Two days later, the fragile truce still seemed to be holding. Arthur had nodded at Gwen from down the hallway when nobody else was around to require the pretence, had actually bothered to send Sidney back with a response when Agnes took him a note, and that evening when Gwen left her chambers for dinner he was waiting at the top of the stairs, clean-shaven and freshly washed and generally looking in much higher spirits than he had been the last time they’d spoken.
‘What’s that smell?’ she said, as he held out an arm and she took it.
‘Oh, lovely, that’s just what a person likes to hear in lieu of greeting.’
‘No, it’s – it’s nice,’ Gwen said quickly, eager to keep the hard-won peace. ‘You smell like something … I don’t know, musky. And kind of like – a tree?’
‘Kind of like a tree,’ Arthur repeated despairingly. ‘It’s orange and sandalwood. You pain me. Kind of like a tree.’
‘What part of anything you just said doesn’t come from a tree?’ Gwen said indignantly. Arthur sighed in exasperation, which Gwen thought wasn’t particularly fair.
She had been trying to pay him a compliment. She just wasn’t very good at them.
The hall was packed with guests once again, the tournament continuing to attract more visitors than Gwen had ever seen. As a lady of noble birth and Gwen’s personal attendant, Agnes should have been sitting in her usual place with other ladies of similar standing, but Gwen saw her covertly slide in opposite Sidney instead, blushing as he leaned across the table to talk to her. Arthur had noticed too; he raised his eyebrows and shot Gwen a conspiratorial glance, making her snort. She stopped short when she realised what she was doing. Since when had Arthur made her laugh? Since when had she and Arthur had inside jokes?
Gabriel was running late for dinner; when he sat down next to Gwen, she noticed that they were wearing almost exactly the same shade of blue.
‘Twins are very unnatural,’ said Arthur conversationally.
‘We’re not twins,’ Gwen said. ‘As you well know.’
‘You look identical,’ Arthur said, spearing a bit of chicken with his fork and pointing it at Gabriel, ‘and he can’t have more than a few inches on you, height-wise, because you are – to put it delicately – some sort of giantess.’
‘Arthur is very sensitive about the fact that we’re the same height,’ Gwen said to Gabriel by way of explanation. ‘He exaggerates, because if I’m a gigantic woman, then he can pretend he’s an average-sized man.’ Gabriel just cleared his throat awkwardly, and picked up his fork.
The rest of dinner passed without incident. Arthur was on his best behaviour, and every time Gwen looked up she noticed people watching them; smiles, elbow nudges, whispers and nods in their direction. Arthur kept refilling her glass, leaning in and finding little excuses to put a hand on her arm. Gwen was surprised to find herself unbothered. He had mastered the art of making their conversation look intimate without actually stepping over the line into uncomfortable territory.
Towards the end of the meal, when people tended to drift from their places to find entertainment further afield, Sidney raised a hand to call Arthur over to where he was sitting with Agnes. Arthur left, giving Gwen a squeeze on the shoulder as he walked away.
‘That’s going well, then,’ Gabriel said.
‘Well – yes, I suppose so. Are you all right? You look … squinty.’
‘No,’ Gabriel said. ‘I mean, yes. I’m all right. Just sat in four hours of military strategy meetings, shuffling little pretend troops and horses around a map of England.’
‘Cultists again?’ Gwen said quietly, and Gabriel gave a small nod in response. ‘Is it bad?’
‘No,’ Gabriel said. ‘I don’t think so. Just these little pockets of … potential unrest, I suppose. They seem to be popping up all over the place, but especially towards the north. They look like they might boil over, so we’re sending men. Too many men, I think, but then I’ve never really had a head for strategy.’
‘If they send all our men north, who’s left to protect us here?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gabriel. ‘You, I suppose.’
‘Well, did you tell Father what you thought? About the war chests?’
Gabriel had recently confided in Gwen that he thought they were spending too much money fighting their various battles; he wanted their father to divert some of it, to focus on helping the ordinary people of England, but hadn’t yet found the courage to tell him.
‘Somehow it hasn’t come up,’ Gabriel said. He wasn’t looking at Gwen. He was watching somebody across the room. As Gwen finished her stewed pears, he excused himself to go and speak to the Wizard; lately Gwen had noticed him spending more and more time with Master Buchanan, who was probably thrilled that somebody in the royal family was taking an interest in Arthurian history, even if it was only academic. Arthur was still talking to Sidney and Agnes; he said something with a wry smile that made Agnes snort ale out of her nose. For a moment, Gwen imagined what it might be like to get up and join them.
