Page 50 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

Bridget turned over, and dutifully tried to sleep.

Twenty-Two

Gabriel’s tent was very comfortable, as tents went. Rugs had been heaped on the ground, every surface suitable for sitting was covered in furs and fat cushions, and there was a brazier crackling away at the center, so the air was hazy and heavily seasoned with woodsmoke.

Unfortunately, it also contained a very angry wild animal. While Gabriel had been meeting with Gwen, Sir Hurst and advisors both spiritual and religious, listening to them all talk about safety and the schedule, somebody had arranged for the cage to be carried in and set up in the corner, so that the wildcat could stare and hiss at him in close quarters between savage bites of meat.

Gabriel endured ten minutes of this, and then picked up a large blanket, approached the spitting kitten, and dropped it over the cage. The kitten seemed to calm immediately, like putting a hat on a bird.

“Sorry,” he said, giving the cage a gentle pat, which wasclearly a bad idea, because disgruntled noises resumed briefly before fading away into blissful silence.

He popped his head out of the tent, nodding awkwardly to the guards, to survey the surroundings and look for allies—but he only saw Sir Bowen deep in conversation with Lady Adah, the two of them taking a slow walk through the rows of tents that had been industriously set up in what felt like no time at all. Farther afield, the horses grazed under the trees; it was too gloomy to see them, but Gabriel could hear soft whickers and snorts, and the wet wrench of grass being pulled from the ground.

He was just about to duck back inside when Florian came into view, holding his writing things. He caught sight of Gabriel, smiled apologetically, and approached.

“I was actually coming to find you. Documenting the grand deeds of the order, you know? And I wanted to check some facts. If that’s all right with you, and with… Sir Hurst.”

Sir Hurst was nowhere to be seen, and Gabriel certainly didn’t feel like fetching him, although the captain would no doubt be furious about this later. He liked to be within stabbing range whenever Gabriel and Florian met. “All right,” he said, feeling more tired by the minute. “Come in.”

Florian followed him inside, and they sat down at right angles to each other on two different benches, Florian moving a few overstuffed cushions out of the way and then setting up his portable desk on his knees. The cage in the corner rattled, and his eyes darted to it and then back again, like it would be rude to pry.

“It’s a wildcat,” Gabriel said. “Arthur insisted we keep it.”

“Yes, he said.”

Very stupid, actually, that just the fact that Florian already knew this and had heard it from Arthur was enough to feel like a dagger to the gullet, but it did.

“I wasn’t going to bother you with any of this tonight, but I was halfway through it with Arthur, and as he’s ill—”

“Arthur’s ill?” Anxiety lanced through him; visions of Arthur as he’d been after his father’s attack, whey-faced and damp to the touch, muttering wordlessly for days, lost in the grip of fever. Gabriel had been too afraid to look at him, in case just being there, worrying he would die, was enough to make it come true. “What sort of ill?”

Florian glanced up from where he was fiddling with his quill and fixed Gabriel with a mildly interested look. Gabriel’s eyes slid away. “The usual, he says. A weak spell. Apparently they come on for a few days at a time and he struggles with feverishness, lethargy, frailty in his limbs.”

“Yes,” Gabriel said, annoyed again, not entirely sure why. “I know.”

“Right,” said Florian, seeming as unsure as Gabriel where this had gone wrong. “Sorry.”

“No, no—I’m sorry. I’m just tired. What did you want to ask me?”

“A couple of things, shouldn’t take too long… Let’s see… You rode out with your father during the uprising, yes?”

Gabriel nodded. He didn’t want to talk about this. He didn’t want to talk to Florian at all. Perfect Florian, classically handsome, polished manners, easy to get along with. Pals with Arthur already. Gabriel had never been like that. People didn’t warm to him at once, flock to his side, feel at ease in his company. If Florian’s father had succeeded in his mission, he supposed Florianwouldhave been his heir. What sort of king would he have been? A better one, probably.

Christ. He had to stop committing treason against himself in his own head, but it was a daily occurrence at this point, and a hard habit to kick.

“And—sorry, but Arthur was apparently neck-deep in mud the entire time and the princess lost track of you until you were… found, so there are gaps in the account. I can give it the usual flourishes—rode out valiantly,cut down many a foe…but I wanted to check if there’s anything you’d like to add?”

On the list of things Gabriel tried not to think about, this ranked very highly. What could he possibly say? There were already falsehoods to be corrected.Rode out valiantly? No.Rode out shaking so hard he could barely grip the reins through his gold-plated gauntlets? Yes. They had formed a line, flanked by his father’s bannermen and finest loyal knights, and he had felt so disconnected from his own body that it couldn’t have been anythingbuta nightmare.

And then, something real—Arthur, whom Gabriel had been weak enough to believe had been spying for his father, riding badly toward him with the usurper’s banner held high until he’d thrown it (or, more accurately, dropped it) to the ground and crushed it deliberately into the mud. Alone. A suicide mission. A message. The bravest thing Gabriel had ever seen anybody do. The world had stopped as Arthur approached, and he’d realized too late what was happening, and only been able to watch, speechless with horror, as the archers had loosed.

After that, nausea and panic.Cut down many a foe? Ha! Cut down no foes whatsoever.Clung to his horse, held his sword like it was a magic wand that might keep oncoming attackers at bay? Sure. He’d been very lucky that he hadn’t needed to kill anyone, not ready to claim a life, and he’d been so relatively safe for the first part of the battle that the possibility of pain still felt distant and remote—notsomething that was certainly going to happen to him, and soon. He’d been sheltered from such things his whole life.

He’d looked for Arthur everywhere, sure every body on the ground was his. The nightmare had worsened as he checked each face. He made himself look anyway.

Then an enormous and beautiful destrier, with sweat dripping down its neck and rolling eyes, had reared and danced sideways into Gabriel’s horse. She had thrown him entirely by accident, a hard fall that had winded him completely. She’d managed to get away, thank God, but Gabriel had found himself in the most dangerous place of all—flat on the ground, prime trampling territory—and then the terrified destrier’s hoofs had made contact. A glancing blow to the head, followed by the full force of his weight coming down on Gabriel’s forearm. No armor, however expertly made, could withstand that.

He’d fainted, then been brought cruelly back to life by the pain. Someone had fallen on top of him, pinning his crushed arm, and he’d blacked out again. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness, waiting for a miserable and inauspicious end, until Arthur found him.