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Arthur cheered loudest of all. He stood on the wooden plank, then jumped onto the field. It was his turn.
And Guinevere did not know who to cheer for anymore.
Guinevere did not want to watch, and she could not look away.
Arthur walked directly up to Lancelot, clasping her shoulder and leaning close. No one could hear what was said. Guinevere felt a spike of jealousy as blunt as the tournament swords. Not because she knew Lancelot was a woman. But because if Lancelot became a knight, she would know Arthur in a way Guinevere never could. She would probably even see him more than Guinevere did.
And perhaps a bit because Lancelot was a woman. What would Arthur think when he found out?
She realized she also liked that she knew Lancelot when no one else did. She would lose that. The closeness, the intimacy of their midnight talk on the walkway, would be gone. Everyone would know Lancelot as she did, and Arthur would know her better, even.
Arthur broke away from Lancelot, drawing Excalibur. The crowd erupted. Guinevere’s stomach turned. She clutched at it, suddenly hot and cold at the same time.
“My lady?” Brangien asked.
Guinevere stood, then fell. Brangien knelt at her side. Guinevere’s head was swimming. She shivered all over.
“What is it?” Mordred asked, joining Brangien.
“The wine, maybe? The spices?”
“Does she need air?” Dindrane asked.
Mordred put his soft fingers against her cheek. The spark of him reached her, and she grasped hold of it desperately, as though it were a line dropped to her. She felt impossibly far away, trapped somewhere deep inside.
“Guinevere,” Mordred whispered. “Guinevere, where are you?”
And then, as fast as it had come on, it passed.
She shuddered, closing her eyes, then opening them with great effort. “I do not know what came over me.”
“You swooned,” Dindrane said confidently. “Too much excitement. That is why ladies do not fight.”
Mordred took her elbow and helped her back into her seat. Brangien gave her a handkerchief. Guinevere pressed it to her face, wishing she were back in the castle, alone. But she was here, and she was the queen. The weight of the jewels against her forehead reminded her. She looked out, worried, but no one was looking at the royal box. Not with Arthur and Lancelot on the field.
Arthur had re-sheathed Excalibur, leaving it against the weapons stand. That damn sword. He was chatting happily with Lancelot, pointing to various weapons like they were choosing fruit from a dish.
Mordred still crouched at Guinevere’s side. “Are you sure you are well?”
“Yes, thank you. Too much excitement.”
“Hmm.” Mordred looked out at the field. “I suppose so. At least they did not choose to battle on boats, right?” He smiled wickedly at her. She scowled, throwing the handkerchief at him. He snatched it out of the air, tucking it into his vest and then disappearing back to his seat.
Guinevere tried to shake off the lingering feelings of dread and emptiness. She felt as though she had not eaten in days. Brangien, ever observant, passed her a bowl of berries and nuts. Guinevere chewed on them nervously.
Arthur picked long swords. It was not a surprising choice. He was good with every weapon, but Excalibur was a long sword. He tossed one to Lancelot, then strode confidently to the center of the field. The crowd hushed in anticipation. In all the tournaments, no one had ever made it to Arthur. Lancelot was the first. And while many of the men of Camelot would be called upon in a war, a majority of the watchers had never seen Arthur fight.
He did not swing his sword as a showman would. Like Lancelot’s, his movements were calm, measured. Contained.
Thus it was a shock when he burst forward, impossibly fast, his sword a streak. Lancelot parried the blow, their blades ringing. But Arthur continued pushing forward, forearms out, shoving Lancelot off balance. Lancelot spun, twisting free and swinging her sword. Arthur met the blow, then delivered one, two, three of his own. Lancelot swung her sword as though desperately swatting insects from the air, only just managing to redirect each blow so that it would not hit her. Arthur was giving her no opportunity, no quarter. Lancelot had barely done more than deflect and parry.
“Good!” Arthur shouted as Lancelot dodged another strike. He laughed, his chest heaving. Lancelot swung and Arthur raised his blade to meet hers. He held it there, forcing Lancelot to keep pushing the blow. But Arthur was bigger, his shoulders broader, his arms more powerful. He pushed harder and Lancelot stumbled back, losing her footing for the first time in all the fights. Lancelot fell. The crowd gasped. But Lancelot kept going, rolling so that her legs flipped up over her head. She landed with her knees on the ground, then jumped to her feet. She had never let go of her sword.
Arthur laughed again, delighted. And then he charged. Now it became apparent Arthur had been holding back. His sword winked and shone, blinding in the sun. Lancelot ducked and weaved, blocked and parried. A particularly brutal blow knocked her once again to her back. Arthur swung his sword, stopping it just shy of her neck.
Her own sword was held straight up, pressed against his belly.
They did not move.
