The Future King: Logres

by Mackworth-Praed, M. L.

  Bedivere turned to her immediately. ‘What did Ravioli say?’

  ‘They’ve all been suspended.’

  ‘For how long?’

  She shrugged, and busied herself with preparing her exercise book. ‘Three days.’

  ‘You spoke to the principal?’ Arthur interrupted. ‘When?’

  ‘Just now,’ Gwenhwyfar told him. She sent Bedivere a wry smile. ‘He said we were lucky that he hadn’t chosen to suspend us, instead.’

  ‘Why hasn’t he expelled any of them?’ Arthur asked angrily. ‘Did he tell you that, at least?’

  ‘Apparently they all have merits that make them deserving of a second chance,’ Gwenhwyfar repeated, bitterly. ‘Money.’

  ‘I suppose he can’t really expel a student for a practical joke,’ Bedivere murmured. ‘Even though it got out of hand, are the Furies really responsible for what Hector did?’

  ‘Of course they are—they know what he’s like,’ Gwenhwyfar muttered. ‘And Hector—’

  ‘I know,’ he added. ‘He should have been kicked out. Actually, I’m surprised he wasn’t.’

  Arthur turned to Gwenhwyfar. ‘There must be a way around this. Can’t you appeal?’

  ‘To who? Ravioli—? I’m not sure if I want to. It’s over, and I’m glad.’

  For a while they said nothing. Amongst the racket of the class Morgan’s pen scribbled noisily across the page. Gwenhwyfar looked to the door to see if there was any sign of Marvin. Tom was taking full advantage of his absence by shouting mindlessly and flinging things across the room.

  ‘So how was the photo shoot on Saturday?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘Oh! It went really well, actually,’ Gwenhwyfar beamed. ‘We should be getting the pictures soon.’

  Bedivere sat sideways with his arm draped over the back of his chair. ‘When?’

  ‘By the end of the week, at least,’ Gwenhwyfar guessed. ‘What did you get up to?’

  ‘Visited family,’ Bedivere shrugged. ‘My grandparents have just bought a new shed. It’s more like a log cabin, to be honest.’ There was an awkward silence. Morgan was still bent low over her exercise book, scratching long black hair onto her delicate figurine. ‘How was your weekend, Morgan?’

  She looked up, surprised to be asked. ‘It was good.’ She coloured, and looked across to Arthur. ‘We went to an exhibition on the Pre-Raphaelites in London.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and Arthur,’ she added.

  Arthur shifted, and offered Bedivere an uncomfortable smile. ‘Yes. It was good, actually. I was impressed.’

  ‘I didn’t know you liked art, Art,’ Bedivere teased.

  ‘You went to London?’ Gwenhwyfar echoed.

  Morgan nodded, and looked at her with her big, brown eyes. ‘We went to see a movie, too. That wasn’t as good though.’ Suddenly she laughed. ‘Arthur went into the wrong toilets in the cinema. He got chased out by a five year old.’

  Arthur fidgeted as Morgan fuelled the fire of her own amusement. For perhaps the first time in her life, Gwenhwyfar experienced real jealousy, the kind that burns and nauseates, that causes the heart to twist into a painful knot; like the wringing out of a wet rag, whose worth is wrung out with its waters.

  She had never been so thrilled to see Mr Caledonensis. The moment he loped into the room she gave him her full attention. Time seemed sluggish with two hours to one, but after a long monologue and a lesson filled with chatter, the clock ticked its final minute.

  ‘Don’t forget to answer questions four to seven with two paragraphs each by next lesson!’ Marvin shouted, as the class erupted to its feet. Packing away as if the room were on fire, Gwenhwyfar hurried to leave, eager to catch up with Gavin and Tom as Bedivere struggled to match her haste.

  ‘I’ll see you later!’ she called brightly to Arthur and Morgan, with a brisk wave over her shoulder. Arthur nodded back with a smile that belied his confusion, while Morgan ignored her completely, offering Arthur another happy grin.

  * * *

  ‘Why didn’t he tell me?’

  They strode down the corridor, their fellow students parting for Gavin who stalked through the crowd as if it were the Red Sea. Gwenhwyfar looked to Bedivere apprehensively. ‘Why didn’t he say he was seeing Morgan on Saturday?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bedivere murmured, as they both struggled to keep up with Gavin’s giant strides. ‘Maybe he didn’t think it was important?’