‘Good evening, Gwendoline.’
Gwen startled at the sound of her father’s voice. He sat down in Gabriel’s chair with a glass in hand, making a small groaning sound as he did; he wasn’t that old really, but age seemed to have caught up with him in a rush recently.
‘Evening, Father. Gabriel said you were with the war council most of the day.’
‘Oh? Yes, yes. I suppose we were.’
‘But you won’t have to go?’
‘North? No, I shouldn’t think so. Not for some time anyway. Hopefully never.’
Gwen bit her lip. ‘Gabriel said – I mean, he mentioned that you were sending a lot of troops, and I thought—’
The king chuckled, sounding very tired. ‘Ah. Yes, that did take up quite a lot of the afternoon. Don’t worry yourself about that … Tell me, how are things going with young Arthur?’
‘Oh. Good,’ Gwen said, which was mostly true. ‘We’re getting along much better.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said the king, patting her on the hand. ‘I really don’t wish for you to be unhappy. I know I’ve put you in a difficult position – but I hope you know I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t truly important. More so now than ever.’
‘So it is bad?’ Gwen said. When she was younger, he had often confided minor matters of state to her over their regular games of chess, when her mother wasn’t there to hear him and tell him off for filling her head with information that was of no use to her; lately any one-on-one discussions about the running of the country had been reserved for Gabriel alone. ‘With the cultists, I mean?’
Her father sighed, rubbing at his beard. ‘The problem with compromise,’ he said eventually, ‘is that, often, everybody loses. You sit on the fence for so long that you discover you’ve built a kingdom on it.’ He took a long drink of wine, and then visibly perked up. ‘Ah, here he is. Been asking the Wizard to make ready the troops of magic birds, son?’
‘No,’ said Gabriel, shifting uncomfortably. The king nodded slightly awkwardly, and then got to his feet.
‘Duty calls. The Earl of Northumberland wants to talk my ear off about Arthurian miracles; apparently a magpie told somebody in the port of Blyth to beware of red-headed men.’
Gwen and Gabriel retired to her room to play chess after dinner. Gwen used the opportunity to quiz him further about the supposedly imminent cultist uprisings, while his answers got increasingly weary, most of them culminating in, ‘I don’t know, G. Come on, it’s your move.’
It was quite late when Agnes, who had ostensibly been changing Gwen’s bedclothes and arranging her outfit for the next day in the other room, emerged wearing her cloak and looking very much like a person who didn’t want to be noticed. Gwen and Gabriel both turned to look at her, and she froze on the spot.
‘Going somewhere?’ said Gwen.
‘No,’ Agnes said, flushing very pink.
‘Just thought you’d take your cloak for a turn about the room, then?’
Gabriel shot her a warning look – a look that said be nice – and she sighed. ‘You’re allowed to go out, Agnes. I don’t particularly care what you get up to at night, as long as you don’t wake me on your return.’
There was a soft knock at the door. Agnes looked even more guilty than she had before.
‘Who’s that?’ said Gwen.
‘Nobody,’ said Agnes, bunching the edges of her cloak up in her hands.
‘Agnes,’ somebody hissed, in a very loud stage whisper. ‘Ags, it’s Sidney. Open the bloody door.’
‘I don’t know what he’s doing here,’ Agnes said, sticking her chin out defiantly, still bright red. Gwen and Gabriel exchanged another look.
‘Are we early?’ Sidney said quietly to somebody on the other side of the door.
‘She said a little before midnight,’ said Arthur, not bothering to lower his voice. ‘So actually we’re right on time. Unless she had no intention of meeting you, and this is actually a jilting, in which case … Oh, hello, Gwendoline.’
Gwen had crossed the room and wrenched open the door. Sidney was bent over, apparently trying to look through the keyhole, while Arthur lounged behind him against the wall. Sidney straightened up immediately, looking slightly sheepish; Arthur just nodded in greeting.
‘What are you doing?’ Gwen demanded.
‘Crimes,’ said Arthur, at the exact same time that both Agnes and Sidney said, ‘Nothing.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly done an excellent job of getting your story straight,’ Gwen said, crossing her arms.
‘We’re going to a party,’ Arthur said, studying his fingernails and then looking up at her archly. ‘Now, how do I explain what a party is? It’s a place where people meet to have fun, and—’
‘It’s not a party,’ Sidney interrupted. ‘Right, Agnes?’
