Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

The only jousting tournament Vera had attended was at the Glastonbury Abbey’s Medieval Faire, where there was also a man dressed as a jester who juggled one-handed while playing a plastic recorder through his nostrils. Camelot’s festival was short a juggling nose musician, and the jousting was a far cry from the staged reenactments at the Faire. Those entailed graceful unhorsings that ended up in choreographed sword fights on the ground.

Sitting on the sidelines with Arthur in the raised suite for royalty and nobility and watching bout after bout of real jousting had Vera alternately clenching her eyes shut or with them shocked wide, unable to look away. Lances exploded into splinters, collisions sent riders flying from their horses, and there were plenty of injuries. In Wyatt’s first bout, he took a lance right to the face shield of his helmet. While there wouldn’t be any lasting damage, he was far worse for the wear. Vera gripped the arms of her seat tightly as each run began, shrinking and cringing like she could sink through her chair if she pushed back hard enough.

Arthur noticed her tension and kept a firm hold on her hand. He distracted her with trivia and jokes. It was barely mid-morning when a server appeared at Vera’s side with a glass of wine. She took it out of politeness but was confused because she hadn’t asked for it.

“I thought it might help to take the edge off.” Arthur winked. The playful gesture was so handsome on his often-serious features.

There was no doubt to be had: Percival was the best jouster in the tournament. Barring an accident, he would win. He unhorsed his current opponent in one pass.

Tristan and Lionel fared well, too. Wyatt struggled after his unfortunate start to the day. He’d lost two matches now. Vera was sweating by the time Lancelot showed up near the lunch break.

“You aren’t jousting,” she said.

“No,” Lancelot said with distaste. “Jousting is stupid.”

“He’s not very good at it,” Arthur said. Lancelot rolled his eyes but otherwise ignored Arthur.

“I have an idea.” He drummed her chair’s arm with his fingertips, his eyes glinting. “An activity for all the folks who aren’t soldiers to do after the lunch break. Can you help?”

Vera grinned. What could he possibly have in mind?

She had none of Guinevere’s memories of Lancelot during the war, but Arthur had once said something that stuck with her. “If it seems like I carry a heavy burden now, that’s how it was for Lancelot throughout the war. He was a different man then. I wasn’t sure the person I grew up with would ever return.”

But Lancelot’s appreciation for peace only served to bolster his spirit. When it wasn’t war, much of life was a game to him, from annoying Merlin to taking Vera to the pit after her first morning run to roping in a new knight to their party. So, Vera should have had some inkling of what to expect.

She and Lancelot set out to start the first ever rock, paper, scissors tournament in the history of the world. They built a single-elimination bracket and spread the word that the people should gather. Camelot liked games, evidenced by the pit’s popularity, and that was where they held their tournament. It was conveniently close to the training-field-turned-jousting-stadium for the festival.

How often did the beloved king’s general, the war hero, Sir Lancelot, serve as emcee and referee for a brand-new tournament specifically for non-royals, non-nobility, and non-knights—a tournament for regular, ordinary villagers and travelers?

“Never,” Lancelot told Vera when she’d asked. “We’ve never done anything like this, which, obviously, was madness.” He gestured at the growing crowd. Nearly everyone not actively watching nor participating in the joust had gathered for the inaugural Tournament of the People (that’s what Lancelot called it). He hopped up on the pit wall and shouted with impressive bravado. “Gather ‘round, good people of Camelot and travelers from hill and valley of our great kingdom!”

“Ooh, very nice,” Vera murmured from his side.

He glanced down at her in satisfaction. “Good, right?” he said quietly.

“Hear ye, now! I present to you a game not for the likes of those skilled on a horse nor with a sword: a game for all. A game that will test the skill of your eye at reading the face in front of you, a game that will tire your hands and excite your hearts.” He lowered his voice dramatically. “A game that, ultimately, can only be determined by fate.”

“All right, get on with it,” Vera said.

Obligingly, he did. In the same dramatic manner, he told the game’s rules: that they’d play “matches” of three games for each opponent, and he added rules that Vera hadn’t taught him. “You must show your selection on the fourth slap of your hand. You’ll receive one in-good-faith warning, but after that,” he pointed emphatically in the air and paused for a breath, “your opponent wins that game.” As he wrapped up, he reviewed the rules with the crowd’s help. “Is this paper?” Lancelot cried, holding his flat hand turned on its side with the fingers atop one another.

