Page 13 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘I’m notaccusingyou of anything, you despotic little psychopath,’ said Arthur. ‘You know something about me, and I believe I know something – different in the superficial details, but actually rather similar – about you. It would be inbothof our interests for that information to stay private.’

‘If I told my father what I saw …’

‘I’d tell him I saw you lusting afterLady Bridget. Although – I might embellish it. Add a few sordid details.’

‘He wouldn’t believe you,’ Gwendoline scoffed, but she was tugging nervously at her sleeve.

‘He’d believe me enough to keep her away from you,’ Arthur said, with a certainty he didn’t really possess. ‘And I think he’d believe me enough to keep anextremelyclose eye on you from now on.’

‘Even if you had seen what you’ve dreamed up in your head – which youdidn’t– not all of us are stupid enough to go running around making our – our private feelings public, by putting our hands all overMarkfrom thedog-house—’

‘Well, more’s the pity for you,’ said Arthur. ‘And his name isMitchell.’

‘Is it?’

‘Er … I think so.’

‘GoodGod, Arthur. Go to bed. We’ll talk about this tomorrow,’ Gwendoline said. She snatched the torch from him and headed for the stairs, taking careful and deliberate steps that somewhat impeded her flouncing. He didn’t move as he was swallowed by the shadows.

‘I’m not sure you’re in any position to be giving orders right now, Gwendoline.’

She turned at the door, her face illuminated in the flickering torchlight, looking at him with utter disdain. ‘You can address me asyour highness.’

‘My apologies, yourfucking highness,’ Arthur called after her, but the door had already slammed shut – he was shouting into an empty room.

It was quite early in the summer for things to have gone so spectacularly wrong. The situation required quick thinking; usually it was Arthur’s forte, but he had used wine as a crutch this evening, and his deductive reasoning skills had taken a hit.

‘You’re screwed,’ Sidney said, as he watched Arthur pace around their quarters like a caged and tipsy hound.

‘Helpful,’ Arthur said, scrubbing a hand across his face. ‘Here’s the thing. This –thisis the thing. If I had one tiny nibble of real, tangible dirt on her, one salacious little crumb, I’d be laughing. But she’s so dull. She’s just so,sodull. If shehasbeen up to anything untoward, then the only personwho’ll know is her brother, and he was always her horrible sidekick when we were children.’

‘So she wouldn’t tell … I dunno, a friend?’

‘What friends?’ Arthur said meaningfully.

Sidney scratched his neck and looked thoughtful. ‘Not one measly friend? No princess clique she has round for sleepovers? Not even a pen pal?’

‘No,’ said Arthur. ‘The only person she ever wrote to while I was here was … Oh, hold on. Hold on a bloody second. I’ve got it. You’re a genius.’

‘I know,’ said Sidney. ‘Why?’

‘Come on,’ said Arthur, feeling freshly renewed with the vigour of somebody who might soon be holding priceless blackmail material. ‘Put on your worst trousers. Oh – never mind, you’re already wearing them. We’re goingdigging.’

The next morning dawned irritatingly clear and sunny. Arthur hadn’t managed much in the way of sleep, and the dazzling weather felt personal. A note had been brought to his chamber door and then read aloud to him by Sidney, requesting that he meet Gwen in the orchard with all possible discretion and haste.

‘Verynice-looking girl delivered it,’ Sidney said, cramming a sugared bun into his mouth as he did. ‘Think I might be in love.’ Arthur just biffed him feebly on the arm and demanded a bun of his own.

When they reached the gate to the orchard, which was walled on all sides, Arthur turned to Sidney with an expression of deepest agony.

‘Christ, Art, it’s a sixteen-year-old girl, not an hour on the rack,’ said Sidney, rather unsympathetically.

‘She’s seventeen. And I’d take the torture in a heartbeat,’ said Arthur, but he squared his shoulders bravely anyway and went inside. The orchard was large and regimented, neat rows of trees shedding swirling clouds of blossom every time the breeze picked up. Gwendoline was walking slowly down the middle row towards him with a short, delicate brunette woman, presumably the one Sidney had taken a shine to; she was quickly dismissed, and as she walked past him with her head bowed he flashed her a smile and saw her go satisfyingly pink.

‘What’s her name?’ he said when he reached the princess.

‘What?’ She was wearing sky-blue today, her hair pulled back into an intricate braid across the top of her head that looked, if you were slightly hungover and squinting, like a crown. He wondered if that’s why she was always so tetchy; too much strain on her scalp.

‘Her. Brown hair. Grey dress. Nice little hands.’