Chapter Thirty-Two
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 sorry not 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 of celebration.”
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 do that?”
After a quick stop for sustenance, it was off into the royal woods 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.
Don’t fuck this up? Don’t fuck what up? What did Sidney know that Gabriel didn’t? Why was Gabriel still standing here, only half dressed and clutching a posy in his sweaty fist, when the rest of his life might be waiting for him downstairs?
It felt like strange superstition to put on his favorite jacket—a slim, light blue doublet with the faintest pattern of foliage picked out in silver thread in the trim—but he did it anyway. Why not? It was his last stand, and he thought he should go out armored as best he could.
He met Gwen in the hallway. She was wearing a pinkish-red dress Gabriel had never seen before. It should have clashed horribly with her hair, but instead it had the interesting effect of making her look like a pretty illustration he’d once seen of a volcano.
“Let’s go,” she said, and Gabriel followed her down the stairs and out into a small courtyard. Agnes was there, along with most of the round table and Prince Owain and his wife, a black-haired, blue-eyed woman of tiny stature in bright Welsh yellows and reds.
Sidney and Agnes had decided to forgo two separate processions to the chapel, so Sidney had gone ahead to receive them and Agnes was to lead them there with two of her cousins by her side.
She was truly radiant, wearing pale iridescent green with white flowers woven into her dark hair, smiling so much that Gabriel’s anxiety felt redoubled in contrast to her happiness.
Shut up, Gabriel told his brain. Just let this be a nice thing.
They all trooped out of the courtyard and down a narrow passage until they reached the chapel, where the archbishop himself was waiting on the doorstep, standing next to a resplendent Sidney Fitzgilbert.
At his shoulder, Arthur.
Someone—Gabriel suspected Gwen—had done something to his hair. It was glossed and brushed as usual, but there was a romantic wave to it that softened the shaggy edges, his hair set slightly away from his face somehow, drawn back at his temples.
His jacket was dark crimson silk, trimmed with lace of silk floss and gold filé at the seams and collar. Each button was painstakingly embroidered with a floral motif, and he had pinned Sidney’s nosegay right where Gabriel had, above his heart.
He was so beautiful. Gabriel felt like he might faint.
“We ought to do this inside,” Cardinal Richards said disapprovingly. “At the altar.”
Sidney, who was gazing adoringly at his bride, didn’t look away from her as he said, “This is how my parents did it, so it’s how I’m doing it. Just count yourself lucky I didn’t ask you to come and bless us in our marriage bed.”
“And you’re bloody lucky I agreed to grant the license,” the archbishop muttered, but then he cleared his throat and began the blessing.
He was saying some pretty serious stuff about God and commitment, but Gabriel was looking at Arthur.
Arthur, who couldn’t stop smiling, squinting slightly in the last golden sweep of sun.
Who, once the rites were read—and Sidney had given Agnes the wedding gift of a ring that Gabriel knew had once belonged to Gwen—allowed his friend to kiss his bride just once before pulling him into a hug that felt like it lasted longer than the entire ceremony.
Then everyone was laughing and hugging in congratulations, the procession heading back up toward the castle.
Gabriel hung back, watching them go, suddenly feeling set apart from all that joy in a way that made him want to go to his room and never come out.
His council would have to wage war with the Prince of Wales to get him back for the next budget meeting.
He remembered what Florian had said. You ought to give yourself a chance too.
Gabriel thought of Arthur in the evening sun, and followed that feeling like a bird called home.