Page 23 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Arthur. He whipped off his jacket, turned it inside out and then put it back on again. The outside was dark green embroidered satin, but the lining was brown and nondescript.

‘There’s a tricky bit where the masonry’s coming apart, but otherwise it’s a piece of cake,’ said Sidney. ‘Do you want me to leave this, or can I take it with me?’ He was holding up the bottle of wine.

‘But – people willseeyou,’ Gwendoline spluttered. ‘The guards, for one thing—’

‘Ah,’ said Arthur knowingly. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Because we’ve timed it, and there’s a tasty little break in the patrols that leaves just enough time for two dashing young whippersnappers to make a run for it.’

‘Well, what about the guards at the gate?’ Gwendoline countered. ‘They’ll certainly see you.’

‘And say what?’ said Arthur. Sidney had wedged the cork back into the bottle, tucked the wine into his jacket andhauled himself out on to the windowsill; he glanced down with the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration, judging the distance, before dropping out of sight. ‘A manservant and a nondescript man in a hideously unfashionable hat slipped past their defences and off into the night? Thehorror. Agnes and the guards outside will still thinkI’mhere secretly meeting with you.’

‘But …’ Gwendoline tried again. ‘Where are yougoing?’

Arthur climbed out after Sidney and then grinned back at her over the sill. ‘Out,’ he said, enjoying the half-furious, half-baffled expression on her face before he found the next foothold and disappeared from her view.

The pure, unadulterated joy he derived from annoying her buoyed him all the way out of the gates, past the guards and down the hill until they reached the busy streets of Camelot. They were narrow and winding, turning back on themselves and producing dead ends with no rhyme or reason, ramshackle rows of houses suddenly and dramatically interrupted by large statues of Galahad clutching the grail, or Gawain in his little sash. Everything smelt like blackened meat, soiled straw and woodsmoke; they seemed to be walking down another dead-end alley when they finally reached the inn Sidney had picked out for them.

They took up residence in a back corner on rickety stools, watching all manner of people competing for the innkeeper’s attention, laughing and shouting and spilling their drinks on to the already ale-soaked floor. Arthur took a glass of wine, and then another, knowing he shouldn’t but finding it difficult to care; he felt the day slide away from him until the conversation with the king could havehappened to somebody else and been recounted to him second-hand. Sidney kept fetching him drinks, and he kept knocking them back, and when an elderly man started singing an extremely explicit drinking song he joined in heartily, raising his hands aloft as if conducting the crowd.

Just as he was getting tired, and the last glass of wine was starting to feel sour in his stomach, he saw a sandy-haired boy watching him from over by the bar. He looked painfully familiar; for a second Arthur thought that a ghost from his past had somehow followed him all the way to Camelot. He blinked a few times, and realised the boywasfamiliar, although he wasn’t the ghost in question. Mitchell from the feast ducked his head and looked a little pink when he noticed Arthur staring back.

Sidney said something in his ear, but Arthur wasn’t listening. When he glanced back up, Mitchell was looking at him curiously; as Arthur watched, he raised his eyebrows and then glanced towards the back door of the inn, which opened out into a cramped alleyway. Sidney looked from Arthur to the bar and took it all in remarkably quickly.

‘It’s … You know that’s not him,’ he said quietly.

Arthur shrugged. ‘No, but – I know him. He works with dogs.’

‘Does he now? Well, it’s your funeral. Ten minutes,’ said Sidney, swapping seats so that he had eyes on the door.

Arthur watched as Mitchell shouldered through the crowd to reach it and disappeared into the alley without a backwards glance. He drained the rest of his drink, smoothed down his jacket and then followed.

Gwen was desperate for her bed.

She had been pretending to herself that her book was justsoscintillating she couldn’t possibly retire yet, but in reality she had read the same line five times in a row and not taken in a word. The longer Arthur was gone, the more annoyed she became. She found herself listening for signs of his return – drunken shouting from below, perhaps, or the scream of somebody missing a foothold and plummeting to their very timely demise – and was surprised when her only warning that his arrival was imminent was the sound of somebody swearing faintly right underneath her window. A second later, Arthur tumbled through it. He was no longer wearing a jacket, and his hat was filthy, as if it had been dropped repeatedly and placed back on his head.

‘Good evening,’ he said from the floor. Gwen slammed her book shut and stood up.

‘For God’s sake, Arthur, you were gone for four hours. Where’s your – where’s Sidney?’

‘Regrettably,’ Arthur said, getting to his feet with considerable effort, ‘he was too drunk to make the climb.’

‘Oh, and you’re not?’ Gwen said, casting a disapproving eye over him.

‘I’m here, aren’t I,’ he said bitterly, taking off his hat. Most of his hair had already managed to come loose from its knot, but he untied the rest and pushed it away from his flushed face.

‘Tell Agnes she can come back in,’ Gwen said, watching as he walked unsteadily towards the door. ‘She’ll be in the ladies’ solar, just before the guards. And … we’re going to the joust together first thing tomorrow. Meet me in the entrance hall.’

Arthur made no sign of having heard this. ‘A delight, as always, Gwendoline. Hope you enjoyed your book.’

‘Just as much as you enjoyeddebasingyourself, I’m sure,’ Gwen hissed after him, reluctant to let him have the last word.

‘You have no idea,’ he said over his shoulder, before he closed the door behind him.

At breakfast, Gwen was practically falling asleep in her food. Her parents were conferring with Lord Stafford, who was standing at her father’s shoulder dressed in scarlet and looking gaudily anxious; on a normal day their conversation would have been well worth eavesdropping on, but this morning Gwen was only capable of leaning her head on one hand and pretending to listen to Gabriel, who was talking to her about market fluctuations.

‘It’s amazing how much bread can tell us about society,’ he was saying now, pointing to a passage in his book.

‘Bread,’ Gwen said, picking some up and shoving it into her mouth. ‘Amazing.’