Chapter Thirty-One #2
Bridget made a happy, humming sort of noise that was entirely new to her, then bent her head to Gwen’s neck to kiss her there.
They lost track of time, and Bridget was thoroughly distracted when Neil walked in and said, “Jesus Christ, take your hands out of her skirt, we’re meant to be leaving in ten minutes.
I was about to send out a search party.”
Bridget flipped him the finger, kissed Gwen on the forehead, and begrudgingly followed him to see about her things.
It was only a day’s ride to Harlech Castle. The scenery continued to be very impressive as they approached the coast, but the weather gradually worsened, until it was raining soft pellets of sleet, and everyone was miserable again.
“I thought it was supposed to be warmer by the sea,” Adah griped, when they stopped to water the horses and all ended up huddled under one copse of trees, icy mush dripping down their backs.
Bridget squinted up at the sky, which showed no sign of clearing. “Yep. But we’re still in Wales. Worse, in the uplands.”
The road on the approach to the castle offered more cover, the trees forming a vaulted tunnel overhead.
For a while, they could have been absolutely anywhere, Wales or Scotland or a few miles from home, and then suddenly the landscape opened up, everything falling away, affording them a view all the way to the blurry stretches of gray beach and the dark, choppy sea.
There was the castle, rising up out of the gloom, almost as big as Camelot and built in similar style, hulking and square with rounded towers at its corners.
They took a sharp right to traverse down slippery rock to the bridge, then crossed under two impressive barbicans to reach the gatehouse, where the portcullis was raised for them with clanking ceremony.
“This place is massive,” Arthur said, as they rode forward into the inner ward. “Imagine a siege here—you’d just be having a nice time for years, you wouldn’t even notice the enemy was at the gate.”
A welcome party was gathered outside, despite the cold.
The order of the round table dismounted as quickly as possible, horses hurried away to be rubbed down and stabled, and Gwen and Gabriel went forward to meet the broad-shouldered, salt-and-pepper-bearded man in the cloak who was waiting to greet them.
“Prince Owain,” Gabriel said, offering his hand to shake; Prince Owain, who was handsome and slightly ruddy in the face, threw an arm around Gabriel’s shoulders instead, and gave him a rough shake. “You—ah—needn’t have come outside in this weather.”
“Weather?” Owain wrinkled his nose, then glanced up at the sky. His accent was very pleasant, all lilt, almost musical. “Just a bit of gwlithlaw, we won’t melt. Come in, get warm, you’re all very welcome.”
He greeted Bowen like an old friend, which Bridget supposed they probably were, seeing as Bowen had grown up not ten miles from this castle.
There was a great fire roaring in the hall, the tables laden with hot bread and ewers of cool ale, and they all dripped over to sit down as close to the flames as possible and stuff themselves with bread and butter with as much composure as possible.
“How was our Lady of the Lake?” Owain said, drink in hand, as servants mopped the long, wet trail of mud the English had left from door to hearth.
“Very hospitable,” said Gwen.
“Ha! Hospitable. Mad as a bird and full of mischief, I’d say. I thought you were good Catholic stock. Your father was, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Gabriel. “Um. We’re sort of on the fence about it all.”
“Fascinating.” Owain nodded. “And you’ve been upsetting all sorts of people, I hear. Mad new laws. Lady knights. Well met, lady knights!” He wiggled his fingers merrily at them.
Bridget exchanged a sideways glance with Adah, and then they both bowed their heads in his direction, hands full of bread.
“Good for you. The stranger you are, the less likely it is anyone near my borders decides they might fancy being English for a change.” His expression turned serious. “I was sorry to hear about your father. Always liked him. Sometimes we used to get drunk, and wrestle.”
“That’s nice,” said Gwen. “I do so love to hear tales of his noble feats.”
Owain laughed. “Oh, she’s funny. You in the market for a husband, Your Highness? Plenty of strapping Welsh lads around. I’ve got two very nice-looking grandsons. Maybe a little young for you, but just a few years off, and they’ll grow.”
“Thank you,” said Gwen. “Very kind. I’ll think about it.”
“If only my own daughter weren’t already married,” he said, sighing regretfully. “The timing just wasn’t right, you know? Unless you like them older, Gabriel, because I’ve got a very pretty widowed sister who’s always liked a redhead.”
Gabriel choked on his wine, and Owain laughed, and clapped him on the back so hard he almost fell out of his chair.
“You can’t scare that easily, man, you’re the king now.” He got to his feet. “Go find your baths, scrub all that Wales off you, we’ll eat a small supper before bed, and tomorrow we feast.”
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.”