Chapter Forty-Four
Forty-Four
Then Sir Bridget Leclair, pure of heart and bare of head, did receive the gift of the Holy Grail, a divine cup of sublimity and power adorned all over with gems precious to mankind, and in all her grace she knew it to be goodly, and did desire to use it well.
—FROM AN EARLY DRAFT OF THE QUESTS OF KING GAbrIEL AND HIS ROUND TABLE BY SIR FLORIAN ARDEN
Bridget was slow getting up in the morning; slow putting on her clothes, slow calling for Neil, and he followed her lead, gently buckling her into her armor, trying to avoid jostling her bruises, and apologizing when he did anyway, despite the fact that Bridget never flinched.
Her head felt cold. Sidney had been a surprisingly gentle barber, sitting her down by the fire and cutting her hair first in large swathes and then in smaller increments, running his blade over the contours of her skull until she had less than a quarter of an inch left, a little crop of dark fuzz that made her feel like a puppy or a duckling.
She kept touching it, surprised by the texture every time, how light her head felt, the sensation of cool wind against the exposed tips of her ears.
She was glad it was gone. Since that man had touched it, it hadn’t felt like hers anymore anyway.
She had been mostly left to sleep since then, but they were due to start the journey back to Camelot today, and everyone was tired and on edge, and reluctant to further delay.
Word would have spread by now of what had happened in the village by the sea, and Bridget wondered what they were saying—how many would be shocked, or indifferent, or pleased.
It would light some fires, that was for certain, and what they planned to do next would fan the flames further.
As she and Neil packed, her gaze fell on the oilcloth bundle still sitting on the end of her bed. When her squire went to take her things down to the cart, she sighed, and unwrapped it without ceremony.
It was a plain earthenware cup that had been broken on one side and partially repaired with silver.
The silver was inset with tiny whorls of pearlescent shells and splinters of precious stones: ruby, sapphire, emerald, and diamond.
Bridget could see why the fisherman had looked at it and decided that it was something special.
She put it down, intending to wrap it back up again, but then instead she pulled the waterskin from her belt, tipped some into the cup, and swallowed the contents in one gulp.
Nothing happened. No knitting up of her wounds, healing of her bruises. She didn’t feel imbued with new life, or young again, or strengthened by the vigor of anything at all, from this realm or the next.
It was worth trying anyway. Stupid to be in possession of a supposedly magic cup and not test the theory.
They rode much slower than usual that day, and Bridget knew it was because of her, and was vaguely annoyed, but didn’t say anything.
She felt so bone-tired, so wrung out, it was hard to think of anything else.
Everyone was babying her, taking it in turns to ride next to her, keeping her company, talking to her constantly even though she barely responded.
Arthur prattled on about names for his wildkitten, buoyed by the prospect of seeing her again once they were back at the castle; Adah went for nostalgia, the misspent hours of their youths; Sir Leonard talked incessantly about a knight he’d taken a disliking to, a Sir Ulfric, providing a long list of grievances and crimes that he himself was also guilty of. Only Gwen and Bowen were silent.
Bridget, who unlike some on their expedition had studied the schedule, knew that they were supposed to camp on their journey home, but she wasn’t surprised when the sun began to set on them as they reached the gates of a slightly dilapidated manor, set in acres of wild meadows and rambling woodland.
Someone had obviously ridden ahead of their glacial pace to secure alternative lodgings, and that someone seemed to be a very worried page, who kept saying at quite a loud volume that if he’d just been given a little more time, he could have found something more suitable.
They were met at the door by an elderly man in a robe. Based on the peek of hairy knee from beneath the velvet, it was all he was wearing. When the Wizard saw him, he exclaimed, “Excellent!” Cardinal Richards only looked at him in horror.
His name was Lord Elemore, and he insisted on an elaborate and dramatic bow for the king and the princess before letting them in, where they discovered that he only had two servants, and a large hole in the ceiling of his hall.
“Don’t mind the cracks,” he said somberly as he showed them around. “They encourage a lovely breeze.”
There was indeed a breeze; in fact, there were many competing streams of cold air in every room.
They all took turns to bathe in front of the fire in the kitchen, a process that took a long time as the pages had to keep lugging water in from the inconvenient well and waiting for it to be somewhat warm.
The least harrowing sleeping quarters should, by rights, have been allotted to the king—but they were given to Bridget instead, who rolled her eyes but felt resigned to her comfortable fate.
The room had a dramatically angled ceiling supported by woodworm-ridden beams. One wall was clearly the brick of the chimney flue from the large hearth below, and was warm to the touch.
Bridget gave one of the pocked beams a smack as she passed it, to see how sturdy it was; it wobbled slightly and showered her in dust and a few old, stringy cobwebs.
When Neil came to see her, to bring her very dry cake and a jug of ale, she asked that he do her a favor; Gwen came at once when bidden, her hair still wet from her bath, and stood in the doorway, taking in the strange, angular room.
“Will you hate it if I ask you how you’re feeling?” she said, still politely avoiding Bridget’s gaze.
“Maybe,” said Bridget. “But I feel … tired.”
Gwen nodded. “I’m glad we’re going home.”
Bridget was sitting on the side of her bed, bent and bracing her elbows on her knees, her hands steepled. She probably looked like she was about to burst into prayer. “I owe you an apology. For … what happened before, what I said to you in Wales.”
“I want to apologize first actually,” Gwen said quickly. “And then you can apologize.”
“Right,” said Bridget. “But I really do think—”
“I’m sorry for the way I … phrased things,” Gwen said mulishly.
