Page 81 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

Something bounced off Bridget’s ankle, and she investigated and discovered it was Arthur’s foot.

“Sorry,” he hissed. “I was trying to kick Sidney. Kick him for me, will you? He’s about to embarrass himself.”

It was too late; Sidney had risen and intercepted Prince Owain on his way out, bowing elaborately and then leaning in to talk to him with an uncharacteristically serious look on his face. After a quick back and forth, unbelievably, Owain shook his hand, looking delighted.

“A wedding!” he said. “I love weddings. Llongyfarchiadau mawr, my good man. We shall have one after all.”

When Sidney came to sit down, he was glowing with success; at the other end of the table, Sir Hurst looked purple with repressed violence.

“If you don’t ask, you don’t get,” Sidney said primly. “Pass the butter, Leclair, I must keep my strength up—I am about to be a married man.”

Thirty-Two

Gabriel, not entirely sure if he should feel stressed, happy, or sad, had landed on a state of strange exhilaration, his nerves stretched so thin that practically everything startled him. Gwen kept giving him knowing looks from across the table, but Arthur was sitting close by, so she kept her communication strictly eye-based.

He was glad. He didn’t know what he could possibly say to her right now.

He tried very hard not to gaze constantly at Arthur or guess what might be going on in his head.He loves me? He loves me not?Arthur had barely looked at him since Gabriel had made his hasty exit from the tent they’d shared, which did not feel auspicious.

Before dinner, he took a bath. He sank into the blissfully hot water, letting it pinken his skin and bring sweat to his brow, easing the tight pain in his scar, trying to imagine a future in which Arthur forgave him. He couldn’t picture it.Having had a lifetime of bad news in one summer, it was like he was only built to receive more.

He did let the pages dress him, because he was very tired and it was almost impossible to lace and button everything that needed lacing and buttoning with one hand, and when he caught sight of himself in the glass he thought he looked… older. His hair needed cutting; it was practically growing down his neck, the curls getting wilder as they did. Some of the softness in his face was gone, and as a result, he was shocked to discover his father’s bones staring back at him. It hurt like heartburn then, an acidic squeeze of the chest, and Gabriel had to sit down for a minute or two before he could gather himself to go down to dine.

Arthur was seated at the far end of the high table, with Sir Florian and Lady Adah. It was probably a blessing in disguise; if he’d been close enough to hear, or touch, Gabriel wouldn’t have thought about anything else. Prince Owain had arranged entertainment—traditional step dancing and lively music—so it was easy to sit next to him and listen to him explain, translating the songs, describing each dish as it was brought before them. Lamb cawl was a sort of rich soup, and caws pobi involved an outrageous amount of melted cheese. It was hearty food, comforting; designed to soothe those who’d spent a long, cold day on the road.

Halfway through the feast, Agnes arrived. She stood in the doorway, pretty in a purple dress, and then Sidney ran to her like he’d spent twelve months at sea, and people clapped and cheered them, which made Gabriel feel like hiding under the table.

“Young love,” Prince Owain said, sighing happily. “I remember it well. You’ll meet my wife tomorrow, she was sorrynot to greet you—on her way back from Aberystwyth, and it’s not a kind road this time of year.”

“I look forward to it,” Gabriel said, each word an effort, the concept of a sentence foreign to him in this moment.

Agnes and Sidney kissed, in public, for almost forty minutes. Gabriel knew, because by the time they were finished, so was the dancing, and the pudding.

“I wonder how they don’t get sores,” Prince Owain said, when they finally broke apart to eat some scraps. “Right. I’ll let you get away to bed, and tomorrow will be a day ofcelebration.”

The next day had been scheduled to include all manner of classic royal activities before any celebration was in the offing; they all rode out into the morning mist for a spirited tour of the local area, the long, featureless stretch of gold sandy beach and the velvety green-and-brown hills beyond that were cut through with a vast network of rivers and streams. There were small waterfalls tumbling over dark slabs of rock, lush carpets of moss clinging to the low stone walls, curling ferns crowding the edges to jostle for a drink.

“There’s deep magic here, if you believe the stories,” said Prince Owain. “You English like to try to civilize the fantastic, but here, we live alongside it. You know, your father and I were in a lifelong argument about whether King Arthur was, in fact, Welsh.”

“I know,” said Gabriel, distracted. “Perhaps he, um… was born in Wales, and moved to England?”

“Now why,” said Owain, fixing Bowen with a look of stern fondness, “would anybody in their right mind dothat?”

After a quick stop for sustenance, it was off into the royalwoods to hunt deer, something Gabriel did not particularly enjoy. The part he liked best was getting to meet lots of new dogs.

By the time they were back at the castle to ready themselves for the feast, Gabriel was spattered in mud to his hips and so socially exhausted he felt thin at the surface; almost physically bruised by the day.

The idea that he was going to have to put on his best clothes and go back down to spend hours and hours in the company of others was almost too horrible to bear, but for one thing—proximity to Arthur. He loved parties, even now that he didn’t drink, and with his mood lifted and love in the air, anything felt possible.

There was a knock on Gabriel’s door when he’d bathed and was half dressed to his first layer; expecting Gwen, he told the page to let her in, and discovered that it was in fact Sidney Fitzgilbert standing outside the door, beaming so hard he seemed to be on another planet entirely.

“Evening, Your Maj,” he said. “I’ve got flowers here for you, I thought it’d be nice if the whole round table wore them.” He handed Gabriel a nosegay tied with thin ivory ribbon, white campion and chicory, and a single pale rose. “Can you believe it? I’m going to be married.”

“I sort of can actually,” said Gabriel.

“I know, right? Well, see you later. Great day for love, I reckon.” He sighed happily. Gabriel was looking down at the flowers, the delicate petals folded against his palm, when Sidney added, more seriously, “And… listen, don’t fuck this up, all right?”

Gabriel nodded absentmindedly. What Sidney had actually said only registered when he’d closed the door and gone skipping on his merry way.