“How do we explain our arrival at their village?” Sir Tristan asked.
Guinevere would resume her role as queen earlier than expected. It was disappointing to lose the freedom of being someone else, but at least it gave her something to train her mind on. An excuse to look forward instead of back. “We do exactly what Hild wants. We say we were nearby, met Hild, and are visiting to extend an invitation from King Arthur. Your people can meet with him and discuss ways to work together in the future. We can even take one of your brothers with us. We are going to a wedding.”
Hild nodded eagerly, then squinched up her face in thought. “Maybe we get close to the village and then walk. I am not supposed to take the ship.”
Guinevere laughed. “But you are so good at it!”
Hild frowned. “How do you know? You sleep the whole time.” Hild set down her cloak, lay on top of it, and closed her eyes. “We leave at dawn.”
Brangien and Isolde had their arms around each other. Brangien’s head was on Isolde’s shoulder, and Isolde rested her cheek against the top of Brangien’s head. Their lips were moving, but they spoke so softly that Guinevere could not hear. Sir Tristan faced out toward the night, taking first watch.
Lancelot sat down next to Guinevere. “You have bruises on your neck.”
Guinevere traced her neck with her fingers. Hopefully Brangien had something they could use to cover the evidence of King Mark’s violence for the wedding. And for the meeting with Hild’s brothers. She did not want any rumors starting.
Her fingers stayed on her throat. She wondered if she could get her hands around a neck tightly enough to do what King Mark had done. His hands were so much bigger than hers. He was so much stronger. Just like Maleagant had been. If Guinevere had not been able to draw on something wild and violent, if it had been only her, just a girl, how could she have fought either of them?
But if she were just a normal girl, Maleagant would never have known she existed. She would never have gone to King Mark’s to rescue Isolde. He would never have attacked her. And he would still be a person, instead of an empty shell.
Maleagant would still be alive to destabilize Arthur’s kingdom, and King Mark would still have Isolde. Guinevere watched through the sparks and flames as Brangien said something and Isolde let out a single short laugh. It was a small moment, but knowing what Guinevere did about the pain Isolde had been through, it was everything.
“I am fine,” Guinevere said to Lancelot. She stood and strode a few steps into the trees. The wind had shifted, blowing the smoke toward her face, and it made her want to cry.
Lancelot followed. Her face was like a book that had been shut, revealing nothing.
“Are you angry with me?” Guinevere asked.
“I am angry with myself. And with that man.”
“But it worked. We won.”
“We did not win. You survived. That is not the same thing. How will I explain this to King Arthur? How can he allow me to continue as your knight when he sees this? My failure is written across your neck.”
“This was my choice. All of it.”
“It should never have been you who went. I was a fool to agree.”
“Why should anyone else have gone?”
“Because you are the queen!”
“You know perfectly well that title is a lie. It means nothing.” Guinevere was startled by her vehemence. But it was true. Not only because Guinevere was not really Guinevere, but because she was only one person regardless. Why should she matter more than anyone else? Why should someone like King Mark be in charge of an entire city? Because of who he was born to? Because of gold, or a sword, or—
Guinevere stopped her thoughts. Arthur was king because of a sword. And because of who he was born to. But he was so much better than that vile man.
Lancelot shook her head. “You may not have been born to be queen, but that does not change the fact that you are the queen. It means something to me. And it means something to King Arthur. I was wrong to agree. He will take away my knighthood.”
“Nonsense. You did what I asked of you. If King Arthur wants to be cross, he can be cross with me.”
“I am the one who will answer for this! Did you never think of that?” Lancelot’s expression was stricken. “He will make me leave, and I have to—I need to protect you. From the moment we met in the forest, I have known it was my life’s duty to defend you.”
Guinevere could not take this guilt on top of the rest. Lancelot needed to realize that Guinevere was not really the queen, and never would be. “But before that was it not your life’s duty to kill Uther Pendragon? And then was it not your life’s duty to become a knight to serve Arthur?” Guinevere did not want to be cruel, but she was so tired and everything hurt and she did not deserve to be protected. “You would do better to return to your previous sworn duty. Arthur is more deserving than I.”
Lancelot looked as though Guinevere had delivered a physical blow. She stalked back to camp, leaving Guinevere alone in the dark.
Mordred laces his fingers through hers, lying next to her. Flowers bloom around them as they stare up, the clouds writing unintelligible stories across the sky.
“Did I do the wrong thing?” Guinevere does not quite know why she asked. There is something hazy lingering on the borders of the meadow, a sense of unease. It smells like smoke. But when she looks to see it, there is nothing there.