Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Vera ran to catch up with Arthur. They were all left staring at an unharmed Grady behind his makeshift fortress. He stared at it in shock.

“Looks like somebody used their gift for you,” Percival called over as he tied the dead hog’s feet together. Vera caught Arthur’s eyes and knew he’d seen it all, too.

“I—I did it,” Grady said in awe. To confirm it, he swiped his hand, and all the gathered wall clumsily disassembled into a pile in the dirt. “I felt like something in my body exploded and then …” He shook his head, and his jaw hung slack. “I knew I could do it. I knew I could, and I knew how.”

“That’s not possible,” Percival said. His eyes searched the gathered men for answers. “That—powers don’t just show up. You have to be born with them.”

No one present had ever seen someone exhibit a new gift after infancy, but there was no denying it. Impossible or not, Grady now had magic, a gift that had saved his life.

The story of the hunt gone wrong and its aftermath tore through town as quickly as the boar itself. The horn’s call, mistaken for the end of the hunt, was meant to be a series of emergency blasts warning that the beast had broken loose, but it was cut short by sharp tusks to the crier’s gut. Thanks to the quick work of Gawain, who had arrived barely in time to keep the man on this side of the brink of death, the crier would survive.

The next morning, before their departure to Glastonbury, Arthur sent Percival out to find the mage and bring him back so the king might thank him, but it wasn’t so easy a task.

“Well, I found him after searching the whole bloody castle and half the village.” Percival rolled his eyes. “And you aren’t going to believe this, but he flat-out refused to come. Said he was too busy.”

Annoyance flashed through Arthur’s eyes, but Vera saw the way his lips tugged up at the corner.

They decided to go find Gawain themselves.

Percival led Arthur and Vera straight to the training field and past the keep-away pit. At first, Vera thought that Percival got it wrong. She didn’t see anyone, save the townsfolk, who all cast disconcerted glances toward the spot where Grady had nearly been killed yesterday. Was it superstition that captivated their attention? Nothing was there—

Vera’s thoughts screeched to a stop as she saw a man in a dingy brown robe crawling in the dirt. Gawain.

Percival cleared his throat. Gawain ignored him.

“Mage Gawain,” Arthur called.

“Yes,” he said, barely audible as he lowered the side of his face to examine the ground without so much as glancing at Arthur.

Percival stared at Gawain, aghast as his eyes narrowed. “Mage Gawain,” he barked. “Your king addresses you. Another ruler would lock you in the stocks for far less than this display of disrespect.”

He blinked as he sat up.

“I was supplicant on the ground, was I not?” he asked dryly, only addressing Percival.

“Yes,” Percival said with exasperation as he gestured toward Arthur. “And yet you continue to ignore your king and queen.”

Gawain’s sunken eyes stayed on Percival for a long moment. Percival’s face reddened. He might have even stopped breathing. Arthur looked on in bemused silence.

“You’re right,” Gawain muttered. He cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, I apologize.” He sounded about as engaged as if he was reading the phone book. Vera wished Lancelot was there to witness it because she would swear that Gawain’s scowl deepened as he addressed her. “And to you, my queen.”

She dipped into a poor curtsy, expecting that to be the end of it. But he kept his shadowy eyes on her like he was making a silent accusation.

“Why didn’t you come when summoned?” Arthur asked, his tone even as he cocked his head to the side.

“An unprecedented magical break happened right here yesterday.” Gawain dropped his face back to the ground, resuming his study of the ordinary-looking dirt. “Magic leaves a trace, but it doesn’t linger. I couldn’t afford to delay.”

Percival scoffed loudly.

“What are you hoping to find?” Arthur asked.

Gawain sighed and sat up, Arthur’s attention evidently an annoyance to him. “This is my area of study.”

“What? Dirt?” Percival shot back.

Gawain smiled, thick with condescension. “Patterns in what gifts show up and where. But most of all, how the magic break happens.”

“What’s a magic break?” Vera asked.

“The exact instant a person first exhibits their gift. I used to only study infants, but the war changed my mind.”

“Why?” Arthur said.

“Something I saw once.”

“What,” Percival pressed emphatically, “did you see?”

“An execution on the battlefield. Not just one, of course. I saw many, like both of you, I’m sure. But as the sword fell on his neck this time, I saw him have a magical break.”

The skin on the back of Vera’s neck prickled. “Did it look like a light exploded out of him?”

Gawain nodded. “Out of his chest. Is that what happened to the boy yesterday?”