“No!” the crowd shouted in unison. Vera chortled into her hands.

“Is this paper?” He corrected his hand, flattening it out in front of him.

“Yes!” they cried.

Lancelot thrust his fist into the air and pronounced the tournament’s official start.

“Uh oh.” He hopped down from the wall.

“What?”

“Merlin,” he said, looking pointedly over Vera’s shoulder.

She heard him before she turned around to see him.

“What are you doing?” He held his face carefully taut, though a vein pulsed in his forehead.

“Playing a game,” Lancelot said, as if it were obvious. “Guinna taught me.”

Merlin pointed stiffly at the match playing out behind them. “That is not a game from our time, and you’ve taught everyone. You cannot do that. You can’t make up your own rules!”

“Oh, I see,” Vera said. “You’re the only one allowed to do that.”

He glowered at her as Lancelot, without so much as a glance in her direction, held his hand up to the side for a high five. Vera grinned and slapped it. Merlin visibly seethed.

“Aw, come now, Merlin. There’s no harm in it.” Lancelot gave Merlin’s shoulder a companionable squeeze. “I’ve actually got you slotted to play in the tournament, and you get a pass this round. What do you say? Automatically compete in round two?”

He huffed, fixing Vera with a disappointed shake of his head, but he gave up on arguing.

“Poor Merlin.” Lancelot sighed as the mage strode away. “Between the two of us, we’ll be the death of him. I’m sure of it.”

Vera might have felt guilty that they’d ganged up on him if she hadn’t just learned of his damn potions. He deserved more than a little social discomfort. But Merlin surprised her and actually showed up to play his round. When he won the first two games of three, taking the match, Vera thought she saw the flicker of a smile as the spectators cheered their mage on with pride.

Lancelot intervened during match disputes when someone threw their pick at the wrong time or hesitated too long. He kept it light and kept Vera laughing.

“Now, now, now, wait a minute!” He charged in as some folks in the crowd grew heated at perceived cheating. “We, the convened, have a duty, nay—a responsibility to uphold the honor of this prestigious tournament. Are we without compassion?”

They all chorused a resounding no.

“Nay! We are not. As was discussed, we will give one warning.” Lancelot turned to the accused party. “All right, a reminder, lad: rock, paper, scissors, and then show your choice.”

The jousting finished before the rock, paper, scissors tournament, and all the knights and soldiers came to cheer on whoever remained in the game, throwing their support behind who was most local to their towns. They cheered loudly at victory and groaned when defeat came.

Merlin was the clear crowd favorite and progressed all the way to the final match before he was beaten in the third bout by a sweet elderly woman from out of town. He laughed, something Vera had never seen, and hugged the woman in congratulations. Percival, the joust’s winner, rushed to Vera’s side and pushed his prize, a golden peacock statue, into her hands with a glance at the woman.

“Are you sure?” she had to yell to be heard over the roar of the crowd. He nodded.

Lancelot announced the winner as she presented the woman with her prize. Vera caught Arthur’s eye in the crowd, clapping with the rest. She saw pure, untarnished joy—certainly, for the day’s goodness, for the sense of community among his people—but this, what she saw right now, she knew to her core it came because of her.

Vera had never been happier in her entire life than she was right now, staring at Arthur through the crowd. He started toward her, and she tore her eyes away to congratulate the woman once more before turning back to him.

Vera knew what she wanted to say and felt a thrill of nerves course through her. “Arthur, I—” she said as he got close enough to hear, but he didn’t stop. Without breaking his stride, Arthur slid one hand around her waist, pulling Vera to him and kissing her without hesitation.

Her hands went to his chest, grabbing his shirt and clutching him to her as if afraid he might change his mind at any second. When Vera felt the tip of his tongue tease a caress across her own, she gasped only to keep herself from moaning in pleasure. She pulled back from him and pressed her lips together.

“I don’t know how I’m going to leave,” she said as soon as she trusted her voice, letting her selfish thoughts win out and feeling the heavy sting of guilt that followed. She had to get home to her parents—to her father. And she wasn’t Guinevere; she didn’t belong here.

Arthur was a master of his emotions, and Vera had become nearly as masterful at reading him. She saw him try to tamp down his elation with a heavy swallow. “I don’t want you to leave,” was all he said. Her heart would have leapt were it not all fouled by magic’s intervention and Vera’s inevitable, necessary departure.

