Page 2 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘I don’t have one.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘No,’ Gabriel had sighed. ‘I don’t suppose it is.’

*

Family breakfasts, which had once been a constant in Gwen’s life, had become rarer in recent years. The carefully curated work–life balance that used to allow the king to linger to discuss economics with his son or to play a rapid-fire game of chess with his daughter had disintegrated as tensions grew throughout his kingdom; he and the queen now had daily schedules packed from dawn until dinner with council meetings, public audiences and conferences with diplomatic envoys that lasted long into the evening. Gwen and Gabriel had adapted; they usually breakfasted alone on the covered balcony, an oasis of calm in the busy castle.

The rest of Gwen’s day followed a strict schedule of her own making. After breakfast she went for her morning walk, with Agnes plodding silently at her heels; lunch was usually taken in her chambers, followed by reading and harp practice. The late afternoon was always dedicated to her embroidery. Gwen had been meticulously stitching sprays of white roses and blue forget-me-nots on an enormous blanket for the past three years, at the behest of her mother, who had said something about ‘marriage beds’ and ‘wedding nights’ that Gwen had immediately chosen to forget. She liked embroidery – liked the certainty of it, the soothing repetition and symmetry – and with a needle in her hand it was easy to still her mind and wilfully disregard the issue of the blanket’s intended destination.

Supper was sometimes a family affair taken in their own private dining rooms, but more often than not her father would insist that Gwen trudge down to the Great Hall with him and eat with a hundred eyes on her, the room packedto the rafters with courtiers and squires and various other shades of hangers-on.

She treasured these mornings, when it was just her and Gabriel on the balcony under a thick canopy of clematis and honeysuckle, and she could push aside the remnants of her breakfast and while away half an hour thrashing him at chess before she fell back into the familiar weave of her day.

Gabriel was in particularly bad form this morning; even still reeling from the shock of her dowry, she had him cornered in ten short minutes.

‘Are you playing poorly on purpose because you feel bad for me?’ she said, as he frowned down at the pieces.

Gwen loved chess. It flexed some hidden muscle, some part of her mind that usually lay dormant; as a result, she was calculated and ruthless, and left little room for her opponent to enjoy himself for even a moment.

‘Not everybody lives for the triumphs and defeats, the epic highs and lows of the little black and white squares,’ Gabriel said, ineffectively pushing a rook right back to where it had been two turns ago. ‘Sorry. I’m actually justthisbad at chess.’

‘Yourcatisn’t this bad at chess,’ Gwen scoffed. ‘And also, checkmate.’

‘Well. Very good. You’ve thoroughly obliterated my tenuous sense of self-worth.’

‘Don’t try to make me feel sorry for you just when I’m warming up to a nice gloat, it’s not sportsmanlike.’

Gabriel just sighed, sat back in his chair and squinted out over the battlements. Gwen followed his gaze. The view from the north side of the castle, which housed the royalquarters, wasn’t cluttered with the chaos of the city; from here Gwen could see the orchard and the mews, and, in the fields beyond the outer wall, the top of a large wooden structure that had been slowly growing in size for the past few months. Workmen scurried around it like ants, making everything ready for the tournament season ahead. The sky was a hazy blue, the weather already hot for late spring, blossom falling in drifts from the trees and gathering in the moat. Under different circumstances, this would have been a thoroughly delightful day.

‘He might be better,’ Gabriel said eventually, knowing precisely what she was thinking about without needing to ask. ‘You haven’t seen him for years.’

‘I saw him last year,’ Gwen countered. ‘From a distance. At the Feast of St Michael, when that horrible earl hosted us and you were home with the grippe.’

‘And?’

‘Andhe sneered at me from across the room and whispered something in a page’s ear and they both laughed so hard they almost fell over.’

‘You don’t know he was laughing at you.’

‘He pointed. He smirked. He did … an impression.’

‘Of what?’

‘My dancing.’

‘Oh,’ said Gabriel. ‘Well …’

‘Be helpful or be quiet,’ Gwen said, slumping forward on to the table.

‘Sorry,’ said Gabriel, reaching over to pat awkwardly at her hair. ‘I really am. You know I’d help if I could.’

Gwen did know. He was far too soft-hearted;hewouldn’tever force her into a marriage for political gain, no matter how much he needed it. Some day he would be king, and those decisions would be his to make. Gwen knew he dreaded it more than anything. There had been rather loud whispers over the years that he was too weak – too gentle – tooquietto rule, and their father was trying without success to encourage him to conduct himself with more mettle and conviction; Gabriel dealt with all of this by retreating into books and ledgers whenever possible, seeming to hope that if he disappeared into the furthest and dustiest reaches of the castle, then everybody might forget about him and crown somebody else instead.

Gwen thought this relatively unlikely.

‘What did he look like?’ Gabriel said, and Gwen was confused for a moment before remembering that they were discussing her least favourite subject.