Gwen was desperate for her bed.
She had been pretending to herself that her book was just so scintillating she couldn’t possibly retire yet, but in reality she had read the same line five times in a row and not taken in a word. The longer Arthur was gone, the more annoyed she became. She found herself listening for signs of his return – drunken shouting from below, perhaps, or the scream of somebody missing a foothold and plummeting to their very timely demise – and was surprised when her only warning that his arrival was imminent was the sound of somebody swearing faintly right underneath her window. A second later, Arthur tumbled through it. He was no longer wearing a jacket, and his hat was filthy, as if it had been dropped repeatedly and placed back on his head.
‘Good evening,’ he said from the floor. Gwen slammed her book shut and stood up.
‘For God’s sake, Arthur, you were gone for four hours. Where’s your – where’s Sidney?’
‘Regrettably,’ Arthur said, getting to his feet with considerable effort, ‘he was too drunk to make the climb.’
‘Oh, and you’re not?’ Gwen said, casting a disapproving eye over him.
‘I’m here, aren’t I,’ he said bitterly, taking off his hat. Most of his hair had already managed to come loose from its knot, but he untied the rest and pushed it away from his flushed face.
‘Tell Agnes she can come back in,’ Gwen said, watching as he walked unsteadily towards the door. ‘She’ll be in the ladies’ solar, just before the guards. And … we’re going to the joust together first thing tomorrow. Meet me in the entrance hall.’
Arthur made no sign of having heard this. ‘A delight, as always, Gwendoline. Hope you enjoyed your book.’
‘Just as much as you enjoyed debasing yourself, I’m sure,’ Gwen hissed after him, reluctant to let him have the last word.
‘You have no idea,’ he said over his shoulder, before he closed the door behind him.
At breakfast, Gwen was practically falling asleep in her food. Her parents were conferring with Lord Stafford, who was standing at her father’s shoulder dressed in scarlet and looking gaudily anxious; on a normal day their conversation would have been well worth eavesdropping on, but this morning Gwen was only capable of leaning her head on one hand and pretending to listen to Gabriel, who was talking to her about market fluctuations.
‘It’s amazing how much bread can tell us about society,’ he was saying now, pointing to a passage in his book.
‘Bread,’ Gwen said, picking some up and shoving it into her mouth. ‘Amazing.’
‘Gwendoline, please don’t talk with your mouth full,’ her mother said from down the table. ‘And I’d like to speak to you when you’re finished eating.’ Gwen sat up a little straighter. She’d been expecting a conversation like this, but perhaps not so soon.
Ten minutes later her father got up from the table to leave with Stafford, kissing the queen as he went and passing a quick hand over Gwen’s head in both greeting and farewell. Gabriel only noticed that he was supposed to be leaving too when their mother cleared her throat loudly. He snapped his book shut and slipped from the room with a curious glance back at Gwen, who rolled her eyes in response.
‘I’ve just heard something troubling about a visitor to your rooms last night,’ her mother said, steepling her fingers and considering Gwen evenly.
‘I don’t … Who told you that? Was it Agnes?’ Gwen said, going red.
‘No, it wasn’t Agnes. Stafford was informed—’
‘Lord Stafford? Did he have his ear pressed against the door to my chambers?’ Gwen said hotly. It didn’t matter that she knew she’d done nothing wrong, or that this had been the plan all along; she still felt horribly uncomfortable knowing what everybody else must be thinking. While she supposed this sort of thing did fall within Stafford’s remit, he rarely paid this much attention to her – usually, she didn’t need much managing.
‘He had it from Sir Hurst, who was told in confidence. Gwendoline. Did Arthur visit you last night? In your rooms? Unaccompanied?’
‘Um,’ said Gwen, clenching both hands under the table. ‘Yes, he visited me. But we were accompanied, Mother. His servant was there, and Agnes was – around. We just sat by the fire and … talked.’
Her mother sighed and sat back in her seat, her eyes roaming Gwen’s face. She looked more thoughtful than angry, which was something.