  ‘It was obviously important enough to keep it secret,’ she argued. ‘I mean, did he mention anything to you?’

  Bedivere shook his head. ‘He only mentioned Morgan when I brought her up. There was nothing about them going to London together.’

  ‘I thought he came to see you on Saturday?’ she accused.

  ‘Sunday,’ he corrected.

  ‘He clearly wasn’t going to say anything if she hadn’t,’ she remarked. ‘I mean, what; now he’s seeing her at the weekends? If they’re just friends, why not mention it? Why lie?’

  Bedivere shrugged.

  ‘You don’t think he fancies her, do you?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘I thought you were his best friend?’

  ‘He’s with Marvin all the time,’ Bedivere retorted. ‘I’ve barely spoken to him since the party.’

  ‘I told him she fancies him,’ Gwenhwyfar declared, angered. ‘Who hangs out with someone who likes them, if they don’t like them back?’ She wheeled on Gavin. ‘That’s weird, right?’

  ‘Who’s this?’ Gavin asked with a frown.

  ‘Arthur,’ Bedivere said, ruefully.

  ‘It is weird, isn’t it?’ she said again.

  Tom was walking on the other side of Gavin, his wide jaw and small chin set with concern. ‘Has anyone seen Hector?’

  ‘No,’ Gavin replied stiffly.

  ‘He was supposed to meet me this morning.’

  ‘He’s been suspended,’ Gwenhwyfar snapped, still too angry with Arthur to really be enraged about Hector.

  His face contorted. ‘Why? What the hell for?’

  ‘For trying to rape me?’ She couldn’t believe he couldn’t connect the two. Looking across to the brown-haired teenager, Gwenhwyfar wondered what on earth Viola saw in him. He turned a light shade of red.

  ‘Oh, come on, you can’t have honestly thought he didn’t try it. How do you think he got those scratches on his face? I don’t know why you still hang out with the bastard,’ scowled Gavin.

  ‘Sorry,’ Tom eventually mumbled, ‘Hector told me he’d been scratched by his cat.’

  Gwenhwyfar huffed. They came out into the large foyer of new Wormelow.

  ‘Well, he wasn’t. Gwen scratched him, and now he’s been suspended for assault.’

  ‘Charlotte, Emily and Hattie, too,’ Gwenhwyfar told them.

  ‘Not going to the police, then?’ Gavin enquired.

  ‘How can I? If I did everyone would be in trouble, especially you, Tom.’

  There was a loud crash and a series of bangs that sounded as if something had collided with lockers. As they turned into the English corridor, a dishevelled boy limped past them with wild hair and a bloodied lip. Alarmed, Gwenhwyfar stared.

  ‘Great,’ Bedivere muttered, clearly disturbed.

  ‘Looks like Lance is back,’ Gavin remarked with a frown.

  Tom was grinning like an idiot. ‘Yep, and he’s doing the rounds.’

  There was shouting in the other corridor, but then it passed, and faded to an excited murmur. Gwenhwyfar gazed up at them both, appalled that they could be so cavalier. Was this Lance character responsible for what she had just witnessed? Arthur’s description of him suddenly seemed fitting. Gavin may have protested at Arthur’s appellation of thug, but judging by what she had just seen, it was now all she expected.

  Lancelot Lawson Lake

  The back corridors of old Wormelow were nearly emptied. Class was over, and as Bedivere had been detained to discuss his homework with Ms Appelbauer, Gwenhwyfar was walking to their designated mee
ting spot alone. She was halfway down the corridor to the assembly hall when she saw him, a boy in her year, inappropriately dressed in a scruffy, oversized interpretation of their school uniform. He punched the locker in front of him with a sharp jab of his fist, and the door clattered as he struggled to un-stick the lock.

  He had dark, wild hair that curled; his loose chocolate locks messed by a recent scuffle, and though he was not quite as tall as Arthur he held himself with a sure-footed assertiveness gained through obvious athleticism. His nose was proud, adding to an unusual sullen profile defined by high, sharp cheekbones and wide surly lips.

  She wasn’t sure why, but she stopped. Something about him irritated her.

  ‘What?’

  She quickly pulled her eyes away with the realisation she had been staring. ‘Nothing.’

