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“Yes?”
“Please do not leave.”
“I never will.”
Guinevere had awoken to find Lancelot standing next to the door. But instead of being formal and reserved, Lancelot had smiled at her, and they had chatted easily through breakfast. One thing repaired, at least.
Lily invited Guinevere to return to the festival grounds with her, but Guinevere declined. She was in no mood to be seen. Sir Gawain was more than happy to be permanently assigned to guard Lily when she was away from the castle, and Brangien was more than happy to return to Guinevere’s rooms.
“I like Lily,” Brangien said with a tone of voice at odds with her words, “but I will not be filling in anymore. We can find her another maid, and she has the young, daft one in the meantime.”
Isolde clucked her tongue in reproach, but seemed relieved to be back in their own rooms. As though Brangien felt sorry she had not been there to help protect Guinevere—and shocked at the revelation of Anna’s true identity—she fussed over Guinevere far more than normal. By early afternoon Guinevere’s rooms, which normally felt large, were beginning to feel downright crowded. When there was another knock on the door she told Lancelot to tell them to leave, afraid it was Lily or Dindrane or someone else who would need to be invited in and chatted with.
Instead, Arthur stood there. He barely acknowledged Lancelot, holding his hand out to Guinevere. “Will you join me?”
“Of course.” She took his hand, expecting him to tuck hers into the crook of his elbow. Instead, he laced their fingers together. They left through the outer door and climbed up and up the exterior stairs. Guinevere clung to his arm, terrified. She knew they were going to the hidden chamber above the drop to the black depths of the lake lurking beneath the city. She did not want to look into that circle again. Did not want to contemplate what about it called to her.
Instead, Arthur took another route. They climbed to where the top of the castle met the unformed rock of the mountain behind them. There, Arthur smiled as he stepped aside. An opening revealed a room without a roof, open to the air and filled with plants. Someone had grown a garden there. And while little was blooming this late in the season, there was a joyful amount of green life to find this high in the middle of so much gray rock.
In the center of the garden were two cushions, with a pitcher and goblets between them. Guinevere looked up at Arthur. There was something tentative and hopeful in his smile. Not the usual confidence he wore as easily as his crown.
“I did not know this was here!”
Arthur led her inside the space. “I confess, I did not, either. But I was speaking with one of the cooks and asked where she got her herbs. She brought me up here. I knew as soon as I saw it that you would love it.”
“I do.” Guinevere sat and Arthur did the same.
“I wanted to— We need to talk. You are right.”
&nb
sp; “About?”
“About everything. This has all been unfair to you, from the beginning. You came here under false guidance. You were lied to, or at least misled, and I supported that lie.”
“You had your reasons.”
“I was selfish. I was so glad when you came, because it meant I finally had a friend, a confidante. Someone I could be merely Arthur to, instead of the king. But bringing you here that way meant you always had to pretend. I did not—I hated the thought of you pretending to love me. Pretending to be my wife in more than just name only. It felt like I was tricking you, or taking advantage. I only wanted you to want to be with me in that way if it was what you wanted. I am saying the word want too much.” He rubbed his jaw, blushing. “I am sorry. I had this better in my head. I know it has hurt you, my caution.”
Guinevere was having a hard time looking at him. She stared out at the shining lake and the cleared fields beyond it. “It has been…difficult. Trying to navigate my feelings. Worrying that I am not what you need.”
“That is just it. It is not about what I need. You did not choose to marry me. I want you to— I need you to— It has to be your choice. To love me. For us to love each other. You do not owe it to me. You do not have to choose me. We can continue like this forever, and I promise I will be happy to have you as my friend and companion, to help me rule. I wanted to prove that to you. It was not always easy. But I do not expect anything more from you and will never ask it.”
He took her hands and she turned from the fields to look at him. Truly look at him. His face was beloved. She could not deny that. She would not give Merlin credit for the sense that she had always known him; that was her. There was something about Arthur that, from the moment they met, had been familiar and right. She also could not deny that she had wanted him. At least in snatches of time, breathless moments of surprise.
“I am ready,” he said. “I am ready to be husband and wife. King and queen. Rule together and be together. I do not care who you were, or why Merlin sent you here. I am not saying it does not matter, because I know it matters to you. But whatever circumstances brought you into my life, I am glad they did and I would not change them. All I care about is that you are here, we are together, and I do not ever want that to be different. So. That is—those are my feelings. I am ready to be whatever you want us to be.”
Guinevere searched his face, his warm brown eyes, his strong jaw, the assurance there. He was not terrified. He was ready. For whatever she said.
She opened her mouth, but he squeezed her hands. “Do not answer me now. Take your time to think about it. Maybe all this pain has been because you have been trying to be so many things to so many people. Queen and protector and witch and wife and sister. So many secrets, so many identities. It is too much for anyone. When you chose me before, in the meadow, you chose Camelot. And I love you for that, because I will always choose Camelot, as well. But now I want you to choose me.”
Arthur was not right. She had not chosen Camelot. She had chosen Arthur. But she had chosen Arthur the king. What he was asking her now was far more intimate, and in a way far more dangerous. She believed him when he said he would continue as they had been. He would not lie. And when she was with him, she was happy. It was a joy to be in his company, at his side.
But she knew he was also telling the truth when he said he would always choose Camelot. Camelot would come first, before everything, every time. She would love him and he would leave, again and again and again. His love for her would not be a duty exactly. But it would be one of many things that Arthur felt and did, and on any given day, it would not be the most important.
If he had kissed her then, she would have said yes. But he was Arthur, not Mordred. He would take nothing that was not already his. Instead, he pressed his lips to her hand. “I have to go.”
Her face must have fallen because he laughed. “Just to the great hall. We are having a feast tonight to celebrate being done celebrating the harvest. And I am leaving on purpose, because I want you to have time and space to make this decision. I will wait as long as you need.” But his step was light as he walked away. He knew what she would choose.
