An arrow whistled through the air, landing with perfect precision in the center of the leader’s hand, pinning it to the club. He screamed in agony and surprise. Two more arrows found targets, one in a leg and the other squarely in a chest. That man slumped and fell from his horse. Several more arrows flew through the air as the leader shouted and the survivors turned their horses and galloped away into the cover of the trees.
Not defenseless, then. Or at least not undefended. Guinevere slipped back into the embrace of the tree as a man on a brown horse rode up and dismounted.
Rhoslyn let out a sob and threw her arms around his neck. He lifted her onto the horse, revealing a familiar face.
The patchwork knight.
Just as the men had been waiting to ambush Rhoslyn, the patchwork knight had been waiting to save her. He and Rhoslyn were working together. Guinevere had been right. She waited until they had disappeared, then left the shelter of her tree. Even if she could follow the trail, she could not say how long it would take. They were mounted; she was not. And she could not stay away from Camelot any longer. She had lingered too long already.
Her knots did not make her unnoticeable to insects, and she wearily swatted them away. The cloak was too heavy for the sullen summer heat. She was sticky and exhausted and more determined than ever. She would return and face this threat as soon as she could.
It would be a long walk back to Camelot. She would not get there before dark, which was going to make everything a lot more difficult to explain. Particularly to Brangien, who would not miss the fact that her queen had not spent the night in the castle. Would Brangien alert the guards? Guinevere puzzled through possible excuses and solutions.
Her other line of thought concerned what to do about Rhoslyn and the knight. What were they plotting?
Arthur’s laws and rules were better for the kingdom, but that did not mean they were better for everyone. Rhoslyn could be angry and powerful enough to pose a threat. Especially when conspiring with the patchwork knight. Guinevere cracked her knuckles, anticipating the knots she would tie to meet that threat.
A snapping twig to her right startled her. She drew the dagger Arthur had bought her and raised it against—
The horse of the man who had died. It took a hesitant step toward her. Closing her eyes and releasing a breath of gratitude and relief, Guinevere sheathed her knife and mounted the horse.
“Good girl,” she said, then raced the horse back to Camelot.
Arthur was still away when Guinevere slipped into the castle just before curfew. If Brangien had noted her absence, she said nothing while preparing her queen for bed.
Brangien’s preparations were for naught. Guinevere lay awake all night, plotting. Thinking. What was her best course of attack? Confront the patchwork knight directly, or try to find any other of Rhoslyn’s allies within the city? Alert Arthur so he and his men could hunt her down?
The whispers of Drown her haunted Guinevere. The callous abandonment of the soldiers, knowing what awaited the woman, whose only punishment was supposed to be banishment.
But this was the threat. These were the stakes. Arthur made difficult decisions every day as king; she would do the same. Besides, this was her fight. Her duty. Not the soldiers’. So she would deal with it herself rather than send armed men against something they might not be able to face. She sat up the next morning, eager to get started.
It was a mistake. Brangien noticed her vigor and seized upon it.
“It is time to begin your visits.”
“My what?”
“Your visits. To the other ladies.”
Guinevere slumped. “Must we?”
“It is a duty of the queen.”
Once again Gui
nevere cursed Merlin and Arthur’s idea to have her be queen. She should have come here as a maid! The business of being queen demanded so much, and took her away from her duties of protecting Arthur.
As Guinevere and Brangien stood outside the castle gates, gazing down at the manors, Guinevere felt nearly as much fear as she had going on the ferry. She was not ready. “I do not want to do this,” she whispered.
Brangien shrugged. “Could be buckets. Sir Bors has no wife, so we are in luck there. We never have to visit him. I would recommend visiting Sir Percival’s wife and Sir Caradoc’s wife on the same day. They will of course be offended no matter what the order, but at least that will keep them in close enough proximity that we can maintain the illusion of neutrality. Then—”
“Can we start with Dindrane?”
“Dindrane?” Brangien, aghast, looked at Guinevere. “Dindrane is the spinster sister of Sir Percival. She can be included in our visit to Blanchefleur. You will have to take a meal with her eventually, but next month. Or the month after. Dindrane does not matter at all.”
“Exactly. No one can be offended if we visit her first. The ladies will be too surprised and confused. And it will be nice to cut my teeth on visits by starting with someone who ‘does not matter at all.’?”
Brangien’s frown shifted as she considered it. Finally, she nodded. “It might be a brilliant opening gambit. Or it is the worst decision you have made so far as queen.”