He kissed her—tenderly this time. Slowly. As he pulled away, he thought better of it, instead resting his forehead against hers. Such untamed desire in his eyes—ah, of course. The potion to make him want her. Arthur didn’t know he’d been drinking it. She had to tell him.

They had not even broken their embrace when a sound echoed through Camelot. It was the multi-toned dissonance, its quality the contrast of rich and shrill, and its unnaturally loud volume planted a sense of dread in all who heard it. It was a horn’s blast, but different from the one the day the boar got loose. Arthur had told her of this horn, that it was made to be a siren. That was the purpose of it, never to be blown except under the gravest of circumstances.

When it blared its torturous call, it was met with more terror than it would have received had it not come at a time when it could crush such brazen bliss. The cries were more panicked. Many people ducked as if the horn was a dragon in the sky, swooping down to set them aflame. Frenzy erupted.

Arthur tensed, but he did not immediately let go of Vera. He held her a fraction of a second into the turmoil, a frozen pool in the roiling waters, and kissed her once more—for Arthur knew what the horn meant. Whatever was coming, whatever reason the alarm was raised, it all came back to one thing.

Camelot … life, as they knew it, had ended.

The heavy quiet in the throne room offered a reprieve from the shattering chaos outside, but it was not better. It was the stillness of waiting for awful news and praying it was the least sort of awful rather than the most.

When Arthur had released Vera from his embrace, he kept hold of her hand, pulling her to tail behind him as he entered the cacophony. She bore witness as a remarkable order unfurled among the knights and Arthur. Foreign to her, for them it was as natural as breathing. She hadn’t seen Elaine all day, but now she was there, right next to Vera with a protective hand on her back, her eyes hard, and the lines of her square face set. All of them—all the king’s guard and his knights, save for Randall and Lancelot, found Arthur as if summoned by some invisible force. Arthur climbed atop a barrel one-handed, for he hadn’t let go of Vera.

His eyes searched the knights, falling on Edwin. Vera watched their silent exchange in awe as Edwin wove through the others and climbed up next to Arthur. He closed his eyes, his face drawn in concentration, as he cupped one hand around the front of the king’s throat. It would have looked like a threat were it not for Arthur’s calm, which spread from him like a rush of warmth on a cold day.

When he spoke, his voice was amplified by a gift flowing through Edwin’s fingertips. The people quieted at his call, and not only because of its volume. That wave of consolation came through his voice, too. It felt like the taste of caramel; just as it slowed the tongue in eating, Arthur’s voice slowed the swelling panic.

He announced that the people would be welcomed to the keep and set Percival to lead, reminding them of all the protections in place, assuring that he would give more information as soon as he could, and above all, that he would exhaust every resource to protect them. Vera felt so small in his presence that she was embarrassed to be touching him, like he was too great a force to be lassoed to the ground by her.

When Lancelot and Randall dashed through the throngs with a soldier between them that Vera recognized from the wall, everything rushed back into motion.

“Tell me,” Arthur said without any formalities as he stepped back down.

“Two thousand by my estimation,” Randall said. “They’re a day’s ride out, but one rode ahead. We’re apprehending him.”

Now, in the throne room, they waited for the messenger. Two thousand was small for an invasion, making that an unlikely explanation. Vera naively thought this was good news, that it saved them from the weight of dread closing in, but it did not ease the tensions. Two thousand was too large a force for anything that wasn’t sinister.

They were all gathered: the whole king’s guard, Matilda, and both of Camelot’s mages. Vera was frightened. They were all in hushed conversations with one another or staring at the door expectantly, except Tristan. Her eyes found his, and a memory bloomed in her mind.

Vera stood on a vast and smoldering field dotted with dirt hillocks for a crop she couldn’t guess at, smoke rising in curling tendrils in unnatural jewel colors, shades hinting at magic. It might have been beautiful if she’d not been able to taste the acrid odor of roasted flesh and something grossly metallic. The hillocks’ uneven spacing, the awkward sizes … her eyes focused through the smoke’s haze and the expanding light of sunrise. Bodies. Body parts, not dirt. The sharp slap of the smell of blood, the beginnings of decay, and the looming understanding that this was her doing.

Vera—Guinevere—Vera turned in place, her face a careful mask of calm. She was the architect of this bloodshed. All the lives wiped clean from existence on this battlefield were on her hands.

When she turned, she nearly bumped into Tristan at her shoulder, strong, muddied and bloodied. He wasn’t to be fooled by her façade. He saw the truth; Guinevere was destroyed. For a fraction of a second, his chin quivered. He gripped her elbow and surveyed the wreckage.