“Yes,” she said. “I saw it. Arthur and I both saw it. Then Grady used it—his gift.”

“What was the man’s gift on the battlefield?” Percival’s annoyance had given way to genuine interest.

“No idea,” Gawain said. “He died.”

They stared at the mage, though Percival voiced their shared sentiment. “Are you being deliberately obtuse?”

He carried on as if Percival hadn’t said anything. “The soldier likely never even knew it happened. But the boy yesterday,” Gawain said. “Could either of you see his eyes when it happened?”

“I could,” Vera said.

“What did they look like?”

“Frightened.” She shuddered as she remembered Grady’s face, drawn with a horror that no fourteen-year-old should ever know.

“Panicked? Petrified? Desperate?” Gawain’s voice rose in excitement with each suggestion.

“Yes, of course. All of those things. He thought he was about to die.”

Gawain sat back on his heels as he sighed wistfully. “I wish I’d seen that.”

Vera recoiled. “That was the worst moment of his life.”

“Yes, but with all due respect, Your Majesty, he didn’t die and now has a very useful gift.” Gawain must have found what he was searching for on the ground as he procured a vial from the pocket of his robe and scooped it full of dirt before he turned his attention to Arthur. “And especially since I didn’t witness the event, it is imperative that I study the trace of what was left behind. It could not wait.”

“I understand,” Arthur said. Vera shot him a glare that he either did not notice or didn’t acknowledge. “But if you cannot meet a summons, I expect you to send word to explain your absence.”

“At the absolute least,” Percival added, though he clearly would have liked to say more.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty,” Gawain said. “That was thoughtless on my part. It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Arthur said.

“You were here yesterday when the incident occurred,” Gawain said. “Were you able to see the boy clearly?”

“Yes,” said Arthur.

“Tell me, in as much detail as you can, about the terror on his face.”

Vera decided she’d prefer not to know Gawain better, but as Arthur’s traveling party gathered mere hours later at the castle stables, it became clear she’d have trouble avoiding him. Like a misshapen piece pressed into an already completed puzzle, there Gawain was, standing at the edge of the cluster that buzzed with excitement, a bulging travel pack at his feet and his face sullen.

As they readied their horses, Percival and Lancelot led the festivities with a bottle of some amber liquor passed around amongst them. Beyond Arthur, Lancelot, Percival, and Matilda, just four other soldiers would accompany them. And Gawain. The soldiers each wore some variation of a dazed expression, gleeful disbelief at being fortunate enough to travel with the king’s party. Then, there were the few who came to see them off: Grady, his father, and Randall.

As Grady and his father ensured the horses and tack were suitable for the journey, Lancelot bawdily encouraged Grady to show off his newfound gift. He started by sheepishly restacking a few sticks of firewood. His initial reluctance melted under the soldiers’ enthusiastic praise, and he was soon juggling the logs midair without physically touching a single one. Gawain inched closer, surely trying to sort out how to corner Grady and interrogate him on his recent trauma.

Randall, who reasserted that no, he was not attending the festival, hung close to Matilda. As she knocked back a hearty swig of the amber liquor and passed it along to him, his tension slackened, and he too grinned and took a drink.

Percival ambled toward Vera and Arthur, his eyes on Gawain. “Here, Your Majesty. This is the parcel from Merlin,” he said, offering a bag with some heft to it. Arthur’s eyes darkened on the package, but he accepted it and tucked it into his saddle bag.

“Why on earth does he think he should come?” Percival grumbled petulantly with a sharp nod toward Gawain, interrupting any notion Vera had to question the package from Merlin. Arthur glanced over at the mage before he tied his bag off and gracefully mounted his horse.

“Probably because I invited him,” he said.

Percival’s mouth fell open, but he caught himself and pursed his lips. He revered Arthur far too much to say anything aloud, though his face said plenty as he went back to his own horse. Vera rather shared his sentiment.

Arthur chuckled. “I invited Gawain to be polite,” he said when Percival was far enough not to hear. “I didn’t expect him to say yes.”

“Pardon me. Your Majesty?” Randall’s voice called out from behind her. Vera continued securing her bag on her horse. Randall cleared his throat. Apparently oblivious, Arthur was pulling on his riding gloves until he noticed Vera eyeing him.

“He means you,” Arthur said with a one-sided grin.

“Me?”

The grin spread to both sides as he nodded.

“Your Majesty, may I have a moment?” Randall said, and Vera whipped around to face him this time.

