Page 100 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

Gwen didn’t see how it could possibly be a trick, but it was certainly distracting; nobody else was moving, from her father’s side or from Lord Willard’s. They were all watching the solitary rider as he cantered across the field, the banner streaming through the air above him.

‘He has no chance at all,’ Gwen’s mother said scornfully. Gwen had to agree. He was alone out there, completely unprotected; whatever he was trying to do, it was suicide.

Just as the rider reached the midpoint between the two makeshift armies, he did something even more peculiar. He raised up the banner – his arms seemed to be shaking, the flag listing in the air as he tried to hold it aloft – and then threw it dramatically to the ground in front of him, where it was immediately trampled into the black mud under the hoofs of his horse.

‘Oh God,’ Gwen said, as the figure drew closer, still riding with singular purpose towards the hostile front lines.

‘It’s all right,’ her mother said, touching her arm. ‘Look. The archers will have him down.’

‘No,’ Gwen said, leaning so far over the parapet that she was in danger of tumbling to her death. ‘No, Mother, I think … Jesus Christ, I think that’sArthur.’

The rider, whose badly shorn dark hair became visible as he put his head down and made straight for Gabriel, never had a chance.

She saw her brother turn to her father, heard him shout something, but the king had already given the signal. Gwen couldn’t tell which of the three arrows found their mark, but the horse startled – the reins were pulled from his grip – and Arthur fell down into the dark, unforgiving ground.

The horses with the very large hoofs were going to kick Arthur’s skull in if he didn’t move in the next few seconds. He noted this thought, and tried to get his body to do something about it; his body, having given in long before imminent trampling had been brought into the equation, didn’t respond.

His ears were ringing from the impact of his fall; he could feel rather than hear that hundreds of men were running and galloping towards him on either side – that they were going to meet precisely where he was currently lying with his mouth full of mud and a stinging sensation in his arm that couldn’t be anything good.

‘Get up,’ somebody yelled. Arthur was mildly irritated – couldn’t they see that he was trying? It was only a mental sort of trying, of course, not manifesting itself in anything physical, but it was the thought that counted. ‘Shittinghell,’ the voice continued. Arthur’s spirits rose – he knew that swearing.

Sidney grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him out of the mud; he pushed Arthur towards his horse, but despite Arthur’s attempts to be helpful amidst his terror, itmust have been like trying to direct a man made out of sacks of potatoes.

‘Okay,’ Sidney said, clearly panicking. ‘You’re okay, the arrow just grazed you. If we just—’

Arthur didn’t get the chance to hear what sort of plan Sidney had cobbled together in the half-second before two armies threatened to converge upon them, because suddenly the converging was very much happening in present tense. Sidney threw himself at Arthur to push him out of the way as a horse almost knocked him down; unable to do anything other than brace himself, Arthur felt Sidney heft his shield over the two of them as the world erupted.

‘We have to move,’ Sidney shouted; swords seemed to be clashing right above their heads, punctuated by shouts and screams and horrible wet sounds that could only be the violent disassembling of bones and organs.

‘Find – Gabriel,’ Arthur managed, but Sidney wasn’t listening; he had put his head up over the shield only to find himself locked in combat with a stranger.Why are they doing this?Arthur thought hysterically, and then,I think that man gave me his soup at dinner last monthbecause he didn’t like peas.

Sidney managed to get a good hit in, and the man staggered away blindly, sword held aloft as if it would be able to protect him without his direction. It was raining harder now, the ground slick and unforgiving, the sky a furious, yellowish grey.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Sidney said. His hair was plastered to his head, his eyes constantly darting around, searching for the next threat. ‘Come on – if we can just make it to the edge of the—’

‘Sid,’ Arthur said hoarsely, as Sidney managed to get a shoulder under his arm and start dragging. ‘Bridget.’

‘What?’ Sidney said, preoccupied; it was only a matter of time before somebody else noticed that they were in need of a good stabbing.

‘Bridget,’ Arthur shouted insistently, and Sidney finally turned to look.

Bridget was locked in combat with Sir Marlin. Both of them were on foot, and the Knife was even bloodier than he had been before, if such a thing were possible. Bridget, incredibly, seemed unharmed.

‘She’s not wearing any armour,’ Sidney said, sounding a little faint. It was true; she was wearing a white tunic, a necklace swinging at her throat, mud splattered halfway up her breeches. Where the Knife was wild-eyed and manic, she was moving only as much as she needed to, her expression calm and focused, and she was wielding…

‘Excalibur fucking Nine,’ Arthur choked out, watching as she brought the sword up to repel another enthusiastic attack.

‘She’s mental,’ Sidney said. ‘She’s lost it, she’s going to …’

Bridget’s foot caught in the mud, and she stumbled; the Knife pressed his advantage and managed to knock her off her feet. She went down hard; they heard the ominous sound of bone on metal even above the madness of the battle, and Arthur saw Excalibur Nine fall from her grip.

‘Damn,’ Sidney said. ‘Shit. Okay. Just – stay here.’ He shoved the shield into Arthur’s hands, and Arthur willingly collapsed to the floor, trying very hard to look already dead.

His view half obscured, he watched as Sidney threw himself between Bridget’s prone form and the Knife’s blade; he might not have been a tournament fighter, but Sidney completely unleashed was truly a thing to behold. Sir Marlin attempted some sort of quick, dirty parry, a move that perhaps would have unbalanced someone who was playing fair, but Sidney just dug his heels into the ground and grinned like a taunted dog.

The next time the Knife swung, Sidney ducked, and then went for his leg – as Sir Marlin tried to recover his balance, Sidney’s sword found its target. The Knife staggered backwards, clutching at his side, where dark blood was bubbling up from the gap in his armour and streaking its way down the pretentious obsidian finish.

‘Is she alive?’ Arthur shouted, pushing himself up on to his elbows. Sidney went to check, glancing back up at Arthur with his eyes grim beneath his helm – but then his expression changed and he was barrelling towards Arthur like a bull, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond Arthur’s shoulder.