“No, my lord.”
“Very well. Because you were forthright and honest, your punishment is banishment.”
Her mouth was set, a single harsh line, as she looked out over the crowd. There were murmurs and whispers. At first Guinevere thought people were upset with the severity of the sentence. Then she realized they were upset with Mordred’s leniency. She heard several hisses of Drown her.
Mordred apparently heard them as well. “Punishment to be carried out immediately. Conrad, see that she is escorted to the borders of Camelot. Rhoslyn, you will never again be welcome in this kingdom. God have mercy on you. Go.”
“My niece?”
“She will be taken into the care of the castle. I promise you.”
Rhoslyn nodded. Conrad and two liveried men retrieved her from the cage and hurried her out a back door. Guinevere stayed as still as a stone.
If the rule of law was that any magic—no matter the intention—was grounds for banishment or death, she did not want to think about what would happen if they suspected the queen herself was a witch. She would have to be much, much more careful. But not right now. Right now, she had a conspiracy to unmask.
She stood and walked as regally as she could manage from the room, hoping no one wondered why she chose that moment to leave.
* * *
Guinevere did not have time to return to the castle and change into Brangien’s clothing. She hurried down a side street, working her way into the more residential—and less wealthy—portion of the city. Hanging on a line to dry was a serviceable hooded cloak of sturdy brown cloth. With a twinge of guilt, she stole it. She could not leave her own in its place. And she doubted the owner would be able to afford to replace the cloak anytime soon.
It was for Arthur, though. She threw the cloak around herself, hastily tying knots of shadow and confusion. She could not risk being recognized. With that in place, she darted back to the main street. Her speed had worked. Just ahead of her at the docks she saw the woman Rhoslyn being loaded onto a ferry alongside several paying passengers. Guinevere took a deep breath and stepped aboard.
And immediately regretted it. The ferry dipped and lurched. Before she could turn around, they had pushed off.
“For Arthur,” she whispered to herself, closing her eyes and hugging herself against the dread and panic. She was here to protect Arthur. This was how she could do it.
The ferry was crowded enough that Guinevere was bumped and jostled in the midst of others. It was oddly comforting. She had nothing to hold on to, but they were packed so tightly that she could not fall. And there were bodies—living, breathing, pungent bodies—between her and the water.
Rhoslyn and her guards were on the far end. Guinevere wanted to study the other woman, but it was all she could do to keep breathing in the midst of the existential dread that filled her with every creak of the ferry.
After an eternity, the ferry met the other side of the lake. She was pushed off in the press of bodies around her. At some point—she genuinely did not know when—she had latched on to the arm of an older man. He kept peering at her, his eyes narrowed in confusion, as he tried to figure out who she was. Her own head ached as her knots struggled to hold back his attempts to see past the magic.
She let go of his arm and walked in the opposite direction. As soon as she was out of his immediate sight, he turned the other way, a mildly baffled look on his face.
The soldiers loaded Rhoslyn, pale-faced and trembling, into a cart pulled by a solitary horse. Guinevere was relieved. She could not have kept up had they all been mounted. Stealing a horse from Arthur’s stable was an option, but a risky one. And she could not very well demand one as the queen. She would not be allowed out on her own. The ruse that kept her close to Arthur also complicated things in such an aggravating manner.
The soldiers kept to a clear road. Guinevere maintained a cautious distance, passing the occasional traveler heading toward Camelot. All their eyes slid away from her. Her head was light, her vision slightly blurred, but she would not abandon her mission.
After two hours, the soldiers turned off the main road and took a less-traveled path through fields toward a looming forest. Arthur had not cut down all the forests in Camelot’s realm. Some were still needed for wood and hunting. But this was the beginning of the end of his land. Guinevere’s feet were sore, her throat parched. If she had known tracking a witch would be part of her day, she would have prepared differently.
At last the soldiers stopped. Rhoslyn was lifted out of the cart and set on the forest floor without ceremony.
“Good luck,” one of the soldiers said. The rest shared a conspiratorial laugh. Guinevere thought it odd that none of them gave the witch a final warning to stay out of Camelot, or instructions, or anything of the sort. She tucked herself against an ancient, gnarled tree as the soldiers passed her.
Their casual attitude made much more sense when, as soon as they were gone, six men on horses melted from the trees.
“Hello, witch,” one of the men said, baring his teeth in a sneer.
Guinevere’s heart seized. Each of the men held a thick wooden club. Was this Arthur’s justice, then?
“You cannot do this,” Rhoslyn said, her voice small and frightened. “I was banished. Not sentenced to death.”
“Ah, but this is not Camelot, is it?” The leader looked around the trees, holding his arms wide. “I see no king here. Which means you are no longer under his protection. And we do not look as kindly on witches as the benevolent king does.”
Guinevere was frozen in the shadows. Violence simmered, ready to boil forth. She had come here to hunt Rhoslyn and find out how she was a threat to Arthur. Would she stand hidden while the woman was beaten to death?
The leader raised his club. Guinevere stepped out onto the path. She did not know what to do—what she should do—but surely this was not right.