  He hit the locker door again. This time it swung open with a bang. The bruises on his knuckles were plum and blueberry, a dark smudge across his blushed ivory skin. ‘You need to be here, or something?’

  She shook her head. ‘Why’d you punch it?’

  ‘Lock sticks,’ he muttered, stuffing the contents of his bag haphazardly into his locker. He slammed it shut. ‘It works.’

  ‘Can’t you get someone to fix it?’

  He studied her with earthy eyes crowned by dark lashes. ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘Gwen. I’m new here,’ she added.

  ‘Oh,’ he remarked flatly, as he tugged the key from the lock. ‘So you’re the new girl.’

  She was expecting him to introduce himself—to perhaps make a comment about her ‘odd’ accent as so many others had done—but instead he turned, and left.

  For a moment she lingered, trying to figure out why she felt so discomfited. Reluctant to retrace her steps simply to avoid him, she followed at a distance, catching up with him at the double doors. He eyed her suspiciously.

  ‘You’re not following me, are you?’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she glowered.

  He didn’t hold the door for her. Gwenhwyfar had to catch the heavy wood before it struck her in the face.

  ‘You are following me,’ he said irritably, as they turned the same way.

  ‘No, I’m really not,’ she insisted. They came to another door. This time Gwenhwyfar pushed through it as he did.

  ‘Go to the principal’s office if you’re lost,’ he suggested curtly.

  ‘I’m not lost!’ she claimed, trying to overtake him.

  ‘Don’t you have some friends you can annoy?’

  ‘Yes, that’s where I’m going.’

  His face contorted to something ugly. ‘And that happens to be in the same direction that I’m going? Yeah, right.’

  Gwenhwyfar huffed. ‘You really think I’d want to follow you? You must have a high opinion of yourself. Either that, or you’re crazy.’ She eyeballed him. ‘I’m heading for the exit, you idiot.’

  His jaw clenched. ‘Why are you even here, anyway?’

  She rolled her eyes, hoping they’d part ways the moment they came outside, but they both stomped in the same direction. ‘My dad got a job here, so I had to move schools.’

  ‘No, I mean why are you here?’

  ‘Believe me, I’d rather not be here, if I had the choice,’ she said, her cheeks crimson. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ he grunted. They passed the Wormelow wing of the canteen. He wasn’t going there, either.

  ‘What, afraid I’ll start stalking you?’ she sneered, desperately searching for her friends.

  ‘Aren’t you already?’ he jibed.

  As they turned the corner she saw Viola and Gavin sitting on a bench, talking. It took them a while to notice her, and when they did, they stared.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ the boy warned, as suddenly, they started to head for the same bench.

  Gwenhwyfar stared at him, dreading what she knew to be true. ‘To sit with my friends.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘What, disappointed I’m not stalking you after all?’

  They both came to the table. Gwenhwyfar dumped her bag and sat down resolutely. She smiled at Viola and Gavin.

  ‘What’s this?’ the boy demanded.

  ‘This is Gwen,’ Viola begun, ‘Gwen, this is Lance. Gwen sits with us now—we’re friends,’ she explained, offering a smile.

  ‘So you’re Lance?’ Gwenhwyfar mocked. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. Do you beat people up as a hobby, then?’

  He shot Gavin a questioning look. Viola launched straight into their break-time conversation.

  ‘I just heard from the agency. They loved the photos. They’re going to email them to me, but I can pick up the prints later in the week.’

  ‘Does that mean…?’

  Viola nodded. ‘I’m officially on their books!’

  There was a moment of shared excitement.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’ Lance was still standing by the bench, his brow knotted into a black scowl.

  ‘Oh!’ Viola continued, ‘and I have a casting, too. They’re going to see if they can place me with other agencies abroad. They’ve already had a lot of interest.’

  ‘Hang on. You’re both friends with her?’ Lance looked to Gwenhwyfar with a sour expression. ‘Where’s Tom?’

  ‘Music rooms,’ Gavin grinned, pleased to have his friend back. ‘How was your little holiday? Did you get to do much?’

  He stuffed his free hand into his pocket. ‘No. I was grounded. Don’t you think I’d have come to Tom’s party, otherwise?’

  Viola rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, sit down, Lancelot. Stop being so stroppy. Wait until you hear what you’ve missed.’

