“Or first thing in the morning. Sheathe your sword, fool. No one wants to be greeted with that upon waking.”
“Sword is generous. I was thinking knife. Or perhaps needle.” The two women cackled. Dindrane blushed furiously red. Guinevere had some idea what they were talking about, but imagined it was much worse for Dindrane to hear, given it was her own brothers they were speaking of.
“Of course,” Blanchefleur said, stabbing her needle into a piece of cloth and smiling with just as much sharp intent, “Sir Bors is so old, it will probably not be an issue for our Dindrane.”
“He is only five years older than Percival,” Dindrane snapped.
“Too bad you could not snag his son instead.”
“His son is fourteen!”
“Still, you are fortunate to have found anyone willing to take you into their house at your age. Though we all know why he is doing it.” Blanchefleur flicked her eyes over Guinevere.
Blanchefleur’s meaning was clear: Dindrane was only valuable because of her connection to the king and queen. The women sparred, too, apparently. But not with weapons. Guinevere knew whose side she was on, and her mouth responded before she had time to think her words through. “Did you know Sir Mordred, the nephew of the king, also sought Dindrane’s hand?”
Everything after this would be a lie, but it was a safe lie. No one in Camelot knew why Mordred had disappeared. Arthur had kept it a secret, only saying that Mordred had left and would not be returning. Why not give them a better story? The truth hurt too much. Better to replace it.
“What?” Blanchefleur frowned.
“Oh, yes. It was terrible.”
“What was terrible?”
“Why, the fight.” Guinevere set down her sewing, putting on her best confused expression. “You did not hear?”
Blanchefleur shook her head. The other women in the room leaned closer, except Brangien, who knew Guinevere was lying. Her knowledge was betrayed only by a slight narrowing of the eyes.
Guinevere looked at Dindrane, smiling affectionately. “You have always been too modest, my dear friend. Can I tell them? Please?”
Dindrane gave an uninterested lift of her shoulders. “If you wish.” Then she turned her face so only Guinevere could see it, and formed the word What? silently with her mouth.
“Oh, it was thrilling!” Guinevere put one hand over her heart, where Mordred’s flower had pressed before she moved it. “It was the night of the tournament in which Sir Lancelot proved herself. On the field that day, Sir Bors walked out wearing our Dindrane’s handkerchief as his colors. We were not shocked—he had clearly been in love with her for years but was too reserved to say anything. Tournaments make all men braver. But they also make them more reckless. When Sir Mordred—King Arthur’s nephew, and closest heir”—that was hardly true, but they need not know; it made everything sound more romantic—“well, when he saw it, jealousy flared. He, too, had long nurtured a secret affection for lovely Dindrane. That evening, as the wine flowed, so, too, did their passion and anger. Sir Mordred confronted Sir Bors, demanding he be allowed to court Dindrane, being of higher rank within Camelot. A lesser man—one more concerned with his position among King Arthur’s knights—certainly would have ceded pursuit of Dindrane to Sir Mordred. But Sir Bors’s love for her defied the bounds of rational thought. He immediately challenged Sir Mordred to a fight. The winner would be allowed to court Dindrane, and the loser would have to leave Camelot. Forever.”
“What?” Blanchefleur looked aghast. “Percival has told me nothing of this.”
“He did not know. You will recall that immediately after these events I was abducted and everything became very busy and confusing.” Guinevere waved her hand as though those events were far less important than the fictional ones she was spinning. “Sir Bors and Sir Mordred faced off with nothing but their fists and their determination to be the one to win Dindrane’s heart and hand. I was there, as was my maid, Brangien.”
“Mmm, it was very exciting,” Brangien murmured from the corner, not looking up from her sewing.
“Though Sir Bors’s experience on the battlefield is unsurpassed, Sir Mordred had never been defeated in single combat. He was considered the most deadly of all Arthur’s knights.”
“They hated him,” Blanchefleur said, wrinkling her nose.
“With good reason,” Guinevere said, not allowing the other woman to wrest the reins of the story. “Sir Mordred was arrogant and cold, and I was terrified he would win.” Mordred appeared arrogant and cold, but really he was reserved and watchful, constantly in pain from being around iron because of his fairy heritage through his father. But when one got close to him, he was insightful and funny and heartbreakingly duplicitous.
She should never have gotten close to him. She could not let it happen again.
Back to the story. Stories were so much tidier. So much easier. “Sir Mordred loved Dindrane, but I
knew he would not be half the husband to her Sir Bors would. We all watched as they battled. And though Sir Mordred was the younger and faster, Sir Bors’s heart was pure, his every strike made true and powerful by his love for Dindrane. In the end, he stood alone on that dark field, battered but triumphant. He had defeated Sir Mordred and won the fairest maiden.” Guinevere beamed at Dindrane, who had her lips pursed in what looked like modesty but was probably an effort to hold back laughter.
“What happened to Sir Mordred?” one of the aunts asked.
“Oh, he was banished. He had honored the terms of their agreement. And, I think, he could not bear to stay in Camelot and watch Dindrane wed another.” Guinevere bit her lips, pretending to be worried. “I should not have shared this story. Sir Bors will not speak of it. He loves his king and would never exult in a victory that sent the king’s nephew away. Please do not bring it up in front of him.”
“But surely King Arthur was angry?” one of the sisters-in-law asked.
“He values Sir Bors too much to let this come between them. Sir Mordred made his choices.” Guinevere smiled dismissively, but saying that cost more than she had anticipated. Mordred had made his choices, and he had made them for love of his family. It felt oddly like a betrayal to spin this story using him, knowing what she did of how fiercely he had also loved her. Had he, though? Twice now he had seemed to prove no ill intent. But she knew the Dark Queen was still trying to overthrow Arthur. Mordred had chosen her side. They were enemies, regardless of feelings.