Page 52 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘Not just his daughters,’ said the queen. ‘We’ve invited many of the other families visiting court, too. There will be lots of young people in attendance.’

‘Oh,’ said Gwendoline. ‘I see.’ She waited for what she hoped was a safe amount of time, taking a long sip of lemon water to stop herself from speaking too soon. ‘Will, er … is Lady Leclair going to be there?’

She saw Gabriel’s hand slip from his book out of the corner of her eye.

‘Yes,’ the queen said with a sigh. ‘I suppose she will.’

‘Oh. That’s … good.’

Gwen didn’t enjoy hunting. She liked a brisk walk as much as the next person – unless that person happened to be Gabriel, in which case she enjoyed them far more – buthunting involved a lot of waiting around, and long, dull conversations with whichever of her father’s friends’ daughters she had been brought along to accompany.

Normally if she and Gabriel suspected a set-up, she might have amused herself by intervening on his behalf; interrupting private moments, stepping very intentionally on the handkerchief that some viscount’s daughter had conveniently dropped for her brother to retrieve. They felt very far away from all of that right now.

They had never gone this long without speaking – had never really argued beyond gentle reproval from his side when Gwen was feeling particularly irascible, and tough love from hers when Gabriel was sleeping in the library and forgetting to eat lunch – and every second that it continued, Gwen felt it gnaw at her insides.

Really, she had no idea how to proceed whenhehad hurther, because he had never done it before. It was completely unprecedented. There was only one thing she knew for certain: if she had to wait for him to work out exactly how he felt and approach her to talk things through, she’d likely be waiting a very long time.

Gwen’s father had finally given in and picked up the first letter on his pile; as Gwen watched, his expression grew puzzled.

‘What is it?’ she said. Gabriel looked up too, his gaze flickering from the king’s face back to the letter in his hand.

‘My cousin has been sighted near Skipton Castle,’ her father said, exchanging a look with Gabriel. ‘We’ll never hear the end of this from Lord Stafford.’

‘Why?’ said Gwen, her fork hovering.

‘Stafford raised concerns,’ the king said carefully, ‘that somebody might take advantage of the northern cultist uprisings to rally the discontented. He’s been keeping a close eye on any unlikely movements. Skipton is a little too far north for comfort, and certainly nowhere near Willard’s lands.’

‘You think Lord Willard is up to something?’ said Gwen. ‘But you made peace years ago!’

‘Idon’tthink he’s up to anything,’ the king said, sighing. ‘He wrote to me recently, in fact, to warn of unrest near Carlisle, and thanks to him we were able to nip it in the bud. For all we know he has friends in the area and was simply invited to dine at the castle – but Stafford has been near-obsessed with the north lately, and this certainly won’t improve matters.’

‘He’ll want to meet before the hunt,’ Gabriel said reluctantly, closing his book.

‘Yes,’ said the king. ‘Well. Off we go, then. And Gwendoline – please see Rowan about your bird before we depart. I saw the poor man yesterday, and apparently it’s gone rather … feral.’

‘He doesn’t like me,’ Gwen said, eyeing the agitated-looking merlin with great trepidation.

‘That’s because you never visit,’ said Rowan, the tanned, brusque middle-aged Head Falconer who always looked pained the moment he saw Gwen approaching. ‘Birds like to get to know you. He hasn’t seen you for six months, you’re practically a stranger to him.’

‘Right,’ said Gwen, nervously extending a hand. ‘Hello,Beowulf.’ She had named the bird after a long visit from a travelling bard; the name seemed ridiculous now, attached to this small and furious bundle of feathers, but it was too late to change it.

‘No sudden movements,’ said Rowan disapprovingly. ‘I’d keep your fingers out of reach, if I were you.’

‘Great,’ said Gwen miserably. ‘Is there any part of me Ishouldallow close to him?’

The falconer considered her. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘You can take one of my boys with you. They’ll fly him for you.’

‘Fantastic.’ Gwen didn’t feel any affinity with animals, unlike Gabriel, and her interest in falconry had started and ended with choosing her new bird when she was fourteen. As soon as she discovered that they required rather a lot of training, as well as the ability to cope with sudden, incomprehensible bursts of violence, she had given up.

The visiting nobles were starting to fill the courtyard, and Gwen sidled into the shadow of a wall so that she wouldn’t be dragged into conversation with somebody unforgivably dull before she absolutely had to. She saw an overdressed man who must have been the Duke of Lancaster talking to her father, and three dark-haired, pretty girls all dressed in various shades of red and pink trailing after; Gwen immediately glanced over to see if Gabriel had noticed them.

Her brother was at the other end of the yard, Edith the peregrine falcon perched on his gloved arm; he was talking to her in confidential tones, his expression serious. Usually the sight would have made Gwen smile.

‘Your highness,’ somebody said, very close to her ear;Gwen jumped, and turned to see Bridget’s friend Adah from the Morgan’s Day party smiling expectantly at her. ‘Sorry – were you hiding? I can pretend not to have seen you, if it helps.’

‘Oh,’ said Gwen. ‘No. I mean – yes, I suppose I was hiding.’ Adah was wearing something as functionally unlike a dress as possible while still technically being one; she had heavy leather gloves on her hands, and a feather stuck to her shoulder. A brief look of recognition passed across her face, and Gwen suddenly remembered that the last time she’d seen Adah, she had been pretending to be Bridget’s distant cousin.

‘Right,’ said Adah. ‘Winifred.’