Alarmed, Guinevere turns toward Arthur. He glances at his nephew, then at Guinevere. “Oh, go on. I can do this without you.” He smiles, then turns back to the business of being king.
Giddy with nerves and excitement, half-certain what she is doing is wrong—but with Arthur’s permission—she stands and takes Mordred’s extended hand. Together they walk out the door into the pouring rain of a forest. Laughing and shrieking in surprise, Guinevere lets Mordred tug her to the shelter of an ancient, gnarled tree. They press against the bark, water streaming down their faces and mixing as their lips find each other’s.
* * *
The bed shifted and Guinevere sat up with a start, her heart racing, the taste of rain and other lips still on her own.
“Sorry,” Arthur said, lying next to her. “I did not mean to wake you.” The room was dark, the air charged, whether in reality or because of the remnants of her dream clinging to her.
Without thinking about it, without giving herself a chance to stop, Guinevere put her hand out, foun
d Arthur’s chest, and lowered her lips to his. She felt him go rigid with surprise, eagerly anticipating feeling his heart begin to race beneath her hand.
But it did not.
And his lips did not move against hers.
He lay there, still and unmoving. Mortified, Guinevere withdrew, scooting away on the bed and pulling her knees up to her chest. Her shoulder ached and she felt like crying. She did not know whether or not to apologize. She did not want to.
“Guinevere,” Arthur said, but it was not with longing or regret. It was with sadness.
“Why not?” It was the question she kept coming back to. Why not? They were married. She loved him, had loved him since the moment they met. Why could they not also love each other this way? She wanted to. It would make everything easier. And beyond that, it would make everything better. She wanted Arthur to look at her the way Mordred had.
No! Not that way. She wanted Arthur to look at her the way Brangien looked at Isolde, like there was no one else in the world. She would even take the way Sir Bors looked at Dindrane, always slightly confused but happy.
Arthur sat up, leaning against the wall behind the bed. “There is…there is no rush.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Arthur sighed. He held out his arms.
Her eyes had adjusted enough so that she could make out his shape in the dark. She did not want to move to him, to be held like a friend or a sister. And she knew he was not inviting her back to try again. She stayed where she was. “What do you mean by that?” she repeated.
“It is—” He stopped, going quiet.
She wished it were not so dark. She longed to see his expression. But she could do better than that. She reached for his hand and took his fingers between her own. Her hands had finally returned to normal. Arthur was as he always felt—steady, warm, strong—but he also felt sad. And…scared. Had she ever felt him scared before? “Please tell me. It cannot be worse than what I imagine. That you regret marrying me, that you do not like me, that you wish—”
“No.” He squeezed her fingers. “No, it is the opposite. You are my best friend, the only person I feel at home with.” He tugged her fingers, pulling her close so she nestled against his side. She put a tentative hand on his chest and there, finally, was the skip and speed of a pulse that indicated he was not as steady as he sounded. “It is not that I do not want you like— Well, I worry. My mother, you know. And Elaine. Every important woman in my life has died in childbirth. And I cannot—I will not—risk you like that.”
“But—”
“Not never. We have all the time in the world between us.” He put his fingers beneath her chin, lifting her head and tilting her face up. This time when he pressed his lips to hers, there was a kiss there. It was gentle. Patient. She could feel the sparks of desire, but they were nothing compared with his determination to do the right thing. To protect her.
The kiss ended as it had begun: Thoughtfully. Softly. Carefully.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that burned there and would betray her. She loved Arthur and treasured what they had and had no desire to lose it, but she also wanted to be in love. Wildly. Deliriously. Recklessly. Love should feel urgent. A rush of emotion, an inescapable need. A spark and passion that consumed everything, that burned away caution and fear and left only desire.
But Arthur had been hurt in ways she had not. And he did want her. She would try to be patient, for his sake. And for hers.
* * *
The next day during wedding festivities, Arthur seemed more aware of her than usual, taking extra time to speak with her or even stand near her in a deliberate way. It somehow made everything hurt worse.
Dindrane was lovely. She had insisted on Guinevere matching her so that everyone would see them as the same. They were dressed in belted white tunics with blue-and-red cloaks. Guinevere had loaned her best jewelry to Dindrane, though, wanting to be certain Dindrane shone in every way possible on her wedding day. And Brangien had quickly sewed a delicate collar to add to Guinevere’s dress and cover the slowly fading bruises.
In spite of her awful family, in spite of everything she had been through to get to this point, Dindrane was luminously happy when she and Sir Bors exchanged rings. Sir Bors was flushed red and beaming, and Guinevere could swear there were tears in his eyes as he kissed Dindrane. Guinevere was satisfied. Dindrane was married to a man who would certainly work hard to make her life a happy one. And Guinevere did not question that it would in fact be a tremendous amount of work.
But after the wedding there was the feasting, and the drinking, and the dancing, all in a crowded, airless hall. The scent of too many bodies and too much wine set Guinevere’s head aching. She found herself looking longingly at the door, as though Mordred really would show up to rescue her.