“Isolde is a common name where I am from,” Isolde offered. “Though we can change it, if you think that will be safer.”
Sir Tristan answered. “Some people know your name, but they think you were, uh, my lover.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “I could not wrestle the story from them. But you will obviously not be with me. I do not think anyone will assume you are the same Isolde.”
“I am certain the story of her death will spread quickly,” Guinevere said. It hurt to speak.
“And what is that story?” Lancelot nudged her horse even closer.
“They were going to burn her alive. It was too late to carry out our plan. So I improvised.”
“I am not sorry to see that castle burn,” Isolde said. Brangien shifted, reaching a hand back to rest against Isolde’s cheek. “Though I hope no one got hurt. Guinevere was so brave!”
Lancelot did not comment on that. Doubtless she would have preferred more caution and less bravery. “And their king? He will be convinced?”
“King Mark will not be a problem. I am tired. Let me pass.” Guinevere clicked her tongue and used her horse to force Lancelot aside.
She arrived at the camp first. Hild was sitting near the fire. She looked up, surprised. “You are early. We cannot set sail until morning.”
“We are happy to camp here for the night.” Guinevere dismounted and let Sir Tristan take her horse along with the others to be fed and watered.
Lancelot orbited her, close enough to hear everything she said, but with an extra, deliberate distance. Guinevere had hurt her. But Guinevere could not imagine how much worse it would be if Lancelot knew the truth of what she had done.
She sat near Hild. The ocean raked its fingers along the coast, trying to drag the land into its depths. A cloak was draped over her shoulders, and Isolde patted her once, softly, before sitting across the fire from them.
“New one.” Hild gestured at Isolde.
“My cousin,” Brangien said.
Hild frowned dubiously. In the firelight Isolde’s hair was revealed to be a burnished copper red. Her skin was fair, and her curving shape nothing like Brangien’s angular one. A rose to a thistle.
“On her mother’s side,” Isolde offered, as though that cleared everything up.
Hild grunted, uninterested now. “In the morning, we sail. I know a river. I can get you closer. No extra money. But”—she looked at Lancelot,
a shrewd expression on her sunburned face—“my brothers are there. They need work. They all do. Good men. Strong. They can do farming. Fishing. War. Good men for your King Arthur.”
Lancelot’s eyes widened. She coughed to cover her surprise.
Sir Tristan took a few seconds too long to respond. “I am afraid we cannot help there. We do not know King Arthur.”
Hild shook her head, impatient with the deception. “Lady knight.” She jabbed her finger toward Lancelot. “We hear things. A lady knight is a good story. No one else has one.”
Lancelot did not move or react, frozen. Guinevere knew how mortified Lancelot would be that she was the reason their disguises had failed. But then Hild turned to Guinevere.
“And you are queen.”
“What?” Guinevere sputtered.
Hild nodded, confident. “You sleep. For days! Everyone else works. Only a queen could do that.”
It was Guinevere’s turn to be embarrassed. She wanted to defend herself and explain, but being too terrified to function was hardly a better excuse than being a lazy queen.
“We can help King Arthur. Transport things. Transport men.” Hild pointed at Sir Tristan. “Like this one! I want more like him. But who want—” She paused, frowning thoughtfully, then made several gestures Guinevere did not quite understand and definitely did not want to think about long enough to understand. And now Sir Tristan was as embarrassed as Guinevere and Lancelot.
There was no point in denying who they were. Better to have Hild on their side than angry that they still insisted on lying to her. Guinevere sat up straight, lifting her chin, adopting the posture she used during dinners with the knights and their wives. “You can tell no one where we have been. It is extremely important.”
Hild nodded eagerly. “I keep secrets, you help my brothers.”
“Having men who know the coast and how to sail it would not be a bad thing,” Lancelot said, her tone grudging.