‘Gwendoline, I’m – I’m pleasantly surprised that you’re getting along so well, but I must say I’m astonished at your behaviour. Betrothed is not married, and you must take every precaution—’
‘Mother,’ Gwen squeaked before this hideous sentence could continue. ‘I assure you, there’s no need – we really were just talking. I want to know the man who’s going to be my husband. I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Well … I am pleased,’ said her mother. ‘But if I might recommend a modicum of propriety, Gwendoline? We don’t need the entire castle talking about it.’
‘Message received,’ said Gwen, still bright red.
The queen sighed in a long-suffering way, and then put her hand to Gwen’s cheek. ‘Just think, all those years you spent resisting everything a future bride ought to be, hiding yourself away like a recluse – and it was all for nothing! I hope you see now how silly you’ve been.’
Gwen felt something in her chest harden as she pulled away. ‘Right. Can I … I’m supposed to meet Arthur for the joust.’
‘Yes. Your father and I won’t be there, I’m joining him for an audience with the northern guard after his morning briefing – so please behave.’
‘I always do,’ Gwen said truthfully.
Arthur wasn’t in the entrance hall when he was supposed to be. Gwen waited for what felt like an age, getting more and more frustrated, before stalking out of the door with guards scrambling to keep up with her.
Today the arena’s tilting rails had been raised for the joust. The air was already pungent with the smells of horse shit, trampled straw and spilt ale warming in the sun. Without the king present, the atmosphere had shifted slightly. It was wilder – more celebratory, far less formal.
It felt strange to enter the royal stands alone. Even without her parents there, Gwen didn’t feel comfortable taking one of their thrones, and she took her usual seat awkwardly, her gaze on her lap as she felt many eyes on her. She’d never adjusted to this, despite the fact that it had been happening her entire life; she still distinctly remembered when, aged seven, she’d asked Gabriel what everybody was staring at as they’d entered a feast in some viscount’s great hall. He had shushed her with a wry smile, and later had gently explained that they were considered the most important people in any room; nay, in the whole of England. It was just as disquieting now as it had been then.
She was looking so determinedly at her hands that it took a while to notice a guard standing at the entrance to the stands trying to catch her attention; when she finally looked up, he seemed extremely relieved.
‘Your highness, forgive me. There’s a – a lady here,’ he said, apparently struggling with some aspect of this sentence, ‘who says she was sent a royal invitation to join you.’
Baffled, Gwen glanced behind him, and then froze; Lady Bridget Leclair was standing there, flanked by guards, looking straight at Gwen. She was wearing men’s clothes again, a dark tunic with a simple belt, a shortsword at her hip. The cut on her lip was beginning to heal, and one side of her face was covered in blotchy purple and yellow bruising. The guards were all staring at her as if she were a lost dragon.
Gwen realised she was also agape, and quickly closed her mouth. She certainly hadn’t sent any ‘royal invitation’, but she could hardly turn her away now.
‘Oh. Well – thank you.’
‘Should I ask her to disarm, your highness?’
‘No, no, it’s fine. Let her through.’ Gwen settled back into her seat and tried to look as if she were utterly fascinated by the knights currently being announced to raucous cheering as Lady Leclair made her way along the row.
‘Your highness,’ she said stiffly, with a tiny bow. Gwen just stared at her for a moment before realising that she was waiting for permission to sit down, and nodded awkwardly at the seat to her left. Arthur had lounged in it, as if born to sit there; Bridget settled in with perfect posture and quiet confidence. Gwen sat bolt upright in her own chair as if strapped into some kind of torture device.
Arthur. Of course. The only person who’d dare send an invitation on her behalf. She was going to kill him. It was incredible, really, that he hadn’t managed to make it out of bed to join her, but had found the time to engineer another plan designed to humiliate her.
‘You’re not – you aren’t entering the lists today?’ Gwen asked eventually to break the silence, watching as one of the knights tried to calm his horse, which was currently walking jerkily backwards and rolling its eyes agitatedly.
‘No,’ Bridget said slowly. ‘I need a little time to recover. But I assumed … you knew that. The note said—’
‘Who brought it?’ Gwen interrupted, mainly to avoid finding out how horrific the contents had been.
‘Ah,’ Bridget said. ‘I see.’ She rolled one of her shoulders back as if it were paining her, and Gwen heard something click. ‘Cropped black hair. Stocky build.’
