Lancelot did not hear him; she was directing the guards on which horses to pack. She shook her head. “A cart will be too cumbersome and draw attention. Until the rest of the group joins us, we should be able to move quickly if needed. Two extra horses for rations and bags. We can hunt along the way.”
Arthur cleared his throat. Lancelot and the four guards turned and bowed. Sir Tristan appeared from the depths of the stables, arms full of gear that he awkwardly bowed around. Guinevere had never been to the stables this late; it was already evening, and almost all the stalls were full. The scent of hay itched her nose, but the gentle sounds of horses settling in for the night, stamping their hooves and letting out tired huffs of air, were soothing. She found her favorite gray mare was already being prepared for her. Of course Lancelot had chosen that one.
The four guards were vaguely familiar to Guinevere. They were older than Arthur—older than Lancelot or Sir Tristan, too—and Guinevere wondered if it ever rankled them to serve under knights and a king several years their juniors. If so, they did not show it. All four men were bustling about to appear as busy as possible, their faces so serious that Guinevere could see their excitement through the sheer effort it took not to show it. Being a guard was a coveted job in Camelot. It guaranteed housing within the city—within the castle, if the man had no family—and paid well. Being chosen to accompany the king and queen was a tremendous honor.
Guinevere actually wished it was less of an honor. The guards would be so formal about everything. And that would mean Lancelot and Sir Tristan would feel they, too, had to be formal.
“Where is Sir Caradoc?” Arthur asked.
Lancelot took some of the gear from Sir Tristan. “His hip has been paining him. We thought it best I take his place, as the queen’s protector. The captain of the guard will remain in Camelot to oversee things in your absence, so Sir Tristan will manage the guards. That way I can focus on the queen’s safety.” Lancelot said it lightly, but there was something almost accusatory in her stance, her shoulders straight but angled away from Arthur. Arthur had not told Lancelot about this trip. Had he not intended for her to come? But of course he would have wanted that. Lancelot was Guinevere’s knight.
Arthur nodded, any surprise pushed to the side. “Very well. We will be on our own two days at most until the rest of the attending knights and the traveling party catch up to us.” Arthur reached up and removed his crown. “I think it best to look anonymous until we have our full force.” He was wearing a plain green tunic. Guinevere had changed into a blue dress, unadorned, and a green cloak. For a moment one of her most well-worn imaginings—what it would be like if she were just a girl and Arthur just a boy, together in the countryside—surged to the front of her mind. But if that were the case, they would not need to disguise themselves, or ride with a guard. This was not the same thing.
But it was close.
She vowed to leave behind her fears and worries and questions. If Arthur could be satisfied with ending a threat and not worrying about what it all meant, she would be, too. Camelot would be safe in their absence. Guinevach had been met and dismissed with no harm to the kingdom. And whether Guinevere was the Lady of the Lake’s daughter or whether Mordred was still out there somewhere, somehow intending her no harm whatsoever, well, none of that mattered. She was where she was supposed to be. Who she had chosen to be, and whom she had chosen to be with.
Lancelot pulled her old armor from a bag. “Very wise. Everyone, remove the king’s colors.”
All the men wore Arthur’s colors on tunics over their chain mail. A golden sun in the middle of deep-blue fabric. Guinevere loved the simplicity of it, the hope. Arthur had always felt like the sun to her. The tunics were removed, and within a few minutes they were on the road, mounted, the extra horses trailing them.
Beneath the sturdy fabric of her plain cloak, with her horse gently plodding and the tree line growing ever closer, Guinevere felt surprisingly free. She found herself glad for this reprieve from being stuck in Camelot. It was easier not to dwell on things when there was so much to look at and experience out here.
Though it was night, they kept riding. Guinevere could always feel Camelot and the mountain it occupied, even when they were too far away to see it. It was a constant presence, almost a tug on her. She wondered if that was because she had left behind so many knots tying herself to it, or if Camelot was simply that powerful for all who lived there.
Guinevere pulled a bunch of leaves off a low-hanging branch. Pressing them to her face, she breathed in the scent of life, already altered by the dry approach of winter. There was no bite in these leaves. There was hardly any sense of them at all.
But perhaps that was the lingering numbness in her hands. They had dealt the Dark Queen two blows in a short time. She was trying the same old things, but Arthur and Guinevere were not the same old defenses. They were strong and determined and together. Guinevere tried to let go of the shame of what she had done to the wolves and replace it with pride in her king, and in herself. And she tried not to think about Mordred.
