Chapter Forty-Two
Forty-Two
Darkness, then light. Someone splashing her face with cold water. She wanted to tell them that she was fine, she was getting up any minute now, but she couldn’t.
Bridget went under again—was it twice more?—before she was able to open her eyes.
“Whoa,” said the Wizard, who had ridden down the hill with the squires. “Don’t get up yet. Take some water with honey.”
She did, feeling strangely meek, then fought nausea as she was helped to a horse and put up behind Sir Bowen.
She closed her eyes and held on tight to him as they began to move, her teeth grinding in time with the hoofs pounding beneath her; they rode for a long while, long after full dark, so long that Bridget started to feel deathly hollow and shaky.
By the time she was helped down from the saddle, she was shivering violently, embarrassed to be putting on such a display in front of the others.
They were at an inn, small and unfamiliar. She wondered how far they were from the little port town, and then decided, exhausted, that it wasn’t any of her business.
Gwen and Adah took her to a blazingly hot room, and then Gwen left, and Adah helped her out of her clothes, washed her with a cloth dipped in steaming water, re-dressed her in something warm and soft.
“Why’d you go?” she said. “Idiot.”
Bridget shook her head; it was too hard to explain.
Neil, who was clearly very upset because he barely said a word, brought broth. Bridget sipped at it briefly before turning it away, her stomach too sore and tender, and then both of her friends left her to get some sleep.
She did slip into uneasy unconsciousness for a while, and then she woke up, panicking, feeling like her body was still on horseback, and realized that she had thrashed so hard she’d thrown the bedclothes onto the floor.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Gwen opened it, bathed and no longer armored.
“Can I come in?”
Bridget wanted to turn away and face the wall, and never speak to anyone again—but she just as urgently didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, so she nodded, and Gwen picked up the blankets, draped them carefully over her, and came to sit at the end of the bed.
“The fisherman said you followed him to find the Grail,” she said gently.
“He felt very bad about it. He said if we got you back, he’d bring it to you, so that’s something.
Those men didn’t believe it was real, but he certainly does.
Here. Congratulations, you have completed the quest for the Holy Grail. ”
Gwen placed something wrapped in oilcloth on the bed; Bridget stared into the dying fire and couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Gwen was probably still furious with her, even if she was being kind to her right now. Everything had fallen apart.
“That’s Excalibur and the Grail,” Gwen continued, strained, trying to sound light. “I think that easily makes you our most decorated knight.”
“You didn’t want me to be a knight,” Bridget said, through lips that felt dry as sand.
“I want you to be happy,” Gwen said at once.
“Whether you’re a knight or not. I wanted you to know that, yes, I love you as a knight, I love that part of you, and I know it’s not just a job or a sport to you, it’s in your bones—but there’s so much of you that you’d still get to keep if you chose a different path. It’s not … knight, or nothing.”
“That’s how it feels,” Bridget said. She realized that she was crying. It had been a very long time since she’d cried. It felt like letting go.
“I know,” Gwen said. “But you don’t get to run from me again, Bridget, or say things to hurt me when I’m only trying to help.
” Her calm veneer cracked, along with her voice.
“You’re not the only person having a terrible time.
But it’s got to be us fighting this together.
Not you turning on me whenever things get rough. ”
Bridget’s chest hurt, and it wasn’t just from being punched in the ribs. “I’d never turn on you.”
“No. But you’d turn away from me.” Gwen was watching her closely, her expression drawn, but then she let out a sigh. “God, maybe Neil was right. Maybe we should have killed them all. Will you … can you come here?”
Bridget shifted slightly, and Gwen was able to put her arms around her, and then Bridget let herself fall; fall into Gwen’s lap, into despair, a knight unmade, weeping like she’d lost someone, her throat so hoarse she barely made a sound.