‘Yes,’ Gwen said darkly. ‘I know him. Listen, Lady Leclair, I’m—’
She had to stop speaking suddenly when she realised that the knights were approaching her awkwardly to present themselves to her in her father’s stead. When they bowed from their saddles, Gwen gave them a stiff nod in return, not quite managing to smile. The silence between her and Bridget felt very charged as they rode away to take their starting positions.
‘You didn’t send it,’ Bridget said matter-of-factly. Gwen turned to her, imagining that she might be confused by this revelation, but she was just looking at Gwen expectantly.
‘No, I think – I think an acquaintance of mine was trying to vex me,’ Gwen spluttered, as the Grand Marshal signalled for the knights to make themselves ready. Bridget was still looking at her very intently.
‘What about me,’ Bridget said in a low, amused voice that sent a thrill up Gwen’s spine, ‘is so particularly vexing?’
Gwen was spared answering by the start of the event; the knights urged their horses forwards, the crowd increasing in fervour and volume until the two competitors met with a dull crack. One of the horses had spooked at the last moment, and while one lance had splintered, the other had veered wildly off target. The knight who had broken his lance had won the round without receiving a single blow from his opponent; he also, however, had a rather large piece of splintered wood sticking out of his cheek.
Gwen watched with grim fascination as he dismounted and his squire came rushing to his aid; he attempted to pull it out, and the crowd reacted with cheers and groans of sympathy as this only seemed to make him bleed more profusely. The sound of the knight’s swearing – slightly garbled, as he was unable to move one side of his face – got fainter as he walked away towards the competitors’ encampment.
‘Not much of a victory,’ said Bridget, watching him go.
‘Well, I’m sure they’ll be able to get it out, and then he’ll be able to celebrate – although, might be hard to drink wine with a hole in his face, as it’ll just all sort of … pour out of him, like a human thurible …’ Gwen trailed off, wishing she had just said, ‘Yes.’
‘No,’ Bridget said. Her eyes were smiling, even if her mouth wasn’t. ‘I meant … You want to have a few runs at each other. Get your blood up.’
‘Is that why you do it?’ Gwen asked. ‘To get your blood … pumping?’
In retrospect the word ‘pumping’ did not seem an auspicious choice, but Bridget didn’t seem to notice Gwen’s compounding misery.
‘That’s part of it,’ she said, one hand going to her mouth, her thumb probing gently at the bruising until she winced. She looked sideways at Gwen, who was transfixed. ‘I like some risk now and again, if what’s at stake is worth having. Plus, it’s nice to have a win. We don’t get a lot of those.’
The Grand Marshal was announcing the next to joust: Sir Woolcott, an absolutely enormous man whose steed barely seemed to be holding him up, and…
‘The Knife,’ Gwen hissed as soon as she recognised him sitting astride his gleaming black horse, not bothering to raise a hand to the crowd, half of which was already booing him. She didn’t temper her expression as both of the knights came to pay her their respects, their bows really no more than nods, and narrowed her eyes at Sir Marlin’s back as he trotted away.
‘You shouldn’t call him that,’ Bridget said mildly. ‘The Knife, I mean. Giving him a sinister nickname elevates him. Makes him sound like he’s more than a man.’
‘I’ll just call him that bastard then,’ Gwen said, surprising herself with her own vehemence. ‘To make it clear that I consider him significantly less than a man.’
Bridget laughed quietly. ‘Ah. You’re not fond of him, I take it.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Gwen heatedly, ‘I have him over for sleepovers in my chambers all the time. We eat sweets and talk about which of the knights of the round table we’d most like to marry if they were still alive, and then we laugh about his delightful propensity to hit people repeatedly over the head when they’re already on the ground.’
‘I told you that wasn’t personal,’ said Bridget.
‘It was your personal face he battered,’ said Gwen. ‘Your lip he split. That feels pretty personal to me.’
‘Spoken like a woman who’s never been in combat.’
‘You’re the only woman who’s ever been in combat,’ Gwen countered.
Bridget’s nonchalance faltered. ‘God. You don’t really believe that, do you?’
There was a burst of fanfare, and then the horse’s hoofs were pounding the ground as their riders levelled their lances. Knock him off his horse, Gwen silently urged Sir Woolcott. Knock him off and then under his horse.