“I should have realized why you were upset, and listened. Or left you alone. You did tell me to leave. I was trying to help you, but that doesn’t mean I actually was being helpful in the way you needed.
And … that’s the end of my apology, because I think that’s the total sum of what I might have done wrong. Your turn now.”
Bridget raised her eyebrows, waiting a few seconds longer to see if that was indeed the end of Gwen’s speech, and then cleared her throat.
“You’re right,” she said. “And what you said, back in the inn … You do know me, better than I know myself sometimes. There’s been a lot for me to think about.
There are some things I’m just not ready to let go of.
Some things … I really don’t know who I am, without.
But I do hear you. And Bowen. I know you’re worried I’m just …
hurting myself. I need you to let me figure this out at my own pace. ”
“I know,” said Gwen. “I just hope you can find some … peace, I suppose. I know you haven’t had much lately. Does it help, at all? To know why you’ve been feeling this way?”
“Yes and no,” said Bridget. “Least now I know I’m not just a fuckup, fucking up for no reason. But I wanted the answer to come with a solution.”
“Well…” Gwen went to say something, paused, visibly restrained herself from going ahead with it. It seemed to take a lot of effort.
“What?”
“I don’t think Bowen was saying this is your life, forever, or that you’ll never be able to do any of the things you want to do. Not from what he told me, anyway. His advice was to … rest more, fight less. Make sure your body knows you’re not in constant danger.”
“Apparently I am in constant danger,” Bridget said, gesturing to her face.
“You do sort of court it sometimes, Bridget,” Gwen said, softly exasperated. “Although admittedly, you weren’t trying to this time. I’m just saying that perhaps a fifty percent reduction of life-threatening or violence-inducing situations might help. That’s all.”
“I know,” Bridget said. “I’ll think about it. I swear.”
Gwen stopped hovering by the door and came to sit with her. “I like your hair,” she said. “You look handsome. I like seeing all of your face.”
“I look like a novice monk,” said Bridget. “But thanks.”
“It’s good,” Gwen said. “Can I…?” She lifted her hand, and Bridget tilted her head slightly to meet it. Gwen’s fingers scratched gently across her scalp, down behind her ears, and Bridget closed her eyes and focused on that feeling alone.
“You look like you,” Gwen said. “But even scarier. Which is better, obviously.”
“You think I’m scary?”
“I’m not scared of you, but other people are, and so they should be.”
“Didn’t feel very scary, tied up on an apple crate,” said Bridget. “Thanks for saving me.”
“To be honest, I didn’t do much of the hard work,” said Gwen. “I just took the glory. And won the girl.”
“Hmm. I don’t feel like much of a girl,” said Bridget, running a hand over the soft bristles of her hair. “Don’t look like one either. Don’t know if I want to.”
“Well, whatever you are, I’d like to think I won you regardless.”
“You did,” said Bridget. “Again. And always.” She took Gwen’s hands in hers almost absentmindedly, and then with sudden intent.
Something lifted in her chest as she did; the removal of some unseen weight, such a palpable shift that she almost felt teary-eyed.
She’d been wrong, before, to say that Gwen didn’t know her.
To be seen for who she was, to lay out all the mistakes and faults she thought would make her unworthy, and still be met with kindness and a gentle hand.
… This was what it felt like to be known.
Gwen cocked her head, curious, and Bridget got up from the bed and sank to her knees.
“Bridget,” Gwen said, alarmed. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I will. I am. I just need to say something first.”
Gwen just looked at her, lips slightly parted in consternation, waiting.
“I still don’t know what I’m going to do now.
It always felt so … clear, before. Had this one path, one purpose.
And I was going to make everybody proud.
I think … maybe I have done that already, a bit, and maybe there are other ways to do it in the future, and maybe …
I don’t know, maybe I’m the one I should want to make proud. ”
She reached for her sword, drew it, and held it up, flat across her palms. Gwen’s eyes were alight as she watched.
“But knight or not, whether I’m a noble, a mercenary, a thief, a damned monk …
I swear myself in service to you. I will protect you, speak the truth to you always, honor you with my life and deeds.
I will shield you with my body and keep you with my heart.
My sword is yours. I don’t know if you meant it when you said you loved me the other day—but I love you. ”
Gwen reached out to touch the hilt of the sword. “Bridget … I don’t need you to do any of that except love me.”
“Sorry,” said Bridget. “I don’t think I can be any other way.”
Gwen reached for her face and ran her finger, gentle as a whisper, over her brow and the bruising at her temple. “I know.”
When Gwen kissed her it felt like forgiveness.
Maybe she was turning into a damned monk.
All she knew was that this felt right, and even if she didn’t know who she’d be tomorrow, she knew who she was now.
She let her sword clatter to the floor—just this once—so that she could rise up from her knees and ease Gwen back onto the bed to kiss her properly.
“Careful,” Gwen said, breathless, and Bridget moved away.
“Sorry. Are you—?”
“I meant be careful for you,” Gwen said, ghosting her thumb around the bruises again. “Fool.”
“I don’t want to be careful,” Bridget said.
Her hands found Gwen’s waist so that she could tug her closer, quick and fast, making Gwen’s breath catch.
It had always been push and pull with them, but more than anything right now, Bridget wanted to be present.
Alive. In control of this moment, and the next, even if the future remained uncertain.
It felt like they were confirming the oath, and between long, open kisses and the feeling of Gwen warming under Bridget’s hands, Gwen made one back to her in broken whispers.
“I love you,” she said. “I mean it.” And: “I’ll serve you too. I’ll try. The best I can.”