She was glad to be riding without the sullenly aggressive presence of the afternoon sun. She even enjoyed the bite in the air. The roads were well maintained, cleared and not muddy this time of year. The men rode watchfully but did not seem particularly concerned. Travel was safer within Arthur’s kingdom than anywhere else. They kept traveling into the night, finally stopping when they were well into the trees just beyond the borders of Camelot’s lands.
Guinevere tried to help as they set up camp. “Let me,” Arthur said, taking the flint from her. She had no desire to use fire magic unless she had to, and apparently she was terrible at lighting fires without it. “Go sit. It is late.”
Guinevere wanted to feel useful, but the men were so busy she did not know where to start. The day had been long—physically and emotionally—and she was sore from all the riding. She found herself missing Brangien, her feminine ally who would have sat with her and chatted as she undid Guinevere’s braids and brushed her hair. Even though Lancelot was also a woman, she had a place here among the men that Guinevere did not and never would.
Also, sitting on a felled log after a full day riding really, really hurt. How did the men stand it?
Guinevere reached into her pouch. Brangien would bring most of her jewelry with the next group, but Guinevere had a few small stones that could hold magic, the worn dragon’s tooth she liked to hold in her palm when she was worried, and her sewing supplies. She dug through them, marveling at how Brangien was always so organized, before finally finding her brush.
As she tried to undo her braids and brush her hair out with hands that now felt like they were being stabbed by needles, Guinevere missed Brangien even more. The bite in the air had moved from invigorating to stinging. And, worst of all, she had no one to complain to. She did not want to appear weak or cross in front of the guards, and she always wanted Arthur to be impressed with her. She shifted as surreptitiously as possible, searching for relief for her bruised bottom.
After coaxing the fire to life, Arthur sat beside her and soon she forgot her weariness. The guards had not served with Arthur before he became king. He talked differently to them than he did to her, and she liked seeing him like this. Arthur the king, approachable and funny and warm but always in command, even if it was only over conversation around a fire.
Arthur was midstory, and the guards—and Sir Tristan and Lancelot, though Lancelot hid it best—were listening raptly. “We rode into the woods, weary from the day’s battle. I wanted nothing more than to rest before we had to face King Lot again. Sir Lucan—”
“Sir Lucan?” Guinevere asked, puzzled.
“He is on a quest,” Arthur said with a tone of wistful longing that suggested he envied the quest that had taken Sir Lucan from Camelot for at least as long as Guinevere had been there. Sir Tristan cleared his throat, an uncomfortable expression on his face, and turned to watch the perimeter of the camp.
“As I was saying, Sir Lucan, having come into possession of a magic spear, found he could not stop walking. He did not know that the spear would never rest, demanding fight after fight until the wielder had conquered all or been killed. I was setting up camp before I noticed Sir Lucan was gone. I heard his cries for help and rushed into the trees to find him. After some time, I tracked him to a clearing. He had managed to drop the spear, but was facing one of King Lot’s allies. King Caradoc’s arm was lifted to deliver a fatal blow, when—”
“King Caradoc? Like your knight? Is Caradoc a common name?”
Arthur gave Guinevere an exasperated smile. “You will find out.”
“Yes! Sorry. Continue.”
“King Caradoc’s arm was lifted to deliver a fatal blow, so I picked up a rock and threw it. It bounced off his forehead, stunning him and giving Sir Lucan enough time to get out of the way. I rushed King Caradoc and we fought a mighty battle. Our blades sparked and sang in the night. I had been fighting all day, but King Caradoc was fresh, and it was an even match. Finally, after an hour, his hands rose in surrender. He sat on the ground, winded, and looked at me in astonishment. ‘Never have I had such a fight. Tell me, what is your name? For your honor in allowing me to surrender, I swear I will serve you for the rest of my days.’ I bowed, accepting his offered sword, and told him that I was Arthur Pendragon. His astonishment was extreme. He had been in the woods hunting to kill me on behalf of King Lot. But now he had sworn allegiance to me! I understood his plight. To fill one holy vow, he would have to betray another. I bowed and offered to let him return to King Lot. We would part as friends but meet again as enemies on the battlefield. King Caradoc was again astonished. King Lot was a hard and vicious ruler, demanding fealty even from other kings. That very moment, King Caradoc removed his crown and became Sir Caradoc, leaving behind his birthright to embrace a higher calling of justice and truth. The next day, side by side, we defeated King Lot, bringing us one step closer to overthrowing Uther Pendragon and winning Camelot.”