Guinevere sat in the garden for a long time, wishing he had kissed her, given her an excuse to jump without looking. That was not Arthur’s way, though. It never had been.
When the sun grew low, she returned to her rooms. Brangien complained at her being late and rushed to get her ready. “Do you want to wear the crown?” she asked. It was an offhand question, but it felt as though it carried all the weight in the world.
Did Guinevere want to wear the crown?
“Yes,” she said.
Brangien pinned it in place, and together with Isolde and the guard who had taken Lancelot’s place, they left for the great hall. When she entered, Arthur stood and smiled at her. It warmed her through. There might not be the dangerous sparks she had with Mordred, but this was a strong love. A true love, built on friendship and admiration and trust. She could not trust Merlin, or her own mind, or her past, or even her future. But she could trust Arthur.
This time she had a place at his side. Arthur had changed the seating arrangement so that the women and men were not separated. Dindrane was nearby, laughing at something Sir Bors had said. Brangien and Isolde stood ready in the corner, leaning close and sharing a whispered conversation. Brangien tucked some of Isolde’s shining auburn hair into place, a simple tenderness in the movement. Lily was on Arthur’s other side, Sir Gawain next to her. He had a look on his face like he could not quite believe his luck, and Lily, sweet girl, beamed and chattered, but with an ease that made Guinevere realize how desperate and scared Lily had been before. Arthur laughed at something Sir Tristan said. The sound rang through the room. Everyone had a place here, and everyone was happy with that place.
Guinevere glanced at the opposite end of the table. Even though the other unmarried knights were around Lancelot, she seemed separate. She was not speaking with anyone, or laughing. Her eyes met Guinevere’s, and there was a loneliness in them that Guinevere felt and understood instinctively. She and Lancelot managed to be both a part of Camelot and apart from it.
Arthur’s hand found hers beneath the table. He slipped his fingers between hers and she stared down at them. Her fingers, pale and slender. His, tanned and rough. Guinevere and Arthur. Queen and king.
“I have an answer,” she whispered.
He squeezed her fingers.
The door opened and a page hurried to Arthur’s side with a scroll sealed with wax. Arthur reverted to being king. He pulled his fingers free from Guinevere’s and opened the scroll, glancing at it without curiosity. But then he froze, his eyes widening. It was almost the same expression Hild’s brother had made when the sword went through his stomach.
“What is it?” Guinevere asked, suddenly afraid. The room continued chattering around them, the noise covering their conversation.
“My son. He is alive. He has been alive this whole time.”
“Elaine’s baby?” Guinevere leaned close to read the letter. It was from a lady’s maid in a southern lord’s house. She had heard of Arthur from his visit, heard that he was a good man. Now that Maleagant was dead, she felt safe enough to write.
Elaine had died in childbirth. Arthur had not been there, and Guinevere knew it was one of his deepest regrets. Even though Elaine had been Maleagant’s sister, working with the evil man to manipulate and overthrow Arthur, Arthur had loved her. And he had sent her away, and then she had died giving birth to their son.
A son Arthur had been told also died at birth. A son this woman was writing to tell him was alive and well and his.
Arthur stood, his face frantic. “I have to get him. Right now.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Guinevere did not know what to do. Should she go with him? She could help. She knew she could.
“Brothers,” Arthur said
, his voice instantly quieting the room. “I have news and require men to help me on a quest. Perhaps the greatest quest I have ever—” His voice cut off. He was holding the letter so tightly, the edges were wrinkling. “It is a personal quest. I do not know what we will find on the other end, whether we will meet with a fight or not. But I want my most trusted men at my side.”
Sir Tristan stood without hesitation. Sir Bors, Sir Percival, Sir Caradoc, Sir Gawain. Every knight stood.
Lancelot did not. Arthur had asked for his brothers. For his men.
“Sir Lancelot,” Arthur said.
Lancelot’s face went pale as she stood.
“I entrust Camelot and the queen to you in my absence. Guinevere will rule, and you will protect her and the city.”
Lancelot bowed, a hand over her heart. But there was a moment of hesitation where Guinevere saw the pain of being left behind. She knew it all too well.
Arthur turned toward Guinevere. He did not ask why there were tears in her eyes, if he saw them at all. Arthur kissed her forehead and then strode from the room, followed by all his most favored knights.
Only the women were left.
Guinevere rushed out of the great hall, almost running, back to Arthur’s room. She could help. And even if Arthur would not take her, she did not want to him to leave on a question. She wanted him to leave with an answer.
She burst through his door and was hit by a wall of nausea, spinning blurry terror as she felt the essence of herself being pulled apart, burning away like mist in the sun.