Page 59 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

Adah laughed, quite uncontrollably, until she caught Bridget’s eye.

“Sorry.” She schooled her features. “Yeah, definitely. Totally. Truer words never spoken.”

There was a mood suffusing the town like a thick fog when they entered the square the next afternoon, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. There were far more people crammed into the space than Bridget had expected, and from the looks on Gwen’s and Gabriel’s faces, they were also surprised.

Sir Hurst looked ill. At an event this large in Camelot, there wouldn’t just have been small groups of guards flanking the king and princess, but guards scattered in the crowd, guards at the perimeter, a whole network of people intentionally placed at short intervals for maximum safety. They had planned to troop up en masse onto the small makeshift stage, to impress the crowd with their order of the round table, but instead, after harried discussions with the Captain of the Guard, Bridget and the other knights dispersed in a wide semicircle at the front, a very visible barrier full of very noticeable holes.

Before Gabriel and the others were to speak, the friendly baron hosting them got up to address the crowd with a speech that was met with vague disinterest and a few gentle boos, and then introduced a local priest who had wanted to say something too—it was at this point that things went rapidly downhill.

Bridget had her back to the man speaking, watching the townspeople, the expressions of neutrality, interest, discontent—discontent, discontent, discontent—the press of the crowd mirroring the claustrophobia of battle, even while they all stood completely still. It had started to drizzle, and the cloying smellof damp bodies, damp cloth, damp earth was already overwhelming.

“Honored as we are of course, it does beg the question—a king is to be God’s hand on earth, divine, and yet His Majesty forces laws unto us that seem to contravene God’s word.”

Someone shouted in agreement, and many in the crowd took up the cry. A woman right at the front, practically standing face-to-face with an uncharacteristically serious Sir Leonard, raised her hand and pointed.

“Send children to school to have their minds corrupted, and then what do we do when our fields need harvesting and our goats need herding?” she shouted. “We’ll starve, shall we? Long as my boy knows his letters?”

Bridget turned her head for just long enough to see that Sir Hurst was speaking urgently in Gabriel’s ear, while Gwen stood behind them, her eyes darting rapidly around the crowd.

The shouting woman tried to push past Leonard; he put a hand on her shoulder to stop her from going any farther, and the man next to her roared with outrage and tried to throw himself at Leonard too, the weak sun flashing off his belt buckle as he did. Sir Bowen appeared, took the man’s arms, and pushed them carefully away.

The man spat at Bowen. Bridget didn’t see if he’d hit his target, but she did see Leonard reaching for his sword, and suddenly her concern for the level of anger in the crowd didn’t seem unreasonable at all. It wasn’t justlikea battle anymore; itwasa battle, and she was surrounded by the enemy. Her breath was coming in sharp bursts, like she was trying to gulp it down, and her knuckles were white and painful as she gripped the pommel of her sword, not wanting to draw it yet, but terrified she’d act too late.

The crowd pressed into her, and she took a step back—right into Sidney, who grasped her shoulder briefly and then let go.

“Leclair,” he said roughly. “It’s fine.”

Bridget looked to Leonard and Bowen, expecting to see bloodied sword, bloodied ground—but the angry man and woman were being escorted away by friends. Bridget watched as the man reached the edge of the crowd, his companion saying something in his ear as they walked away.

The priest on the stage had stopped speaking, so Arthur stepped forward, and said in a loud voice, “Well, if anyone’s planning on throwing fruit and veg, hurry up, because I’m starving,” and eventually the frantic energy fizzled out.

Sidney was right. Itwasfine. But Bridget felt shaken, ready to leap into action, counting down the seconds until the royal siblings were off that stage and they could all be escorted back to the manor. Logically, she knew this wasn’t fair; the ordinary people in this crowdweren’ther enemies. It didn’t matter. She rushed to the king the second Arthur’s speech was over, and kept her shoulder touching Gwen’s as they exited through the back of the town square and walked to the waiting carriage.

“They’re right,” Gabriel kept muttering to Gwen, in a voice quiet but slightly shrill with panic. “They’reright. Who am I to tell them how to live? What do I know? I don’t know anything. They’re right!”

Bridget could only breathe at a tempo approaching normality once they were back in the baron’s house, with quite a few lockable doors between them and the crowd. It was dark inside as they walked through patches of smoky firelight from the wall sconces, accompanied by the soft crackling of the torches, the sound of many footsteps on stone floors echoing slightly. Bridget counted tapestries and willed her heart to slow down.

Gwen was talking to her brother as they walked, her arm looped firmly around his, but she glanced back, saw Bridget, then gave Gabriel one final parting word and came to Bridget’s side.

“Come to my room,” she said. “I’ll make tea.”

Bridget let herself be led, and ended up sitting on the edge of the tiny four-poster, the hangings a very faded silk and gilt, high relief between the soft scarlet and the shining gold.Brocatelle, that’s what it was called; her mother had told her once, and the information had fallen out of Bridget’s head until right this moment, when she had absolutely no need of it…

“Gauntlets,” said Gwen, and Bridget offered up her hands and allowed Gwen to unstrap them, and her vambraces too. She knew how. She’d done it before. It had felt exciting, then. Bridget couldn’t feel anything about it now. Gwen went away for a while, and Bridget watched a spark from the fire catch on the rug, burn brightly and then die, leaving a black hole where it had landed.

“Tea,” Gwen said, handing her a hot cup of something that only bore a vague resemblance to tea, mostly sharp citrus and herbs. Gwen drank it constantly. She’d had them pack a small crate of lemons on the wagon, just to feed her habit. “Drink it, Bridget. I have to take some to Gabriel, and then I’ll be back.”

Bridget took a sip, and then another. It was sweet and tart, a strong enough taste that it felt like she returned to her body a little. She sat there nursing her cup, and eventually Gwen came back, and busied herself taking out her elaborate self-tied braids, running a comb through her hair, taking a rag and a basin of hot water and cleaning her face by the glass. All the things Agnes would normally do, if she were here; she could have called for someone, for a maid of the house, but the door was now barred between them and everyone outside this room, and Bridget was glad of it.

Gwen took off her cloak, hung it by the fire, and then came to stand in front of Bridget, gesturing to the back of her dress.

“Could you… My bliaut, it’s laced at the seams, it’s meant to be invisible but if you poke around…”

Bridget put down her cup and felt for the seams, until she came across the fine, narrow lacing. She’d done this before too. If she pulled too hard the fabric might tear, so she had to go slow and steady, concentrate absolutely. It quieted her mind, the methodical work, the care she had to take… and then as the dress started to open, revealing fine Flemish linen and the tops of Gwen’s freckled shoulder blades, she let her fingers wander to stroke the downy hair on Gwen’s neck, following the topography of her spine one vertebra at a time. She moved her fingers aside and kissed her there, unthinking.

Gwen’s breath caught, and she stayed absolutely still until Bridget reluctantly moved away, letting her mouth graze across the surface of Gwen’s skin as she did.

“Bridget,” she said gently. “Drink your tea.”