Chapter Twenty-One #2
Pain rolled in a wave down every nerve in Bridget’s body, and she snapped. “No. Stop. I told them I wanted to be a knight when I was eight years old. They went through a lot to make that happen for me, when everyone told them not to. Suffered ridicule, indignities. I owe it to them to try harder.”
Bridget’s father had been the one to notice how much she lit up watching from the stands at the lists, and there had been no dramatic arguments, no begging on her part, when she said she wanted to be a knight; there must have been some conversation had in private, perhaps many conversations, but all she’d known was that one day her father had called her to his study and presented her with a small training sword, his own ceremonial daab in dull-edged miniature.
By the time she was ten, she realized that what she was doing was considered extremely humiliating for her entire family.
It stung—how could it have not?—but her parents had never voiced any doubts.
Her father, a quiet and considerate man whose family line hailed from Phitsanulok, had a soldier’s practicality and a soft spot for his daughter.
Her mother, whose family was from Sukhothai, was a spiritual person who derived great contentment from her calling, and only wanted Bridget to find her own peace.
She had been the one charged with Bridget’s education, and when Bridget had shown intense disinterest in such household matters as befitted a lady, her mother declared that she must only learn reading, writing, and mathematics, to ensure she was at least partially sensible, and otherwise was free to scrap in the mud as much as she liked.
She should have been practicing for life as a damsel, and then a wife. Her life would have looked like Agnes’s. She could have been the one sent to wait on Gwen, to provide service and companionship. That would have been mildly hilarious, all things considered.
“Let them make fun,” her father had said, when Bridget returned from training with other squires, red-faced and silently fuming after hours of abuse. “You know what you want. That’s all that matters. And they won’t be laughing anymore when you get it.”
“Ah,” said Arthur, watching her face closely. “There it is.”
“Don’t piss me off.”
“We’ve established that I like it when you beat me up, Leclair.
” He held his hands up, professing his innocence.
“Look, I’m not trying to upset you. I just think it’s very interesting that you feel you owe it to your parents to be the knightiest knight, when from what you’ve told me, they’d still love you even if you became a professional whorer and gambler.
Just something to ponder here, while you’re writhing in agony. ”
“Not everything is about people’s parents, Delacey.”
“Oh, no, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Arthur.
“I’ve deduced that it’s almost always mother issues or father issues, or in my case, a healthy dash of both.
And you can be siblings, with the same mother and father, and have completely opposite issues.
Case in point—Gwen and her mother, and…” He hesitated. “Gabe and his father.”
“I thought the king liked his father.”
Arthur sighed. “Whether he liked him or not is immaterial. People can mess you up in all sorts of ways without actually being terrible.”
The tent flap was pulled aside, and Neil entered, looking stressed but fashionable. At least, Bridget thought it was probably fashion. His hat was very present.
“Sorry,” he said. “We thought you’d be longer hunting the Beast, I was with the pages and the other squires at the … inn. I mean, it’s not an inn, it’s somebody’s house with lots of chairs, and the ale is deadly.”
“Don’t worry,” Bridget said, feeling so very heavy she might just sink right through the bed and the rug and into the wet, welcoming soil underneath. “’M’fine.”
“Right,” Neil said, unconvinced. He came to fuss with Bridget’s blankets, which was extremely annoying, but she let him do it, like one might allow a child to pretend to pour tea. He looked over at Arthur, who was still sitting on the ground. “And are you … fine?”
“Give me your hat,” Arthur said, one hand making grabbing motions. “I want it.”
“Um … no?” Neil looked to Bridget for help, but she was not in a helpful mood.
“I’ll trade you something. What do you want? You can have Gwen, she was promised to me, so I can probably promise her to someone else. Sorry, Leclair, but needs must. You want Gwen?”
Neil eyed him shrewdly, then offered him an arm. Arthur took it, and leaned into Neil’s shoulder as he was helped inchingly back onto his own cot.
“Hat,” Arthur said weakly, as Neil moved away.
“Well, firstly, the princess is not yours to give,” Neil said, counting this off on his fingers, clearly emboldened by Arthur’s sorry state, “and secondly, I’ll have you know that I am a proud friend of Lancelot, and cannot be swayed by your offers of maidenly brides. Now, get some sleep. Both of you.”
With that, he swept from the room, his hat seeming to linger a few paces behind him, such was its girth and stature.
“Friend of Lancelot?” Arthur said incredulously. “Does he mean he courts other boys? Where did that turn of phrase come from? Why wasn’t I consulted? That’s not what we’re calling it.”
Bridget turned over, and dutifully tried to sleep.