She dropped it as though burned. She did not want to touch eel ever again.
Once those dishes were cleared, the second course was delivered. This, Guinevere was more familiar with. Fruits and jellies and nuts, displayed artfully. She eagerly reached forward and took several pieces, then froze. No one else had taken any. They were all just…looking.
“The second course,” Brangien whispered, “is generally more to appeal to the eye than to the tongue. Though if you are not going to eat all those cherries, please slip one onto my plate.”
Guinevere was startled by this new, brash Brangien. Then she saw how far into her very deep cup of wine Brangien was, and it made more sense. Guinevere put two cherries onto Brangien’s plate. A minstrel played while his companion sang, the songs competing with the general chatter and happy noise of the room. Guinevere felt invisible. It was not unwelcome.
The courses continued. Guinevere was more careful to take her cues from the women around her. The table was divided between men and women. Arthur, surrounded by his men, was across from her. They laughed raucously, trading stories and commenting on the quality of the meat. She found herself wishing he would look at her. Even with Brangien next to her, by the sixth course she was beginning to feel truly alone. She was marooned in a sea of falsehood, and among celebrating strangers, she felt it most keenly. She meant nothing to any of these women. She only meant something to Arthur. But he meant something to everyone in Camelot. She had so little claim on him.
But someone was looking at her. Mordred raised his cup in a toast, eyes glittering in the candlelight. She did not answer his toast.
“Do not meddle with that one,” Brangien whispered, nibbling on the roasted nuts Guinevere had passed along. “He is poison. Sir Tristan says Arthur should banish him, but Arthur is too kind.”
“Sir Tristan?”
Brangien subtly pointed out a man sitting several people down from Arthur. He had black hair cut close to his head like Arthur’s, though his was coiled in tight curls. His skin was deep brown, his face handsome in a way Guinevere could not help but appreciate.
“Sir Tristan brought me here and got me a position in the castle.” Brangien smiled, but it was a smile burdened by a deep sadness Guinevere was not privy to. Why would Sir Tristan have a young woman as a maid in the first place? They could not be family. They looked nothing alike. “Like most of Arthur’s knights, he is not from Camelot. Arthur took him in when he was banished. Took us both in.”
“Why was he banished?” Guinevere asked it casually, but she needed information about everyone close to Arthur.
“Isolde.” Brangien said the word as reverently as a prayer. This time she did not even pretend to smile. “She was my lady. She was betrothed to Sir Tristan’s uncle. An old lecher.” Brangien’s hand tightened around her knife.
“Sir Tristan loved her?”
There were tears pooling in Brangien’s eyes.
“Are you well?” Guinevere reached out a hand, but Brangien brushed at her eyes and then smiled brightly.
“The dim light in here. It makes my eyes weak. You must try the roasted fruit.” She scooped damsons onto Guinevere’s plate, too many for one person to eat. “Sir Tristan is a good man. You will like him. Sir Bors means well, but he is prideful and quick to anger. His arm was withered by his father.”
“How did his father do that?” She could not see much of Bors’s arm. It was not unusual for men to be injured in battle or even to lose a limb. But Bors’s hand was twisted and gray, more like bark than skin where it stuck out from his sleeves.
“Sorcerer.” Brangien popped a damson into her mouth. “Not a kind man. His father, I mean. Sir Bors is not kind, either, but he would never harm an innocent. And he fought back the forest with the ferocity of a man with four arms. He was one of the first to call for Merlin’s banishment.” Brangien dropped the information as easily as roasted meat fell from the bones in front of them. Guinevere tried not to react.
“Did you know him? Merlin?”
“He was gone before I arrived. There was a purge of anyone who practiced the old ways.”
Guinevere wanted more details, but Brangien moved on in hushed tones about Sir Percival’s sister, who had never married and who depended on her brother for everything, much to the chagrin of her sister-in-law. Since Guinevere knew nothing about either of them, the stories had no impact and her attention wandered to the more important bits.
Mordred, always watching, distrusted among the other knights. Tristan, banished and in love with his uncle’s young wife. Bors, loud and brash, with his arm withered by magic. She would have to be most careful around him. Several other knights whose names she struggled to remember. The ladies whose names she actually remembered: Percival’s wife, Blanchefleur, and his sister Dindrane, the two of whom seemed to be in an aggressive game to get the best cuts of meat before the other. Most of Arthur’s knights were young. Sir Tristan, Sir Gawain, Sir Mordred, all unmarried. But the wives who were present were all older than her by at least a decade. So much experience. Despair overwhelmed her; she had taken on too much. The bottom of her cup greeted her. She wanted to whisper her name into it, to carry herself safely pooled in a cup.
She realized several moments too late that everyone else was standing. She stood, too, to find Arthur beaming at the room. “Never has a king been so blessed with friends as I have. You are more than my friends. You are my family. We are Camelot, and on this night, I am filled with hope for the future.”
“And hope of a good night with a fresh lass!”
Guinevere’s face burned. The knight who had spoken—Sir Percival?—was red-faced, too, but flushed with wine, not embarrassment. The men laughed. The women primly ignored the comment. Except his sister Dindrane, who glared at Guinevere with undisguised malice.
Brangien leaned near. “I will be close tonight,” she whispered.
Arthur came around the table and held out his hand. Guinevere put hers in it. Cheers and whistles followed them out of the dining hall all the way to Arthur’s bedchamber. He closed the doors behind them, sealing them in. A bed waited, its four posters draped with muted cloth. The room glowed dimly in the candlelight, everything soft and dark with anticipation.
She had known being queen was necessary. That only by being Arthur’s wife could she have the freedom to be close enough to do what needed to be done. But…she was his wife now.
She had not thought this through.
“So, my queen,” he said, turning to her. “Who are you really?”