Page 6 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

Lord Delacey looked up now as Arthur walked in; he was very red in the face.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ he said. ‘No, don’tanswer that, I don’t want to know. Do you want to guess what I’m writing this very minute?’

‘A poem?’ Arthur ventured sullenly, leaning his back against the closed door.

‘Oh,veryfunny,’ said his father. ‘I’m writing to theking. I’m writing to the kinggrovellingwith every word I know for “sorry” in every possible language. Why do you think that might be?’

‘Because you’re fair at languages, but terrible at poetry?’ Arthur said, knowing it was a mistake before it had even left his lips. He ducked just as the ink bottle smashed against the door next to his head; ink poured down the wood and pooled on the floor, soaking into his boots. He knew his face was flecked with it, but he stared defiantly at his father anyway, refusing to lift a hand to wipe it away.

‘You were supposed to be at the opening ceremony today, Arthur,’ his father hissed dangerously. ‘I told you a thousand times. Thetournament.’

Arthur took a steadying breath. His father hadn’t told him anything of the sort. He knew the tournament must have been coming up, and that he was expected to attend this year, but they had never discussed specifics; he’d presumed that at some point he’d be dragged into this room and told that it was time to go, but the day simply hadn’t come. Except – apparently it had, and his father had neglected to tell him, and of course that was somehowhisfault. Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but then a piece of shattered glass crunched underfoot and he changed his mind.

‘Sorry,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I forgot.’

‘When Inamedyou, Arthur, I expected better of you …’

Arthur knew that it was now safe to stop listening for at least a few minutes. There were only so many times you could listen to the exact same monologue about ‘lineage’ and ‘dynasty’; about the traitor Mordred, who begat Melehan, who begat a long line of perpetual disappointments, and chiefly about all the ways in which Arthur had failed to live up to the legacy of the once-great king. Arthur Pendragon, purportedly Arthur’s relative many times removed, was such a fixture of his father’s lectures that if he’d fallen through time and encountered the man, Arthur’s primary inclination would have been to kick him right in his damned round table. If they had ever really been royalty, over the past few centuries the Delacey family had done an extremely good job of squandering their connections; their only real legacy was Arthur’s father’s frankly unhinged obsession with the Pendragon name and these bloody speeches.

‘You will gonow,’ Lord Delacey said finally, getting unsteadily to his feet. ‘Have Ashworth pack your things. You’re going for the summer.’

‘What?’ Arthur said, straightening up. ‘Thesummer?Allsummer?’

‘You are to begin your formal courtship with the Princess Gwendoline,’ he said, while Arthur gaped at him. ‘Close your mouth, Arthur. It’s long past time for you to grow up, stop being so bloody selfish and do something of worth with your life. You are to be pleasant to her, to earn her trust – to be the very picture of a devoted fiancé. I expect you to write to me –look at me when I’m talking to you –write,Arthur, to inform me of any developments at Camelot. Leave nothing out.’

Arthur could have said something then about his father’s embarrassing desire to collect gossip like a bored, empty-headed courtier, but the decanter of wine looked heavy enough to inflict serious damage, so instead he just nodded and turned to leave.

‘Worthless,’ he heard his father mutter as the door slammed behind him.

He found Sidney in the gardens, throwing bits of bread for a squirrel.

‘We’re going to Camelot,’ he said dully. Sidney glanced up, grinning. ‘Don’t look so bloody happy about it.’

‘Can’t help it,’ said Sidney. ‘I love a good city. Women. Booze. Banquets. And I’ve never been to Camelot.’

‘You have such a beautiful way with words.’

‘Besides,’ Sidney continued, as if Arthur hadn’t spoken. ‘Might be good to have a change of scenery. Might help you feel less … mopey, since you-know-who.’

‘I don’t mope,’ said Arthur, reaching for the bread Sidney had been throwing and taking a bite. ‘Ugh, this is stale.’

‘Why do you think I was throwing it away? Dog had it in her mouth for a bit, too.’ He laughed as Arthur immediately spat it out on to the flagstones. ‘Manners, Art. Can’t be doing that in front of your blushing bride-to-be.’

Arthur pulled a face. ‘Go and tell Ashworth to pack my things. We’re there until September.’

‘What am I?’ Sidney said as he got to his feet. ‘Your bloody servant?’

‘I hate that jokesomuch,’ Arthur said despondently.‘Bring as much wine as you can carry. It’s going to be a very long summer.’

Their things were sent on ahead of them, and once they had negotiated the country lanes surrounding the Maidvale estate it was essentially a straight shot down one very long road to reach Camelot, which meant they could just point their horses in the right direction and relax.

‘When did you last see her?’ Sidney asked as they ambled along side by side, leaning across the gap to pass Arthur the bottle of wine.

‘I don’t know. Years ago, probably,’ he said, taking a large sip for courage.

‘She’s not bad-looking,’ Sidney offered. ‘As far as I’m told.’

‘No. It’s her personality that’s the problem,’ Arthur said darkly. ‘You know she broke my wrist?’