Chapter Twelve
Twelve
And so the knights of the King’s great order departed from Camelot in a chorus of trumpets, and journeyed many a day over hill and dale, and the King spurred his horse so by fine force he could have ridden for a year, and afterward a great feast was made ready, in honor of their quest.
—FROM AN EARLY DRAFT OF THE QUESTS OF KING GAbrIEL AND HIS ROUND TABLE BY SIR FLORIAN ARDEN
“I’m already hungry,” Sidney was saying, adjusting and readjusting the stiff strap on his new pauldron so carelessly that Bridget wanted to slap his hand away before he fiddled it beyond repair. “Are you hungry? I should have had a bigger breakfast, but I was nervous.”
“Mmm,” Bridget replied, her hand light on the reins as they traveled through the very outskirts of Camelot, the crowds thinning to just people waving from their doorways and small gangs of children jogging briefly to match their pace.
She noted each of them anyway, weighing them up as threats and then moving on to the next.
“I like a few meals before lunch. Little and often, you know. Apple?”
It took Bridget a moment to realize she was being offered said fruit, which she declined.
Sidney shrugged, and bit into the apple himself. Between wet bites, he said, “You and Gwen back on tonguing terms then?”
“You know,” Bridget replied, “we don’t have to keep riding two abreast. Or … perhaps you could ride with Arthur.”
“Nah,” said Sidney. “He’s busy.”
Arthur had been paired with Sir Leonard, and they were riding just ahead.
Knowing both of them, Bridget could have warned Lady Oakley that this was likely a mistake.
At first, they had been slightly wary of each other, like a cat catching sight of itself in a mirror; now they were laughing, both of them with the same habit of tossing their head back so that the light reflected off all of that shiny hair.
“He’s found blond Arthur,” Sidney said, and Bridget snorted quietly.
“Sir Leonard is an extremely accomplished knight. One of the most revered in England. Last week, Arthur fell over from a sitting position.”
“Well, I don’t mean swords and stuff.”
Bridget watched Sir Leonard lean over to slap Arthur on the arm in faux outrage. “They certainly both think they’re excellent company.”
The city wall loomed ahead, and as they rode through the gate, Bridget felt a modicum of relief.
The countryside meant fewer people, fewer vantage points from above, fewer angles to consider.
There was a small guard riding with them, front and rear, plus squires—Sir Leonard had argued against extra personnel, pointing out that a party of knights was the guard, and had been overruled on grounds of safety—but Bridget had been unable to relax regardless, with so many people so very close.
Also, some of them had been shouting her name and throwing small favors at her, which was as excruciating as always, if somewhat diluted by the fact of her star-studded company. Others had been bold enough to hiss at her, after the king and his guards had passed, making their disapproval known.
Outside the city proper it didn’t take long for the spectators to dwindle to nothing, and once the last waving farmer had fallen out of view, the party slowed, which meant that Bridget was suddenly and unwittingly part of Arthur and Leonard’s conversation.
“Leclair,” Arthur said, twisting in the saddle, “is it true that somebody at a joust asked you to sign her cleavage? And she was about five-and-forty? And she tried to put her bosoms in your hand?”
Bridget looked to Leonard, unimpressed, and found him smiling back at her. She cleared her throat. “No comment.”
“They just always look so confused,” Leonard said, pink-faced and glossy-eyed from a recent laughing fit. “They know they want to be near her, but they have no idea why. Although, perhaps less so since the Lancelot laws.”
“Plausible deniability is a hell of a thing,” said Arthur.
Gwen had circled her horse around to fall back. “What are you talking about?” she asked Arthur.
“Leclair has been autographing breasts,” he said innocently. “Apparently.”
Gwen raised an eyebrow and looked to Bridget, who was forced to say, “I have not. I … politely declined.”
“Good to know.” She turned to the others. “We’re only going to ride as far as the Horse and Grail, and then stop for the night. We’ve sent a guard ahead to make things ready.”
“I thought we were riding for Batstoke?” said Arthur, surprising everyone with the implication that he’d actually read the schedule.
“Just thought maybe we shouldn’t go too hard on the first day,” Gwen said. To Bridget, this was an obvious lie, but everyone else seemed to accept it. “Rest up, you know? There’s no rush.”
“There kind of is,” said Arthur. “What was the point of me memorizing the first three stops to look engaged and involved if you’re going to scrap them on a whim?”