That was it.

Vera blinked the memory away.

Tristan offered a thin smile across the throne room that she couldn’t return. The gravity of what had just happened—a memory, a real memory—pressed down on her. That had been different. That wasn’t like Merlin’s memories or the things that felt like a dream in the sensory tub. Vera remembered. Her own memories. Did that mean that she—

The doors flung open. The messenger was rushed in, supported on either side by two of Camelot’s soldiers. He wasn’t bound nor flanked from behind by any additional guards. He wore no armor and was only held beneath the arms by the soldiers because he’d collapse on his own. Arthur was on his feet first. The guards got the man a chair as Lancelot brought water. Arthur knelt before the man, peering up into his face with intensity, an impressive amalgamation of scrutiny and compassion.

The man’s breaths came in ragged, unsteady heaves. He wouldn’t be ready to speak for some time. Arthur turned to the soldier at his right. The soldier cast about himself uncertainly and only spoke after Lancelot gave him a curt nod.

“It—it was a Saxon invasion on Crayford, sire. The ones to come are refugees. Survivors. The entire city’s been destroyed. This is Robert, their town steward.”

It set the room humming with murmurs. There’d been no invasions since the final battle of the wars. When the exhausted messenger from Crayford began to speak, his voice was so quiet that Vera almost didn’t hear him at first. Arthur leaned closer to him.

“Quiet,” Lancelot barked as he sat down next to Vera.

“Every person with a gift was killed.” Robert’s voice broke, but he valiantly continued after a pause. “There was a light, bright and fierce. Everyone with a gift in the reach of the light fell immediately. The gifted who escaped its reach were tracked down and slaughtered—” He cleared his throat heavily. “Impaled by spikes the size of my arm.”

“How did they know who had gifts?” Gawain asked, his face markedly emotionless.

“We celebrate our gifted more than any other city in this kingdom,” the man said, his eyes pleading with the mage for a forgiveness and peace that no one could give. “Their names are on a celebrated roll. We paraded them. It was no secret.”

“How many were among the Saxon force?” Arthur asked.

Robert recoiled, his surprise enough to stave off his grief. “You misunderstand me, Your Majesty. It wasn’t an army. It was one Saxon.”

“One man did this?” Merlin said sharply.

“Yes. A king. A mage. There is nothing left of Crayford.”

“The village was burned?” Arthur asked.

“No. Most homes and shops are fine.” Robert shook his head, and his eyes drifted out of focus, back to Crayford. “The land. The land has died. Every blade of grass. Not burned.” His voice rose, nearing hysterics. “Dead. The life was sucked out of it.”

Robert gave in to the heaving sobs. Arthur lay a hand on his shuddering shoulder as he spoke to the soldiers. “Take him to rest.”

“I need to ask you all to leave while I speak to our mages,” Arthur said as he stood, his eyes following Robert and the soldiers out the door. “Percival, tell the people what we know, and then come find me. Anyone from the festival who wants to stay in the safety of Camelot may do so. Tristan, go with him. The rest of you, we need to ready the troops and send word to prepare the kingdom’s forces. Pray they won’t be needed.”

They left without question. Lancelot didn’t move.

“Should I go?” Vera whispered.

“You stay,” he said. “You always stay.” Evidently, so did he.

The second the room was clear, Arthur turned to Merlin. “Do you think this is the leader Viviane had in mind?”

“I believe it is,” Merlin said gravely.

Oh my God. Vera’s heart sank. They’d waited too long. They’d played it too slowly. What were they thinking?

Merlin’s next words were a life preserver, the one escape from the disaster she’d thrown them into. “We need to get Guinevere’s memories back. The procedure will work, and we must do it now. I would not suggest it if it were not necessary. I’ll be as careful as I can.”

He was right. Of course. How could she have ever put herself above this kingdom? It was so much more real now, with an entire town’s gifted exterminated. How many would that be? If there were two thousand remaining, what did that mean? Five hundred dead? Five hundred lives traded for Vera’s life, for her comfort and happiness.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

Arthur’s face had gone pale. He knew they were out of options.

“We should not push the queen’s mind,” Gawain said. Merlin went unnaturally still. “Your Majesty, we must go to the council of mages. Viviane has been in the grave for nearly two years. The Saxon mage brought the doom. It wasn’t a curse of magic fading. It was a deliberate act perpetrated by a dark mage and an aggressor against this kingdom. He destroyed the magic in that village and corrupted the land. We don’t know what else he has done, and we can’t afford to wait to seek help.”

