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The first guard snorted. “You would not know a fine lady if she bit you in the ass.”
“I have paid fine ladies to bite me in the ass.”
They both laughed. The game was resumed, Guinevere summarily dismissed.
She had thought Sir Ector and Sir Kay unpleasant. She repented of that now, having seen what truly unpleasant men were like when given perfect freedom to be as wretched as their basest nature. After sliding down against the wall farthest from them, she sat still and quiet, considering it best not to draw their attention again.
How had she been asleep for a day? It had gained her nothing, and cost her precious time. She did not know when Maleagant would return. And she did not know what she would do when he did. Merlin’s abandonment stabbed her anew. Not even in dreams would he speak with her, help her. Guinevere closed her eyes, trying to remember the black place.
Merlin had been afraid that she would be found. By whom? All that time in Camelot she had feared attack. The only threat was the one who had come for Merlin. The one he had sent her away from.
The Lady of the Lake.
Guinevere’s fear of water, her refusal to so much as touch it—if her hands could sense the truth, perhaps they were saving her from what she would find there. An elemental force of unfathomable age and power, determined to end her in order to punish Merlin. She would have been used against Merlin the same way she was now being used against Arthur.
She would not stand for it. Merlin was gone. But she would not give Maleagant what he wanted. She would take the option away from him entirely. At the next opportunity, she would fling herself into the river. Let the Lady take her. Let herself be unmade. It was the least Merlin deserved. If he could see past and future, he had seen this and he had not helped her.
And this way she could never be made to hurt Arthur.
“What are you smiling about?” the first guard said. “You look creepy. Stop it.”
“Can I go for a walk about the island?”
“Yes, of course. I have packed a picnic! And would her ladyship like a bit of music to accompany her stroll?” The second guard doffed his hat, bowing. They did not move away from the door.
“I need to relieve myself.”
The guard kicked a chipped and cracked wooden bowl toward her. It skittered across the floor. “Have at it, queen.”
That ploy had failed. And, worse, she really did need to relieve herself. “You cannot expect me to do it with you in here.”
He pitched his voice high in imitation of her. “Then you cannot expect to do it at all.”
She picked up the bowl, retreating to the farthest edge of the building. It was heavily shadowed. The men snickered. But the second guard turned his back on her. “Come on, Ranulf,” he said. “Let the poor lost queen take her piss.”
The first guard, Ranulf, shrugged. “Speaking of, I need to go water the river before Sir Maleagant comes back and I have to stand at attention while he tortures his new pet.” He stepped out the door, closing it behind him.
Guinevere had never peed so fast in her life. She squatted over the bowl, keeping her skirts pooled around
her. When she was finished, she stood and refastened her drawers with her back to the door.
There was a shout from outside, and a large splash.
“What is—” the second guard said, standing.
Guinevere picked up the bowl and rushed across the room, throwing its contents in his face. He shouted in disgust, spluttering. She opened the door, ready to leap into the river—
And jumped right into the arms of a knight.
Beyond the edge of the island, Ranulf was being carried swiftly away, facedown. She only caught a glimpse of him as Lancelot swung her around and set her safely against the wall of the house. The second guard roared out of the door, squinting and half blind. Lancelot grabbed him around the waist, using his own momentum to toss him off the rocks and into the river.
He struggled to keep his head above the water. Lancelot picked up a large rock and threw with expert aim. It smashed into the guard’s head and his eyes rolled back. He dropped beneath the current and disappeared.
“When will Maleagant return?” Lancelot asked.
Guinevere shook her head, pressing her back as hard as she could against the stone building. She had been prepared to leap into the river to her death. But she did not want to anymore. Not for anything. “Soon, I think.”
“Come on.” Lancelot edged around the building, away from her.
