Guinevere was hyperaware of Arthur’s presence, knowing what awaited her as soon as they were alone. So much to tell. She let the introductions wash over her, smiling and nodding when appropriate. Sir Bors was almost adorably awkward, bowing so low to his future father-in-law that he nearly fell over. Guinevere had never seen him so eager to please, which provided some balm to her wounded soul. He truly did love her friend, and that, combined with the public respect he gave Lancelot, helped her like the gruff knight.
One man glared at them all, his bushy white eyebrows wild with stray hairs. He looked as though he would rather stab Sir Bors than bow to him.
“My father’s cousin,” Dindrane whispered, her voice tight. “Sir Bors has cheated him out of his bride.”
“His—what?” Guinevere looked at the old man in horror, then back at Dindrane.
“There is a reason I went to Camelot without any prospects. Anything was better than what had been assigned me here.” Dindrane nodded with a haughty expression on her face at an aunt who greeted them.
Dindrane was one of several children, three of whom were also female. It seemed cruel to Guinevere that she should have been betrothed to that old man. It explained, though, why she was willing to endure Sir Percival and his wife. At least in Camelot, she had been free to make some of her own choices. Sir Percival had gone there for the same reason. As the second son, he stood to inherit nothing, and chose to make his fortune as a knight.
It was hard for Guinevere to gauge whether or not Dindrane’s family estate was impressive. Her first introduction to cities and castles had been Camelot, and compared with that remarkable place, everywhere seemed lesser. There was certainly a lot of mud. Ladies’ maids here must spend hours of every day cleaning it from hems. Guinevere tried to negotiate her way through the mud as carefully as possible, mindful of not taking more of Brangien’s time than necessary. But the house itself looked solid, with small windows and a red-tiled roof that contrasted nicely with the surrounding rolling golden fields.
“Who is that?” Dindrane asked, glancing back at Isolde. “She is very pretty.” It did not sound like a compliment, but rather a judgment.
“Brangien’s cousin, Isolde. Brangien sent word ahead and she met us on the road. She is to assist Brangien as my maid.”
“I am so relieved!” Dindrane’s exuberance for the topic surprised Guinevere, until she continued. “It is absurd for a queen to have only one lady’s maid. And it sets a bad example for the rest of us. Sir Bors kept saying if the queen had but one, surely I only needed to hire a woman for a few days a week. This is much better. Now he cannot tell me I should not have one in the house with us. Isolde should have brought sisters. Though I would never allow a maid that beautiful into my home. Ladies’ maids should be respectfully plain.” They walked from the sunny outdoors into the dim and breathless interior of the manor. The walls were whitewashed and covered with tapestries. The floors were stone, rough and uneven but clean.
“Pardon me, Dindrane,” Arthur said, putting a hand on the small of Guinevere’s back. “I am certain my queen is tired after so long on the road. She had a fall and will need to rest until tomorrow. Show us to our rooms.”
“Of course! I will make your excuses at supper.” Dindrane appeared surprised as she noticed Guinevere’s wrapped arm for the first time. But Guinevere’s cloak was heavy and covered most of her. Dindrane snapped her fingers at the nearest person who looked like a servant. “You. Take my special guests, King Arthur and Queen Guinevere of Camelot, to their rooms.” She whispered conspiratorially to Guinevere, “You have my father’s own rooms. No others in the manor were good enough to host a king.” She looked downright gleeful at this displacement of her father.
Brangien and Isolde made to follow Guinevere, but Dindrane waylaid them. “Brangien! We have to finish my dress. Can your cousin sew? She does not look like she can sew. Isolde, is it?”
“Yes, my lady,” Isolde said, curtsying prettily.
“Well, you have a lot to live up to. Your cousin is the finest lady’s maid in the entire kingdom. We have had ever so many…” Dindrane continued as she led Brangien and Isolde away.
Brangien shot a look sharper than an arrow over her shoulder at Guinevere. Guinevere would have loved to rescue her, because then she would not be alone with Arthur. She was not ready for this conversation. She did not know if she ever would be.
Lancelot and Sir Tristan accompanied Arthur and Guinevere. Arthur held up a hand when they got to their door and the servant left. “Doubtless you are tired, but I do not know this man or his household. I do not want the queen unguarded at any time.”
“We are not tired, my lord,” Lancelot said, bowing her head. “We will not leave this post.” She did not make eye contact with Guinevere. Guinevere wanted to reassure her knight that, however Arthur reacted to Guinevere’s revelations, she would make sure Lancelot was not punished. But then they were in the room and the door was closed and it was just the two of them. The two of them, and the truth.
The room was dim, the windows shuttered against the late-afternoon sun. A large bed took up most of the space, with a fireplace and two chairs in one corner. Guinevere would have preferred a smaller room that did not belong to Dindrane’s father. She removed her cloak, moved to one of the chairs, and sat on it, curling her legs beneath her.
Arthur let out a small cry of dismay. Then, to Guinevere’s surprise, a wave of anger crashed over his face. She had never seen him look this formidable, not even when he had been confronting Mordred and the Dark Queen. She found herself shrinking, but it was not her he was angry at.
“Who did that?” He pointed at her neck.
Guinevere had forgotten about those wretched bruises. There were so many other wounds she carried, inside and out. “King Mark.” She intoned the name like she was speaking of the dead. She might as well have been.
“He hurt your arm, too??
? Arthur’s hands were clenched into fists.
“My shoulder. And no. That was—you should sit down. There is no one you can fight. No vengeance to be had. I have seen to that.” Her voice was dark, her memories darker.
Arthur did not follow her advice, choosing to pace instead. “You were never supposed to see King Mark. How did you convince him to let Isolde go?”
The beginnings of a tremble plagued her bottom lip. She remembered the pain of his fingers around her throat to steel herself against it. “I did not convince him. I—he was choking me, and I felt what he did to Isolde, what he made her go through, and he was—” Guinevere stopped, took a deep breath. “I used magic. I was not careful. Whoever he was, whatever he has done, it does not matter now.”
Arthur was aghast. “Did you kill him? How could Lancelot and Tristan let you go alone?”
“It was my plan. They are in no way accountable.”
“They most certainly—”