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“Come on, to bed,” Brangien said, sensing the shift in mood. Sir Tristan was staying at Arthur’s side, and would until he retired. Brangien and Isolde accompanied Guinevere back to her room, Lancelot padding silently behind them. The knight checked the room to make certain it was empty, then stepped back out as Brangien and Isolde helped Guinevere undress, unlacing and untying her from the layers. Brangien brushed Guinevere’s hair while Isolde carefully repacked the clothing into a trunk.
From the hallway, a conversation filtered to them with a male voice getting louder. There was a smacking noise, and then the wall shuddered as something slammed into it. Guinevere and Brangien rushed to open the door. Lancelot was standing guard, hands clasped in front of her. An unconscious man was sprawled on the floor next to her.
Lancelot shrugged. “He had too much to drink. Perhaps it is best if Brangien and Isolde stay in your room tonight. There will be many drunk men.”
“Thank you.” Guinevere agreed with Lancelot’s assessment. If Arthur was bothered to find his bed filled by two others when he returned sometime in the middle of the night, he did not express it. Guinevere awoke to find him on the cold floor, using one arm for a pillow. She was flushed with affection as she stared down at him. She could not imagine another king who would sleep on the floor while two maids took his place in the bed.
Brangien and Isolde tiptoed around the still-sleeping Arthur to prepare themselves for the day. When breakfast was delivered by a servant, Guinevere peered into the hall. The unconscious man was gone, but Lancelot still stood in the same position. Sir Tristan was farther down the hall.
“Did you stand there all night?” Guinevere asked.
“Yes, my queen.”
“Come in and have breakfast, then.”
Lancelot frowned. “Should I?”
“You should.” Guinevere did not wait for Lancelot to follow. She pulled another cushion to the low table where their breakfast was waiting. Arthur had awoken and was stretching.
“How was your night?” Guinevere asked, breaking pieces off the large, rough loaf of bread.
“Interesting.” Arthur joined them. If he thought it odd that Lancelot was there, he did not say. “There was much discussion of the Saxon settlers. They are pushing in everywhere. Where they cannot outright take over, they marry into the families and take over that way. Actually, Dindrane’s father seemed relieved that she was married now, so he could refuse them. I had thought the Picts were our biggest problem, but there has been no movement or conflict from them in weeks. That border seems firm without Maleagant around to stir up trouble.”
There was a heavy silence as the three of them—the only ones in Camelot who knew the truth of Maleagant’s demise at Guinevere’s hands—remembered what had happened.
Arthur pushed on as though to prevent them from thinking on it. “The men here warned me to watch out for the Saxons, which we have already learned thanks to your would-be ransomers. These people already crossed the water to get here. Crossing a king is no great challenge after that. Should I range out to get more information, or do I wait for them to come to me?”
Lancelot sat straighter. “When we sailed along the coast, I took note of every settlement. I will give you locations and numbers. Though we did not go north, it should give us some idea of what the landscape looks like now.”
Arthur nodded, his strong features thoughtful. He rubbed his jawline where there was a hint of stubble. He did not grow much facial hair, but he kept it shaved clean. “Thank you. That was good thinking.”
A smile as quick and brilliant as a flash of lightning struck Lancelot’s face and was immediately replaced with her best stoic-knight expression. Guinevere felt a similar surge of pride. Lancelot was clever and smart, and she was glad that Arthur recognized it. Hopefully this fixed some of the damage her quest to rescue Isolde had done. Though Guinevere had claimed all responsibility, she knew Lancelot felt guilt over her injuries, and she wondered if it had strained things between Arthur and her knight.
Arthur took a bite of an apple. “I would say we should hire the ship again, but I think that is out of the question.”
“I did burn down their village.” Guinevere tried to say it lightly, tried to make a funny anecdote out of one of her most painful memories. It almost worked. Maybe that was why they told the stories the way they did. Tell them often enough, and they could become the truth.
“Horses it is, then. We will leave tomorrow for home.”
Guinevere was surprised at the sudden, sharp longing she felt at the word. This trip had been exhausting mentally and emotionally. As eager as she had been to leave Camelot, she now found herself equally anxious to return to where things were, if not ideal, at least easier. To embrace and explore who she was as Guinevere the Queen.
Guinevere had taken breakfast in her own room, but on the last morning there, she went to the great hall for one final sociable appearance. Arthur had left before sunrise to speak with local rulers. Brangien and Isolde were busy packing and preparing everything for travel. Lancelot stood guard by the door. Guinevere wished she could have Lancelot dine with her, but she had resolved herself to being beset by Dindrane’s awful relations.
Dindrane saved her before any others arrived. “Come on, we can eat breakfast in the gardens. Much nicer than here.” Dindrane glanced dismissively at the smoke-stained hall. She gestured for the servant to attend them and led Guinevere outside. Lancelot followed, then took up a post near the door where she had a full view of the gardens. The sparse green space clung to the back of the estate, more an afterthought than something lovingly tended. But there was a nice view of the rolling fields spreading out in front of them like a blanket of gold and green. Guinevere and Dindrane sat on a stone bench and waited as the servant set out the dishes.
Breakfast was a simple affair of bread and cured meats, a chore more than a celebration. Guinevere picked over the food, wishing for more of the honey-crystalized nuts. “How are you?” she asked Dindrane. They had not seen each other the day before. It had been the most muted day of the trip, with most of the wedding party suffering from too much drink.
“Wonderful. I am— Oh, I am so happy.” Dindrane laughed brighter than any of the surrounding blossoms. “I am finally free.”
Guinevere could not quite understand the sentiment. After all, Dindrane was married now. Legally tied to Sir Bors forever. And husbands had far more rights than wives did.
Dindrane ticked the facts off on her fingers, one by one. “I have a husband, so no one can look down on me. I never have to endure Blanchefleur again, or live in her home. My father was not generous, but between what he was forced to contribute and what Sir Bors gave, I have a chest big enough that I will never have to wed again should something happen to Sir Bors. Which I hope it never does! He was—he is— Guinevere, he…appreciates me.” A blush crept across her cheeks. She looked bashful, an expression
Guinevere had never before seen on her face. “I know I can be off-putting. I have been told as much my whole life. But Sir Bors likes me. I make him laugh. And not because he is mocking me, but because he is—”
“Delighted by you?”
“Yes! That is it exactly.”
