On the field, young Matthew struck a blow against William’s leg, and His Lordship was stumbling around like a pro wrestler, milking the moment for all it was worth. The crowd was on their feet, jumping up and down, cheering.
The man stepped closer. I took a step away. “I only ask because there was no engagement announcement inThe Times, and I noticed you haven’t applied for a marriage licence yet.”
“Pardon?”
I properly stopped to look at him then. His face was familiar. Where had I seen it?
On the field, Matthew was stumbling around as if exhausted. He fell to one knee, then both knees. William, also feigning exhaustion, put a hand under his helmet and ripped it from his head, tossing it aside. The crowd roared. William was rounding on his prey. A woman shouted, “Get up, Matthew! Run him through!” The boy crept forward, head hanging, sword on the ground, as if accepting his fate. William played the crowd, raising a gauntleted hand to his ear, as if he couldn’t hear them, or as if he wanted to know if they were ready for the terminal act. The crowd bayed for blood. But then—as William was about to strike—Matthew thrust his sword up, up, up. It glanced off William’s armour, and he made out he had been pierced in the flank. The crowd whooped and hollered and stamped their feet.
“What I can’t work out,” the man said as William raised his sword, “is how long you two have actually known each other.”
William plunged his sword into Matthew’s belly, and the boy fell. All around us the crowd cheered. The trumpets started playing. All I could do was stare at the man who had the audacity to ask these kinds of questions. I stopped filming, put my phone in my pocket. I was about to ask him who the bloody hell he thought he was when I realised I already knew.
“You’re Gary Ashworth.” I’d seen his photo byline inThe Bulletin. The man smiled. It was slimy and insincere. “I think you’ve had quite enough out of William and me for one day, mate.”
“I have a few questions, though, Peter. Because there’s a few things don’t quite add up.”
“Our private life is none of your business.”
I glanced at the field, where William had young Matthew on his shoulder, surrounded by dozens of cheering re-enactors. All over the common, ovaries were exploding.
“I understand,” Gary said. “But when’s the first time you ever came to Buckford Hall?”
“Again, that’s not your business.”
“Oh, but it literally is. My business is the truth, Peter, and you ain’t telling these people the truth. Are you now?”
I swallowed, my Adam’s apple slowly descending below my collar before reappearing holding a flashing neon sign that saidguilty.
“No announcement. No marriage licence. No evidence you’d even heard of Buckford Hall before you started filmingThe Love Manor. Not to mention a string of gentlemen in London with some very interesting stories to tell about the man who has supposedly won Lord Buckford’s heart.”
“You absolute snake.” My fists clenched. Was I about to punch my second person for the day? In front of the whole village? In Vivienne Westwood?
“What do you want, Mr Ashworth?” I sneered.
“I want a story for tomorrow’s newspaper. I don’t mind which story it is. I want a nice big Sunday read. An exclusive. Icouldwrite the inside story of the Bisexual Baron Buckford’s soon-to-be-wedded bliss. Assuming this engagement is real, of course. Or I could always write up the surprising stories I’ve been told about what you get up to on your Friday nights in Vauxhall.”
My blood was thumping so loudly through my temples, I didn’t hear the thunder of hooves until Achilles was almost on me. Gary Ashworth’s body flew across the grass like a skittle. William reached a hand down to me. I grabbed it and he swung me up into the saddle behind him. His hair was windswept,his breathing heavy. I wrapped my arms around his armoured waist. His sword was pointed squarely at the reporter on the ground.
“Did he threaten you?” William asked me.
“Yes.” And then I whispered, “He knows. He wants a story or he’s going to print it— and worse.”
It was only then I looked around. The whole village was staring, slack-jawed and gobsmacked. Gary Ashworth was on the ground, his hand up to his face. William circled Achilles around, sheathed his sword, and addressed the whole village.
“Let it be known that I, William Stanley Leaf Richard George Winters-de Valois-Winters, the seventeenth Baron Buckford,lovethis man. I willmarrythis man. I intend to spend mylifewith this man. Make no mistake, if any man tries to come between us or threatens the incredible happiness ahead of us, I will hunt them to the ends of the earth and I will exact a terrible price from them.” William pointed a gauntleted finger in the direction of Gary Ashworth. “And that includes members of the press.”
I was flagstaff rigid. Achilles turned on a tight rein.
“How was that?” William whispered over his shoulder.
“Sexy as hell. That French royal blood really tells.”
“Mother’s been telling tales, I see.”
“Let’s get out of here,” I muttered.
“What?”
