“I am up to the challenge.” Arthur picked Guinevere up by the waist and spun her around. She laughed at the surprise, aware of how they were being watched. If Arthur pretended to adore her enough to want to hold her all the way across the lake, she would make certain everyone knew the feeling was reciprocated.
He set her on a horse. She settled herself, but had a moment of disappointment when he mounted his own horse instead of riding behind her as he had on their wedding night.
Brangien directed her horse to Guinevere’s side. Arthur was on her other. Around them, Arthur’s most trusted knights escorted them along the wide, curving shore of the lake. Guinevere would have preferred more distance from the water, but she hoped that for the return trip Arthur could think of an excuse to break away and take the tunnel instead of another wretched ferry.
Her thoughts were overtaken by the market ahead of them. Already it was bigger than any village they had passed on their journey here. It was acres. Far more people were there than Camelot could ever hold.
“They come from all around for the markets,” Arthur said. “On market mornings, I send men to the roads and make certain passage is safe. Everyone who wants to buy, sell, or trade is welcome.”
“For a fee,” Mordred added.
Arthur smiled. “For a fee. I have to pay the men who guard it, the ones who make the roads safe. But a safe market is a prosperous market.”
“Are all markets like this?” Guinevere asked Brangien as Arthur and Mordred discussed something to do with a border.
“Have you never been to market before?”
Guinevere flinched. Her voice had been filled with wonder. She had spoken like a wild thing from the forest, not like a Guinevere. She covered with a lie that would give her excuses for future mistakes as well. “I was never allowed. My father did not think it appropriate. I rarely left our home at all, and then I was in the convent.”
“Well, you have started with the best. There are no markets in the world like Camelot’s market. Our king has seen to that. He speaks of the safe roads as though it is a simple task. I assure you it is not. He has fought these last three years to crea
te this kind of far-reaching safety.”
It was no hard thing to pretend to be delighted with and proud of Arthur. Who could not be proud of such a man? Of such a king? Her fears of losing herself in the pretense were unfounded. She was allowed to think the best of him.
They rode up to the edge of the market. Guinevere searched the borders, but saw nothing menacing. Brightly colored strips of cloth were raised on poles, like flags. Some had images painted on them, advertising where certain wares could be found. Music and laughter and the general chatter of people in a celebratory mood surrounded them.
Arthur helped her dismount. “Go and explore. I will meet you at noon to visit the smithies.”
“But what about you?” She scanned the crowds nervously. “How can I protect you if we are not together?”
Again, he looked surprised. “Oh. Is there…a knot? Something to connect us? I must be with my men. And I am afraid your presence would be too remarkable.”
Guinevere plucked out three of her hairs. Arthur leaned close as though whispering something to her while she knotted them around his wrist. His breath was warm and pleasant against her ear, the prickling sensation on her scalp connecting her to the hairs almost unnoticeable in comparison.
“Done,” she said, though she had lingered a bit longer on the knots than necessary.
Arthur squeezed her arm, then turned back to his men. A few more, wearing the dust of many miles, had joined them. Their faces did not hold the happy ease of a market day. They held the weight and strain of news.
Guinevere wanted to hear what it was. But Arthur had said this was not a place for a queen. If any of it was a threat from magic, Arthur would tell her. If it was matters of men, Guinevere could not help. She had connected them for the time being. If something magical menaced Arthur today, she would feel it.
She had wanted to explore the market with him. Now it felt pointless. Her mood was dampened further when she and Brangien stepped into the tents…and Mordred was still beside them.
“Did you need something?” Guinevere asked.
“I have been tasked with accompanying you and making certain you have everything you need.” He delivered the news as though they should both be pleased with this arrangement.
“Surely you have something you would rather be doing!”
Mordred’s smile grew. “Not a thing.”
Now she was truly vexed. Away from Arthur and under the ever-watchful gaze of Mordred. But it was hard to hold on to her frustration amidst the sights and smells and sounds of the market. She could not imagine what the big festivals must be like, if this was the smaller market. There were tents and wooden stalls. Shoes, clothing, cloth. Sewing supplies. Fur. How was there this much stuff in the whole world? And this many people to buy it!
“This is the textiles section,” Brangien explained. “Point out anything you like. I can make you any style.”
Brangien did always have a needle in her fingers. Guinevere liked everything, but she needed nothing. She preferred to study. There was so much more here than in any of the paintings she had looked at in the convent. This was real. This was life. And it was vibrant. With no focus directly on her, she was less overwhelmed than she had been at the marriage gathering. She let the chaos wash over her like the warm summer breeze.
Brangien steered her in another direction. “That way was the livestock section. We do not want to go there. We should head to the bakers. There are fines and lost stall space if they weight the bread with stones or sell bad flour, so everything is delicious.”