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A flush of surprise and pleasure coursed through Guinevere. She knew Arthur had noticed. But she was oddly delighted tha
t it had bothered him on a personal level. “What did he mean, that I am younger than I should be? I am only two years younger than you.”
Arthur’s face twitched. He did not open his eyes. “Maleagant…knows more of my history than I would like. There is a reason I banished him instead of killing him.” His pause stretched so long that Guinevere wondered if he had fallen asleep. “Her name was Elaine. She was his sister. I thought she loved me. She told me she was with child, and I was ready to marry her.”
Guinevere could not manage to draw a breath. The rumors that Arthur was a virgin king were…rumors. He had loved and been in love before. Somehow this felt almost as painful a revelation as Merlin’s role in Arthur’s birth. But Arthur had never lied to her. She had simply chosen to believe gossip because she wanted to. She wanted him to be as new to all this as she was, because it made her uncertainty feel less humiliating.
“When I discovered Maleagant’s plans and misdeeds, I banished him, and in my rage sent Elaine to the south. She died giving birth. The baby, a boy, survived only a few hours. And I was not there.”
Guinevere lowered herself to the furs next to him. She took his hand in her own. “I am sorry.”
“Even when I knew she had deliberately trapped me—that Maleagant planned to assassinate me and use my child as a means to the throne—I still loved her.”
Guinevere flinched. Maleagant’s plan was not so different from Merlin’s. At least Elaine seemed a willing participant, unlike Arthur’s mother.
“Elaine begged me to be merciful. And because I put my own feelings before the good of Camelot, I did not kill Maleagant. My people will suffer—some may even die—because I acted as a man instead of a king.”
“You were a boy still.”
He brought their hands to his mouth and brushed his lips across the back of her hand. His lips were soft and cool, and she felt it through her whole body. “You are generous. Thank you for letting me tell you. All these long years, it has been a secret shared only by myself, Mordred, and Maleagant.”
She moved closer to him. Knowing this secret made her feel important, like she mattered in his life. But it also made her worry even more. If Arthur was not a virgin king, was their false marriage holding him back from things he wanted? She had worried about him missing alliances and politics. She had not considered that they were both missing…physical alliances.
“I do not mind,” she said, her voice as soft and quiet as the darkness cocooning them in the tent. “If you…pursue other women. I understand. I do not want you to think that our arrangement prevents you from that.”
He shifted closer to her, his body solid and radiating heat. “I would never give people a reason to talk about us, or to scorn you. I know we do not have a normal marriage, but I am happy with you by my side. Are you?”
“Yes.” She did not hesitate. In this moment, the heat of him warming her through, she was perfectly happy.
“Good. I want—” He paused.
She strained closer, the pause after want hinged with unknown promise. Finally, he spoke again. “I want to get to know you. The real you. We are both here because Merlin wanted it so, but it is time he is no longer between us. We are in this together, Guinevere. I like that.”
She turned so her smile pressed into Arthur’s shoulder. She did not know whether she was hiding the full effect he had on her, or whether she was pressing her joy into his shoulder as a kiss. “I like it, too.”
“So tell me something no one else knows about you.”
She laughed. “Arthur, no one else knows anything about me. Only you do.”
His laugh was embarrassed. “I suppose that is true. I gave you one secret; you gave me all of yours. Except…your name.”
A cold rush of emptiness descended on her. She wanted to tell him. To give it to him. But when she reached for it, it was gone. She had given it to the flame, and it had been devoured. The loss hit her anew.
“How about I tell you a story instead. About the stars. I named them all.”
Arthur nodded, slipping his arm around her and stroking her hair with a movement so soft she wondered if he realized he was doing it. She wove the story for him, tying it around him like knots until he fell asleep.
This journey had brought so many new revelations, so many new threats. Maleagant was not one she could fight. Neither was the ghost of Elaine and Arthur’s failure. Her heart broke for him, carrying that alone all these years. And somehow he had taken that pain and forged it into something powerful and sharp. Something to wear as naturally as he wore his crown.
She rested a hand against his heart, her own beating like a bird startled from a bush. She wanted to give him her name. She wanted to give him everything.
And it terrified her.
Guinevere awoke to an argument.
“How could you?” Sir Tristan demanded.
Guinevere sat up. She tried to rub her bleary eyes clear, but nothing worked. If she did not end up using the knots she had tied that cost her this, she would be furious. She checked that her hair was still more or less in order, then crept to the tent opening and listened.
