Guinevere cleared her throat, trying to dislodge some of the pain stuck there. It was not just residual pain from King Mark’s fingers. “And all ended up as it should so that we could be here to celebrate the beautiful Dindrane’s wedding to valiant Sir Bors, the dragonslayer.”
The dragonslayer story, too, was a lie. Were all the stories lies?
“Two suitors,” Blanchefleur said to herself, staring in blank anger at the floor.
Dindrane set down her sewing. She beamed at Guinevere, then put on a prim expression. “Well, I certainly would not have told that story today. Bringing a tale of another man to my wedding celebration hardly seems proper. But I cannot command my queen not to speak when she wishes to. Now. We have another activity to get to before the men.”
Relieved, Guinevere put her work away. At last this punishment would end.
Dindrane stood, straightening her skirts. “We are going to the bathhouse! They have none in Camelot, and I have missed it so!”
Guinevere repented of her haste to be finished with sewing. “A bathhouse. What does…what does that entail?”
“There are four rooms. Each gets hotter, with stoves and heated rocks the servants pour water on to make steam. And in the final room they scrape you clean, then we all sit in the water and soak.” Dindrane clapped her hands. “Come now, we cannot let the men have a turn before us. I will not sit in the same water they soaked in after all their riding and wrestling.”
The women bustled about the room to put away their projects. Guinevere looked with horror toward Brangien.
Brangien stood and took Guinevere’s elbow. “I am afraid the queen cannot accompany you.”
“What? Why?” Dindrane deflated.
“She is not allowed to be undressed in front of anyone but her husband.” Brangien delivered the same lie Guinevere had given the first time Brangien had attempted to help her into a bath. As though Guinevere could not hear or speak for herself, Brangien lowered her voice conspiratorially to the rest of the women. “The rules are very different for kings and queens in Camelot.”
The women nodded as though that made any sense at all. Guinevere was escorted from the room. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Brangien’s smile was satisfied. “You do not always need a knight to protect you. I can do it just as well.”
“Could we go see what the men are doing?” Guinevere wanted to spend time with Arthur. To take more of his strength and confidence into herself however she could. They had been separated too early that morning.
“They are probably haggling. We would not be welcome, and I am glad. I do not want to hear what Dindrane is worth in terms of gold.”
Isolde spoke, her voice soft. “That was an amazing story you told.”
“An amazing lie.” Brangien snorted a laugh. “It never happened.”
Isolde looked alarmed and taken aback. “But why would you say it?”
“Dindrane is my friend. It was the only way I could think to protect her from those horrible women.”
Isolde slowly nodded. “They did seem…unkind.”
“We all protect each other, in whatever ways we can.” Guinevere squeezed Brangien’s hand, and Isolde stepped closer to both of them.
“I am glad for it,” Isolde whispered. Her lovely face had a haunted quality. Brangien noticed, too. She linked her arm with Isolde’s.
That was the other lie of stories. Even when the stories told were true, they never talked about what happened after the quest. About all the wounds—visible and otherwise—that lingered long after the neat close of the tale. They had rescued the damsel. The end. But there was still so much pain there, and perhaps there always would be. Guinevere knew Brangien was unparalleled at taking care of others. She said she had learned it from Isolde; it seemed a gift of grace that Brangien now got to use it to comfort Isolde. Hopefully, with enough time and love and freedom, Isolde would be able to feel safe again. But Brangien needed space to care for her love.
“Do you two mind if I rest alone?” Guinevere put one hand on her door. “I did not sleep well last night. I would appreciate the solitude.”
Brangien nodded, grateful, and guided Isolde toward the small chamber they had been given. At the other end of the hall, Sir Tristan and Lancelot stood guard. Guinevere longed to go speak with them, to spend the hours in friendly companionship. But they had a job to do, too.
Guinevere entered her room. Arthur had commanded her not to dwell on things. He was right. She would not wallow in guilt over the king she had destroyed, or the dragon she had betrayed, or the man she could not afford to think about or trust ever again.
She took Mordred’s flower out of her pouch and crushed it in her palm until the delicate petals were nothing but smears of color on her skin. And then she sat, alone with only her thoughts and regrets, which felt like the greatest punishment of all.
Guinevere sits at the table, a pleasantly blank look on her face as her mind wanders far from what is being discussed among Arthur and the other men. It does not really involve her and never will, but she is here because she is supposed to be. The walls of the room feel too close, the table too big, herself too small.
A laugh that does not belong in this space tugs her attention; she is caught on it like a fishing line. Mordred leans against the doorframe. His smile is an invitation and a promise.