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Arthur unrolled his bed next to hers and was asleep almost as soon as he was horizontal. From the soft snores, nearly all the men were. Guinevere supposed it was a necessity. If they could not sleep in unusual circumstances, they would never be fit for their tasks on the road.
She tried not to fret about what they had left behind. Arthur clearly was not worried. Camelot was protected. Guinevach would be escorted out in the morning, averting whatever intentional or accidental damage she might have done. Mordred was out there, somewhere, but the Dark Queen was more than matched by Guinevere and Arthur, and Mordred had to know it now. Had he been there leading the wolves in attack, or had he really been trying to release them from their magical bonds, as he claimed?
And how did he genuinely mean her no harm, after all the pain he had caused her?
No. She did not want to think about him anymore. She was ready for this infinite day to be over.
Guinevere turned on her side to face Arthur, who was barely visible even this close. He always felt so far away when he was asleep. She rolled onto her other side. Lancelot moved like a shadow in the darkness, pacing the perimeter of the camp.
Guinevere watched her knight pacing as she kept watch, and forgot to worry about nightmares.
* * *
He is just ahead of her on the pathway. She can hear him laughing, low teasing notes in contrast to the brilliant summer sun winking through the foliage. She runs to close the distance, but when she breaks into the clearing, it is empty.
An arm circles her waist from behind, lifting her into the air and spinning her. She screams, but it quickly turns to laughter as the meadow whirls around them. They fall into a heap, face to face, his moss-green eyes fixed on hers with an intensity she can never ignore.
There is something she should be doing. Someone she should be with. But it is summer and the clover beneath them is soft and his hair is softer and his lips are softest of all.
“You made the wrong choice,” he murmurs, his lips against her neck, and she cannot remember the choice or why she made it. She can only feel this fire, this giddy, dangerous release of wanting and being wanted, and she does not care about anything else.
* * *
Guinevere awoke with a gasp. “Mordred,” she whispered, blinking against the expected sunlight and finding only the cold blanket of an autumn night. The fire had burned low, and next to her Arthur slept, oblivious. The dream had not been like the dream of Camelot, where it had belonged to someone else. This was her own dream. Which worried her even more.
Guinevere stood, wrapping her blanket around her shoulders like a cloak. It was not simply the feeling of Mordred’s lips and hands she needed to clear from her mind. The sunlight, the meadow, the freedom. It was all a lie. And she hated her sleeping brain for telling it to her.
A dark figure paused nearby.
“My queen?” Lancelot whispered.
Guinevere stepped to her knight. “Is it still your watch?” So much more of the night stretched in front of her. Guinevere eyed her bedroll with trepidation. She did not want to wander in any more dreams tonight. Somehow the dream of Mordred upset her even more than the dream of the Lady of the Lake. Perhaps because she had memories of Mordred, and none of her mother. Or perhaps because the plunge into darkness held no allure in her real life, but the touch of Mordred…
“Third watch,” Lancelot answered. “It will be dawn soon.”
“But you had first watch!” That hardly seemed fair.
“I slept some.”
Guinevere did not think the number of men present required Lancelot to take two watches. Sir Tristan had not. He was sleeping nearby. Guinevere tightened the blanket around her shoulders. “Can I keep watch with you? I do not want to sleep again.”
Lancelot did not ask why. She nodd
ed, turning outward toward the forest and sweeping her eyes back and forth. “My queen, there is something I need to talk to you about.” Lancelot sounded hesitant, almost worried. “It has to do with our conversation about the Lady of the Lake.”
“I have been thinking about it, as well.” Guinevere braced herself. Lancelot was going to suggest she tell Arthur. And she would. Eventually. But she was not ready to discuss it, to share the information and therefore make it feel even more real than it already did.
“I—” Lancelot froze.
“I heard it, too,” Guinevere whispered.
There was someone—or something—in the trees.
“Go to Arthur as though you are going back to sleep,” Lancelot whispered. “Get some rest,” she added in a louder voice, pitching it lower than normal so her naturally husky voice sounded like a young man’s. “It will be morning soon.”
Guinevere returned to her bedroll, certain that her stiff, nervous walk would give the charade away. She knelt, loath to lie down. That felt too vulnerable. What could she do to help? Fire magic? But fire was hard to control, and she worried about hurting the guards. The memory of those smoldering remains of what had once been wolves made her sick. And she had to keep her magic a secret. If it were revealed, getting rid of Guinevach would have been for nothing. Guinevere herself would be kicked out of Camelot.
Guinevere lay down and sidled up to Arthur. She put a hand on his shoulder and nuzzled his cheek. “Arthur, wake up,” she said softly. “Do not react, but there is someone in the woods and we may be under attack soon.”
