Page 3 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘Like the squire to Satan,’ she said. Gabriel raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Smug? Conceited? Abrasive? He’s grown his hair very long, kept flicking it about to try to make all the ladies blush.’

‘And did they?’

‘You know they did,’ Gwen said crossly. ‘Agnes let slip that he’s been leaving a trail of devastation across the countryside.’

‘I heard that too, actually. Maidens deflowered. Inns drunk dry. Trees uprooted.’

‘Do you think Father’s heard?’ Gwen said hopefully.

‘Maybe mutterings,’ Gabriel said, leaning back in his chair. ‘But nothing substantial. Not enough to make him renege on a decades-old agreement.’

Gwen sighed. ‘Gabriel. How much gold would I have to slip you to murder me?’

He gave her a sad sort of smile. ‘Gwendoline. It’s nothing personal, but I just don’t have it in me. It’d kill two birds with one stone though, wouldn’t it?’

Gwen laughed darkly. ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to presume that they’d let you off your royal duties for a little thing like sororicide.’

‘No,’ Gabriel agreed. ‘But they might think twice before putting a sword in my hand – so that’d be something, wouldn’t it?’

The door to the balcony opened so suddenly that they both jumped; Lord Stafford, their father’s very pompous steward, was standing there looking exceedingly harried. He was wearing stockings in such an aggressive shade of chartreuse that Gwen had to blink a few times to regain full range of vision.

‘Your royal highness,’ he said to Gabriel, sounding desperate. ‘The ceremony.’

‘Oh, Christ,’ said Gabriel, getting up abruptly and knocking the chessboard to the floor. ‘Sorry! I forgot. I’m coming, I’m coming.’

Stafford stepped aside to let Gabriel pass, and then glared down at Gwen, who had knelt to pick up the chess pieces.

‘You’re expected too.’

‘Well, when you say it likethat,’ Gwen said, making a point of getting very slowly to her feet, ‘how could I possibly refuse?’

Tournament season didn’t actually start for another week, but the opening ceremony brought all the knights andnoble families together early so that they could size each other up, plan courtships and start betting their money, livestock and wives on the outcomes of the events. The huge stands to the north of the castle, set around one large arena that could be configured to host the joust, melee, single combat and archery contests, were built anew every year; they had once again experienced construction setbacks, and wouldn’t be complete until right before the first event, so the opening ceremony was to take place in the castle’s largest and most southerly courtyard. Gwen would be expected on the royal balcony that overlooked it, used for speeches and appearances and inexplicably popular group family waves.

She had never been particularly interested in tournament season as a child; she was happy with her routine, loved plans repeated to satisfaction every day, and the tournament disrupted her so thoroughly that she sulked about it every summer, often attempting to read a book in her lap while knights grappled for her father’s favour just a few feet away. Over the past few years, however, she’d found certain aspects of the tournament to be worth the change of pace.

When she reached the balcony, her mother and father were already seated on the wooden thrones that had been dragged out for the occasion. Gabriel was straight-backed and attempting to smile in the chair next to her father. She crossed to her mother’s side and sat down, giving a half-hearted and informal sort of wave at the crowds gathered below as she did so.

‘Whatever you are doing with your hand,’ her mother said out of the corner of her mouth, ‘cease immediately.’

The courtyard was large, cobblestoned and rectangular, with the entrance to the Great Hall at one end and an archway that led to the smaller yard containing the stables at the other. Courtiers were packed around the edge, dressed in their finery, and knights were being announced one by one as they trooped in under the arch with their households and sponsors, to cheers and occasional boos.

It seemed to stretch on for hours. Gwen felt her interest waning, her posture wilting in the hard-backed chair.

‘An unusually high cultist turnout among the competitors,’ said the queen in a low voice, as somebody entered to less than enthusiastic applause.

‘Unusual but welcome,’ replied the king, his gaze following this latest knight as he rode briskly across the courtyard. ‘I asked Stafford to ensure we were making an effort to bridge the divide, and it seems his hard work has paid off.’

‘Well, your cousin is not here,’ said the queen. The next competitor was introduced, and she narrowed her eyes as she watched him. ‘Ah – but I see he sends his dog.’

Gwen watched as the pallid, translucent-looking Sir Marlin entered the courtyard, unsmiling. He was more commonly referred to in whispered gossip as ‘the Knife’, due to the fact that he was short, thin and uncommonly bloodthirsty. Relations between the king and the Knife’s sponsor and liege, Lord Willard, were somewhat strained, to say the least; when the last king had died leaving no direct heir, there had been a brief skirmish for power that had seen Willard throw his hat into the ring despite the fact that the throne had already been promised to Gwen’s father. Willard had been bolstered by the backing of manyArthurian cultists – those who believed wholeheartedly in the magic of King Arthur and his enchanted sidekicks, the stories that good Christians had long decided were simply fables and legends – and had been working his way up to being quite the legitimate threat. The potential for a real battle had been quelled by the timely invasion of the King of Norway, who had fancied a stab at England himself but had been chased away when most of the nobility united behind Gwen’s father to keep him at bay.

It did not make for happy family reunions. In fact, Gwen had only met Lord Willard once before, and had not liked the look of him one bit; he was very tall, grim-faced and brusque, and the enormous dark cloak he wore, sewn all over with various cultist symbols, had made him look like an ill-tempered bat.

Sir Marlin crossed the courtyard to only scattered applause and more than a few low hisses. A set of stout and jovial-looking twins was announced next, Sirs Beldish and Beldish, and then there was a pause before the next burst of fanfare; Gwen heard a ripple of interest move through the crowd, and her ears pricked up.

‘For God’s sake, not this charadeagain,’ her mother sighed. Gwen leaned forward, straining to see past the crowd obscuring the archway into the courtyard. This charade was the highlight of her summer – no, herlife –and frankly the only thing that made the tournament worth attending.

‘Lady Bridget Leclair,’ shouted the Grand Marshal, a bearded man called Sir Blackwood, a little reluctantly. ‘Of House Leclair.’ The crowd erupted into jeers and laughter, jostling each other to get a better look. Lady Leclair ignoredthem all, face impassive as her enormous horse carried her into the yard under a banner sewn with what looked like a golden wheel on a background of deep maroon. Her straight, black hair was cut bluntly across her forehead and above her broad shoulders; she should have looked ridiculous, like an overgrown pageboy, but somehow it suited her perfectly. Even from a height Gwen could see her steady gaze, her lashes dark against the golden brown of her skin. Thanks to meticulous eavesdropping, Gwen had learned that Lady Leclair was one year her senior and that she was Tai, her line hailing from the Sukhothai Kingdom. Gwen had tried to ask Gabriel about the place as nonchalantly as possible; he had reached for a book and responded with a detailed and entirely useless speech about trading ports.