“We also don’t know where he is,” Merlin bit back. “Traveling with a large enough party to stay protected makes us a target, and it makes us vulnerable. What if this dark mage kills us all, Gawain? What then?”

Lancelot sat up straighter. “Then let’s not travel with a large party.”

They all looked at him.

“It need not be public information,” he explained, seeming to build on the idea as he said it. “We travel small, and we move quickly.”

Merlin shifted in his seat. “Your Majesty, you must consider the uncertainties. The mages may not be able to help. We can retrieve Guinevere’s memories.”

“If you don’t kill her first,” Lancelot spat. And he didn’t even know what Gawain and Vera knew, that there was no outcome where she emerged unscathed.

“It doesn’t make sense to start with the queen. The risk is high. It’s far too high.” Gawain appealed directly to Arthur. “There is the likelihood, perhaps the certainty—”

“Gawain,” Merlin warned.

Gawain didn’t stop. He spoke louder. “That further intervention will cause her mind to break. She might survive but wouldn’t have enough brain function left to swallow food.”

“Enough!” Merlin slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair.

Gawain’s characteristic scowl was nothing to the wrath that marred his features. “What good would it do if she dies before she can tell us what happened? It’s prudent we go to the mages first and only push Guinevere’s mind as a last resort.”

Merlin began arguing, but Arthur held up a hand. “We’re going to the mages.”

It was decided. Merlin and Gawain, Arthur, Lancelot, Vera, and two other soldiers.

“I think we should also bring one more knight with Guinevere coming,” Lancelot said. “Percival would be best.”

“No. Percival will stay as king regent,” Arthur said. “We’ll bring Tristan.”

Lancelot nearly hid the glimmer of a scowl, but Vera saw it. “Why not Randall? Or Marian?”

Arthur shook his head. “I want them in Camelot. Tristan is the right choice.” He didn’t elaborate; it was not up for discussion. Lancelot stiffly crossed his arms over his chest, displeased.

They would leave this evening under the cover of darkness.

Arthur and Vera went straight to their quarters to pack. She shoved her running trainers and socks into a rucksack, deliberating what to say to him. The memories were right there. She’d had a real memory. The rest couldn’t be far behind. But that brought up another issue entirely that Vera hadn’t had time to reckon with: she truly was Guinevere.

Before she could work up the nerve to speak, Percival and Tristan were at the door. Percival dutifully reported the city’s status: calmer than before but fortifying itself in preparations for the barrage of refugees.

“They responded to Percival well,” Tristan added, clearly impressed. “Almost how they’d respond to you.”

Percival shrugged off the compliment. “What news from the mages?” he asked.

Arthur was honest. There was plenty he couldn’t say, which Percival readily accepted. He only balked when Arthur relayed their travel plans. “You’ll stay in Camelot,” he told the young knight. “I need you to serve as king regent.”

Percival drew back before his brow furrowed, making his scar the dominant feature of his handsome face. “The queen should be in charge,” he said.

Arthur shook his head. “She’s coming with us.”

“Why?” Percival asked. It was a fair question, and there were plenty of reasons. Because she wanted to, for one. Because Arthur knew the safest place would be with him and Lancelot. And because if something happened with her mind, they needed mages there.

Instead, Vera said, “I want to go,” at the same time that Arthur said, “I will not leave her.”

To her surprise, that was justification enough for Percival.

“Tristan,” Arthur looked to him, and he dutifully stepped forward, “I need you to come on the road as the queen’s guard.”

Vera jolted. She hadn’t realized that was the additional knight’s purpose.

“I’d be honored, Your Majesty,” he said, his eyes lighting up.

“Arthur, I don’t know how to act as king,” Percival said.

“Of course you do.” Arthur crossed the room to the desk. He collected a stack of parchments and handed them to a stunned Percival before he paused thoughtfully. “I’ll show you a few things. Come on.” Vera began following him to the door. Arthur stopped her. His eyes flicked to Tristan for the length of a blink before resting on her. “Stay. Finish packing.”

“I—” she stammered. “All right.”

“Should Tristan—?” Percival began.

“No,” Arthur said. “He can stay.”

