatigued. ‘You might as well clad a couple of bears in tin and let them have a go at each other.’
‘They do, in London,’ said Gwen, watching as the larger man struck the smaller so hard on the head with the flat of his sword that the latter was driven down on to his knees. ‘If you’re so convinced it’s easy, why don’t you enter? I’m sure my brother will lend you his sword and armour. He gets little use out of them, and he has plenty of spares.’
‘Er – no I won’t,’ said Gabriel on her other side.
The victorious knight had his sword at his competitor’s throat; he looked, for a moment, as if he might be considering using it to lethal effect, but the trumpets quickly sounded and the stands erupted into cheers and boos as he was announced the winner.
‘I didn’t say it was easy, I said it was artless. Besides, I struggle to hold a sword – I wonder why that is …’ he pretended to ponder. ‘Oh I know, it might have something to do with the fact that a little ginger sadist snapped my bloody arm in half when I was a defenceless young boy.’
‘You were never a boy,’ Gwen hissed back. ‘You were a demon.’ Her hand had gone to her mouth, and she realised a moment later that she was chewing agitatedly at the raw skin around her nail. She promptly removed it from reach by sliding her hand under her leg.
‘I don’t recall breaking any of your bones,’ he replied hotly.
‘Not as if you didn’t try,’ said Gwen, but the trumpets had started up again, driving a spike of excitement through her chest.
Lady Bridget Leclair was announced to a cacophony of jeers and laughter. She strode out across the arena, her posture and bearing betraying no sign of disquiet at her reception.
The Grand Marshal hadn’t announced her competitor; there was an awkward pause, the noise dying down, and then he cleared his throat. ‘Fighting her today – Sir Marlin of Coombelile.’
‘The Knife?’ Gwen turned to Gabriel. ‘She wasn’t supposed to be fighting the Knife.’
‘Who the hell is the Knife?’ Arthur demanded. The crowd bellowed as Sir Marlin, clad in armour so dark and lustrous that it almost looked liquid, walked out to take his place next to Lady Leclair. He was of a height with her – from here, he looked narrower, too – but Gwen still felt nervous on Lady Leclair’s behalf as she watched them both approach the royal stand.
‘Oh. That’ll be him then,’ said Arthur, as the Knife took off his helm and slicked his dark blond hair away from his pale face. ‘He’s quite short.’
‘So are you,’ snapped Gwen. She couldn’t take her eyes off Lady Leclair, savouring the rare opportunity to stare openly at her; when she removed her helm she didn’t look the least bit frightened, although on closer inspection her jaw was clenched rather tightly. Her hair was pulled back into a small bun, and Gwen thought fleetingly about how much she’d like to see it fall free from its tie.
‘I’m taller than you,’ Arthur said, his voice squeaking a little in indignation.
‘You’re the same height as me,’ Gwen hissed. ‘Now shut up.’
‘You are freakishly tall for a woman,’ muttered Arthur, just as both competitors reached them.
They bowed, Sir Marlin perfunctorily and Lady Leclair with her hands meeting as if in prayer, and the king gave them a nod and a smile that looked significantly more like a grimace than his previous one had; they were just about to turn away when Gwen caught Bridget’s eye. Gwen was too slow to pretend she hadn’t been staring, and she thought she saw one corner of Bridget’s mouth quirk up ever so slightly, as if she found this somehow amusing.
‘Lady Leclair,’ Arthur called suddenly, halting proceedings. Gwen froze, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. ‘Please,’ he said, flashing Bridget his most charming smile. ‘Fight for me.’ He leaned forward and presented her with a single, slightly crumpled yellow flower.
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Bridget paused for a moment, and then reached up and took his favour. Gwen felt like she could actually hear her own blood rushing around her skull; as the knights walked away to take their positions everybody else settled easily back into their seats, but she stayed upright and rigid. Her father was frowning at her. Gabriel was frowning at Arthur.
‘What the hell was that?’ she said through clenched teeth.
‘Audience participation,’ Arthur muttered back, his smile unwavering. Gwen so badly wanted to push him out of his seat. ‘What’s the big deal about this Knife man anyway?’
‘He hasn’t competed for years,’ said Gabriel, and Gwen turned to glare at him for engaging with Arthur when he had just been so terrible. ‘Because the last time he did, he killed somebody. Apparently, it wasn’t intentional – the man died of his injuries after leaving the arena.’
‘He sounds like a delight,’ said Arthur.
‘He stayed on to try to win the tournament,’ Gwen said reluctantly. ‘It was in dreadful taste. And then when he reached the melee everybody turned on him and gave him a good kicking. A feeling I’m sure you’re used to being on the receiving end of.’
‘Who does he fight for?’ Arthur asked, ignoring her. ‘Who sponsors a murderer at a stabbing contest?’
‘Our father’s second cousin,’ Gabriel said in a low voice. ‘Lord Willard.’
