Page 70 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘Well, that’s no good,’ Arthur muttered, as he watched one of the aforementioned guards break his composure and attempt to squash a bothersome fly between his pinched fingers. ‘How are you supposed to enjoy illicit affairs and birthday debauchery under these conditions?’

‘I’m not,’ Gwen said resignedly.

It was hard to argue with her logic.

‘It’s a letter,’ Sidney said, as they both stood either side of the small table in their chambers the next day, considering it. ‘Not a rabid dog.’

‘It’s a letterfroma rabid dog,’ Arthur said, circling it as if it really might bite. He had to stop abruptly when he reached Sidney, who had refused to be part of this strange dance. The letter had arrived at breakfast, along with an assortment of Arthur’s things that he had requested from home, including some of the many books from their library on Arthuriana, which he had procured with the vague idea of giving them to Gabriel.

‘Do you wantmeto read it?’ Sidney said, folding his arms.

‘No, you’ll do the voice all wrong,’ Arthur said. It was a weak joke, and earned him an appropriatelylacklustre snort in response.

‘Come on,’ Sidney said impatiently. ‘Reading it? Not reading it? Tossing it into the fires of hell?’

‘Ugh,’ Arthur said, which wasn’t really an answer. He picked the letter up gingerly and stalked off into his bedroom with it, throwing himself down on the embroidered coverlet with a sigh. His father’s handwriting was as spiky and uneven as always, Arthur’s name inked on to the page as if he’d been trying to drive his quill right through to the other side. Arthur broke his seal – the ridiculous three crowns he’d lifted directly from King Arthur’s own coat of arms, with the addition of the traditional Delacey raven – and unfolded the letter. Better to get it over and done with.

My son Arthur, the letter began. That was enough for Arthur to need a quick break; he rolled over on to his back and considered the hangings for a few seconds, taking the deep, calming breaths Sidney often told him he sorely needed. He turned over and took up the letter again.

My son Arthur,

It pleases me to hear that your relationship with the Princess Gwendoline is proceeding as planned. The king has written to express that we should set a date for your nuptials at this time, and I concur.

Now that you have become closely acquainted with the princess, it would be greatly beneficial to be brought into the prince’s confidences as well.

Remember, Arthur: any information you can provide should be (sentwith haste, as agreed before your departure.

Yours,

The Honourable Lord of Maidvale

‘Honourable,’ Arthur spat, throwing the letter down and laughing humourlessly before snatching it back up again. ‘Honourable!’

‘Who’s honourable?’ Sidney said, appearing in the doorway holding the stack of paper and parcels the letter had arrived with, visibly bracing himself.

‘Well, I can tell you who’snot,’ Arthur shouted, discarding the letter once more. ‘He pretends he’spleasedfor mewhen actually he just wants me to cosy up to Gabriel to collect information and gossip, anything that he might be able to trade – anything at all to make him feel like abig man, like he’s important, like he’s not just a drunk, addled, friendless oldbastard.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Sidney. ‘Was that all?’

‘Oh,’ Arthur said, pausing. ‘No. Apparently we’re setting a date for my wedding.’

‘Ah,’ said Sidney heavily. ‘Well. Congratulations. Do you think Gwendoline knows?’

Arthur shrugged, and Sidney came to sit down next to him on the bed, relinquishing the packages. ‘You know,’ Arthur said bitterly, ‘a month ago I’d havelovedto have been the one to tell her. Misery loves company, you know? May as well have some fun, dance on the deck if the ship is going to sink either way. But somehow I don’t find it particularly funny any more.’

Sidney bit his lip. ‘What if you told her it’s a tradition in your family to get married on top of a mountain?’

‘No, no,’ Arthur said despondently, stacking the letter on top of the parcels and throwing them carelessly on to the windowsill, before turning back to Sidney. ‘Well. Actually.Maybe? Let’s workshop it a bit. And then we’ll see.’

Arthur insisted he wasn’t going to answer the letter, listing his reasons as he paced circles around his chambers, but an hour later he was doing exactly that, tapping his quill rapidly against the table top as he glared down at the slightly crumpled, blank piece of parchment in front of him.

Sidney sighed. ‘Watching you do this isn’t as fun as you might imagine.’

‘Go and look at something else then,’ Arthur snapped. ‘I’ll not stop you.’

‘Nah,’ said Sidney resignedly, tilting his chair backwards and balancing it momentarily on just two legs before letting it swing back into place.

Arthur knew why he wouldn’t leave, and it thoroughly irritated him; Sidney was worried that if he left him alone he’d explode, pick up a bottle of wine, drop something expensive off the roof, or find some other self-sabotaging way to distract himself from thoughts of his father, his wedding, or his fatherathis wedding. Arthur wondered if Sidney thought he was being subtle with his attempts at damage control; wondered if Sidney knew that of course he recognised these moods in himself, could isolate the particular prickling in his chest and the bile at the back of his throat that heralded them. Knowing that the way Arthur responded to stress wasn’t exactly healthy didn’t mean he could stop himself once he’d started.