“Lancelot slew the boar and saved me.” Guinevere released Arthur. He did not do the same, still holding her. “But there were more of the beasts. Lancelot had no more spears. We ran from them until we found Lancelot’s horse and could ride fast enough to escape them. We went too deep into the forest. We have only now found our way out.”
“Camelot owes you our most profound thanks, Lancelot.” Arthur’s hand was at the back of Guinevere’s head, stroking her hair.
“It was my honor, my lord king.” Lancelot dismounted and dropped to one knee, bowing her head. She pitched her voice low and soft, so that if Guinevere had not known the truth of her sex, she would have assumed Lancelot was a young man.
“You are the patchwork knight, are you not?”
“I am called that, yes.”
“Then I think it is high time you had your tournament. You have earned it.”
The knights around Arthur cheered, clapping Lancelot on the back as she stood. Guinevere smiled at her, pleased for Lancelot’s well-deserved good fortune. But she could not be happy, not truly. There was so much that needed to be done.
“Arthur,” she whispered. “We need to—”
“I know,” he answered. “We need to talk.”
“But Merlin—”
“Is not going anywhere.” Arthur released her, finally, putting a hand at the small of her back as he led her out of the trees. A huge bonfire had been built in the meadow. Brangien ran to them, nearly tripping in her haste. She dropped to her knees at Guinevere’s feet.
“My lady, I am so sorry. I thought you were behind me. I would never have run if—”
Guinevere reached down and lifted her, then pulled her close in an embrace. “I know. I know, dear Brangien. But seeing you safe is all I need. I could not have lived with it if you had been hurt.” She could not say that the boar had been after her alone, that if Brangien had been killed, it would have been Guinevere’s fault.
Brangien nodded, tears streaming down her face. She wiped them away. Then she took stock of Guinevere. “Here,” she said, taking off her own cloak and wrapping it around Guinevere. “Your sleeve! You have been hurt!” The shallow slice where Guinevere had taken the skin for Lancelot was already scabbed over. “And your wrists!” Brangien removed a length of cloth from her bag, wrapping it hastily around Guinevere’s arm down to her hand. As though exposed wrists were anything compared to the troubles they now faced. But Brangien could fix only the problems she saw, and Guinevere appreciated it.
Arthur took her directly to a tent, making it clear no one else was invited. He drew the tent shut. Guinevere paced in the tight confines.
“Between my magic and Excalibur, I am confident we will find a way to free Merlin. The Lady of the Lake wants the sword back. We may have to fight her.”
Arthur sighed. “Please sit down.”
“I am not tired! We need to move quickly. I felt something dark in the boar. I thought it was from Rhoslyn, but I was wrong. What if it was the Lady of the Lake? The lake at Camelot is dead. No magic. She must have pulled it all to herself to amass power. We need Merlin. I am no match for that kind of magic. I cannot protect you from this.”
“Please, listen,” Arthur said, his voice firm but pleading as he pulled her hands until she sat on a cushion. He knelt in front of her. “We cannot go save Merlin.”
“We can! I know we can.” She doubted herself, yes, but she had Arthur, and he had the sword. They could do it. They had to do it. They needed Merlin.
“He does not want us to.”
Guinevere shook her head. She looked down at her hands, where Merlin’s beard strands were still wound around two of her fingers. “How can you know that?”
“He told me.” Arthur reached into his tunic and pulled free a well-worn sheaf of papers. He unfolded it to reveal spidery handwriting that crawled up and down the pages, sometimes going left to right, sometimes top to bottom, sometimes writing over itself. “He knew it would happen.”
Guinevere stood, furious. Merlin saw time out of order. He had known this was coming? “If he knew it would happen, why did he not tell me? I broke his barrier myself, fool that I am! Why did he not run, or hide?”
Arthur’s expression was frustrated but resigned. “I do not know his reasons. Only that he had them. And I trust Merlin. If he says something must be done, then it must be done. We will understand someday.” He looked down at the letter and frowned. “Perhaps.”
“No! I refuse to accept this. He saw a threat coming for you. He sent me to Camelot because of it. I cannot face it alone!”
Arthur refolded the letter and tucked it away. He wiped a hand down his face as though he could physically push away the regret and guilt there. “Guinevere, I have lied to you. I have let you believe something that is not true. And I am so sorry.”
Guinevere took a step back, suddenly afraid. What else did Arthur know?
“The Lady of the Lake cannot get to me, I promise. Merlin did not send you to Camelot because of a threat to me. He sent you to Camelot because he knew what was coming for him. He did not need you to keep me safe. He asked me to keep you safe.”
She sat, stunned. Broken. All this time, they had let her think she had a purpose. A mission. That she was fighting on Merlin’s behalf, working for Camelot. That she had become Guinevere as a necessity to protect Arthur. Not herself.