Lancelot shifted so that Guinevere’s head was at a more comfortable angle against her shoulder. Her low voice was softer than normal when she answered, “I am never in the dark when I am protecting you.”
They passed the night secreted away in the alcove in companionable silence. For once, Guinevere did not fret over everything that was out of her control. Arthur had won this fight and Brangien would help her figure out what had taken over her dreams.
Lancelot was right. They would be ready for whatever came. Together.
At dawn, Guinevere and Lancelot saw a ferry approaching and rushed down from the castle. They arrived at the dock just as it drew near. Guinevere’s chest felt tight and painful—as though she had been breathing in smoke instead of waiting safely—as she searched the soot-stained faces. Then she found what she was looking for.
Arthur.
Guinevere closed her eyes, half tempted to pray as she had been taught in Arthur’s church. But why should she send this gratitude elsewhere, to an invisible god? She liked it right where it was: in the center of her heart, warm and hopeful.
She opened her eyes and waved, but there was commotion in the middle of the knights. Arthur had begun stripping off his chain mail and leather, right down to his underclothes. He climbed onto the railing of the ferry, stood silhouetted against the brilliant morning sun just now defeating the horizon, and then did a flip into the water.
Guinevere shuddered, imagining how it would feel to submerge herself in that cold, dead thing. Like sinking into a grave. But Arthur emerged with a joyful whoop and lay back, floating, face turned up toward the sky.
With shouts and jostling, several of the younger knights did the same. Sir Bors, thick and dour, shook his head. Sir Tristan laughed, grabbing Sir Bors’s good arm and pretending to tug him toward the edge. Sir Bors threw Sir Tristan over the side to uproarious laughter. Then, blowing out a sigh from beneath his ponderous mustache, Sir Bors peeled off his layers and joined them.
Soon all Arthur’s knights were in the water, splashing each other and washing off the soot and smoke of their victory. Even young Sir Gawain, who had ridden to the fight after filling his duties yesterday evening, swam alongside them.
No. Not all Arthur’s knights. Lancelot stood perfectly still beside Guinevere, at attention, hand on the pommel of her sword. Separate from both the fight and the celebration.
Guinevere did not know how long it would take the knights to finish bathing. She should get back to Brangien to comfort her and to discuss the dream and what they should do about it. And it could not be fun for Lancelot to stand here, observing. Apart.
“Come, we should—”
“Guinevere!” Arthur shouted, and Guinevere could hear the smile in his tone. She turned toward the lake. He was walking toward her, the water up to his waist.
“My king.” The water clung to him as though it would claim him, drag him back under. It rolled off him like a lover’s caress. She wondered briefly, sharply, what his relationship with the Lady of the Lake had been. He never spoke of her
without tones of wonder, but he also rarely spoke about her. Because there was nothing to say, or because it was personal?
“Three cheers for my queen, who found the threat and warned us of it!” Arthur raised a fist in the air and led his men in a disorganized cheer. Guinevere shook her head demurely, smiling. But it was a performance. She did not feel this was her victory. Even if she had discovered the threat, she had done little to fight it except leave.
And the threat was her fault. Every incursion of the Dark Queen, every time they found and fought her—anyone who was hurt or lost in the battles—would be Guinevere’s fault for trusting Mordred. For trying to fight as a witch, not as a queen.
Arthur splashed free from the lake. His underclothes clung in interesting ways that were they not surrounded by knights and ferry workers and the men who guarded the dock, might have required further observation. As it was, Guinevere felt her cheeks warming.
Arthur chose this moment to be observant. He took in Guinevere’s blush and smiled with a playful, nearly wicked edge that took Guinevere’s breath away. For the first time she saw the resemblance between Arthur and his nephew, Mordred.
Arthur held out his arms. He was dripping with lake water. “Can I get an embrace from my queen?”
Guinevere stepped back, raising her hands defensively. “Not covered in that water, you cannot.”
“Just a quick hug!” Arthur lunged, and Guinevere shrieked, dodging him. She knew they were playacting—that he was as aware of their audience as she was—but her laughter and her horror were not feigned. She loved seeing Arthur like this: relaxed, happy, young. And she loved that he had figured out a way to involve her in this celebration even though she had not been able to fight. And she absolutely was not going to let him touch her while he was covered in that fetid, wretched, seeping water.
Guinevere ducked behind Lancelot, keeping her knight between them. “Save me, Sir Lancelot!” she said, laughing.
Lancelot stayed perfectly still. Guinevere had placed Lancelot between her king and her queen. It was an impossible situation. But then Lancelot reached up and undid her cloak—blue, with a simple golden sun emblem in the center. She bowed and held it out to Arthur.
He wrapped it around himself. “Now?”
“Very well.” Guinevere stepped from behind Lancelot and put her arms around Arthur’s waist. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“We won,” he whispered.
“We did,” Guinevere agreed.
“I did not find her there. Or him.”