Page 17 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

Arthur’s glee was drowned out as the first knights to face each other in hand-to-hand combat were announced by the Grand Marshal, to fanfare and applause.

Gwen listened intently, until she realised that two genericSirshad been announced.

‘She’s second,’ Arthur said, having finally recovered, and Gwen snapped around to look at him.

‘What?’

‘I walked through the competitors’ encampment before I met you. She’s second, fighting a rather elderly man with a duck’s feather in his helm.’

‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ Gwen blustered.

‘That would be a lot more convincing if there were more than one knight I could be referring to when I say “she”,’ Arthur drawled. Gwen felt herself blushing and straightened up a little to try to maintain her composure.

The two knights approached the royal stand, helms in their hands; unable to bend the knee in their armour, they bowed awkwardly, and Gwen’s father genially inclined his head in response. A woman in the front row of the neighbouring stands threw out her favour, a posy of flowers; the knight it was intended for missed it spectacularly, and then stared sadly down at it, unable to reach for it without toppling over.

‘Why were you even back there with the competitors?’ Gwen asked out of the corner of her mouth.

Arthur grinned. ‘Talent scouting.’

Gwen’s horrified response was cut off by the roar of the crowd as the two knights were given the signal to raise their swords and fight; they circled each other for a few moments before the taller of the two stepped in to strike, and then suddenly they were grappling, landing clumsy blows that rang out even over the sound of the bystanders.

‘There’s no art to this,’ Arthur sneered, leaning back in his seat and dangling one arm over the edge of it to look artfully fatigued. ‘You might as well clad a couple of bears in tin and let them have a go at each other.’

‘They do, in London,’ said Gwen, watching as the larger man struck the smaller so hard on the head with the flat of his sword that the latter was driven down on to his knees. ‘If you’re so convinced it’seasy, why don’t you enter? I’m sure my brother will lend you his sword and armour. He gets little use out of them, and he has plenty of spares.’

‘Er – no I won’t,’ said Gabriel on her other side.

The victorious knight had his sword at his competitor’s throat; he looked, for a moment, as if he might be considering using it to lethal effect, but the trumpets quickly sounded and the stands erupted into cheers and boos as he was announced the winner.

‘I didn’t say it waseasy, I said it was artless. Besides, I struggle to hold a sword – I wonder why that is …’ he pretended to ponder. ‘OhIknow, itmighthave something to do with the fact that a little ginger sadist snapped my bloody arm in half when I was a defenceless young boy.’

‘You were never a boy,’ Gwen hissed back. ‘You were a demon.’ Her hand had gone to her mouth, and she realised a moment later that she was chewing agitatedly at the raw skin around her nail. She promptly removed it from reach by sliding her hand under her leg.

‘I don’t recall breaking any ofyourbones,’ he replied hotly.

‘Not as if you didn’ttry,’ said Gwen, but the trumpets had started up again, driving a spike of excitement through her chest.

Lady Bridget Leclair was announced to a cacophony of jeers and laughter. She strode out across the arena, her posture and bearing betraying no sign of disquiet at her reception.

The Grand Marshal hadn’t announced her competitor; there was an awkward pause, the noise dying down, and then he cleared his throat. ‘Fighting her today –Sir Marlin of Coombelile.’

‘TheKnife?’ Gwen turned to Gabriel. ‘She wasn’t supposed to be fighting theKnife.’

‘Who the hell is the Knife?’ Arthur demanded. The crowd bellowed as Sir Marlin, clad in armour so dark and lustrous that it almost looked liquid, walked out to take his place next to Lady Leclair. He was of a height with her – from here, he looked narrower, too – but Gwen still felt nervous on Lady Leclair’s behalf as she watched them both approach the royal stand.

‘Oh. That’ll be him then,’ said Arthur, as the Knife took off his helm and slicked his dark blond hair away from his pale face. ‘He’s quite short.’

‘So are you,’ snapped Gwen. She couldn’t take her eyes off Lady Leclair, savouring the rare opportunity to stare openly at her; when she removed her helm she didn’t look the least bit frightened, although on closer inspection her jaw was clenched rather tightly. Her hair was pulled back into a small bun, and Gwen thought fleetingly about how much she’d like to see it fall free from its tie.

‘I’m taller than you,’ Arthur said, his voice squeaking a little in indignation.

‘You’re the same height as me,’ Gwen hissed. ‘Now shutup.’

‘You are freakishly tall for a woman,’ muttered Arthur, just as both competitors reached them.

They bowed, Sir Marlin perfunctorily and Lady Leclair with her hands meeting as if in prayer, and the king gave them a nod and a smile that looked significantly more like a grimace than his previous one had; they were just about to turn away when Gwen caught Bridget’s eye. Gwen was too slow to pretend she hadn’t been staring, and she thought she saw one corner of Bridget’s mouth quirk up ever so slightly, as if she found this somehow amusing.

‘Lady Leclair,’ Arthur called suddenly, halting proceedings. Gwen froze, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. ‘Please,’ he said, flashing Bridget his most charming smile. ‘Fight forme.’ He leaned forward and presented her with a single, slightly crumpled yellow flower.