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“Maleagant knows I am here,” Arthur answered. “That means Camelot is vulnerable. I did not want our waiting men cut off.”
“But now we have no men to bolster our forces! Maleagant knows you are here, which means you are vulnerable.”
“Better I fall than Camelot.”
“If you fall,” Mordred said, his voice softer than Sir Tristan’s, “so does Camelot.”
“Camelot will live on. And so will we. I know Maleagant. He will lie in wait for us along the roads or set a trap in a village. We will ride through the forests.”
Sir Bors sounded like gravel crunching underfoot. “Of course he will wait on the road, because riding through that much forest is madness.”
“I like our chances.”
Guinevere could hear the smile in Arthur’s voice. He sounded as though he was looking forward to the challenge. She sided with Tristan, though. Better to protect Arthur than to send the waiting camp back without them.
She steeled herself. If they were all he had, they would be enough.
She gathered her knots, checking each one to make certain they were still tight. There was no time for the weakness that making new ones would induce. She had to be her best for the forest.
Lifting a tent flap, she emerged into the brilliant sunshine.
“What about the queen?” Sir Tristan asked, challenge in his voice as he used her as a reason not to follow Arthur’s plan.
“The queen,” Guinevere said, pulling up her hood, “is ready to ride at her king’s side, wherever that takes her.” She strode to her waiting horse. Arthur lifted her to mount.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
Confident and afraid in equal measure, she smiled down at him. “I am.”
* * *
She maneuvered so she would be the last to enter the trees. A branch brushed her arm; she draped a single knot of confusion and blindness there. Anyone pursuing them would be unable to find the trail.
Once under the trees, everything changed. Even the air was different. Warmer. Closer. As though the trees were breathing, wrapping them all in the steam of their exhalations. They had to slow their pace as the horses picked careful paths through the undergrowth. There was no discernable trail. No one was stupid enough to go through the forest if they did not have to.
Still, it was boredom and heat that oppressed Guinevere more than fear. After several hours of slow progress, she had removed her hood and longed to unlace her sleeves. The knights around her had not shed any of their metal-plated leather armor, and they all sweated in silent misery.
Mordred rejoined them from scouting ahead. “More of the same. Trees and leaves and insects. If we continue south, we should break free on the borders of Camelot within
two days. Tonight when we make camp, I will set traps for—”
A howl sliced through the thick air.
“We have daylight yet!” Sir Bors said as the horses jostled, ears alert, nostrils wide. “They cannot be hunting.”
Another howl answered. Then another. And another.
“They are hunting,” Arthur said, his expression grim. “And we are surrounded.”
Guinevere’s horse stamped its feet, tossing its head and jostling sideways. She looked down to see a fine mist creeping upward from the soil. It tugged at her horse’s hooves and wrapped lovingly around them.
“The ground!” Guinevere shouted.
“I see it, too!” Mordred drew his sword. “Ride!”
He slapped her horse’s rump, sending it careening through the trees. All around her the knights did the same. She held tight to her reins, ducking branches that swooped down like grasping claws. The trees seemed to lean closer together, giving them a dozen separate paths for their horses. Separating them.
“Guinevere!” Arthur shouted. She tugged on the reins, forcing her horse from its determined course and toward Arthur.
