Page 7 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘Do Iknow? ’S’probably inked on the inside of my skull. You’ve told me about a hundred times.’

‘It’s never been right since,’ Arthur said, feeling a phantom ache now as they drew ever closer to the castle. ‘It’s why I can’t hold a sword properly.’

‘Yeah,’ said Sidney, laughing. ‘That’sdefinitelywhy.’

‘She’s awful, Sid. I’ve never seen somebody so caught up in their ownmajesty. She was five years old and already stomping about giving me orders, and running off to my father to tell tales on me. When we got older she started writing all these nasty little things in her diary about me, and hiding it under a tree like some sort of deranged squirrel when she thought I wasn’t looking.’

‘Well,’ said Sidney consolingly. ‘You’re not children any more, are you? Maybe she’s different.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Arthur. ‘If anything, she’s probably worse.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Sidney. ‘Now, drink up.’

It was the middle of the night when they crossed the moat; there was a bit of explaining required to get the guards to open the gate, Sidney digging about in his pockets to find the letter bearing Lord Delacey’s seal, but eventually the king’s men reluctantly stepped aside and let the two tipsy young men from Maidvale ride into the castle courtyard.

‘Right,’ Arthur said, shaking his head to try to clear it.

‘Right, what?’

‘Stables … to the right. Oh,shit– Sid – I’m going over!’

Arthur landed hard on his bruised shoulder and rolled over on to his back, swearing fluently. A stable hand stepped politely over him and took his horse, and he heard two sets of hoofs clopping softly away from him. He knew he needed to get up, but couldn’t find the strength or the motivation to do so at present.

‘You look like a pillock,’ Sidney observed, appearing in his field of vision and offering him an arm.

‘Can you go ahead and tell them … tell them we’ve arrived, and that we need rooms?’ Arthur said as he was hauled to his feet. ‘I’ll stay here.’

‘In the courtyard?’ Sidney said. ‘In the dark?’

‘I’m putting off going inside for as long as physically possible,’ Arthur said, sitting down on a conveniently placed barrel. ‘Self-preservation. You understand.’

‘Not really,’ Sidney said, shrugging and walking confidently off in the direction of the nearest door.

It all looked just how it had done the last time Arthur had been there, but smaller somehow, which he supposed made sense; he had been eleven, and skinny, and at least a foot shorter back then. He harboured a long-festering resentment for every crumbling stone in the walls of this place, every banner and hanging and loose door handle. It was less a castle, more a prison.

The one advantage was that his father wasn’t there, and was so tied up in apparently vital meetings with people Arthur had never heard of that he probably wouldn’t put in an appearance for weeks. That thought alone was enough to cheer him up considerably.

There was bread baking somewhere nearby, and Arthur only realised how hungry he was when he rose instinctively to follow the smell. He crossed the courtyard, stiff from hours of riding, and followed the stairs down to the warren of corridors that led to the kitchens.

When he reached the door, already mentally rehearsing the charming niceties key to the acquisition of snacks, he crashed so violently into somebody coming out of it that he lost his footing and tripped backwards, smacking his head hard against the stone floor. Something strangely soft hit him in the face as he lay there with his ears ringing from the impact; when he opened his eyes, rather dazed, he saw that he was surrounded by what looked like little balls of rolled marzipan.

‘On the floor again,’ he observed to himself. ‘Fantastic.’

‘Again?’

Arthur attempted to sit up and winced as searing pain shot through his head. He tried again, more slowly this time, and then opened one eye warily. A tall, gangly,red-headed young man was standing in front of him, holding an empty platter that looked as if it might at one time have held quite a lot of marzipan. Arthur’s mind raced to catch up with what he was seeing, and then it clicked; Prince Gabriel. Older, taller, all jawline, eyebrows and elbows now, but unmistakeably him. The last time Arthur had seen him, he and Gwendoline could have been twins.

Not any more. He was a man now. The future king, in fact. Gaping at Arthur. In his nightshirt.

‘Evening, Gabriel,’ he said, trying to get to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster considering that there was squashed marzipan falling from his hair as he did so.

‘Arthur Delacey? Is that you?’

He strongly considered saying no. ‘Yes. Hello. I’m here.’

‘I can see that,’ Gabriel said, frowning at him. ‘Lost?’

‘Hungry,’ Arthur said, brushing down his clothes.