If they had any chance of sneaking away, this was it. Lance jerked his chin toward the alley, and Arthur nodded grimly. They shoved into the crowd, keeping their hoods low. They just needed to get to the gate, and then they could make for the Strand.

Deeper in the crowd, a man bellowed for more beer, waving an empty flagon in the air.

“Comin’ through!” a barmaid shrilled, shoving past Arthur with a pitcher filled to the brim.

She slammed into him—hard. Beer slopped down the front of his cloak, and he tented his soaking tunic with a grimace. She must have spilled half the pitcher.

“Don’t stop,” Lance urged, his expression tense. He kept a hand on his sword as he wrenched his way between two thick-necked dockworkers.

Arthur followed, beer dripping onto his boots. Coming to this tavern had been their worst idea in a long time. And that was saying something.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the barmaid accused.

With every step and push, the crowd protested and glared. And then Lance stopped short, and Arthur bumped into him. They were stuck.

“You! In the cloak! You better pay for that,” the barmaid snapped, laying a rough hand on his shoulder.

Arthur whirled around in disbelief. “You’re the one who spilled on me,” he accused.

He expected at least a mumbled apology, but none came. Instead, she shot him a fierce glare. And then her eyes went wide.

“No, please—” Arthur begged, but it was too late.

“I didn’t r-recognize you,” she stammered, and he held his breath, as though that would prevent her from ruining everything. “Your R-Royal Highness.”

Goddamn it, Arthur thought. This evening was just determined to go terribly.

The barmaid sunk into a panicked curtsey, and Lance shot Arthur a horrified look. This was the opposite of sneaking away quietly.

“Get up,” Arthur whispered urgently. “It’s all right.”

It wasn’t all right. Already, a ripple was going through the courtyard, and heads were turning in their direction.

“My friends, what distracts you?” Sir Kay boomed.

“It’s the sardin’ prince of Camelot,” someone called, making the churchgoers gasp at both the news and at such a coarse swear.

Arthur wanted to disappear. But that wasn’t happening, so damage control would have to do. He painted on a smile and pushed back his hood.

“Your Highness,” said Sir Kay, with a small bow in Arthur’s direction. “Lance,” he added, barely hiding his disappointment. “I didn’t realize you’d been at church.”

Lance grimaced, but Arthur’s shoulders stiffened at the barb.

If Sir Kay wanted a verbal sparring match, then so be it. Lance wasn’t getting in trouble for this. Not if he could help it. So Arthur lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and tried to summon a semblance of his father’s stern command.

“And I didn’t realize you wished to be High King of England,” Arthur returned.