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Guinevere did not need to ask whom he referred to. The Dark Queen and her grandson, Mordred. “We will find them.”
“Sir Lancelot is rested,” Sir Percival grumbled, climbing out of the lake. “She can take my place at the aspirant training today.” He walked past Lancelot without a glance and without asking her if that was okay. Guinevere wanted to turn to her knight, to check on her, but Arthur took her hand. He might have squeezed. She wished she could use her touch sense to feel him, to draw some of his strength into herself. But her hands were ruined from last night’s magic, and would be for days.
They walked toward the castle, Lancelot behind them.
* * *
The crowd cheered, startling Guinevere out of her doze. If she was this tired, she could only imagine how tired Lancelot must be.
Guinevere was sitting in the stands and the knights were on the arena floor, organizing the day’s aspirant matches. The least Guinevere could do was stay alert. Arthur had filled her in on the details when they got back to the castle, but then he had been pulled away by the return of scouts he had sent north. Guinevere had wanted a distraction for poor Brangien. She had dismissed Guinevere’s questions perfunctorily as she shook out clothes, insisting that everything was fine after her last dream with Isolde. But her eyes were red and swollen, and so Guinevere had suggested they attend the training. Really all she wanted was a nap, but even that was an uncomfortable prospect. Would the invasive dream still have access to her mind?
Guinevere blinked, focusing on the arena’s dirt floor and the various players there. The cheer had not been for Lancelot, who did not have the admirers she had once enjoyed as the patchwork knight. Guinevere knew many in the city did not accept Lancelot and could not fathom why Arthur had agreed to knight a woman.
Guinevere wondered, sometimes, if Arthur would have knighted Lancelot had things gone differently. Lancelot had won her tournament without question, but during the celebrations afterward Guinevere had been kidnapped by Maleagant’s man, and Lancelot had been revealed as a woman. If there had not been the complication of Guinevere’s abduction, how would Arthur have addressed it all? As it was, in the confusion and scrambling to get information, Lancelot was simply forgotten. Which left her open to join with Brangien and Mordred in a rescue mission that Arthur could not pursue without risking war.
It had been Lancelot’s bravery in rescuing Guinevere from the island where Maleagant was holding her and then Lancelot’s help in fighting Mordred and the Dark Queen that had given Guinevere the opportunity to demand that Lancelot be her very own knight. Arthur could not put Camelot second to Guinevere, ever. Lancelot could put Guinevere first, always.
But without the leverage of Lancelot’s real-life heroics, would she have been knighted? If Maleagant had not abducted Guinevere, would Mordred have found a different opening to trick Guinevere into helping him? Or would he still be here, perhaps sitting at Guinevere’s side today, making her laugh?
It was useless, thinking about how things might have gone differently. Maleagant was dead. Mordred was a traitor. And Lancelot was a knight. Her knight. Guinevere sat, visible in red and blue, wearing a crown of braids and cheering for her so that everyone would see Lancelot was supported. It was her own sort of vigilant protection; the only type she could offer Lancelot. Lancelot was not usually in rotation for this task, so Guinevere was excited to watch.
Lancelot sparred with Sir Tristan and Sir Gawain as they waited for the aspirants to finish selecting their gear and begin trials. Guinevere waved a handkerchief, beaming, and then sat back into the shade with Brangien. The handkerchief fell to the wood floor beneath them. At least her fumbling fingers had held it while people were watching.
Brangien did not notice, either. She looked haunted. It hurt Guinevere to be unable to fix it yet. She would, as soon as she could.
After the aspirants were finished for the day, they were due back at the castle to finalize preparations for the travel to the estate of Dindrane’s father. As tedious as it was planning caravans and supplies, Guinevere was looking forward to the wedding. The travel would bring them across land she had not yet visited. And it was a week—at least!—with Arthur at her side. Maybe, away from the stresses of Camelot and the duties that pulled him away, they would finally be able to…something. Guinevere could never quite finish the mental image of what she hoped would happen beyond a kiss.
Had the way Arthur smiled at her at the lakeshore made her think they were getting closer because it had been intimate, or because it had reminded her of Mordred?
Brangien offered her a strip of cloth to practice knots, but Guinevere shook her head. She could not feel her fingers other than pins and needles, which made her useless at actual needlework. But she would be recovered by the time they left. On the road, outside of Arthur’s lands, they would be vulnerable. She would not be caught unaware or indisposed.
She remembered Lancelot’s description of her as a waiting adder and smiled, picturing herself coiled up not with knots and tension, but with deadly power.
A rumble of noise in an unusual tone drew her attention to the ring. One of the aspirants was holding his sword, tip down, his back to the knight who was giving instructions. His back to Lancelot.
Lancelot did not talk about how the other knights treated her. When she was with Guinevere, she was always on guard, scanning for threats, doing her duty. Guinevere had no idea how things went for Lancelot elsewhere. But Lancelot had been excluded from a fight and a celebration, and then Sir Percival had dumped his own work on her without even asking. And now this insult! Guinevere stood, livid.
Brangien’s hand on her arm stopped her from speaking. “Let her address it,” she murmured. “A queen commanding them to show respect will only prove to them that Lancelot is not worthy of their respect on her own merits.”
Lancelot said something and all the knights—and aspirants other than the one with his back turned—laughed. They moved into their various rings, no one else hesitating to follow Lancelot’s instructions. The sulking aspirant was left alone. When he tried to move into a ring where Sir Tristan was instructing, Sir Tristan shifted so that his back was to him. Sir Gawain did the same thing. Guinevere held her breath when the man got to Sir Bors, one of the oldest and by far the surliest of the knights. But Sir Bors shifted and did the same.
Guinevere let out a breath of relief. “They know Lancelot’s worth.”
Brangien was more practical in her views. “They will protect their own. King Arthur made Lancelot a knight, and if they disrespected that, they would be disrespecting their king and themselves. Besides, you are the reason Sir Bors is about to enjoy matrimonial bliss. You are Dindrane’s champion. He will not do anything to offend you.”
Perhaps Brangien was right and it had less to do with the knights’ feelings about Lancelot’s worth and more to do with their pride about their own. But at least in public they were united. Guinevere settled in and watched Lancelot work. It was funny to think of how certain she had been that Lancelot was a threat back when Guinevere only knew her as the patchwork knight. What had seemed supernatural about Lancelot’s talent then filled her with pride now. It was soothing to watch her own knight continually best the men around her, then patiently instruct them. She had seen only two people beat Lancelot. Arthur—who fought her to a draw—and Mordred.
Who won.
A shadow loomed at the entrance to their covered booth. Guinevere looked up, half expecting Mordred to be there with his wry smile and his knowing eyes, but it was only a servant page, offering them refresh
ments. The rest of the afternoon dragged. Guinevere was uncomfortable in the late-afternoon heat, exhausted, her hands painful. At last they finished and Guinevere and Brangien could leave. They walked slowly back up to the castle.
“Buckets,” Guinevere muttered to herself.
Brangien laughed. “What woe are you comparing to the idea of having to haul buckets up this endless, cursed hill?”
Guinevere sighed, looking forward to undoing her tight braids, letting her hair down. “I am just tired.”
