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Guinevere could not bring herself to answer. Fortunately, Brangien saved her by tugging on her arm. “Come, we need enough time to prepare you.”
Guinevere almost relished the terror of the lake crossing. It was nice to be overwhelmed by something so contained, so specific, so familiar. She understood the contours of that fear, her physical reaction to it. Brangien held one hand and Isolde the other. They were not as comforting as Lancelot or Arthur, but it was enough.
At the dock someone called Guinevere’s name. She turned to see Ailith, arm in arm with a young man who had the same stocky build as Gunild. Ailith beamed and waved, and Guinevere smiled in return. She had not done everything wrong these past few weeks. She wondered if, somewhere, Mordred was arm in arm with Gunild. The thought made something curdle in her stomach. Which made her angry that she would feel that way.
She would focus on the festival. The festival, and then whatever came next for Queen Guinevere.
At the castle Isolde and Brangien combed and plaited her hair, weaving it with bright-yellow thread. Guinevere’s dress was yellow, with Arthur’s sun, gorgeously embroidered in silver by Isolde, in the center. The evenings were chilly now, so she wore a pale-blue cloak. Brangien pulled out several small pots.
“Lily taught me a few new things.” Brangien frowned in concentration as she spread a reddish substance on Guinevere’s cheeks and lips and then an ashy black powder along her top and bottom eyelashes. Guinevere blinked back tears of irritation, but after a few moments it passed.
Isolde gasped, putting a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my queen. You look beautiful.”
Guinevere smiled ruefully. “Well, if I am anywhere near as pretty as my two lady’s maids, I am pleased.” She had something for Lily, as well: two smooth rocks that Guinevere had used blood magic to knot a spell of connection. Because it was Guinevere’s own blood that had fed the iron knots at the doorway, this blood magic should last past the thresholds. If she had one rock and Lily the other, she would always be able to sense how close Lily was. She would not be able to explain the gift to Lily, of course, other than pretending they were pretty rocks, but it was a small protection. A way of making up for what she had done.
All that was left to do was put on the jeweled circlet Arthur had given her before Lancelot’s tournament. But something about it did not feel quite right. Whether Guinevere associated it with that night and everything that had happened between Mordred kissing her and Maleagant abducting her, or whether it was simply too ornate and decorative compared with what the king wore, she could not say. She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the piece.
There was a knock at the door. Brangien opened it and then bowed. Arthur stood there with his hands behind his back, resplendent in a blue tunic over a white shirt. His cloak, pushed back from his broad shoulders, was yellow, an inversion of the colors Guinevere wore. Guinevere glanced at Brangien, and Brangien’s satisfied smile was enough to prove that she had planned the coordination herself.
He really was handsome, this king of hers. Like a hand as steady and patient as the Lady of the Lake’s had carved him in addition to Camelot. Every line of his face was precise, every angle strong, except his eyes, which were always kind.
“Almost ready,” Guinevere said.
“I have just what you need.” Arthur pulled his hands from behind his back, presenting something shiny with a flourish. Guinevere stared at the silver crown. It was a better match to his, though hers was more elegant. Instead of a simple circle, it had delicate points at precise intervals. But it was still crafted in the same spirit as his. Direct. Strong. Unadorned save the metal itself.
“May I?” he asked. She tipped her head and he slipped the crown into place. It fit perfectly on the circle of braids Brangien had plaited around Guinevere’s head.
“How do I look?” Guinevere asked, surprised at how nervous she both sounded and felt. She wished she could see herself, wished she could tell whether or not t
he crown looked like she deserved it.
“Like my Guinevere,” Arthur said, reminding her of their conversation. If she did not know who she was, at least Arthur knew who she was to him. And he saw it when he looked at her.
He offered his elbow and she took it. With the first step, the crown slipped slightly to the left. Brangien commanded them to stop and pinned it in place.
Not quite a perfect fit after all.
Guinevere shrieked, ducking as a burst of flame scorched the air around them.
Lily laughed and clapped. The man bowed, sweeping his small torch to the side with flair. How he managed to breathe fire, Guinevere did not know, but it reminded her with a pang of the dragon. She hoped it had found somewhere beautiful to rest before burrowing into the earth alone.
“Come on.” She tugged Lily’s arm. They passed a juggler throwing knives, minstrels singing a song about plowing and planting that Guinevere was pretty sure was actually about something else entirely, and a puppet show. That one made her pause. There had been a puppet show telling the story of Arthur’s life the day she first met him. It had left out so much, in part because it tried to edit out the role of magic but also because Guinevere suspected most people did not know much of anything that had really happened. They never did.
“Come, I do not want to miss Sir Gawain!” Lily pulled her along. There were so many people at the festival that not even Guinevere’s crown could cut a path for them. The noise was unrelenting, shrieks and laughter and talking. The scent of roasted meat clung to everything, along with a dozen other smells. It was even bigger than the tournament celebration had been, twice as large as any market day. Wine and food and happy faces wherever Guinevere turned.
So many faces. Lancelot followed closely, keeping a watchful eye. She would take no chances this time. While Maleagant was gone forever, Guinevere had had more than enough of being abducted for an entire lifetime. But she had checked the night before, pushing out and sensing for magic nearby, and had found nothing. Tonight, there was only Camelot.
And Camelot was happy. And Camelot was drunk.
Guinevere turned to look at Lancelot. “Will you participate in any of the games?”
“If my queen wishes it.” Lancelot’s tone was cold.
Guinevere tried to stop, but the momentum of the crowd pulled them along. She wanted to speak with Lancelot, to tell Lancelot that she missed their closeness. But she owed to it Lancelot to be strong. To give her the space to be the knight she was. The best knight in the land.
They arrived at what would have been the field for a tournament. It had been divided into sections. Nearest them was a line of cows. Women were filling buckets with such speed Guinevere could not believe it. Lily pulled her right along, though Guinevere would have liked to stay and pat the cows on their sweet noses. The sound of wood being chopped echoed around the space, along with that of a crowd cheering on various contenders.
“There he is!” Lily squealed, and rushed forward. In a fenced section a chicken was running madly, chased by Sir Gawain.