Agnes put a hand to her forehead and sighed. ‘No.’
‘Well, what is it then?’ Gwen said. Gabriel had appeared at her shoulder, and was watching the proceedings with mild interest.
‘It’s Morgan’s Day,’ Agnes said, as if that explained anything.
‘Morgan’s Day? Morgan who? Le Fay?’
‘Yes, le Fay,’ Arthur said, as if she were being incredibly slow. ‘It’s a secret gathering for her birthday. Or … something.’
‘You’re going to a witch’s birthday party,’ Gwen said. ‘A witch who’s been dead for hundreds of years, and who was considered morally questionable at best.’
‘That’s the crux of it,’ said Arthur. ‘Any more inane questions or can we leave?’
‘Oh, I have questions,’ said Gwen. ‘Why is this party starting in the middle of the night? And what’s the point of a birthday party for somebody who’s dead?’
Arthur went to speak, but Gabriel got there first.
‘The more progressive Arthurians celebrate the duality of her spirit. Her capacity for kindness and evil. The stories about her can’t pin down whether she was good or bad, so people have decided she was a bit of both. The more devout cultists prefer Merlin, so she’s become a bit of a symbol of resistance, especially for women. People confess their faults to her, and celebrate their strengths. It’s a sort of ritual.’
Everybody turned to stare at him.
‘I’m not a cultist,’ he said. ‘I’ve just read a lot about them. Their practices are interesting.’
‘You are mad as a newt,’ Arthur said, shaking his head. Gabriel looked down at his feet; the tips of his ears had gone very pink.
‘We’ll be off then,’ said Sidney, offering Agnes his arm. ‘Unless – do you want to come?’
‘Me?’ said Gwen. ‘To a secret cultist gathering, at Camelot? In this political climate?’
‘Gwendoline doesn’t do fun,’ Arthur said. ‘Come on, I don’t want to get there after they’ve given out all the good dark magic.’
They were already halfway out of the door, and Gwen felt a pang of longing like she had back in the Great Hall; she couldn’t help but think of all the times she had watched groups of young ladies laughing together at feasts and dances, telling herself she wasn’t anything like them, burying the part of herself that quietly ached for companionship.
Perhaps she didn’t need to act on everything she wanted; perhaps it was enough just to have this, and then be done with it.
‘I’ll come,’ Gwen said.
‘No you won’t,’ said Arthur, pausing in the doorway and looking mildly scandalised.
‘Yes I will,’ said Gwen. His indignance just made her want to double down. ‘It’s – it’s not outside the castle, is it?’
‘No,’ Agnes said reluctantly. ‘It’s within the bailey, your highness.’
‘Fine. I’m only coming to keep an eye on you, Arthur, so you don’t do something rash. Agnes – just – fetch my cloak.’
‘Don’t fetch her cloak, Agnes,’ Arthur said firmly. Agnes looked from Arthur to Gwen. Gwen narrowed her eyes.
‘Fetch. My. Cloak.’
Agnes sighed, and ducked past Gabriel to go back into the bedchamber.
‘I’m really not sure this’ll be your sort of thing,’ Sidney said slowly; Gwen suspected that Arthur had given him a pinch on the arm to inspire him to speak.
‘If people like to celebrate this day, then I’m sure I’ll find some part of it amusing. I’m people, aren’t I?’
‘No,’ said Arthur, as Agnes reappeared and reluctantly helped Gwen into her cloak.
‘I think it’s probably best if I come too,’ Gabriel said suddenly.
‘What?’ Gwen and Arthur said at the same time, managing to match each other in tone and pitch.
‘Just – give me a second,’ Gabriel said. ‘I need to go back to my rooms and—’
‘If you say fetch my cloak,’ said Arthur, ‘I am going to scream.’
Arthur insisted that Gwen and Gabriel put their hoods up as they walked, and that they weren’t to take them down under any circumstances, as they would risk ‘ruining the integrity of the event’.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Gwen said, rankled despite the fact that she had absolutely no intention of getting caught at some questionable cultist bacchanal.
‘Do you think anyone’s going to relax and take part in dark and terrible magic rituals if they think they’re being observed by the heir to the throne and the heir to – hmm, what are you the heir to? The slightly smaller seat next to the throne?’
‘Do you suppose people will notice?’ Agnes said quietly to Sidney.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘They’ll blend right in.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Arthur. ‘Why wouldn’t they? They’re only about eight feet tall with flaming red hair, and act like they were raised in a haunted tower away from all human contact—’
‘Well, we were,’ said Gabriel. Arthur laughed in a strangled sort of way.
