Arthur didn’t flinch. “Mordred Bendragon,” he said. “Son of Camelot.”
Son of Camelot. Notmyson.
Guinevere’s nails dug into the flesh of her palm.
The child was baptized in silence, the water gliding over his brow. He did not cry. He did not blink. He looked, for all the world, like he was watching.
And from across the room, where the knights knelt in solemn rows, Percival raised his head just enough to meet Lancelot’s eyes. A single nod. A warning.
Something had shifted.
“Your Grace,” the bishop turned to Arthur. “Please name the godparents for this child. These sanctified persons will watch over this boy as he grows, show him the way in his faith and in his morals. I trust you and Her Grace have chosen wisely.”
A sly grin appeared on Morgana’s face, the twinkle in her eye set Guinevere’s soul on fire. “Of course, bishop.” She shifted the boy in her arms. “For the godfather, our oldest friend and most revered knight of Camelot. We ask Lancelot du Lac to be the godfather of this boy.”
Gwen watched as his jaw tensed, the grip on his sword turning his knuckles white. Her breath shook. “Of course, Morgana.” He replied, his words clipped, terse.
“And the godmother?”
It was Arthur that answered. “Who better than the matriarch of Camelot herself?” He paused, then feigned embarrassment. “Or — oh, dear. My apologies, wife.Matriarchmight no longer be the word.” He looked at the crowd, inviting their laughter, then turned back to her.
She had to bite down on her tongue to keep from lashing out. “We ask Guinevere Bendragon, reigning Queen of Camelot. May she pass down the knowledge of the crown, as well as the ideals and morals that our people expect of their leaders.”
There was no air in the chapel.
Not even the child made a sound.
Guinevere said nothing. She could not. Her hands had turned to fists in her lap.
Lancelot stared straight ahead.
“Thank you, esteemed guests, for joining us in the Great Hall to further celebrate this wondrous occasion.” The king’s voice rang out throughout the chapel, exiting to a thunderous applause.
Morgana followed, a proud smile pasted across her face. The child, Mordred, was silent in her arms.
Guinevere did not rise until Lancelot offered his arm. She took it with a hand she barely trusted to remain steady. He was her anchor, as ever — steady, silent, seething beneath his composure.
He hid it better than she did. The anger. The grief. The helpless, swallowing rage each of these staged moments demanded of them both.
There weren’t many whispers now. The court had seen too much —and perhaps feared too much — to speak aloud. The queen was never seen without her champion.
And they had heard the rumors.
In every shape. Every version.
Since the Grail.
41
Seated at the head of the Great Hall, an assortment of cheeses and fruits in front of them, the battle raged on. Mordred lay in a bassinet at Morgana’s side, blanketed in silks.
Lancelot sat to her right, a place he had demanded from Arthur shortly after the fallout. The king had not been pleased, but conceded with a well-placed threat from her knight.He wouldn’t tell her what he exposed to Arthur, only that he would be by her side in the Great Hall as well.
“Will you be dancing tonight, my queen?” He ducked his head towards her, his breath brushing against her skin.
“No.” She responded with a curt shake of her head. “Unless it is in your arms.”
“Understood.” Under the table, his hand came to rest on her thigh. “Can’t say I’m feeling jovial enough myself.”