“I’m so sorry. I thought you meant the king.”

Randall didn’t answer. He shifted the bulk of his weight from one foot to the other. “I gave Matilda something for you, in case you want it.” Then, after another pause, he said, “Do you have a gown for tomorrow’s celebration?”

“I brought one I like.” It was the red one with the wide sleeves.

“It’s a dress from before?” Randall asked. It took Vera a moment to realize what he meant; from before the accident. Before she’d been “away” for a year (and an entire existence).

“Yes,” she said.

“You should have a garment other than your training gear that’s been made for you, Your Majesty. I’ve made you a gown. You don’t have to wear it,” he added quickly. “But you should have the option.”

“Of course I’ll wear it,” Vera said quietly.

Randall’s blush crept above his whiskers. “Only if it suits you.”

“Randall, you’ve been so kind to me. Thank you.” Vera would have liked to hug him, but he didn’t give her the chance.

He nodded to her and bowed to Arthur. “Safe travels, my liege. Happy Yule, happy Christmas, happy whatever the hell we’re celebrating now. We’ll make sure Camelot doesn’t go to shit while you’re away.”

The celebrations continued once the party set off. It wasn’t a quiet ride by any means. Chatter was abundant as they traveled in clumps, sharing their excitement by retelling stories from previous Yule festivals.

Vera stayed near Lancelot and the soldiers. Even as she laughed along with the others, she looked ahead at Arthur and Matilda, noticing the ease of their conversation. Noticed that Matilda gazed at him with such love. Why hadn’t she seen it before? It had never occurred to her before this very moment that they might have found love together since Guinevere’s death. She couldn’t possibly fault them for it.

And still. It stung, a startling confirmation that she’d not only grown fond of Arthur. Vera had begun to long for him.

She cast about for something else to focus on and found Gawain riding farther back by himself, his head low and dark eyes staring vacantly, an especially sharp contrast with the enthusiasm in the rest of them. Vera was well acquainted with being the one left alone to witness the friendship of others.

She sighed and mumbled, “Dammit,” as she steered her horse close to Lancelot and casually took the jug of mystery liquor. They’d passed it around all morning, so he merely spared her a smile as he handed it over, not missing a beat in his conversation with the soldiers.

Vera pulled up on the reins and hung back until Gawain drew even with her. He looked up in surprise, which suited his face more pleasantly than his standard scowl. She offered the jug to him.

“What is this?” he asked, peeking skeptically in the mouth of the jug.

Vera shrugged. “Alcohol. It doesn’t taste half bad.”

“You drank this without knowing what it is?”

“Yes.” She laughed but prickled at the judgment in his tone. “Percival brought it. I trust him.”

Gawain continued to study the bottle. A green-tinted light, just a faint aura of a glow, started at the base. It spread from beneath his fingers across the jug’s surface. His eyes were closed in concentration, and his lips moved silently in the shapes of words that were nonsense to Vera. When the last wisp of green glow faded, Gawain opened his eyes.

“It’s safe.” He tipped the jug to his lips and took a deep slug. Then, abruptly, “I met your aunt, Cecily, on my way from the Magesary. She said your cousin’s wedding will be this spring.”

“Oh!” Vera said, playing along as had become her custom. “That’s wonderful news.” She mentally filed the new information about Guinevere’s family.

Gawain stared at her.

“What?” she said.

“You don’t have an aunt. At least, not to my knowledge. I made that up.” Vera’s chest tightened at the revelation and more at the way he looked at her. Like she was being measured and coming up short. “Merlin told me you had memory loss from the attack, but I thought you might be faking it.”

Vera tensed. “Why would I lie about that?”

“To avoid responsibility for your actions,” he said, as if it were obvious. “But you remember nothing.”

“I remember how to mount a horse.” A poor attempt at humor to skirt her discomfort, but Gawain cracked a condescending smile.

“That’s not much. All the same, you don’t have to pretend to remember in front of me. And if you have questions, I can be someone to answer them.”

It might have been a generous offer had it not been accompanied by the affectation of a concrete brick. He was the last person Vera wanted to share anything with. Her guard had been up before. This conversation fortified it.

“I was under the impression you didn’t like me much,” Vera said.

“You were correct,” he said bluntly. “But that was before I realized your mental deficiency.” Vera barked a laugh. Gawain looked at her and blinked. “But not remembering … perhaps that’s a gift. You get to start again.”

“I have to remember.” Merlin had told her the mages knew about Viviane’s betrayal. Gawain should understand better than anyone. “You know that I have to remember.”

