“Ramm,” Hild said, keeping her eyes on the ground. “He leads the camp.”
Guinevere had often been around large groups of soldiers and knights. She had traveled with Arthur and his men on several occasions. But even though none of the men here had moved or even paid them much attention, she felt vulnerable in a way she did not like. The hairs rose on the back of her neck. She was afraid of these men. And she was also afraid of what she would be willing to do to protect herself.
She could no longer pretend that what she had done to Maleagant’s men had been entirely due to the magic of the Dark Queen infecting her. There had been no Dark Queen in that room with King Mark. That had been Guinevere, and Guinevere alone.
Guinevere adopted her favorite queen posture. It was a way of reminding herself to be what people expected. To control what they saw and how they reacted. She sat straight, lifted her chin so even though she was shorter than the men, she gave the impression of looking down at them. Not in a disrespectful way but in a way that communicated she was not meek. Not afraid.
The posture gave her strength. Queen Guinevere would not wait on someone else’s whim. She stood. “We are extending an offer for work in the fields or with King Arthur’s soldiers. He is also interested in your reputation as excellent sailors. You have much to offer Camelot, and Camelot has much to offer you. You can accept this offer or not. If you accept, you may choose a man to accompany us and meet with the king to discuss terms.”
Ramm’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Then he grunted and stood. He walked to Guinevere and held out one enormous, dirty hand.
“Good,” he said, his hand still extended. Guinevere realized she was meant to clasp it. She put her own palm against his. He smiled. And then he yanked her hand, spinning her so her back was against his chest, his knife held to her throat.
Lancelot’s sword was already drawn, as was Sir Tristan’s. Isolde screamed. Brangien stood in front of her, a dagger drawn from her skirts. The men around them were like cats, one second lounging and the next swollen in size and menace, brandishing weapons and ready for a fight. No one moved to attack, but everyone was ready to. They were a single breath from an eruption of violence.
Hild shouted in their language, gesturing frantically. Her brother tried to shush her, but she shoved him and ran toward Guinevere. A man punched her in the jaw. She sat roughly on the ground, dazed.
“Release the queen,” Lancelot demanded.
Ramm laughed. His breath was rank and foul against Guinevere’s face. He said something and Hild translated, her voice hollow. “Scraps for work, or gold for a queen. Ransom is easier.”
“And making an enemy of a king?” Sir Tristan trembled with rage. “That is not so easy.”
Ramm shrugged, the knifepoint scratching the skin beneath Guinevere’s chin. He spoke.
“Nothing to lose,” Hild translated as she gestured weakly at the camp. Then she spoke for herself. “I am sorry. I did not know. I did not know.”
Lancelot raised her sword, flicking her eyes over the camp. They were outnumbered at least ten to one. She pointed her sword at Ramm. “I will fight you for her.”
Ramm laughed again. Guinevere wanted to flinch from his beard, wiry and terrible, scratching the back of her neck, tangling in her hair. It was almost worse than the knife. “No.”
“Are you afraid to fight a woman?” Lancelot delivered the words like a slap to the face.
Hild translated his answer. She was still sitting on the ground, legs splayed, back curved. “He says they are twenty-five, you are two. He is not stupid. Why fight one-to-one?”
“For honor.”
Hild did not bother passing along Lancelot’s words. She shook her head, expression sorrowful. “What honor?”
“Very well. I will kill you all, then.” Lancelot smiled. Her calm demeanor was more frightening than any posturing or vicious snarli
ng.
“I kill her first.” Ramm jabbed the knife for emphasis.
Guinevere rose onto the tips of her toes, trying to get her throat as far from the blade as possible. “Take Brangien and Isolde.” She kept her voice clear and steady, hoping she could make everyone else feel the same way by sheer force of will. “All of you go. Get the ransom.”
“No.” Lancelot spoke as sharply as the edge of her sword. “I will not leave you.”
Guinevere wanted to strangle Lancelot and her bravery. She looked at Brangien instead. “Get the gold from King Arthur. It will be just like the time we helped Sir Bors free the dragon.”
Brangien frowned, dagger still clutched in defense of Isolde. “What?”
Sir Tristan shook his head. “Sir Bors killed—”
“Remember?” Guinevere interrupted. Her throat felt dry, but she did not want to swallow, not with that horrible blade so close. “When Sir Bors freed the dragon, it felt loyalty to him, and then we all met two leagues to the west and celebrated. I am letting you all go free because I know you are loyal. Like dragons.”
Brangien nodded, her expression still dubious but her eyes understanding. She knew what Guinevere was capable of. Some of it, at least. She might not understand the details, but she got Guinevere’s meaning. Leave. Wait two leagues west. Guinevere should have told them she saved the dragon. But they had to trust that Guinevere could handle this and keep them safe.