Page 26 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘He wouldn’t,’ said Bridget quietly, her eyes narrowed.

‘Wouldn’t … what?’

‘Sir Woolcott was blooded in local tourneys. I have no idea how he came by his title – he certainly didn’t have onethe last time I encountered him. There are far fewer rules in those independent tournaments, and … well, he’s not the greatest thinker. And he enjoys the spectacle of violence. It’s not a reassuring combination.’ Bridget wasn’t looking at Gwen as she spoke; she was leaning forward in her seat, body tense, hands braced against the barrier as if she were moments away from leaping right over it. ‘If the people keep cheering for him, there’s no telling what he might do. Why won’t the Grand Marshal call tostop?’

Gwen craned her neck, looking for Sir Blackwood. ‘He’s not in his seat,’ she said. It came out barely louder than a whisper. Sir Blackwood was often not where he was supposed to be; even Gwen had heard the rumours that the Grand Marshal had turned drinker and gambler in recent years. She knew her father had been too busy to push the matter, but if it came to light that he had left his post to settle his debts while needless blood was spilt in the arena, there’d be hell to pay. ‘Oh, God. Look at the crowd.’ They were all up in their seats, chanting Sir Woolcott’s name. He had removed his helm and was grinning back at them, clearly emboldened by their frenzy.

‘This is the king’s tourney,’ Bridget said, finally facing Gwen. Her expression was furious; it was hard to look at somehow, like trying to stare directly into the sun. ‘Everybody here knows the terms. We fight according to the rules of chivalry.’

‘My father isn’t here,’ Gwen said weakly, gesturing to the empty seats next to her.

Bridget’s eyes tightened. ‘Then this isyourtourney.’

Gwen could see the logic in this, but in reality she felt nomore in charge than the pageboys who put down fresh straw between tilts. Not even her own lady-in-waiting took her seriously; why would anybody else?

She watched helplessly as Sir Woolcott advanced on the Knife, who was still trapped beneath his panicking horse.

‘Call the round,’ said Bridget. ‘Come on. Tell them to stop.’

Gwen looked up at her, horrified. ‘I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘It’s not for me to … They won’tlistento me anyway.’

‘He’s going to kill him if you don’t,’ Bridget insisted. ‘Saysomething.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Gwen said, paralysed by fear and guilt. ‘I don’t – I really don’t think I can.’

How could Bridget not see that she was asking the impossible? And besides – somebody else would surely step in. If they just held on for a few more seconds, one of the other knights would intervene, or the Grand Marshal would return, and the trumpets would sound. The Knife would get up, Sir Woolcott would be reprimanded, and they’d call in the next competitors with no harm done.

‘Fine,’ said Bridget, flexing her fingers against the railing. ‘Fine.’ Before Gwen could blink, she had jumped the barrier and landed lightly on the ground below. She unsheathed her sword from her belt and strode towards the two knights. The reaction from the crowd was immediate and deafening.

Bridget ducked under the tilting rail and placed herself squarely between the Knife and Sir Woolcott, shoulders back, hands steady. The latter looked at her, his chest heaving, almost vibrating with adrenaline, and then threw back his head and laughed.

‘You won, sir. Put your sword away,’ Bridget said, her voice low; Gwen had to strain to catch it.

‘You,’ scoffed Sir Woolcott. ‘You make a mockery of this tournament.’

‘If I do, then I’m about to have company,’ Bridget said evenly. ‘You and I both know there’s no honour in fighting a man who’s already down.’

‘No?’ shouted Sir Woolcott for all to hear, playing to his eager crowd. ‘Let’s see what honour I can find in fighting a mangey, jumped-upbitchwho doesn’t know her place.’

The crowd roared its approval. Gwen watched with her heart in her mouth.

Bridget pushed her hair away from her face and adjusted her stance ever so slightly, readying herself.This is ridiculous, Gwen thought faintly.She’s covered head-to-toe in bruises, and she doesn’t even have her armour on.

This thought was finally enough to get Gwen on her feet; she almost tripped over her hem in her rush to the end of the royal stand. The guard standing there was watching the fight, transfixed.

‘Please go and fetch the Grand Marshal,’ Gwen said. He couldn’t hear her over the sound of the crowd, and leaned in as she tried again. ‘You have to – please, get Sir Blackwood,now.’

The guard nodded, and called over another of her father’s men. Gwen turned back to the arena just in time to see Sir Woolcott swing his sword at Bridget with such velocity that when she dodged neatly out of the way it stuck fast in the dirt. Bridget could have struck, but she didn’t seem to want to hurt him; she attempted to take out his legs, tounbalance him as he yanked at the blade, but he stayed standing, solid and immoveable as a brutish tree.

Gwen looked behind her desperately, hoping to see the Grand Marshal hurrying to his seat, but he was nowhere to be found. Some of the other competing knights had been drawn from their encampment, and seemed to be considering intervening; a few were already reaching for their weapons. She heard a clash of swords again; Bridget was on the ground, her weapon held above her head, Sir Woolcott’s pressing down against it and eliciting a tortuous, shrill squeal as steel met steel.

Bridget was going to lose. He was going to wound her, perhaps mortally, and not even the knights with their swords drawn would be there in time to stop it. Gwen suddenly felt dangerously light-headed as the entire scene in front of her seemed to slide sideways, falling from her grip – but then she heard a voice ringing out across the arena.

‘Stop.’

The crowd quieted, and all heads turned. Gwen sagged against the barrier in her relief. Her father was here. Her father had come, and Bridget was saved.

When she turned, however, it was not her father, but Gabriel – he was standing at the entrance to the royal stands, looking incensed and a little sick. The guards standing either side of him had their hands on their hilts, and it occurred to Gwen far too late that she should have ordered her own guards to step into the fray.