What would a real queen answer? “I do not know what my role here is supposed to be. It would help if I knew what was expected of me.” She had a goal now. A target. But she still had to be queen in the meantime, and it was complicated.
“You should speak to your husband about that.”
“My husband is rarely here!” She snapped her lips shut against the unexpected force of her exclamation.
Mordred laughed. “Perhaps if you dressed as a knight you could get more of his attention. Arthur is single-minded. It is what makes him a great king. And, I suspect, a challenging husband. If you are not a problem that needs to be solved or a battle that needs to be fought, it will be hard to keep his attention.”
Guinevere did not want to be sad. She should do her best not to be a distraction. She was not Arthur’s wife, not really. But she was sad nonetheless. It was not easy, revolving around someone who did not revolve around her.
She replaced her sadness with determination. If Arthur would not take her, she would figure out a way to send protection with him. And she would always be ready here, to defend Camelot. To defend Arthur. It had been Merlin’s calling, and now it was hers.
“Come.” Mordred stood and brushed the crumbs from his legs. “I have to preside at today’s trials. It might be interesting for you to see some of how the city is run. And on our way down, I can tell you where your husband is. I do not think it is a secret.”
Guinevere stood, too. She did need to know more about Camelot. And this would give her time to plan her attack against the patchwork knight and the mysterious woman. “Thank you.”
Mordred paused, the wind running its invisible fingers through his black hair. She had the briefest impulse to fix it. He swept his arm out for her to leave the alcove first. “I am sorry that your husband is not what you were expecting him to be.”
Guinevere stood at his side, her hand on the warm wall. No purpose was left to fill her. It was gone. “He is exactly what I was expecting him to be. It is myself that I worry will be found lacking.” She hurried down the steps, Mordred’s softer steps following.
* * *
Mordred explained that Arthur was away defending a conflicted border. There were several lords and kings whose land abutted the borders of Camelot’s country. It was often required that he ride out and resolve disputes—through reason, gold, or the sword. Mordred could not tell her which solution this one would require.
“At least it is not Maleagant,” Mordred said as he escorted Guinevere into a building close to the castle. The ceilings were low, which should have felt confining, but they were carved with flowers and birds and the most delightful images, so their height felt like a gift. It was obviously one of the original buildings of Camelot, not an addition. She felt better in the old ones, for some reason.
“Who is Maleagant?” she asked.
“A thorn in the side of Camelot. Ah, Conrad, thank you. What is on the schedule for today?” Mordred looked over a carefully written scroll given him by a round, friendly-faced young man. There were benches lining the walls, and each bench was filled with people. Some wore the nice clothes of merchants, a couple the fine clothes of nobles. But most the rough, serviceable wear of farmers and peasants.
In the front there was a cage made of iron. In it stood a woman, facing away from them. Her shoulders hunched, her head drooped. Guinevere did not understand what she was doing in there.
Mordred gestured for Guinevere to sit on one of three padded chairs on a platform apart from the crowd. She regretted coming. She was on display, and she had not been prepared for it. She left her hood up, knowing her hair was beneath Brangien’s standards.
She sat as still and regal as she could, hands folded primly in her lap. The first few matters were business-related. A man applying for space to sell horses in the next market. A woman petitioning to buy a shop on Market Street. When the woman tripped over saying Market Street, Guinevere smiled, remembering what Brangien had said about how hard it was to get rid of the old names. Next were several fieldworkers and their masters. The fieldworkers had filled their terms of service and were being given their own plots of land. Guinevere could see their pride. And their masters did not seem upset. Several of them embraced afterward, or clasped hands warmly. Everything felt prosperous, hopeful.
Then Mordred turned to the woman in the cage. “What are the charges laid against Rhoslyn, daughter of Richard?”
The woman raised her head. Guinevere stifled a gasp. It was the woman from before—the one passing magical items to the patchwork knight.
Conrad bowed, pulling out another sheaf of paper. He cleared his throat, then read. “Witchcraft and magic, my lord.”
“What evidence do we have?”
The woman, Rhoslyn, stood straight, her voice high and clear except around the edges, where it wavered, betraying her nerves. “I meant no harm or mischief. My niece was sick. I knew I could help her. I—”
“Her family is known to practice dark magic,” Conrad said. “Her sister was banished three months ago. Rhoslyn was found with items required for working spells.”
Rhoslyn shook her head angrily. “Tools of a trade, the same as a butcher or smith would have for theirs!”
Guinevere twitched, wishing she had some way to demand to see what Rhoslyn had been found with. If she could examine it, she might be able to tell what Rhoslyn had been planning to do. But she could not ask without admitting she would understand what she was seeing. And Arthur was not here to get the evidence for her.
Mordred’s voice was soft. “Rhoslyn. You know the laws. If we allow magic into Camelot, we allow chaos in. If we allow chaos, everything we have built threatens to unravel. Do you understand?”
Rhoslyn clenched her jaw, her face white. But then something inside her relented, and she softened, nodding.
“You do not deny the charges?”