He was silent for a stretch before he took another drink, wincing as he swallowed and passed the jug to Vera. “I’m not so sure. Magic’s been behaving peculiarly for some time now … since well before Viviane’s attack on you.”

Her mouth took on a strange taste and her head swam. “How long?” she asked, forgetting not to give him the satisfaction of her interest.

“Since before the wars,” he said. “I don’t have evidence to prove it, but I’d conjecture at least since the Massacre of Dorchester.”

Why did that sound familiar to Vera? And why did she see a descending mist in her mind’s eye as she thought of it? Descending mist, thunder, and a dancer … Then it hit her. It was the story the performers shared on one of her first nights here.

“When the whole town was massacred by a mage gone mad?”

Gawain gave her a slow, sidelong look. “It wasn’t the whole town. It was the efficient extermination of every non-magic person in Dorchester. A dark experiment on population. If people with the gift only bred with others who also had it, the hypothesis was that it would increase the number of magical births.”

“And … did it?”

“No,” Gawain said. “I doubt recovering your memories will make any difference.” He forged onward as if he’d not savagely taken a mallet to Vera’s one goal in her new existence. “By my census studies, the magical birth rate has been steadily dropping for nearly a decade. Its rate has simply increased enough recently that we’ve taken notice.”

Vera sat stiffly in her saddle. She clenched her muscles to shield the way fear descended on her. Oddly enough, that tickled Gawain. His eyes even briefly lit as he chuckled. “You’re wise to be mistrusting. You shouldn’t trust anyone.”

Vera was taken aback enough to find her voice. “What about the king? What about Merlin?”

Gawain merely shrugged. “Certainly not him.” He pointed at Lancelot. “He reeks of lies.”

Vera laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind. Look, I really just wanted to apologize for being the reason you had to execute that man.” She’d not known she was going to say it before the words tumbled out of her.

“It’s my duty,” Gawain said.

“Yes, well, it’s not one you’ve ever had to officially perform, is it?”

He gave her another sidelong look. “Not officially. But it was not uncommon on the battlefield.”

He’d been so skilled and precise. It stood to reason that he’d performed that task before.

“How do mages train for such things?” she asked.

“How?” Gawain chuckled. “You’re asking the wrong questions, Your Majesty.” A loud laugh erupted from Lancelot and Percival’s clump of riders, and Vera glanced wistfully at them.

“You don’t want to talk to me anymore, do you?” he asked.

She was so startled by his blunt (and correct) assessment that she wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I’m done talking anyway,” he said. “I’d heard you were strange, but I like you better than I thought I would.”

And with that, Gawain pulled up on the reins of his horse to fall back and ride alone.

Still in shock, Vera caught up with Percival and Lancelot, now on their own, apart from the other soldiers.

“Been watching you back there. What was that about?” Percival asked.

“That guy’s a fucking weirdo,” Vera said.

This set Lancelot to howling, so she felt compelled to continue. “He said he was done talking to me and wanted to ride alone.”

Percival muttered a few choice insults under his breath.

“Ooh, I’ve never seen anyone get under your skin like that,” Lancelot said to him. “You like damn near everybody.”

“I’ve never met anyone with such disrespect for Arthur. And now for the queen, too. He’s an egregious, pompous—”

“All right, all right. Point taken,” Lancelot said. “Don’t you feel a tiny bit sorry for him? Off on his own in this rowdy crew?”

“No,” Percival said.

“Also,” Vera added, joining in Percival’s annoyance that Lancelot clearly didn’t get it. “He told me that you reek of lies and that I shouldn’t trust you.”

“Really?” Lancelot’s eyes glimmered with delight. “That’s fabulous. I’m going to go annoy the shit out of him. Cheers!” He made a soft clicking noise, and his horse was trotting off toward Gawain before either could attempt to stop him.

In opposition to Vera’s abysmal familiarity with Arthurian legend (a rather hilarious joke of the universe), she was well acquainted with Glastonbury’s history. Based on all accounts that she’d been taught in school and during class trips to the abbey, all the buildings and lodgings should have been made of wood, simple structures to keep less civilized ancient peoples out of the elements. As had become the custom of her new life, her knowledge was wrong.

The party arrived on the High Street of Glastonbury in the early afternoon, as a cold rain began to fall in a broken spit like the sky was talking excitedly and couldn’t keep from at least a few drops flying free.

A merry woman met them at the edge of town with a dramatic “Good morning!” that rose and fell, sounding like an arch.

