“Is Sir Lucan the brother of Sir Bedivere?” asked one of the guards, a blocky man with an incongruously delicate nose in
the center of a face like a boulder.
“No, that is Sir Yvain,” another guard answered.
“Yvain the bastard?” the blocky guard asked.
“No, Yvain the…not-bastard.”
“The one Sir Gawain injured?”
“Which one?”
“Yvain the not-bastard.”
“Is he not Morgan le Fay’s son?”
“No,” a third guard interjected. “She is a sorceress and can only give birth to demons.”
“She is Mordred’s mother,” Guinevere said, frowning.
“Exactly,” Lancelot muttered.
Guinevere noticed Arthur’s easy smile had become a stiff mask. He did not like this topic. Morgan le Fay was Arthur’s half sister. She had tried to kill him when he was a baby, as revenge for the rape of her mother, Igraine. The rape committed by Arthur’s father, Uther Pendragon, and magically orchestrated by Merlin. Arthur and Guinevere had never spoken of Morgan le Fay.
“Yvain and Yvain the bastard have different mothers,” Arthur said, obviously wishing to steer the subject from murderous half-sister sorceresses and other traitorous relatives. “Thus the bastard. Though he quite dislikes being called that, so if you meet him in person, I would recommend addressing him as simply Yvain, or Yvain the younger. Unless you wish to find out how much a bastard he is with the blade. And Sir Bedivere is the brother of Sir Lucan, not Sir Yvain.”
The blocky guard scratched his head. “I am still confused about who is the brother of who and who is the son of who.”
Arthur clapped him on the shoulder. “We would need a diagram to work it all out. Tell me, have you heard the story of the Black Knight?”
Guinevere leaned back and half listened to the new tale. She would rather hear about Morgan le Fay and Arthur’s feelings about her, but he seemed determined to change that topic. It was astonishing how much life Arthur had lived before she ever met him. She often felt that her own life began the day they met. And while it was true she had few memories before that, it was also because there was something about Arthur that made him instantly the center of any life. Sir Caradoc had given up a crown after one meeting. Lancelot had trained her whole life to serve at his side. And Guinevere had chosen Camelot over all else to help him.
She stood, needing to stretch, and found Sir Tristan at the edge of the camp, standing guard. “Are you well?” she asked, puzzled by his tense silence.
“Sir Lucan,” he said, his voice soft.
“What about him?”
“He is not on a quest. During my tournament, I faced him. He was hurt so badly he retired to an abbey to heal. We have not heard from him since. He must have lied to the king to save face. But I am the reason he is not here.”
Guinevere put a hand on Sir Tristan’s arm. “You all know the risks.”
“We do. But it is easier to risk yourself in pursuit of glory than to accept that you have hurt someone else beyond repair. And not even an enemy. A friend. Sir Bedivere has not forgiven me, and I think he never will.”
“I thought all the knights got along?”
“All the knights love our king, and that unites us. But it is a complex hierarchy with much history, a lot of it soaked in blood.” Sir Tristan sighed. “Sometimes I envy Sir Lancelot.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she is not—” He gestured vaguely. “She is removed from the politics and the drama. You know.”
Guinevere did. She had seen as much at the dockside celebration. She looked back at her knight, standing just out of reach of the firelight, watching and listening as Arthur told his stories. When she rejoined the fireside, Guinevere sat nearer to her knight than to her king.
As the fire died down, bedrolls were unfurled. Lancelot, who had volunteered for the first watch, frowned. “We should have brought you a tent.”
Guinevere gestured up at the stars. “I like this much better.” In the absence of a moon, the constellations were so thick and bright that they almost felt like a ceiling; a brilliant, glittering dome holding them all safely in the dark.