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Something was wrong.
He dismounted and handed his stallion to a stable boy. Instinctively bracing himself, he climbed the steps that led to the great hall.
When he was admitted entrance, he was greeted by Gawain and Sir Kay, the latter promptly thwacking him heartily on the back.
“You missed the greatest spectacle these lands have ever seen, my lad. A wedding and feast to end them all.”
“The marriage took place at the bride’s home,” Gawain added. “But we had our own celebration here. For two more days the festivities will continue. Unlimited food and wine, song and dance, for everyone. You missed the ceremony but not the party. Come join us!”
“But don’t expect to see much of Arthur,” Kay said. “We’ve barely caught a glimpse of him since he first laid eyes on his new bride. They’ve not left their chambers for more than mere moments. And he always looks thoroughly used when he appears, if you know what I mean.”
Kay waggled his brows and laughed heartily. Gawain joined in, slapping his friend on the back.
“I was worried Arthur’s cock and balls had shriveled to nothingness the way he’s been putting off companionship over the last years,” Gawain admitted.
“’Tis good to see the King restored. It ain’t natural for a man like him to go without for so fucking long.”
“Well, now, instead of shriveled, they might just fall off anyway from too much use,” Kay cackled.
“But if I could choose how to meet my maker, there’s no better way than between a woman’s soft, welcoming thighs!”
They laughed uproariously again, including Lancelot in their back slapping and ribbing.
Lancelot felt no humor in it.
In fact, humor was the furthest thing from how he felt, but he didn’t examine his emotions too closely. Somehow, he knew he couldn’t afford to.
Wordlessly, he let himself be dragged by the arm deeper into the hall.
There was something strange about the men’s joviality, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Their smiles seemed forced; their laughter, too loud.
And, too, their eyes had lost their clarity and shine. As if an invisible wool had been pulled over them.
“Ah. There you are. Sir Lancelot the Brave.”
Arthur’s voice immediately caught Lancelot’s attention, as if he were a tuning fork newly rung.
The King sat upon his throne, dressed in all his kingly finery (which was a rare sight indeed). Beside him sat a woman with ankle-length golden hair that glowed in the shafts of afternoon sunlight like the heart of flames.
Lancelot immediately stopped short on his way to Arthur, arrested by the sight of her.
Her lush red lips curved in a strange smile, and her hand tightened its clasp on Arthur’s, tethering him to her.
Lancelot frowned incomprehensibly at that hand, his own involuntarily gripping the hilt of his sword.
How dare she touch him! Who was this woman?
“Come greet my new bride, Lancelot,” Arthur said, making him scowl even harder.
“Queen Guinevere.”
“My Lord,” the woman purred in a low, melodious voice.
It raked like claws down Lancelot’s spine.
He shuddered at the sound of it, shaking his head to clear it.
“Arthur has told me so much about you,” she went on. “Lancelot this, and Lancelot that. If you were a woman, I might be jealous of how much attention he pays you, dear knight.”