When they did come together, it seemed her prayers had been answered; Sir Marlin was hit so hard that the momentum threw him halfway out of the saddle. The horse was pushed off balance too, and they seemed to hover precariously at an impossible angle before both man and beast came crashing down into the sand. The stands erupted, screaming for Sir Woolcott, who had pulled up his horse and was holding his broken lance aloft in victory.
The Knife was still down; neither he nor his horse seemed able to get up, as they were thoroughly entangled with both each other and the tilting rail. Sir Woolcott dismounted and approached, walking with an exaggerated swagger; Gwen expected him to reach out a hand to help his opponent, to take the horse’s halter and urge it up, but instead he looked around at the crowd, bathing in their adoration, and then slowly and deliberately unsheathed his sword.
‘He wouldn’t,’ said Bridget quietly, her eyes narrowed.
‘Wouldn’t … what?’
‘Sir Woolcott was blooded in local tourneys. I have no idea how he came by his title – he certainly didn’t have one the last time I encountered him. There are far fewer rules in those independent tournaments, and … well, he’s not the greatest thinker. And he enjoys the spectacle of violence. It’s not a reassuring combination.’ Bridget wasn’t looking at Gwen as she spoke; she was leaning forward in her seat, body tense, hands braced against the barrier as if she were moments away from leaping right over it. ‘If the people keep cheering for him, there’s no telling what he might do. Why won’t the Grand Marshal call to stop?’
Gwen craned her neck, looking for Sir Blackwood. ‘He’s not in his seat,’ she said. It came out barely louder than a whisper. Sir Blackwood was often not where he was supposed to be; even Gwen had heard the rumours that the Grand Marshal had turned drinker and gambler in recent years. She knew her father had been too busy to push the matter, but if it came to light that he had left his post to settle his debts while needless blood was spilt in the arena, there’d be hell to pay. ‘Oh, God. Look at the crowd.’ They were all up in their seats, chanting Sir Woolcott’s name. He had removed his helm and was grinning back at them, clearly emboldened by their frenzy.
‘This is the king’s tourney,’ Bridget said, finally facing Gwen. Her expression was furious; it was hard to look at somehow, like trying to stare directly into the sun. ‘Everybody here knows the terms. We fight according to the rules of chivalry.’
‘My father isn’t here,’ Gwen said weakly, gesturing to the empty seats next to her.
Bridget’s eyes tightened. ‘Then this is your tourney.’
Gwen could see the logic in this, but in reality she felt no more in charge than the pageboys who put down fresh straw between tilts. Not even her own lady-in-waiting took her seriously; why would anybody else?
She watched helplessly as Sir Woolcott advanced on the Knife, who was still trapped beneath his panicking horse.
‘Call the round,’ said Bridget. ‘Come on. Tell them to stop.’
Gwen looked up at her, horrified. ‘I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘It’s not for me to … They won’t listen to me anyway.’
‘He’s going to kill him if you don’t,’ Bridget insisted. ‘Say something.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Gwen said, paralysed by fear and guilt. ‘I don’t – I really don’t think I can.’
How could Bridget not see that she was asking the impossible? And besides – somebody else would surely step in. If they just held on for a few more seconds, one of the other knights would intervene, or the Grand Marshal would return, and the trumpets would sound. The Knife would get up, Sir Woolcott would be reprimanded, and they’d call in the next competitors with no harm done.
‘Fine,’ said Bridget, flexing her fingers against the railing. ‘Fine.’ Before Gwen could blink, she had jumped the barrier and landed lightly on the ground below. She unsheathed her sword from her belt and strode towards the two knights. The reaction from the crowd was immediate and deafening.
Bridget ducked under the tilting rail and placed herself squarely between the Knife and Sir Woolcott, shoulders back, hands steady. The latter looked at her, his chest heaving, almost vibrating with adrenaline, and then threw back his head and laughed.
‘You won, sir. Put your sword away,’ Bridget said, her voice low; Gwen had to strain to catch it.
‘You,’ scoffed Sir Woolcott. ‘You make a mockery of this tournament.’
‘If I do, then I’m about to have company,’ Bridget said evenly. ‘You and I both know there’s no honour in fighting a man who’s already down.’
