Page 25 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘No,’ Bridget said slowly. ‘I need a little time to recover. But I assumed … you knew that. The note said—’

‘Who brought it?’ Gwen interrupted, mainly to avoid finding out how horrific the contents had been.

‘Ah,’ Bridget said. ‘I see.’ She rolled one of her shoulders back as if it were paining her, and Gwen heard something click. ‘Cropped black hair. Stocky build.’

‘Yes,’ Gwen said darkly. ‘I know him. Listen, Lady Leclair, I’m—’

She had to stop speaking suddenly when she realised that the knights were approaching her awkwardly to present themselves to her in her father’s stead. When they bowed from their saddles, Gwen gave them a stiff nod in return, not quite managing to smile. The silence between her and Bridget felt very charged as they rode away to take their starting positions.

‘You didn’t send it,’ Bridget said matter-of-factly. Gwen turned to her, imagining that she might be confused by this revelation, but she was just looking at Gwen expectantly.

‘No, I think – I think an acquaintance of mine was trying to vex me,’ Gwen spluttered, as the Grand Marshal signalled for the knights to make themselves ready. Bridget was still looking at her very intently.

‘What about me,’ Bridget said in a low, amused voice that sent a thrill up Gwen’s spine, ‘is so particularly vexing?’

Gwen was spared answering by the start of the event; the knights urged their horses forwards, the crowd increasing in fervour and volume until the two competitors met with adull crack. One of the horses had spooked at the last moment, and while one lance had splintered, the other had veered wildly off target. The knight who had broken his lance had won the round without receiving a single blow from his opponent; he also, however, had a rather large piece of splintered wood sticking out of his cheek.

Gwen watched with grim fascination as he dismounted and his squire came rushing to his aid; he attempted to pull it out, and the crowd reacted with cheers and groans of sympathy as this only seemed to make him bleed more profusely. The sound of the knight’s swearing – slightly garbled, as he was unable to move one side of his face – got fainter as he walked away towards the competitors’ encampment.

‘Not much of a victory,’ said Bridget, watching him go.

‘Well, I’m sure they’ll be able to get it out, and then he’ll be able to celebrate – although, might be hard to drink wine with a hole in his face, as it’ll just all sort of … pour out of him, like a human thurible …’ Gwen trailed off, wishing she had just said, ‘Yes.’

‘No,’ Bridget said. Her eyes were smiling, even if her mouth wasn’t. ‘I meant … You want to have a few runs at each other. Get your blood up.’

‘Is that why you do it?’ Gwen asked. ‘To get your blood … pumping?’

In retrospect the word ‘pumping’ did not seem an auspicious choice, but Bridget didn’t seem to notice Gwen’s compounding misery.

‘That’s part of it,’ she said, one hand going to her mouth, her thumb probing gently at the bruising until she winced.She looked sideways at Gwen, who was transfixed. ‘I like some risk now and again, if what’s at stake is worth having. Plus, it’s nice to have a win. We don’t get a lot of those.’

The Grand Marshal was announcing the next to joust: Sir Woolcott, an absolutely enormous man whose steed barely seemed to be holding him up, and…

‘The Knife,’ Gwen hissed as soon as she recognised him sitting astride his gleaming black horse, not bothering to raise a hand to the crowd, half of which was already booing him. She didn’t temper her expression as both of the knights came to pay her their respects, their bows really no more than nods, and narrowed her eyes at Sir Marlin’s back as he trotted away.

‘You shouldn’t call him that,’ Bridget said mildly. ‘The Knife, I mean. Giving him a sinister nickname elevates him. Makes him sound like he’s more than a man.’

‘I’ll just call himthat bastardthen,’ Gwen said, surprising herself with her own vehemence. ‘To make it clear that I consider him significantlylessthan a man.’

Bridget laughed quietly. ‘Ah. You’re not fond of him, I take it.’

‘Ohyes,’ said Gwen heatedly, ‘I have him over for sleepovers in my chambers all the time. We eat sweets and talk about which of the knights of the round table we’d most like to marry if they were still alive, and then we laugh about his delightful propensity to hit people repeatedly over the head when they’re already on the ground.’

‘I told you that wasn’t personal,’ said Bridget.

‘It was your personal face he battered,’ said Gwen. ‘Your lip he split. That feels pretty personal to me.’

‘Spoken like a woman who’s never been in combat.’

‘You’re the only woman who’s ever been in combat,’ Gwen countered.

Bridget’s nonchalance faltered. ‘God. You don’t really believe that, do you?’

There was a burst of fanfare, and then the horse’s hoofs were pounding the ground as their riders levelled their lances.Knock him off his horse, Gwen silently urged Sir Woolcott.Knock himoffand thenunderhis horse.

When they did come together, it seemed her prayers had been answered; Sir Marlin was hit so hard that the momentum threw him halfway out of the saddle. The horse was pushed off balance too, and they seemed to hover precariously at an impossible angle before both man and beast came crashing down into the sand. The stands erupted, screaming for Sir Woolcott, who had pulled up his horse and was holding his broken lance aloft in victory.

The Knife was still down; neither he nor his horse seemed able to get up, as they were thoroughly entangled with both each other and the tilting rail. Sir Woolcott dismounted and approached, walking with an exaggerated swagger; Gwen expected him to reach out a hand to help his opponent, to take the horse’s halter and urge it up, but instead he looked around at the crowd, bathing in their adoration, and then slowly and deliberately unsheathed his sword.