Their footsteps echoed down the hall, leaving her and Tristan alone. Unsure what else to do, she resumed packing while he wandered over to the window. Its shutter was latched open, and a pleasant breeze slipped through the rods. Tristan grabbed one of the bars and gave it a sturdy shake. Vera hadn’t realized she’d stopped, a travel cloak mid-fold between her hands, to watch him. There was something she was missing about Tristan. She was right on the edge of it and couldn’t break through, couldn’t clear the last cobweb obscuring the memory. Vera clamped her eyes shut in an effort to focus. She dropped to sit on the bed behind her.

“Gwen?” Tristan said warily. Vera let her eyes flutter open. He was already closing the space between them. “Are you frightened?”

“I’m—” She cast about for the right words, but her head spun. She was so close to it.

Tristan pulled a chair over and sat, facing her. He smiled grimly. “I know. It hasn’t felt like this since the wars. It’ll be all right.” He rubbed her arm above the elbow, and there it was.

Vera remembered.

There was no dramatic moment of recollection, no reliving the scenes like in the sensory tub. One second, she’d have never thought to touch this dusty corner of her mind, and the next, Tristan and so many things about him were just … there as if they always had been. There was a whole childhood of memories with the man in front of her. Their parents had one tutor who taught both of them. Tristan had shown Vera how to hang upside down from a tree branch by her knees, and she’d gotten him into a world of trouble when they started a midsummer bonfire that nearly set his neighbor’s barley field aflame. Between two lifetimes of growing up, Tristan was the dearest childhood friend she’d ever had.

So many years ago, on a rainy summer day in Tristan’s father’s barn, he had been her first kiss. Sour, salty, or sweet. It was a game they played when one’s eyes were closed, and the other was meant to surprise with a bite of food, and they’d laugh together when it shocked the tastebuds. They took it in turns, and it was Tristan’s turn to keep his eyes shut. Vera was fourteen, and the tension had been rising between them for months. Years, really. She had decided hours before that today would be the day. When Vera had filled his lips with her own rather than the sweet cake between her fingers, Tristan’s lips joined the dance.

But it didn’t end there. And their fathers’ plans that they should marry weren’t merely advantageous; they were kind. Tristan and Vera had been in love. The missing years she hadn’t been able to reach before flooded in. Flashes of joy, brushing hands beneath tablecloths at banquets, dances when he held her a little too tightly, stolen kisses when they thought they were being sneaky behind their parents’ or the servants’ backs, but everyone had known.

And she remembered the day it all ended when she met him in that same barn. This time, it was a perfect sunny day. The light found each chink and crack in the wood-slatted wall and lit Tristan and Vera in uneven stripes. She cried as she told him she’d chosen to marry the king. He’d begged her not to and painted the story of the life that Tristan and Guinevere could have together. It would have been a good life, a great one. She’d known what she was giving up, but she also knew it was best for the kingdom … that bringing her father’s lands and troops (Tristan among them) would make it all possible to build the new dream of a nation.

Tristan had even ridden with their party the whole journey to Camelot, not yet having given up that Guinevere might change her mind after she met Arthur and that he could whisk her away. But then he met Arthur, and Tristan came to her that night.

That time, it was him who told Vera through tears that she was right, because Tristan had seen the light in Arthur that everyone else saw, too.

He’d even traveled the distance from his home in the north after the wars. Arthur had sent for him when the original Guinevere was at her lowest, barely able to rise from the bed. Tristan sat by her side for days, but it made no difference to her.

“I regret ever leaving,” Tristan said. It brought Vera out of her remembering. His gaze darted to the window. “I left, and then you fell.” Sorrow marred his handsome face.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Vera said. That wasn’t what had happened to the Guinevere he’d known and loved. But she couldn’t tell him that.

“Are you … happy with him?” Tristan asked, not daring to look at her.

“Yes,” Vera said, and it wasn’t a lie.

“I’m glad for you. I mean it,” he said as he stood. “It is my honor to serve as your guard.”

“Thank you,” she managed to murmur once he was halfway to the door.

By the time Arthur came back, Vera knew that she should tell him, but she couldn’t find the words.

They left as soon as the horizon devoured the sun’s last light, and they rode through the night, taking only short breaks. The Magesary was in Oxford, well over a hundred kilometers away. They’d ride the next two days as well.

Dawn was a solid two hours off and the sky an inky void when they arrived at their destination, an unassuming nunnery north of Bristol. The prioress was a woman Arthur knew and trusted. She discreetly put them up in their guest rooms.