‘Ah. Yes. I’m told my mother hated the man. Apparently if it hadn’t been for her, my father might have sided with Willard and the other cultists instead of your father when the old king died – and just think, we would never have been betrothed. I mean, you’d also never have been born, so … it’s not so much a silver lining as it is just silver all the way down.’
‘What are you doing?’ Gwen hissed. ‘That’s treason. You’re talking directly to royalty about treason.’
‘Calm down. I wasn’t intending to commit any, although you do make it ever so tempting,’ Arthur said lightly. ‘Now, if you don’t mind – my lady is about to fight.’
Gwen bristled at ‘my lady’, but she didn’t want to miss a moment of the fight either; she turned back to watch as the trumpets sounded for Lady Leclair and Sir Marlin to begin.
Last year during the third bout Gwen had watched Bridget compete against someone much taller and larger than she was; Gwen had felt sick with nerves watching them square up to each other, sure that Lady Leclair wouldn’t make it out of the arena with all of her limbs intact. Instead, she had been quick and light on her feet – had been able to use the much larger knight’s weight and lack of speed against him – and had been triumphant. They had booed her anyway, of course. They always booed her in single combat.
She really excelled in the lists, and for some reason the crowds didn’t seem to mind so much that she was a woman when she had a lance under her arm. Gwen wished they were watching her joust now. Instead, she had to watch as the Knife feinted to the side, then leaped forward to strike.
If the fight between the previous competitors had been undignified and fumbling, this was the exact opposite. Both Lady Leclair and Sir Marlin wore lighter, thinner armour; both favoured speed over power. Bridget didn’t just lead with her sword. She used her entire body – elbows, knees, even a well-timed kick. She got a few good blows in, but it was impossible to be truly agile while wielding a sword and shield. When she next tried to land a hit, the Knife stepped neatly to one side, hooked her leg and sent her sprawling. She struggled to get up; he let her try for a few seconds before raising his sword and bringing it down on her helm with such force that many of the people in the crowd groaned.
‘She’s already down,’ Gwen said, glancing over at her father, who was talking to the queen. ‘They should stop.’
‘They won’t while she’s still trying to get back up,’ Gabriel said, nodding over at Lady Leclair, who was indeed struggling to get to her feet. The Knife glanced over at the Grand Marshal, who didn’t react at all, and then lifted a foot almost lazily and stamped down hard on Lady Leclair’s hand as she reached for her sword.
‘Stay down,’ Gwen said, her fingers tightening against the wooden barrier in front of her. ‘Why won’t she just stay down?’
‘I suppose it’s not in her nature,’ Arthur said, with infuriating indifference. Lady Leclair managed to get up on to one knee; the Knife struck her again, and she dropped on to all fours in the dirt. Even from the stands Gwen could see that her chest was heaving under her armour. Sir Marlin considered her with acute, predatory interest, and then kicked her hard in the side.
‘She’s not even armed any more,’ said Gwen, her voice rising, her hands flying to her mouth. The Knife took a slow and deliberate step back, and then kicked her again. Gwen felt the impact of it jolt through her body as if she were the one on the ground. Lady Leclair’s helm had been knocked loose, obscuring her vision; she reached up with a shaking hand to remove it, and Gwen saw that blood was pouring down her face. The crowd were still baying for more. Sir Marlin reached down to grab Bridget by the hair, hauling her towards him as her feet scrabbled for purchase, his sword raised as if he intended to strike her bared neck. Gwen gasped behind her fingers – but then the Grand Marshal finally signalled for the trumpets to be blown, and the fight was over.
The ancient rules of chivalry dictated that knights would be gallant and modest in victory, but Gwen wasn’t the least bit surprised when instead of helping Lady Leclair to her feet, Sir Marlin left her where she was. He walked over to the stands to remove his helm and give a curt final bow to the king before exiting with a profoundly smug smile on his face. Bridget got up very gingerly, her squire running out to help her. As they made their way back to the competitors’ tents, moving at an agonising pace, Gwen caught a glimpse of Arthur’s yellow flower, crushed and forlorn in the dirt.
‘Pleasant sort of people, your subjects,’ Arthur said; they were all, of course, laughing.
‘Can I speak to you?’ Gwen said, her voice tight. ‘In private.’
‘Of course, my love,’ Arthur said, getting to his feet and putting out an arm; Gwen had no choice but to take it, although she was loath to touch him. She watched her mother look up at them as they went to leave, but she only smiled again at the sight of them getting along; she couldn’t hear what Gwen was whispering furiously to Arthur as they exited to the back of the stands.
‘You utter bastard – you brought that flower just to irritate me and to humiliate her, as if people needed any other reason to laugh at her—’
‘Steady on,’ said Arthur, yanking his arm away at the exact same time that Gwen went to remove hers. ‘I’ll have you know that it was entirely for your benefit, not hers.’
‘Oh, fantastic, well as long as you were only trying to humiliate me,’ Gwen fumed. ‘What happened to our agreement? You’ve as good as told the entire city that something strange is going on, drawing all that attention to her. Have you told anybody?’
