Page 107 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

Arthur reached over to pat him on his unbandaged arm, slightly overcome with pride. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll come back tomorrow, and we can talk some more.’ He went to leave as Gabriel eased himself back against the pillows, and then paused at the door. ‘Because … I wouldn’t mind, you know. If you did harbour expectations. In fact, I’d do my very best to exceed them.’

He had come back the next day, and there had been a little talking. As Gabriel got stronger there had been more of it, and on a late September afternoon when Arthur was reading to Gabriel from one of the Arthurian tomes Mrs Ashworth had sent from home, Gabriel had closed the book for him and they had graduated from talking to kissing.

Still, they took things very slowly. The shock of the coup had left both Gwen and Gabriel brittle, unfocused, and very, very sad.

He didn’t blame either of them, of course – in fact, he thought they were doing remarkably well, for two people who had lost their father in the sudden violence of battle. Gabriel, especially, had started to take his new position in his stride.

He assembled a new council – some new faces, some old. He spoke his mind; he listened. Every time he didn’t understand something, he asked for it to be repeated in terms that made sense to him – everything was carefully debated and voted on, pride left at the door. Arthur imagined that some of his new staff probably thought him addled from his injuries and his grief, confused by this new way of doing things. They didn’t know that this was how Gabriel always would have taken to the office of king.

His quieter, gentler way of governing had certainly been called into question when it came to the matter of the prisoners from the battle; tradition dictated that they should be executed. Gabriel had scattered them across England, putting them in the care of some of his father’s most trusted bannermen, indebted and indentured, but for shockingly lenient periods that had caused Sir Hurst to storm out of a meeting in disgust.

Arthur had argued that the former Lord Delacey deserved a longer sentence, and Gabriel had just given him a very stern look. He had inherited that look, Arthur noted, from his father.

Arthur was a very slow walker these days; he had never quite recovered from the attack outside the inn, or from being so ill for so long, and some days just getting out of bed made him feel like he was still crawling through thick, unforgiving mud. Today, luckily, wasn’t one of them. The castle was busy, everybody swept up in preparations for the St Martin’s Day feast and the address Gabriel was to give to the populace at its close. None of them knew what he planned to say.

When Arthur reached the walled rose garden, he nudged the door open with his foot and almost fell over when Lucifer shot past him; the cat bounded off into the bushes, immediately distracted by a bee.

‘Lucifer,’ Arthur said sternly. ‘That one’s spicy.’

‘He’ll never catch it,’ Gabriel said, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the low November sun. He had his speech on his lap, and it was very well-thumbed despite the fact that he had only finished this latest version yesterday afternoon.

‘O ye of little faith,’ Arthur said, stooping to kiss Gabriel’s curls. He looked, as Arthur had suspected he would, absolutely ill with nerves. ‘Hi, Sid – Agnes. I’m here, by the way. Don’t get up.’

Sidney was sitting on the bench opposite muttering something in Agnes’s ear, while she turned steadily pinker; he gave Arthur the finger without missing a beat.

‘I’m still paying your salary,’ Arthur said darkly, throwing himself down on to the seat next to Gabriel.

‘I saved your life about eight thousand times,’ Sidney said, raising an eyebrow. ‘You’re so indebted to me. You’re so indebted to me it’sembarrassing.’

Arthur threw up his hands, exasperated, and looked to Gabriel for support. Gabriel, predictably, was frowning back down at his speech again.

The door smacked against the wall on its hinges; Sidney and Agnes didn’t bother looking up, but Arthur waved to Bridget as she stalked across the courtyard with a dour expression on her face.

‘That’s a very nice dress,’ Arthur said, knowing he was pushing his luck.

‘You’re pushing your luck,’ Bridget said, looking murderous as she sat down. ‘I’d have stayed out on the road if anybody had warned me I’d have to wear a dress. Where’s Gwen?’

‘With our mother,’ Gabriel said, still looking down at his speech. ‘They’ve started playing chess together in the mornings. I don’t think either of them particularly enjoys it, but you know – they’re trying.’

‘So let me guess,’ Arthur said slowly. ‘The dress, while of course an enduring symbol of your endless subjugation, is a necessary evil to make you look feminine and proper today in light of all the extremely improper things you plan to do from this day forth.’

‘Don’t say words like “subjugation” to me right now,’ Bridget said, pressing a hand to her forehead. ‘I promised Gwen I’d be on my best behaviour.’

‘Luckily,’ Arthur said lightly, ‘I made no such promises.’ Gabriel looked up sharply from his speech.

‘Arthur,’ he said. ‘You’re not serious? You know how important today is, I really can’t think about anything else on top of—’

‘Gabe,’ Arthur said, putting a hand on his knee. ‘I’m messing with you.’

‘Oh,’ Gabriel said, looking pained. ‘Well. Don’t.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Arthur, as the door opened again. ‘Shouldn’t be too much of a strain on my self-control – your sister is here to be tortured instead.’

‘No more torture,’ Gwen said, immediately crossing to Bridget, who pulled her down on to her lap and let Gwen bury her head in her neck. ‘God. I’m so glad you came back early.’

‘So … it’s not going well with your mother then?’

‘No,’ Gwen said. ‘But I suppose it’s not her fault. She’s had a shock. You would imagine that something like … something likeFathermight have put everything in perspective, but apparently it hasn’t. She did ask after you today, though, Bridget, so she must be trying to acclimatise.’