* * *
Guinevere had imagined riding next to Arthur, her cloak streaming in the wind.
Instead, she rode beside the ladies. They did not even trot. Their horses plodded along at the same pace as the conversation. Guinevere kept Brangien by her side. She was still not feeling entirely herself after last night’s brush with Excalibur. When they had set out this morning, she could barely look at Arthur, knowing he carried the sword.
She remembered, now, how she had felt on his horse in the forest when he was wielding it. How throwing herself to the wolves had briefly seemed preferable. At the time, she had dismissed it as the panic of the moment. But now she knew it had been the sword.
Fortunately, the men—and the sword with them—were allowed to gallop. They quickly outpaced the women, riding ahead to set up the day’s camp. Around the women were several soldiers, and behind them, the carts with the supplies. A few carts and servants had been sent the night before so that they would not arrive to an empty field.
For a few sullen minutes she wished she had not promised Arthur she would stay. That she were riding away, alone, to do what needed to be done. She longed to prowl barefoot through the trees. Canopies and cushions and company were not something she required or wanted.
And maybe Arthur could meet her there, in the secret embrace of the forest. And maybe if they were not king and pretend-queen, maybe things would not be so complicated….
But he would leave. She could not keep him that way. She could not keep anyone. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the realness of her, her ribs and her breasts and her heart beneath it all. She did not want to be alone. She wanted to be real. And seeing herself reflected in the eyes of those she loved made her feel more real than anything.
“My lady?” Brangien asked.
Guinevere sat up straight. “Yes?”
“I said, are you feeling better?”
“Our queen was ill?” Dindrane perked up and shifted her horse closer so as not to miss any of the conversation. She was trimmed in scarlet and blue. Since Guinevere had worn the colors at the wedding, most of the women had begun wearing them with greater frequency. Guinevere wore green and brown. Her hood was yellow, shading her face from the sun. Brangien, next to her, wore all brown.
Dindrane was counting on her fingers. “You were wed on the evening of the festival, which was not three weeks ago, so—” Dindrane leaned past Brangien to see Guinevere. “Has she had her courses yet?”
“She thinks her courses are none of your concern!” Guinevere said, leaning forward to block Dindrane’s view.
Dindrane just laughed—a bright, brassy sound. “My sweet queen. Your courses are all of Camelot’s business. People are placing bets on how soon you will provide an heir. Most think within a year. But a few worry you are too delicate.”
Guinevere slumped, the weight of a nation on her shoulders. A queen should provide an heir. Arthur had said he did not care about alliances, did not need a queen for that. But what about for securing the future of Camelot? A kingdom without heirs was a kingdom without permanent stability. He had to know that. Had to see it. He was young, yes. But so many children died in infancy, and he himself was a warrior king. Nothing was certain.
He had chosen to marry her, though. And last night she had thought, hoped…She tried to imagine herself a mother. Instead, she remembered Elaine and her fate. Igraine, too. And her own mother. She had never known one. Merlin had never spoken of her. Who had she been? What had happened to her?
Was there not enough peril in the world already without the dangers of simply being a woman?
“I am sorry,” Dindrane said, her voice soft. “I did not think. I am so used to hearing constant talk of wombs that I forget myself.” Her own hand drifted to her waist. Her shoulders straightened and she lifted her chin, the picture of feminine strength. “I will stop anyone I hear speculating about you. It will be easy. I will tell them Blanchefleur sleeps in the nude and that will shift every thought away from you in an instant.”
Guinevere forced a laugh. “You are a fearsome friend.”
“Yes, I am.” Dindrane filled the rest of the hours of their ride with happy chatter. Guinevere was grateful. She had nothing she wished to say on any of the topics.
When they arrived at camp, they found the men testing spears, pulling back the strings on longbows, and in the case of a couple of the younger knights, wrestling. Arthur helped her dismount and sat close to her. She appreciated his quiet strength, as her own strength was still lacking.
They were in a meadow bordered by gnarled green-and-gray trees. It was far north of the dragon’s territory, which was a relief.
But it was not more than a few hours’ ride from where Merlin lived. Guinevere could sense it. She turned in that direction, longing to keep going. To demand to know how Merlin could do such terrible things and still live with himself. She had not yet tried to visit him in dreams, and she dreaded the confrontation. Already the Merlin she remembered was fading, twisting into something shadowy and unknown. What would be worse—to see him and have him revealed to be a monster, or to see him and have him revealed to be the same kindly, baffling old man who had taught her everything? How could she reconcile that?
“Sir Bors!” Dindrane called, sitting on a cushion in the shade of the canopies. “Tell us of the dragon! Tell us how you defeated it!”
As soon as Dindrane mentioned the dragon, Sir Bors’s face went pale and he physically recoiled. He cleared his throat. “It tried to kill me. I killed it instead.”
Guinevere did not want him to dwell on it, or others to press him to give more details. “Three cheers for Sir Bors, the dragonslayer!” she called. Everyone around her cheered and he seemed to relax, nodding and waving away their praise.
“I must see to the preparations. Will you be all right?” Arthur asked, his mouth close to her ear.
“Of course.”
He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. A thrill coursed through her. He could be doing it for show—obviously they were being watched in this setting—but it felt joyful, sincere.