“That’s Maria. She’s the master of festival,” Arthur murmured to Vera.

Maria was lovely, with a pile of golden curls arranged atop her head and a bright magenta gown that didn’t feel like it belonged in the seventh century. She excitedly led them all to a stone building that was, as best as Vera could tell, about half a block from where the George and Pilgrims would stand in some 800 years.

“Leave your horses here with Harding; he’ll see that they’re cared for. Don’t you dare touch those bags,” she barked at Lancelot, who grinned and raised his hands from the bag on his horse. “Tawdry will bring them to your rooms. Your Majesty, may I steal you away for a titch? My queen, you can carry on to your quarters if you wish. I’m sure you need a rest after your journey.”

These were the lodgings they’d used every year when in town for the festival. The king’s party had the entire ground floor.

“This one’s yours,” Matilda said in Vera’s ear, reaching past her to open the first door on the left. She peered into the quarters, her eyes first drawn to the blazing fire in a grand hearth on the wall opposite, with all the necessities for a bedroom between here and there.

“I’m the next one over. Lancelot is directly across the hall,” Matilda said. “Shall I help you get settled in?”

Vera assured Matilda she was fine and sent her on her way. Strangely, she noted with her head cocked to the side, the room was entirely lit by fire—from the robust one in the fireplace to the flames of candles all along the walls. There was a chandelier of orbs hanging from the ceiling, completely dark, and the marble panel that would have been used to light it was in its customary place by the door, but it was covered with a cloth.

“We only use firelight for the solstice.” She jumped at Arthur’s voice behind her. “Sorry to startle you.” He smiled. “No magic lighting for Yule. It’s all of the earth to celebrate the light of the sun beginning to return.” Concern crept into his features as his eyes swept the room. “Is this going to be all right?”

Vera glanced at all the furnishings. “It’s beautiful.”

But Arthur remained tense. “There’s … just the one room for us.”

Ah. She hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t worried about it. They’d not shared a bed before. “I don’t have to—” Arthur started. “I can stay in Lancelot’s room.”

Vera laughed. “That would be horribly unfair to him.” She imagined at least one of the girls he’d snuck away to his sacred grove might be in attendance. “It’s all right,” she said earnestly, hoping her reassurance might unfurrow his brow. “I trust you.” And a knot in her unknitted, too, because she meant it.

The Yule’s Eve celebration would be tonight, an evening of food, drink, and fine performers. When they walked under an enormous stone archway into the festival grounds, Vera’s entire field of vision was taken by high-standing torches, their open flames casting a bouncing light in all directions. There were also candelabras throughout the courtyard, campfires with clusters of revelers gathered around them at the back of the space, and in the middle, near the front, a stage cleverly lit by shallow basins of flames. Tables and chairs skirted the courtyard’s edges, and every corner had a makeshift bar serving wine and ale.

A prickle rose on Vera’s arms, and it took her eyes adjusting to the surrounding light to see past the courtyard area. At first, she could only make out a looming structure. Something was familiar about where she stood. The prickle turned to goosebumps as Vera spun toward the High Street, orienting herself. She stood on the grounds of what would someday be the abbey. Now, in 633 CE, if there should have been a structure here, it would be a humble wooden church. But she walked toward it, squinting into the darkness.

Arthur followed her. “What are you looking at?”

“This … it’s …” She was going to say “impossible” as she gaped at an ornate stone cathedral towering above. Two towers were facing Vera with the bulk of the building in between—not in the gothic style she recognized from the abbey’s ruins of her other time, all spiking points and buttresses. It was rounder and gentler, more in the style of Camelot’s castle, though certainly as grand as any more modern structure Vera had seen. And since there was no record of it, no archaeology to mark this reality that Vera could have walked forward and touched with her own fingers, she knew it must have been made with magic. The stone structure they did have archaeological evidence of would be built more than a hundred years from now. What could possibly happen between now and then that would erase the gargantuan beauty before her?

“There are only ruins here in my time,” she said. “Impressive ruins, but not of this. This is … no one from my time has seen the likes of this.”

Arthur tilted his head to the side. “Except for you.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

Vera followed Arthur back to the festivities. They wove their way to a table near the front where Matilda, Percival, Gawain, and Lancelot were already seated, watching the performers who had begun their show. Vera sat next to Percival, who looked especially miserable, his elbow on the table and his cheek squashed against his hand to prop his head upright, making the scar across his face even more pronounced than usual. He glanced to the stage fleetingly and otherwise stared down at his drink.

