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No one made a sound.
And then Arthur threw his sword, shouting in joy. He grabbed Lancelot’s hand and hauled her to standing, raising her hand in his own. “Sir Lancelot!” he shouted. “Knight of Camelot!” He embraced Lancelot, clapping her on the back.
* * *
After the tournament came the celebration. And if Guinevere thought the tournament had been violent and loud, she had no idea how a celebration with thousands of inebriated and very ecstatic people was.
She clung to Brangien, even the space around the box now filled with revelers in the twilight. Her head rang from the nonstop noise. Everything smelled of ale and wine. Her stomach had not settled from her attack earlier, and neither had her nerves. She wanted to congratulate Arthur, to toast Lancelot, but she had not seen either of them in hours. Dindrane and Sir Bors were standing scandalously close to each other in a dark corner, whispering. Sir Tristan had come to check on Brangien and Guinevere, but had been pulled away by Sir Gawain to find more to drink.
Whoever was supplying the drinks would come away from the tournament a bigger winner than anyone.
“Can we go to the tent?” Guinevere shouted. Brangien nodded. They pushed through the crowds. It was too dark or the people were too drunk to realize they should part for her. The tent, at least, was separated from most of the masses. Guinevere sat gratefully on a cushion. With a buffer between herself and the noise, she felt better already.
“I will go find some food and something to drink. But not spiced wine!” Brangien left Guinevere there with a lamp.
Guinevere lay back on the cushion. She should be happy. Lancelot won. No one could deny her prowess. She would be a knight now. Guinevere could feel it. If anyone had discovered Lancelot was a woman, Guinevere was certain she would have heard of it. Better to get Lancelot back to the castle, away from the crowds, and sort it all out there. She was confident Arthur would take Lancelot’s side. There was no reason to deny her.
She sighed. It was a good day’s work. She had helped more than one friend. Planned a tournament that would be talked about for years. Why was she not happier? She was being queen, like Arthur had suggested. Like Merlin had wanted.
But it was not enough.
Before, she had been sure of her purpose, of her place. Now, she felt like everything she was depended on Arthur. She knew that Camelot would always come first. Must come fi
rst.
But what about when she needed someone? She tapped her fingers against the cool stones Arthur had given her.
She heard the whisper of the tent flap. “Thank you,” she said.
“Do not thank me yet. You have not even looked.”
Guinevere sat up, startled, to see Mordred kneeling next to her.
“I thought you were Brangien!”
“Not a lot of people get us confused. I am much handsomer than she. Are you still feeling unwell?” He lifted his hand to feel her forehead. She swatted it away.
“Brangien is coming back with something to eat.”
“Is she? Or was she waylaid by Dindrane to get advice on how soon a lady can wed a knight?” Mordred sat back, leaning on his elbows.
“Does Arthur know you are here?”
“Does he know you are here?” Mordred had all the confirmation he needed in her expression. His own turned serious. He sat up, leaning toward her. “Guinevere,” he said, the lamplight low and flickering in his dark-forest eyes. “My uncle is a good man. But he is not a good husband. And he never will be.”
“It is not like that,” Guinevere whispered.
Mordred lifted an eyebrow. “What is it like?”
“Like…a partnership. But it is not the partnership I thought it would be. And I am trying to discover what I want it to be.”
Mordred reached up and ran his fingers along a strand of hair that had escaped her braid. He tucked it behind her ear, his fingers lingering there. She shivered.
“Are you cold?” He leaned closer. His eyes held her there. His eyes that were always watching, always seeing. Mordred always noticed her. Whenever she was in a room, she was the center of it for him. She knew that. Just as she knew she would never be the center of anything for Arthur.
Mordred closed the distance between them, brushing his lips against hers. The same spark she had felt at his hand was there, intensified. She gasped, and he drew her closer, pressing his mouth against hers. His hands were at the small of her back, her hands in his hair. She could taste how much he wanted her, how dark and smoldering his desire.
She had never known what it was to be desired. It was sweeter than damsons, more intoxicating than wine.
