The way every muscle Guinevere was pressed against became taut and ready was the only indication Guinevere had that Arthur was no longer asleep.
Lancelot began whistling. It sounded distracted, like she was whistling without realizing it. From her limited vantage point, Guinevere noticed several hands stealing from bedrolls to grip the weapons that were never more than an arm’s length away.
“Now!” Lancelot shouted. Sir Tristan leapt to his feet, bow in hand, arrow nocked. More than half the guards did the same. The rest, not fully awake yet, scrambled to catch up. Arthur stood. Excalibur was still sheathed on the ground.
“Sword!” Arthur shouted, holding out a hand. A guard tossed his own through the air and Arthur caught it neatly by the pommel, twirling it once to test the weight and balance.
“We know you are there.” Lancelot’s voice was clear and strong. Guinevere recognized it as the voice she had used as the patchwork knight. Lancelot had let her voice relax and go higher since then, so it was a surprise to hear her old one. Perhaps she had settled back into it because she once again wore her old armor. Or perhaps it was safer out here to use that voice rather than one that was obviously a woman’s. “However many you are, this is not a fight you want.”
“You sure about that?” a man sneered through the darkness. “Because— Oh.”
The voice cut itself off. All the guards were ready, and faced the trees in a circle. Guinevere’s heart was racing. She should be able to help, but she felt powerless. It reminded her of being in that terrible shack in the middle of the river, held there by Maleagant, unable to do anything as he used her as a pawn against Arthur. She could still feel the sting of his hand against her cheek. The terror at being held above the river, only his grip between her and the water.
“You—you are the patchwork knight.” The man said it as a statement, not a question. Guinevere could not see him, but he sounded close.
“I am,” Lancelot answered.
“We thought you were dead. No one has seen you. Not in months.”
“I assure you I am quite alive.”
“We did not realize this was your camp. We, uh, were just inspecting. Seeing who was nearby. Leaving now, no harm done. You have a nice morning.”
Lancelot did not shift from her ready stance. After what could have been minutes or hours, fear distorting the passage of time, Lancelot finally turned toward the camp.
“They are gone.”
The guards let out a collective sigh of relief. Sir Tristan laughed. “They had no idea the king is here. Your reputation precedes us.”
The blocky guard’s face was alight with awe. “Sir Lancelot’s reputation saved us.”
“I used to patrol this territory. It was good practice.” Lancelot crouched to stoke the fire, effectively cutting off any further discussion about how her prowess alone was enough to frighten off would-be thieves and murderers.
Arthur took a step toward the trees. “We would have won the fight. We should go after them.”
“If the queen were not here, I would agree,” Lancelot answered. “I do not like those men going free to prey on others. But we cannot split our force, and I will not leave her without a full guard.”
“Of course. Yes. Neither would I.” Arthur returned the borrowed sword, then lay back down with his arms behind his head, his relaxed appearance belied by the slight frown pulling at his eyebrows.
Guinevere could see how it nagged at him to let those men go free. And she wondered, too, if his pride was a bit stung. It was Lancelot’s name and reputation that had scared them away. Or at least who Lancelot had been before she became a knight.
“I do not like it, either,” Guinevere said, sitting beside him. “I wish I could chase them down and…” Hurt them? Kill them? She had killed men before, drunk on magic and power. She did not like the way it had felt—because it had not felt like anything, which was terrifying. The men had not mattered at all. She had been channeling the Dark Queen’s power then, which meant she understood some of how the Dark Queen viewed humanity.
Like ants. Ignored until they became pests, and then eliminated without a thought. It was how the fairy queen viewed all life, if the wolves were any indication. She stole their free will and sent them to their deaths.
Guinevere sighed and lay back, shoulder to shoulder with Arthur. “I almost wish it had been the Dark Queen,” she whispered. “Or a magical attack. Dangerous, greedy men are so much more complicated.”
Arthur actually laughed, turning to look at her, his pretense of going back to sleep gone. “And fighting the fairy queen would be simple?”
“We know she has to be eliminated.”
Arthur looked less certain. “I keep imagining facing her again. But every time I picture it, Mordred comes between us. And I do not know what I would do then. If I would kill him. If I could. I know he betrayed us, but…he is family. And I still love him.”
Something in Guinevere loosened. Not a magical knot tying her to one of her spells, but an emotional one of fear and anxiety. She was right not to have tried to kill Mordred. And perhaps she was even right to have hidden his presence from Arthur and Lancelot. If they had known he was nearby, they would have felt duty bound to go after him. She did not want to put Arthur in that position. It had been hard enough for her to kill the wolves. How much harder for Arthur to decide whether or not to kill his own nephew?
Mordred was a traitor. He was made at least in part from fairy magic and had brought the Dark Queen back to physical form. He was also Arthur’s nephew, had fought side by side with him, had laughed and made Guinevere feel welcome, had comforted her when she was injured, had kissed her, had hurt her, had proved he did not want to harm her again. How could one person be so many things? And how could they ever make a decision about him that would take all those things into account?
“If you and I leave right now we can still catch those men,” Guinevere said.