‘No?’ shouted Sir Woolcott for all to hear, playing to his eager crowd. ‘Let’s see what honour I can find in fighting a mangey, jumped-up bitch who doesn’t know her place.’
The crowd roared its approval. Gwen watched with her heart in her mouth.
Bridget pushed her hair away from her face and adjusted her stance ever so slightly, readying herself. This is ridiculous, Gwen thought faintly. She’s covered head-to-toe in bruises, and she doesn’t even have her armour on.
This thought was finally enough to get Gwen on her feet; she almost tripped over her hem in her rush to the end of the royal stand. The guard standing there was watching the fight, transfixed.
‘Please go and fetch the Grand Marshal,’ Gwen said. He couldn’t hear her over the sound of the crowd, and leaned in as she tried again. ‘You have to – please, get Sir Blackwood, now.’
The guard nodded, and called over another of her father’s men. Gwen turned back to the arena just in time to see Sir Woolcott swing his sword at Bridget with such velocity that when she dodged neatly out of the way it stuck fast in the dirt. Bridget could have struck, but she didn’t seem to want to hurt him; she attempted to take out his legs, to unbalance him as he yanked at the blade, but he stayed standing, solid and immoveable as a brutish tree.
Gwen looked behind her desperately, hoping to see the Grand Marshal hurrying to his seat, but he was nowhere to be found. Some of the other competing knights had been drawn from their encampment, and seemed to be considering intervening; a few were already reaching for their weapons. She heard a clash of swords again; Bridget was on the ground, her weapon held above her head, Sir Woolcott’s pressing down against it and eliciting a tortuous, shrill squeal as steel met steel.
Bridget was going to lose. He was going to wound her, perhaps mortally, and not even the knights with their swords drawn would be there in time to stop it. Gwen suddenly felt dangerously light-headed as the entire scene in front of her seemed to slide sideways, falling from her grip – but then she heard a voice ringing out across the arena.
‘Stop.’
The crowd quieted, and all heads turned. Gwen sagged against the barrier in her relief. Her father was here. Her father had come, and Bridget was saved.
When she turned, however, it was not her father, but Gabriel – he was standing at the entrance to the royal stands, looking incensed and a little sick. The guards standing either side of him had their hands on their hilts, and it occurred to Gwen far too late that she should have ordered her own guards to step into the fray.
‘Stop this at once,’ Gabriel said again, his voice heavy with disgust. Sir Woolcott deflated, his grin faltering, and threw his sword to the ground. The Grand Marshal had finally returned; he was looking from Gabriel to Bridget with naked panic on his face. Good, thought Gwen, pressing her shaking hands to her chest. You useless bastard. I hope you’re dismissed without reference or pay.
Bridget got to her feet with only a hint of difficulty, dusting herself off as calmly as if she’d been sitting down for a brief rest rather than moments away from abruptly and dramatically exiting this life; even injured as she was, she turned to offer a hand to Sir Marlin, who had finally managed to disentangle himself from his horse. The Knife squinted up at her proffered hand, barked a laugh and then spat loudly and deliberately at her feet.
Murmurs and mocking guffaws rippled through the stands. Bridget looked down at the Knife, and the Knife glared up at her, and then she gave the slightest of shrugs – as if to say, Have it your way – and sheathed her sword, before ducking under the rail and walking away towards the Grand Marshal.
Gwen was so preoccupied with the white-hot rage that had flooded every inch of her at the Knife’s insolence that it took her a moment to realise that Gabriel had reached her.
‘God, Gabe, thank you,’ she said, putting a hand on his elbow. ‘I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t … Thank you.’
‘How did it get that far?’ he said. Now that he was closer, she could see that his hands were shaking. ‘Gwendoline. Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I – I was going to, but … I couldn’t think, and they wouldn’t have listened to me anyway.’
Gabriel took a few steadying breaths. ‘If all I had to do was shout,’ he said quietly, ‘then all you had to do was shout.’
Gwen felt shame blooming darkly in her gut as he sighed and patted her on the shoulder, looking mildly apologetic, as if it were his fault for burdening her with his unrealistic expectations.
As if he knew, like she did, that at the end of the day – she just didn’t have it in her.