Page 11 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘Cause a major one. Do it for me. He insulted my honour.’

‘Did he?’

‘Well, no. But he was very snippy with me.’

Gabriel gave her a wry smile. ‘You’ll live.’

Two of the ladies who’d been next to Gwen in the dancing line came giggling over to them, ostensibly to talk to Gwen, but really to bite their lips and blush prettily in front of Gabriel, who was so unmoved that at one point he actually yawned. Gwen had to bite her own lip to keep from laughing; watching women throw themselves at Gabriel while he politely studied the flagstones, or cleared his throat only to make a comment about taxes or the unusual colour of the evening’s soup, was one of her favourite pastimes. These ladies were surprisingly tenacious; mere yawning could not keep them away, and they hovered for an age before giving in.

‘Hard luck,’ she said to the retreating girls when they finally departed; both of them looked daggers at her.

‘That’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to say inside your head, G,’ Gabriel said distractedly. ‘Why don’t you go to bed? You don’t have to stay.’

Gwen shrugged. ‘I either submit to torture by dancing tonight or torture by Mother in the morning.’

‘Well, why don’t you go and get some air, at least? I’ll distract her.’

She gave him a grateful pat on the shoulder and walked quickly from the hall and out into the south courtyard. It was mercifully quiet as she crossed it, the sounds of revelry muffled, the night air cool and steeped in wood smoke. She was just wandering in the direction of the stables – and her very patient and understanding horse, Winifred – when she saw somebody coming out of them, walking directly towards her.

There was no logical explanation for her reaction when she realised who it was. Before rational thought had been able to communicate with her limbs, she had ducked behind a low wall.

Lady Leclair was no longer armoured as Gwen had seen her the day before, but just as striking in a plain tunic and men’s breeches; her hair was pulled untidily away from her face, her sleeves rolled up to expose the taut muscle of her forearms, and she had a smear of something dark – potentially mud, potentially horse manure – on her cheekbone.

Gwen had never seen something so magnificent in all her life.

Lady Leclair stretched her limbs until her bones clicked, eliciting a sigh of satisfaction that immediately turned Gwen’s mind to jelly, and then she paused as if remembering something and turned abruptly to walk back into the stables. She looked less imposing out of armour – she couldn’t have been any taller than Gwen, and she didn’t have a particularly large frame – but there was still a solidity to her, as if she were made of something stronger than whatever Gwen was spun from.

Gwen continued to crouch in an undignified sort of way even after she was gone, frozen to the spot, only realising that she should move when she felt a cramp starting to creep up her leg.

She had just resolved to get a hold of herself and go back inside when she heard more footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

They grew louder, and Arthur Delacey came stumbling into view. One of her father’s men, blond, perhaps a Mark or a Michael, was tripping along after him and holding on to his arm in a very familiar manner. She tried to place him – assistant to the Master of Hounds, perhaps? As she watched, Arthur glanced around the otherwise empty courtyard, pulled the young man into the shadowy alcove between the stables and the gate, andkissedhim.

Gwen’s mouth fell open.

Arthur was smiling lazily through heavily lidded eyes, pressing his mouth to Mark or Michael’s jaw while sliding one hand inside the other man’s tunic. The dog-boy closed his eyes and allowed his neck to be kissed, tilting his head back so that his hair fell away from his face, looking completely at ease. Gwen was so astonished that she completely forgot she was attempting to stay hidden – and when Arthur looked up, his eyes locked directly with hers.

He pushed the young man away, muttered something sharply, and Mark or Michael was gone in an instant. Arthur stood alone, smoothing his hair, colour high in his cheeks. He looked back over at Gwen, his jaw working as if he were trying and failing to summon the right words – and then they both jumped.

Lady Leclair had re-emerged from the stables, a jacket slung over her shoulder. Moving without thinking, Gwen ducked back behind the wall, her face flaming, listening to unhurried footsteps as the knight walked away in the direction of the kitchens.

When she dared to straighten up again, Arthur was standing right in front of her.

‘Nice night,’ he said, in a very strained voice. His hands were clenching and unclenching at his side as he waited for her to respond.

‘Arthur,’ Gwen said eventually, in a whisper. ‘That was aboy. You were kissing aboy.’

‘Was it?’ said Arthur, sounding a little panicked now. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’d have noticed.’

‘I should think it would have been obvious. You practically had your hand down the front of his—’

‘All right,’ Arthur hissed. ‘All right. It was a boy. Congratulations, you’re a genius. Let’s get this over with – would you like to tar and feather me now, or send me back to my father so he can do it? Either way, I’m sure you’ll be allowed to watch.’

‘Oh,’ said Gwen. ‘Oh.’ She was still trying to wrap her head around this; this brazen sneaking around where anybody could have caught him, this boy-kissing that he’d been doing so expertly, as if he did it all the time. He probablydiddo it all the time.

‘What the hell were you doingspyingon me, anyway?’ he spat, with such vitriol that it immediately raised her hackles.

‘I wasn’tspyingon you,’ she said. ‘I was just …’ She gestured in the general direction of the stables. Arthur’sgaze followed her hand and then snapped back to her face, eyebrows furrowed as if he were puzzling something out. She realised her mistake immediately.