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“I cannot swim!” Guinevere cried.
“I will help you.”
“No, you do not understand!” Guinevere hurried past the door to catch up to Lancelot. She followed the knight around to find that Maleagant had tricked her, at least in part. Because the other side of the channel was broader, but sparkling and calm in the late afternoon light. It looked easy to cross.
Still a river, though.
“It came only to my thighs,” Lancelot said. “You will be fine. Hurry.” She stepped into the water and Guinevere shouted.
“No! I have—I have to tell you the truth, Lancelot.” Guinevere hung her head, staring at the rocks that separated her from the water.
“That Merlin is your father?”
Guinevere looked up, shocked. It felt wrong, coming from Lancelot’s mouth, just as it had from Arthur’s. “Did Arthur tell you?”
Lancelot shook her head. “It did not take much to put it together. After all, how would a princess from the southern lands know where Merlin lived in the woods? Why would she be so desperate to save him? Everyone knows what Merlin was to Arthur. Of course Arthur would choose his first protector’s daughter as a wife.” Lancelot smiled, but her smile was bitter. Her hazel eyes narrowed and hardened. “I even understand the deception. Sometimes we have to hide from what others see in order to be what we know we are.”
There was a reason Lancelot’s hand in hers that day in the forest had felt right. Had felt true. Lancelot understood her.
“I cannot touch the water,” Guinevere said. “If I do, I fear the Lady of the Lake will find me, too, and take me like she did Merlin.”
“Then why were you going to throw yourself in?”
“Maleagant would have used me against Arthur. I am not certain I could keep Arthur’s secrets forever against a man like that.” Guinevere shuddered.
Lancelot waded to her. She turned and leaned so her back was presented to Guinevere. “Come on.”
“What?”
“On my back. Hold tight. Wrap your legs around my waist. We are crossing this river.”
Guinevere climbed on as instructed. She crossed her arms around Lancelot’s collarbones. Lancelot adjusted her legs, hiking her up a bit. Guinevere’s skirts were around her waist, her ankles white and forbidden in the sunlight.
Lancelot held Guinevere’s thighs in place on either side, and then stepped into the river.
Guinevere closed her eyes, but now that she knew what the fear was—that it was real, not simply foolishness—she found it easier. The shame of her terror of water had been almost as great as the fear, and without shame, the fear could be faced.
Lancelot’s pace was careful, each foot firmly planted before the next was lifted. It seemed to take a lifetime. As the water got higher and higher along Lancelot’s legs, Guinevere feared Lancelot had judged the depth wrong.
“A little looser, my lady,” Lancelot said, her voice strained. Guinevere loosened her arms, which had drifted up around Lancelot’s throat.
“Sorry!”
“Almost there. Close your eyes. That will make it easier.”
Again Guinevere did as instructed.
Lancelot spoke lightly, her low, rich voice carefully even. “How did you get past the guard inside? Did you use magic?”
Guinevere snorted, lowering her face to Lancelot’s shoulder and resting it there. “You do not want to know.”
“Well, now I want to know more than I have ever wanted to know anything.”
“I will spare you the details,” Guinevere said, breathing deeply of the leather scent of Lancelot’s patchwork armor. It cut through the river smell, helping Guinevere combat the fear. “But it involved a full chamber pot.”
Lancelot laughed, her hands tightening around Guinevere’s thighs. “You did not!”
“He deserved worse. I only wish it had been Maleagant’s face on the receiving end.”
