Instead, she gave the dragon words. Made the narrative funny, herself the hero. It sounded like a children’s story. Gone was the infinite sadness of the ending of great things. In its place, a knight, a dragon, and a clever maiden.
Arthur leaned back, laughing. His face was bathed in golden light by the lowering sun. She wanted to trace his profile, to rest her fingers on his throat and feel the way his laughter moved through it.
She understood why everyone loved Arthur. Why they looked to him. Why they always wanted more from him. How could they not?
How could she not?
* * *
They walked for hours. She told him the truth of the boar attack, how Lancelot had saved her, Rhoslyn’s village removed the poison, and then she and Lancelot went on their ill-fated visit to Merlin. But she did not tell him Lancelot’s secret. She had promised not to. Though she suspected Arthur would still let Lancelot compete in the tournament, she could not risk taking away that opportunity. Besides, it was not her secret to reveal.
“Why do you think the boar and the spider went after me? Do you think it was the Lady of the Lake? The wolves in the forest, too, attacked me over anyone else.”
Arthur frowned. “It does not seem like her magic. But it could be. Or it could be just the lingering remnants we are stamping out. They could not come for me, so they chose you. To be safe, we should keep you out of wild areas.”
Another loss. Guinevere changed the subject rather than dwell on it. “How are the border issues?”
“Maleagant is nibbling away to the northeast. I am afraid he is making deals with the Picts. Trading away rights he does not have.”
“Why not stop him?”
“If I go against him and he has made treaties with the Picts, they are obligated to come to his aid. Right now he is a nuisance, not a threat. But that could change at any moment.”
Arthur paused to run his fingers fondly along the image of a wolf carved into the stone. The exterior of the castle was covered with such details. Wolves, trees, dragons. Deer and fish and flowers. Whoever had dug the castle free from the mountain had not stopped there. They had spent an equal amount of time making it wondrous. Guinevere wanted to go up to the alcove, but that was Mordred’s private spot, and she was loath to take Arthur there. She felt it would be betraying Mordred.
Arthur dropped his hand from the wall, staring down at it as it clenched into a fist. “I should have known better than to ever trust a man who fought at Uther Pendragon’s side. No one but the most brutal, the most cruel, could have kept a place there. Maleagant saw us as lords of the land, not stewards. If the people were ours, everything they had—everything they were—was ours, as well. There was a settlement on the far borders of Camelot. Small. Unimportant. He took—” Arthur stopped, rubbing his face. Guinevere recognized a memory that did not want to be looked at. She expected him to turn away, as she always did from those types of memories. Instead, he opened his eyes and lifted his chin. “He took two of their daughters. Agnes and Alba. And when he was finished, he discarded them.”
Arthur shook his head. “I would have executed him. But according to my own laws, I needed proof. And Maleagant was so feared, no one would offer any. It was two peasant girls’ word against a knight of the king. Elaine begged for mercy on her brother’s behalf. And I listened. I sent her away, and I let him go. He took those most loyal to him. I did not expect him to find hold in a kingdom so quickly. But fear and violence are powerful weapons; people are so accustomed to them that they respond instantly. Camelot is a work in progress. It will be years—decades—before I can shape it to what I hope it will be. Burning down villages, slaughtering their lord, and declaring yourself the new king? That takes very little time.”
Guinevere shuddered, remembering the way Maleagant had watched her. She could not pull a clear picture of him up in her mind because of the dimness of her vision that night. She was grateful for it, now.
; Arthur’s problems were very big indeed. There was no knot to fix this. “What can I do?” she asked.
He took her arm and led her through a door back into the castle. “The problems of my borders are my own. You are doing enough simply by being here.”
“I want to help, though. I need to.”
“You are helping. If you could—” Arthur paused. They were outside her door. He looked at it, at the wall, at anything but her. “If you could be my queen, that would be enough. You did not have a real choice before. I am giving you that choice now. Will you? Still be my queen?”
Guinevere’s heart raced. It felt like a far more intimate question than their wedding vows had been. Then, they had known she was not his queen. Not really. What was he asking now?
“I will,” she said, feeling as tender and hopeful as a spring bud.
Arthur’s face broke into a smile. “I—”
“Uncle king,” Mordred said, standing politely several feet away. “The Pictish envoy is here. And the stewards have questions about the tournament.”
Arthur turned toward Mordred. It felt colder when his eyes were directed elsewhere. “Good. Good. Actually, Guinevere should be involved in the planning. Will you take her with you to the stewards, Mordred? I trust her to take care of this on my behalf. It is an excellent queenly duty.” He beamed at her, then strode away.
That had not been quite the duty she had wondered if he was asking her to participate in.
Determined to make an effort, she fetched Brangien. They met with the stewards to discuss seating, flag colors, how many would be at the feast and where to put them, whether food and wine should be provided for the common spectators, and a hundred other decisions too small for a king but right for a queen.
Mordred leaned by the door, yawning exaggeratedly whenever she caught his eye. After several hours, with only a fraction of the plans settled and a meeting scheduled for the next morning as well, Guinevere was released. Mordred walked her to the dining hall. She looked hopefully for Arthur, but he was not there. Unless it was a scheduled feast, attendance at meals was unpredictable. The knights with wives ate with their families. Those who were single were usually found at mealtimes, but not always.
Guinevere and Brangien sat next to Arthur’s seat. Guinevere waited for him join them, but by the time she finished her meal, his seat remained vacant. She realized she had hoped that their tenuous new understanding would mean more time together. But while it changed things for her, Arthur still had to be king every waking moment. She sighed, picking at the stitching on her pale pink dress.