Page 98 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

Arthur exchanged a desperate glance with Sidney. If the king still lived, it stood to reason that everybody else did too.

‘We will be on the front line,’ continued Arthur’s father. ‘Leading Lord –King– Willard to glory. It’s an immense honour.’ He strode away to meet the man who was bringing round his horse.

‘They’re alive,’ said Sidney. Arthur gave him a weak thumbs-up. ‘Although … front lines.’ Arthur flipped his hand to give the appropriate thumbs-down.

‘Willard’s just hoping we Delaceys die first,’ he said bitterly, reaching over to untie Sidney, who, once freed, put an arm under Arthur’s shoulder and heaved him up. ‘So he doesn’t have to invite my father to dinner parties.’

Lord Delacey glanced sharply over at them, but nobody was trying to stop them from leaving any more. It seemed pointless; who up at the castle wouldn’t assume them both turncoats now, after everything Arthur’s father had done? They’d likely be killed on sight.

Someone brought armour, and it was parcelled out to them in a rush. Arthur let Sidney dress him; he tried to help with the fastenings but found his hands too shaky and fatigued to do much of anything. He was cycling through their options in his head. First, and most obviously, theycouldrun. They could make a break for it as soon as they were ahorse, flee and wait somewhere safe until they knewwho had won the day. Either way, he’d likely be on the run for the rest of his life, labelled a traitor by whichever side claimed victory.

Second, they could stay and look out for their own necks. If Arthurdidlive, which was hilariously unlikely, he supposed he’d just have to accept whatever measly life his father and Willard offered him from that point onwards.

But that was a life in which Gabriel was dead; the king too, and perhaps Gwen with them – so neither of the first two options would do at all.

‘They think I’m a traitor,’ Arthur said suddenly, as Sidney led a gleaming white horse towards him and pushed the reins into his hand. ‘Because of what I told Stafford. That must be why they wouldn’t see me. They think I’m part of all this.’

‘Had been thinking that myself,’ Sidney said grimly, before going to fetch a horse of his own.

‘Shit,’ Arthur said to the horse; it stared balefully at him, as if willing him not to do anything that might bring about both of their demises.

‘So – are we running?’ Sidney said, eyeing up the messy line that was forming, newly arrived horses being brought forward into the mayhem with rolling eyes and nervous, skittering hoofs.

‘Can’t,’ Arthur said, grimacing at him. ‘You should, Sid. But I can’t.’

‘Sod off,’ Sidney said mildly, patting his own horse on its tawny forelock. ‘Fat bloody chance of that.’

‘Hmmm. I suppose now would be an excellent time for me to have my very first idea.’

‘Yeah, keep working away at that,’ Sidney said. He cupped his hands to boost Arthur up into the saddle; Arthur almost fell back down, but with a few heaves managed to get himself up on to the horse, with no guarantee he would stay there.

Arthur was thinking, thinking, thinking. Eventually, it all seemed laughably clear.

‘Do you know what the first sign of civilisation was, in people?’

‘What?’ Sidney said distractedly, handing Arthur a sword. He tried to give him a shield too, but Arthur couldn’t bear the weight, so he kept it for himself.

‘Ashworth told me when I was little,’ Arthur said, shakily sheathing the sword on his third try. ‘They think the first sign of civilisation was a healed femur.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Sidney said, mounting his own horse with a grunt.

‘It’s a bone in your leg.’

‘I know it’s abone—’

‘Just ask me why, Sid. I’m trying to do something here. Indulge me in my final moments.’

‘Fine,’ Sidney said. ‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Arthur said, as Lord Willard himself pulled ahead to the front of the line, ‘it’s a bad break. It doesn’t heal by itself. Other people have to care about you – bring you food and protect you while you heal – when really they should just leave you behind to die. They have to make sacrifices that make absolutely no logical sense for their own survival. They have to defy all rationality, in the name of love.’

Two standard-bearers stepped forward on either side of Lord Willard holding thin scarlet banners, each emblazonedwith a black tower. Close to the tournament grounds, Arthur could see the king’s forces gathering, disciplined lines of men with their heads held high. He could also, he realised, just about see the king – his bannermen made him easy to spot, looking enormous astride his horse even from this distance. There was somebody next to him armoured in light, lustrous gold, leaning forward to calm his agitated horse.

Arthur thought he probably knew who that was, too.

‘I feel,’ Sidney said apprehensively, ‘like this whole femur thing is symbolic. Because you didn’t break your femur. And that – that can’t be a good sign.’

‘Well,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘If we’re going to die here, I reckon we should let history remember us as reprobates for all of the questionable things weactuallydid, don’t you? Not as filthy turncoats for my bastard father.’