‘What was that?’ he said incredulously. ‘Gwendoline, did your brother just make a joke?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Gwen. ‘Where the hell are we going?’
They had left the familiar confines of the inner castle and were now out in the bailey; Gwen knew the areas to the north and south of the main keep well, but they were currently walking east to the servants’ domains, and in the darkness all the squat little service buildings looked identical. They ducked down an alleyway, following close at Arthur’s heels, and it opened out into a small courtyard that Gwen knew she had never seen before in her life.
‘Is that a chapel?’ she said, frowning at the structure at the far end.
‘What gave it away?’ said Arthur. ‘Was it the massive bloody cross on top?’
‘I didn’t know there was a chapel in here,’ Gwen said, looking at Gabriel, who shrugged.
‘Religion for the lowly masses,’ said Sidney. ‘Servants. Regular folk.’
As they watched, a couple of giggling serving girls burst from another doorway and crossed the courtyard, glancing back over their shoulders and talking in exaggerated whispers before opening the door of the chapel and ducking inside.
‘No time like the present,’ Arthur said, leading them on.
‘We are definitely going to hell,’ Gabriel said in Gwen’s ear, as Arthur opened the chapel door, cocked an eyebrow and beckoned them inside.
It looked entirely unremarkable – rows of neat pews, that particular smell of tapestry dust and candle wax and wood in the air that Gwen recognised from every religious building she’d ever entered – but at the far end up by the altar a door was ajar, and candlelight was flickering in the space beyond. They followed it into a narrow corridor and down stone steps until they reached another door; on the other side, Gwen could hear voices and laughter.
‘I’m not sure this is such a …’ she started, but it was too late. Arthur herded Sidney and Agnes inside ahead of him, and then looked back at where she was hovering and rolled his eyes.
‘And you were so excited about the part where you got to fetch your cloak,’ he said, taking her firmly by the arm and yanking her inside.
They immediately encountered a problem.
‘Before you enter, I must tell you – there are no men allowed in here,’ said a grey-haired, stern-looking woman in a dark robe. ‘Are any of you men?’
‘We’re very well-behaved men,’ Arthur offered. ‘Normal. Innocent.’ Gwen snorted.
‘I don’t care what variety of man you are,’ the woman said. ‘We are here to celebrate the Lady Morgan le Fay – it’s a sacred space on Morgan’s Day.’
‘Ah,’ said Sidney. ‘Well. Agnes, shall we … ?’
‘Oh,’ said Agnes. ‘Well, I sort of want to … stay. If that’s all right.’ Sidney looked disappointed, but rallied quickly.
‘I shall wait for you outside,’ he said gallantly.
Agnes giggled horrifyingly, but Gwen was too preoccupied to scoff – she was looking around at the room. She had expected a cellar about the size of the chapel above, but the space was cavernous, with pillars and arches running along the length of it and at least a hundred people gathered in hooded groups beneath them. The entire space was lit by a large open fire in the very centre, the smoke disappearing up into a hidden chimney. Beyond the flames, somewhat warped and rippling in the heat, Gwen could see a huge, mottled stone statue. It towered above them, gazing down dispassionately with both hands raised.
‘Are you coming?’ Gabriel asked, nudging her arm.
‘Er,’ Gwen said. ‘Gabe. Are you seeing this? This – this is some sort of secret cultist temple. In the castle grounds.’
‘I know,’ Gabriel said, not looking nearly as horrified as he should have. ‘It’s fascinating.’
‘Come on,’ Arthur said insistently. ‘Let’s go.’
‘I think – I think I’d like to stay,’ said Gwen. Having braced herself for life-affirming adventure, she didn’t want to turn back now; and besides, it was only a very little escapade, barely even deserving of the word.
‘Oh,’ said Gabriel. ‘All right. If they do the ritual, can you make a note of everything? I want to hear about it later, especially the part where they—’
‘Christ,’ Arthur said. ‘Even she didn’t bring parchment and a quill to a party. Come on, you insufferable academic.’
Gwen just had time to see the expression of shock on her brother’s face before he was being pulled back through the doorway they had just come through. Arthur did seem to spend rather a lot of time yanking them both around. Like an ill wind, thought Gwen. Or a rip tide.
‘Is that her? Morgana?’ Gwen said, pointing up at the enormous statue.
‘Yes,’ said the grey-haired lady. ‘Now, hurry on in – the ceremony is about to begin.’