Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You want to hunt them down and kill them?”
Guinevere shrugged. “I could figure out a knot that would addle their brains so badly they would not remember which end of a sword to pick up. Though I would be very silly and confused for a few days as a result.”
“As fun as that sounds, Sir Lancelot is right. We have no reason to risk it.” But Arthur sounded more cheerful. Just the idea that they could go after the men if they wanted to seemed to make him feel better about letting the men escape. If Guinevere felt occasionally trapped by Camelot and its stone and its rules, perhaps Arthur did, too. His stories from last night had been all adventures and travel, making friends and defeating enemies.
Maybe that was why he spent so much time patrolling his own lands, doing things that most kings would assign to their knights or soldiers. He had after all grown up a parentless servant and page, not a prince. Being king was not a natural role for him.
It was another thing that bonded them. She had not grown up a princess, and still felt more at home out here than she did in Camelot.
Guinevere was hit with a sudden longing for what her treacherous dream had presented: a moment in a meadow in the sunshine. She wanted a blissfully free, giddy escape with someone. But she was determined that it should be Arthur.
They started traveling late that morning. Guinevere half suspected Arthur had delayed in hopes the thieves would come back and he would get his fight, but the brigands wisely stayed away.
“Tell me about your sister,” Guinevere said as they waited for the men to finish packing camp. She kept thinking about his stories from the night before, how simple they were. How straightforward. Surely there had been more to Sir Caradoc’s willingness to give up his crown. And she knew there was more to Mordred and Morgan le Fay than any of the stories told.
“My sister?”
“Morgan le Fay.”
“My half sister,” Arthur corrected her. “There is nothing to tell. She hates me. She has wanted me dead since I was born, and she tried to kill me several times when I was a child.”
“How?” Guinevere had never heard about that. She had heard only bits and pieces of Arthur’s childhood, most from Sir Ector and Sir Kay, his foster family. His terrible foster family.
Arthur shrugged. “I do not know the details. Merlin told me about it when I was older.”
“But you let Mordred fight at your side, knowing he was her son?”
Arthur rubbed his face. He stared toward the trees as though looking for a threat, or for an escape. “We are not our parents. I wanted him to be more than what he came from. He disappointed me.”
Arthur had always fought against what his tyrant father stood for. Of course he would have generously extended that same opportunity to Mordred and hoped for the best. “You never met Morgan le Fay, though? Even now, when surely she could not hurt you?” Guinevere was curious what a sorceress was like. She had known a wizard, and she had known witches, but a sorceress seemed special.
“Merlin told me I should never let her speak to me. I should put a sword in her heart before listening to a word from her mouth.”
Guinevere was mildly horrified. It seemed extreme. She knew Arthur had to kill enemies, but to strike without question or hesitation the moment he saw someone? “Does she have some sort of power? Could she enchant you just by speaking?”
Arthur shrugged. “I do not know.”
“But why else would Merlin tell you to kill her rather than letting her speak?”
Arthur shrugged. “If Merlin tells me something, I do it. He has only ever protected me.”
Guinevere had no response to that. She did not agree with his trust in Merlin, but she did not want to quarrel or to keep digging at painful parts of Arthur’s family tree. She let the conversation drop as they began to ride.
After only an hour on the road, though, they were interrupted by the sound of pounding hooves. The company stopped, swords drawn to greet whoever was coming, but the rider was revealed to be none other than Brangien. She rode white-faced and clinging to the reins. None of the swords were put away, all the men staring down the road beyond Brangien to see who was chasing her.
“My queen,” she gasped, stopping her horse.
“What happened? Is it Guinevach?” They never should have left! If anything had happened in the city in their absence, it was Guinevere’s fault. She had shown too much compassion. To Guinevach. To Mordred. If her compassion cost a single life, she would never forgive herself. Those lives would be on her head.
“No, it is—I am—I did not want you to be alone.” She glanced at the guards around them. Guinevere intuited her meaning and dismounted, helping Brangien down and drawing her far enough away that they could not be overheard.
“What is it?”
Brangien’s voice came out a whisper. “News arrived for Dindrane. King Mark will not be attending her wedding because there is to be a trial for his wife.”
Guinevere frowned. Why this necessitated Brangien flinging herself through the countryside in a panic, she could not understand. Until she did. King Mark was the king Brangien and Sir Tristan had fled from. The king who had married Brangien’s beloved Isolde.
Guinevere took Brangien’s hands, feeling them tremble in her own. “A trial for what?”