Chapter Forty
Forty
It felt as if it took forever for the sun to set.
The order of the round table stood concealed by the trees, the more seasoned knights well-versed in stillness, so that they disappeared entirely into the shadows.
The fauna of dusk began to stir, owls calling softly, the faint scent of woodsmoke on the wind.
The royals had been told to take cover deeper in the woods. Gwen seemed on the verge of murder, agitated beyond comprehension, walking in small circles to keep herself busy.
When she came to stand next to him, Gabriel allowed himself a few breaths in and out, trying not to say it, before he said, “This is my fault.”
“No it’s not,” Gwen said immediately.
“We wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for the fact that I’m so unlikeable we had to put together a whole round table to try to fix it. And the Lancelot laws—people have been so angry—and that display in Wales, it was too much, I painted a target on our backs and now Bridget—”
“Is going to be fine,” Gwen said. “You know Bridget. Tough as nails. I feel sorry for the people who took her, they’re probably inside out by now.” But the slight shake in her voice betrayed her fear, and Gabriel felt utterly miserable as she walked away.
It had felt right, in Wales, he’d felt brave—but it was all very well to make bold declarations of love from a position of safety, in a royal hall surrounded by guards.
In the real world, it was still dangerous to openly be who you were—which, for people like Bridget, was unavoidable.
She’d never been able to be anything other than exactly who she was, in plain sight, and weather whatever came her way as a result.
Gabriel had seen the crowds jeering, heard Gwen’s furious stories about disparaging talk at court and bitter slurs thrown in Bridget’s direction, and had assumed that because Bridget never seemed concerned, all was well.
But it wasn’t okay. None of this was okay. And now Bridget was God knows where, being subjected to God knows what, and they were all just standing around as time ticked away …
“Hey,” Arthur said in a hushed voice, putting his hand on Gabriel’s arm when he reached him. “Are you panicking?”
“Um,” Gabriel said, and then again, “um…”
“Gabe?”
He wanted to say he was fine and turn away, to find some quiet place to be alone until he could pretend to be in control again, but Arthur was looking at him with such genuine concern, and he’d promised to be better, so he said, “Yes, I’m … I am.”
“Can I help?”
Could he? No. Right now Gabriel didn’t want to talk to anyone, to be touched by anyone; even Arthur’s hand on his arm was too much. He took a faltering breath, then said, “I think … I’m sorry, I just need a moment by myself.”
He regretted it instantly. Arthur was going to hate him; to feel spurned and rejected, just as he had done last winter.
But Arthur just shrugged, and said, “All right. Let me know if you need me,” gave him a small squeeze, then let go.
“Really?”
“Of course, really,” Arthur said, with a small smile. “What did you think I was going to do? Pin you down and force you to endure my attempts at comforting you? If you need a moment, you need a moment. Just don’t take too long, we’re thwarting a kidnapping in ten.”
Gabriel couldn’t smile back at him, but he nodded, and Arthur left him alone as promised. He concentrated on his breathing, and the ground beneath his feet, and the feeling of the tree trunk next to him, until his chest was no longer bursting at the seams.
When it was truly approaching dark, Sir Hurst brought the round table together, plus Neil, and said, “Nobody is to make themselves known unnecessarily. We will trade cloaks with the attendants and squires to put off the moment of our discovery for as long as we can. I’ll go ahead with Sirs Leonard and Bowen, and if we decide a diplomatic approach is required, we’ll return to fetch you. ”
“I’m not waiting here,” said Gwen.
“Your Highness, you’re too conspicuous,” Sir Hurst replied, shaking his head. “This is a small, quiet village. They’ll be suspicious the second we walk through the—”
“Hang on,” said Sidney. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”
He was standing closest to the edge of the tree line, and they all went to join him to watch, as first one man on horseback, then a group, now a cart, and then a steady flow of traffic began to stream down the road toward the village. It was so unlikely as to be unnerving.
“Good. Then … we’ll all go,” Gwen said. “Have we got enough cloaks?”
As it turned out, they did, and Sir Hurst cast up either a prayer or a quiet swear word into the night as he agreed to lead the entire round table down into the village.
They hovered in the trees as he held up a hand in the signal for the party to wait, watched until the foot traffic dwindled to nothing and the coast was clear, and urged them all onward.
It was easy enough to step out on to the road and hurry to catch up with the crowd.
“Act natural,” he whispered to Gabriel, before putting up the hood of his borrowed cape.
Gabriel wasn’t very good at acting natural.
He discovered, in fact, that he’d forgotten how a normal person walked.
He tried to do his best impression of a walk, and then realized he was swinging his arm in a very unnerving way and, once they’d reached the village, copied the man in front of him instead; when it turned out that man had a limp, he gave up, and tried to focus on the problem ahead of them instead.
If it was a ransom they wanted, he’d pay it.
His father, he knew instinctively, would have refused—but he wasn’t his father, and they could afford it, and while yes, it might set a precedent for future kidnappings, they’d just have to try very hard not to let anyone be snatched from right under their noses again.
Gwen was on horseback with Sidney on foot leading with the reins, and Arthur behind them, also ahorse.
Gabriel’s new riding style had been considered too noticeable, despite Sir Hurst’s obvious reservations about allowing the King of England to walk into a dangerous situation on foot.
Gabriel kept the others in sight, trying not to panic when somebody stepped between them, to keep his breathing slow and steady.
Sir Hurst was still behind him, even if he was out of sight.
Normal, he kept thinking. Be normal.
The steady trickle of people was heading slightly downhill, to a space between the squat buildings of the small settlement that might generously be called a town square.
As he followed them, Gabriel felt a hand on his shoulder, almost jumped out of his skin—and then realized that it was Sir Hurst, wordlessly making his presence known.
It was hard to tell at first because of the milling and bunching of the crowd, but as he got closer, Gabriel realized with a violently sinking heart that there was a sort of makeshift stage in the middle of the square, a few upturned apple crates, and that people were waiting expectantly for someone to appear on them.
It looked like the scene of an execution.
He glanced around, hoping he was being surreptitious, and caught Gwen’s eye. She looked just as sick as he felt as she mouthed, “It’s all men.”
He hadn’t noticed at first, but when he looked again, he saw that she was right. The crowd was overwhelmingly male. There were some women, but they were few and far between.
A door to one of the houses opened, and Gabriel flinched as the crowd sprang to life. Three men came out; between them, Sir Bridget Leclair, with her hands bound and dark bruises blossoming on her cheeks, was dragged out into the night air and toward an uncertain fate.