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“Guinevere!” Arthur sheathed Excalibur and Guinevere collapsed against the wall, trying to catch her breath and unable to stand on her own. The stones held her up. It was an answer, of sorts, at least to her demand to go with him to help. She could not. She would be a problem, not an asset. And with the sickness of Excalibur still clinging to her, she could not formulate an answer, or even move to kiss Arthur, if that was what she wanted.
“Go,” she said, closing her eyes. “Bring him home.”
The next morning she met Lancelot and Brangien in the alcove. They were supposed to discuss what needed to be done in Arthur’s absence, but Guinevere had no desire to meet with officials in the great hall. She would have to do plenty of that in the days—or even weeks—to come. Arthur and his men were traveling to the southwestern end of the island, and who knew what they would find when they got there. If Maleagant had controlled the household where the child was left, there was a good chance they would not willingly give up Arthur’s son. And if winter storms came early, the roads would get bad, delaying either their journey there or back. Guinevere steeled herself against the possibility that it could be as long as a month or even two before Arthur returned.
“Does this mean you are a stepmother?” Brangien asked.
Guinevere sat on the floor of the alcove. Lancelot leaned against the outer wall, looking across the city and the fields, always keeping watch.
“I suppose it does.”
“But this is good. It puts less pressure on you. Arthur has an heir now. A bastard heir, but still, a son.”
Guinevere had not even thought about that. Part of what she had feared about her relationship with Arthur was that it denied him heirs, which threatened the stability of his rule. When Arthur brought his son back, Camelot had an heir. Which meant it was even more Guinevere’s choice what she and Arthur became. The last true outside pressure was gone.
“I will not watch him,” Brangien said. “I hate children. They are messy and loud and never do as they are told.”
Guinevere laughed, grateful for the respite from her thoughts. “You are a lady’s maid, not a nurse.”
“Sticky! They are also sticky. Always. Isolde loves them, though. Maybe she can help.”
“I am certain we will find a nurse.” Guinevere hoped so, at least. She was happy for Arthur—truly—but she did not want to be a mother. Not yet. And not to Elaine’s child, as petty as that was. She would be kind to the boy. But she did not want to claim him as her own in any emotional way.
How would Arthur be as a father? Did that change things between them yet again? Arthur barely had enough time to be a husband. With one more demand on his attention, and a genuinely important one at that, how would things shift? Would he decide he was not ready for them to be husband and wife after all? That it was easier to remain as they were?
And what did Guinevere want? Why could she not decide?
Lancelot did not stop her watch or turn toward them, but Guinevere could hear the thoughtful frown in her voice. “Did you know he had a son?”
“Yes. Or at least, I knew what he knew, that Elaine and the baby both died in childbirth.”
“I had never heard about it.”
“It was a secret. Both the affair and the aftermath. Elaine was Maleagant’s sister.”
“Oh,” Brangien said, drawing out the word.
“Yes. Precisely. The only people who knew about the baby were Arthur, Elaine, and Maleagant. It was why Arthur banished Maleagant instead of killing him.” Guinevere stopped, a terrible realization gripping her. “They were not the only people.” She stood, her heart racing. “They were not the only people who knew. Mordred knew.”
At this, Lancelot finally turned around. Her face mirrored Guinevere’s horror. “Mordred knew about the baby?”
“Yes. He told Arthur to kill Maleagant, not banish him. He knew about Elaine. Which means Mordred knows that if he sent a letter to Arthur about a son miraculously alive, hidden these past few years, Arthur would leave Camelot without hesitation. And take Excalibur, too.”
Brangien whipped around to look at the fields as though expecting them to be crawling with enemies already. “But we can hold the castle, right? Even with the missing knights, we have all the soldiers and trained men.”
“We can hold the castle.” Lancelot had her hand around the pommel of her sword. “It will not fall.”
They could hold the castle, yes, but at what cost? And why had Mordred waited until now to deploy this trick? Guinevere stared down at the familiar lines of the city. The houses. The arena. The church. The silos.
The silos.
“This timing is no accident,” Guinevere said. “The castle does not have to fall for them to destroy Camelot. All the granaries and silos are full. If they can get to those, if they can destroy our food supply, we will starve this winter. People will die, or flee to try to find food elsewhere. Arthur’s rule will be over.”
Lancelot stepped aside. “Brangien, send out every page to find Arthur. We do not know the exact route he will take, so they will have to search widely.”
“But are we certain? That this is the plan, the attack?” Brangien frowned, worried.
It was a carefully laid plan, expertly deployed. Cunning. Clever. “Yes,” Guinevere said.