‘No! God, you are so delusionally paranoid, you need—’
There was a commotion over by the guards standing watch at the entrance; Gwen looked up and saw Arthur’s body-man attempting to get past them, looking over at Arthur and throwing up his hands in exasperation when they refused.
‘It’s all right,’ Arthur shouted. ‘He’s with me.’
One of the guards turned to look at him. ‘And who the hell are you?’
‘He’s with me,’ Gwen said reluctantly, stepping forward. The guards parted and let Sidney through. He took in Gwen’s crossed arms and Arthur’s smirk, and laughed quietly.
‘Lovers’ tiff, is it?’
‘Excuse me?’ Gwen said, glaring at him in disbelief. ‘Who exactly do you think you’re addressing?’
‘My apologies,’ Sidney said, bowing his head slightly. ‘Lovers’ tiff, is it, your highness?’
‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ Gwen said, turning to Arthur and brandishing a finger at him. ‘You are not to try to embarrass me, you are not to play hilarious jokes, you are not to involve –’ she dropped the volume of her voice significantly – ‘to involve Lady Leclair in any of this for your own sick amusement—’
‘Hello,’ said Gabriel, appearing at her side. ‘I was sent to make sure you weren’t alone unchaperoned.’ He looked at Sidney. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Sidney Fitzgilbert, your highness,’ Sidney said, bowing deeply without any prompting.
‘Oh, so he gets “your highness”?’ Gwen said, rounding on him. ‘You arrogant, impudent little …’
Sidney stepped sideways, behind Arthur.
‘You’re supposed to protect me,’ Arthur said indignantly. ‘What the hell do you call this?’
‘Not in my remit,’ he replied. ‘She’s not going to kill you, but she looks like she might be about to start poking.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Gwen hissed, stepping closer, ‘that I won’t kill you.’
‘Oh dear,’ Arthur said wearily. ‘She’s gone feral.’
Gwen really might have slapped one of them then – either would do – but Gabriel put a gentle hand on her shoulder and she just gave a quiet little scream of frustration instead.
‘This is not helpful,’ Gabriel said, looking directly at Arthur. ‘Stop goading my sister.’ Arthur looked back at him defiantly, raising his eyebrows in a wordless challenge.
Gwen had had enough. She turned on her heel and stormed away, two guards peeling off from the group and falling into step behind her as she made for the drawbridge. She was so angry she wasn’t looking where she was going; she had to pull up so suddenly when somebody stepped into her path that she almost tripped. Immediately there was a guard at her side holding her steady, and another throwing up a sword between her and her potential assailant.
Lady Bridget Leclair looked extremely done in. She had a nasty bruise already mottling her cheek, a split in her lip, and her eye was blackening in one corner where her helm must have made contact with the bone; she was wincing as she breathed, and Gwen could only imagine how battered she must be under her tunic. It took the knight a moment to realise whom she had almost collided with, and when she did, she straightened up despite her injuries; Gwen tucked one of her plaits behind her ear, hoping she hadn’t gone bright red.
‘Your highness,’ Bridget said, bowing with a wince and then struggling to rise again; Gwen reached out without thinking, but Bridget held up a palm to stop her. The sleeve of her tunic had slipped down to her elbow, revealing smooth gold-brown skin and hard muscle underneath.
Hands, Gwen thought hysterically. Hands – and also arms.
‘Bridg— er, Lady Leclair,’ she said. ‘How are you? I mean, you look—’
‘I’m well,’ Lady Leclair lied, grimacing around her split lip. ‘Forgive me – Sir Marlin was very thorough.’ Her hair, Gwen noticed, hadn’t stayed confined for long; strands of it were escaping, curled and damp with sweat where they touched her neck.
‘He shouldn’t have kept hitting you,’ Gwen said impulsively. ‘While you were already down.’
‘Well, perhaps not,’ said Bridget, her voice edged with pain. ‘But I entered to fight, and a fight was what I got.’
‘I – I suppose,’ Gwen said, knowing she was definitely blushing now. ‘I’ll … Good luck, in the rest of your events.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bridget. That tiny smirk Gwen had noticed on her face before was back now, even though it must have pained her; it was so subtle that Gwen could almost have been imagining it. As she went to leave, Bridget held up a hand again – not touching her, not even close, but making Gwen stop in her tracks regardless. ‘And – please, thank your suitor. For his favour.’
‘He’s not my suitor,’ Gwen said quickly, before realising how ridiculous this would sound, given the fact that they were trying to convince everybody in Camelot of the opposite. ‘I mean – yes. Thanks. I will.’
‘He’s not your suitor,’ Bridget repeated, maintaining a steady eye contact that Gwen thought might perhaps kill her. She had no idea what to say in response to this. When Bridget removed her hand and stepped back, Gwen simply nodded awkwardly, and then continued up to the slope towards the drawbridge.
She spent the rest of the day wondering what on earth it could have meant.