“Ha! I knew you hadn’t read the whole schedule.
” Gwen turned her horse again, glancing back at Bridget over her shoulder with a small smile, her hair windswept, her green eyes crinkling.
Her face was less soft than it had been, like she’d properly grown into her bones or something.
How could so much have changed in just one summer?
Bridget watched Gwen rejoin her brother, and the convoy took off again.
It was a dull ride, but not a particularly taxing one.
Sidney did in fact trot off with Arthur and Sir Leonard, so Bridget fell back to ride with Adah, who kept up a steady and soothing commentary about how weird this all was—the ceremony, the expensive custom armor, the fact that servants who’d been peers now bowed to her and called her my lady—until they reached the Horse and Grail.
It was barely even afternoon; they’d planned to ride until nightfall, but one look at Gabriel’s face as he dismounted was enough to explain this detour.
A couple of disgruntled punters were departing the inn, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the newcomers, and Bridget realized they must have insisted that everybody clear out to make way for the king.
Not great. Poor behavior, really. But it did feel safer. Bridget was sure they’d been handsomely compensated for giving up their bar stools and lodgings.
A harried boy came to sort out the horses, and once they’d all trooped inside they found the world’s most stressed landlady sweeping the floors with concentrated bursts of violence.
“Your Majesty,” she said, with a deep bow, using the broom to add a flourish. “And Your Highness, and…” She looked around at the other faces, desperate. “Your … lordships … er … lady, and lady. And … good sirs, in fact—”
“Thank you,” said Gwen. “This is a nice inn. Very rustic.”
“Much obliged, thank you. Land was once a graveyard. Walls are full of all the original bones, if you’d like to see.”
“Oh,” Gabriel said. “Lovely. No.”
He crumpled into one of the chairs like a rotten apple trodden underfoot, so everybody else found seats as well, although Bridget noticed that they gave his table a wide berth.
Gwen was the only one who went to sit with him.
She didn’t glance over her shoulder to see if Bridget was following, like she would have done last winter.
This was simultaneously a tiny loss and enormously fascinating.
“Is this what it’s like to be royal?” Adah said in an undertone, as she and Bridget sat down near the bar. She ran a hand over her freshly shorn head, narrowing her eyes as she assessed the room. “All the fun places emptied of people so you can enjoy the lack of atmosphere in private?”
“Yep,” said Bridget. “Sometimes it’s the other way around; rooms full of people having fun, but you don’t get to be one of them. You’re the centerpiece.”
“Like the hambaby,” Adah said darkly. At a recent feast celebrating the departure of the round table, one of the cooks had taken it upon himself to fashion a cherub out of various cuts of pork, meant to be the dramatic focal point of the high table.
It had been a monstrosity; so grotesque that it put everybody who beheld it off their food.
“Mmm.”
“Radishes for eyes.” Adah shuddered.
“It was … unfortunate.”
“It was a nightmare. I haven’t eaten pork since.
” Large carafes of ale and unusually clean cups were placed on the table; the serving girl went to pour, but Adah stopped her with a roguish smile and a wave of her hand, then picked up the jug herself, and the girl went blushingly to attend to her next duty.
“You’re shameless.”
Adah shrugged, watching as the serving girl nervously approached the makeshift royal table. “I can’t help it. I’m honestly not even trying.”
They dined on pottage, with good, dark bread and an excessive amount of butter; enough butter to feed them all ten times over.
The landlady was clearly mortified to be offering the King of England something she’d been stewing for hours in a pot, because she kept apologizing, and then she’d bring even more butter, like a peace offering.
Gabriel barely seemed to notice this dairy drama taking place, which of course only made things worse, as his silence was clearly construed as disapproval.
Bridget was about to get up when Sidney crossed to the landlady, took her aside to the bar and started talking animatedly—probably flirting, because she laughed aloud and then clapped a hand to her mouth to stop herself, giving him a friendly shove of reproof.
After a minute or two, she was sitting with him drinking a cup of her own wine; her remaining stores of butter went unmolested, and peace was restored.
It was only once they’d all eaten their fill and the atmosphere had turned sleepy and mellow that Bridget slipped from her seat and went to Gwen’s shoulder.
“You good?” she asked quietly. Gwen glanced up at her, visibly stressed.
“We’re—”
“Actually,” Gabriel said, pushing away his half-eaten pottage, “I’m going to bed.”