  ‘Yeah, Vi’s a model now,’ Gavin added with enthusiasm. ‘Like those thin ones you see in magazines.’

  ‘And Bedivere’s sitting with us,’ Gwenhwyfar added. She wouldn’t have guessed that Lance was short for Lancelot.

  ‘He is?’ Gavin asked.

  ‘Yep!’ Gwenhwyfar enjoyed seeing Lancelot’s expression blacken. ‘He asked if he could join us in English. Apparently Arthur’s spending lunch with Marvin. Then again, it could be Morgan. I just found out that they went to London together on Saturday.’

  ‘They did?’ Viola asked. ‘As friends, or what?’

  ‘Beats me.’

  Resigning himself to the situation, Lancelot sat down. ‘What’s this about that idiot Arthur?’

  ‘He’s not an idiot,’ Gwenhwyfar snapped.

  ‘Gwen likes him,’ Viola explained.

  Lancelot snorted. ‘That loser? Why?’

  ‘He’s not a loser. Not everything is because you say it is.’

  He laughed at her. ‘But he’s such a moron!’

  ‘He’s nicer than some people I’ve met,’ Gwenhwyfar remarked.

  ‘No way are we letting Bedivere sit with us.’

  ‘Come on, Lance. Bed’s all right. Besides, it’s not like it’s Arthur,’ Viola teased.

  ‘It’s too late now anyway, he’s here.’ Gwenhwyfar waved to him as he headed their way. Soon he was amongst them, squeezing onto their bench.

  ‘I just saw Morgan, not with Arthur,’ Bedivere announced. ‘At least he’s definitely with Marvin. I don’t think you have to worry about them being more than just friends, Gwen.’

  Suddenly the whole table descended into a discussion of the triangle that was Arthur, Morgan and Gwenhwyfar. Lancelot observed the scene with a black scowl.

  ‘Where’s Hector?’ he blurted out, bored.

  ‘Hector’s been suspended,’ Gavin explained. Gwenhwyfar surveyed Lancelot’s profile, trying to comprehend why he was so antagonistic.

  ‘Suspended?’ he snorted. ‘Why?’

  ‘He attacked Gwen,’ Viola explained.

  Lancelot’s eyes shot to Gwenhwyfar. ‘Attacked how?’

  ‘You know, attacked. Tried to… y’know…’ Gavin’s words trailed off with an uncomfortable shrug.

  ‘Hector? Really?’ He looked to Gwenhwyfar again, dis
believing. ‘Says who?’

  ‘Me,’ Viola snapped.

  ‘And me.’

  ‘No one asked you anything, Beddy,’ Lancelot flared.

  ‘Don’t talk to him like that,’ Gwenhwyfar cautioned. ‘No one asked for your opinion, either.’

  ‘And no one asked for yours,’ he sneered.

  ‘What is your problem?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just not accustomed to having two berks sit at my table.’

  ‘Lance!’ Viola’s eyes flashed. ‘Either shut up, or bugger off, all right?’

  His gaze was uncompromising. Gwenhwyfar glared at him while Bedivere tried to make himself less conspicuous. Eventually Lancelot expelled something akin to a hiss, got up, and took his bag with him.

  The four watched him lope away. After a few moments of mutual irritation, Gavin sighed. ‘I’d better go and see what’s bothering him.’ He pushed himself to his feet grudgingly. ‘I’ll see you at lunch. Just ignore what he said. He’s always moody after a suspension.’

  Gwenhwyfar didn’t think she’d ever met someone so argumentative. As conversation resumed, she propped her chin in her hand and gazed after Gavin as he hurried to catch up with Lancelot.

  * * *

  ‘Did you hear about Hector?’

  Julie Appelbauer stood with her tea in one hand and her satchel over her right shoulder, fat and full with papers. As Mr Slow shook his donkey-like head, Agnes Brolstone went on.

  ‘The principal is trying to keep it under wraps. Rumour has it he’s been suspended for attacking a female student.’

  Mr Slow frowned. ‘What? When—?’

  ‘Two weeks ago, off school grounds,’ Agnes whispered, not quietly. Mr Slow cast his sullen gaze across the room as if he wasn’t entirely sure he should be party to such information. ‘I heard it from Jason. The principal made the decision last week. What I want to know is this: why weren’t we informed?’