“They’re doing Percival’s story,” Lancelot whispered to Arthur and Vera.

“This one’s excellent,” Arthur said, his lips so near Vera’s ear that the barely subsided goosebumps rose on her neck again. He took two goblets from a passing server and gave one to Vera as they sat.

Percival groaned, and Lancelot rolled his eyes. “Oh, you poor suffering warrior. It must be so hard to be admired and beloved because you were such a heroic boy,” he said as he took a goblet. He noticed that Gawain was the only one remaining without a drink in hand, picked up another, and passed it to him.

Gawain looked nearly as unhappy as Percival, though she suspected that was simply the nature of his face. He glowered at the stage, mumbling, “Thank you,” to Lancelot almost inaudibly.

Vera turned her attention to the stage. An orator narrated as actors gracefully interpreted the story in dance to the musicians’ accompaniment.

“There wasn’t any dancing at all,” Percival grumbled. She grinned and otherwise ignored him, eager to hear his story. They set the scene: it was the war’s most crucial battle.

“That’s not even close to true,” Percival said.

Percival was only fifteen years old.

“Actually, I was fifteen when I joined the forces. I was sixteen at this battle,” he told Vera. Matilda hushed him, and he sighed but remained silent after that.

His bravery and loyalty landed him directly in the king’s service. They’d lost the previous battle, and things were grim. Arthur was in the thick of the fighting, and Percival courageously brawled to get to him to provide aid. Each was locked in swordfight, fighting for their lives.

Vera looked at the three warriors at her table. Percival bit his lip as he reluctantly watched the performance. Arthur and Lancelot bore proud smiles. They weren’t trying to antagonize him. They were celebrating him like a most beloved brother. Arthur surveyed the gathered crowd, checking to ensure people were paying attention.

The story’s climax came with Arthur and Percival battling a short distance from one another. Arthur was occupied, and his arms got caught up. There was another aggressor, though, and his sword was about to swipe across Arthur’s throat from the side. Percival was also under attack. He could have easily parried the blow coming down toward his own face. Instead, he thrust his sword out to stop Arthur’s attacker and knowingly took the blow directly to his head by his assailant’s broadsword.

It should have killed him, but it didn’t. According to the storyteller, Percival’s mighty and selfless spirit served as a shield sent from God that kept him alive. All of Arthur’s forces, witnessing this miracle, found untapped strength, and the battle was shortly after won. Arthur knighted Percival right there on the battlefield; the youngest person to ever be knighted.

“But that’s not what happened,” Percival told Vera. “Magic stopped that sword from hitting me with its full force, or my whole head would have been chopped in half, face first, rather than leaving me with a measly scar.” It was hardly a measly scar, running nearly the full length of his face. Percival unconsciously scratched at the part of it beneath his eye. “It was like,” he shook his head in frustration and stared into space as he remembered, “an invisible arm or … or like a rope or something pulled back on the soldier’s sword arm right when his blow would have fallen.”

“Who did it?” Vera asked. “Who saved you?”

“No idea,” Percival said. “But it wasn’t some God-sent miracle. It was someone’s magic who was on the field with us.” He looked around like his savior might reveal themself.

“Yes, and Arthur didn’t knight you right on the field. He let the bleeding stop first,” Lancelot said. “But that doesn’t make for a good story!”

Percival shook his head and drained his cup in one drink. Nobody mentioned it again for the rest of the evening, which was spent with laughter and countless goblets of drinks at their table. Festival attendees came by to welcome them and especially to greet Arthur and Vera.

Vera held somewhere in the realm of a dozen babies, had her hand kissed more times than she could count, and her cheeks hurt from all the smiling. It wasn’t at all unpleasant, though she grew tired as the hours wore on and had already hatched a plan for what to do with her solstice morning in Glastonbury. She could not be this near the Tor without climbing it for the sunrise.

Matilda noticed her yawning from across the table. “Are you ready to turn in for the night?” she asked.

Vera smiled gratefully. “Yes, I think so.”

Matilda stood to join her.

And so did Arthur.

“You can stay. I’ll be fine.” She touched his arm. It was a gesture that didn’t raise anyone’s attention, but Arthur stared down at Vera’s fingers as butterflies erupted in her stomach. She’d touched him before. Why was this different? She blinked to shake herself from it.

“You’re doing me a favor,” Arthur said. “Otherwise, this lot will try to keep me out until dawn.”