“I left you with Sir Gawain. But then he came to the training arena alone.”
“Yes, we finished our work.”
Lancelot looked at her with an intensity that implied Guinevere was missing something important. “And now you are alone.”
“No, Brangien and I are going to Dindrane’s.”
“And on the way there, who is protecting you?” Lancelot’s hand was on the pommel of her sword. Even as she spoke, her eyes swept every street and window, searching for threats.
“I hardly think I’m in danger walking in Camelot.”
“You were taken in Camelot.”
Guinevere flinched at the memory. She still got headaches she suspected were from the blow that knocked her unconscious so Maleagant’s man could abduct her. Her answer came out sullen. “On the field during the chaos of the tournament!”
“Because no one was paying attention. That will never happen again.” Lancelot’s fierce tone was informed by her own experiences rescuing Guinevere. Lancelot had been willing to sacrifice everything, even before she was a knight.
Guinevere softened and put her hand on Lancelot’s arm. “I know.”
“But I can only guard you as well as you allow me to, and if I do not have the correct information, I cannot do my job.” Lancelot seemed angrier than the situation called for. Guinevere wondered if the fight they had been forced to leave to others was nagging at her valiant knight.
“You will regret finding us,” Brangien said. “We are going to visit Dindrane and sit for hours as she examines cloth.”
Lancelot did not so much as blanch, a credit to her noble devotion to duty over personal comfort.
Guinevere stopped on the walkway outside the steps to Dindrane’s room. The young woman’s voice already drifted toward them with a litany of demands. The room was too small for even one woman, much less five of them plus all the materials, and it was situated on the side of her brother’s house that got the most direct afternoon sunlight. With autumn still warm, it would be sweltering. “Maybe Sir Lancelot could rescue us?” Guinevere asked.
Finally, Lancelot broke, a smile claiming her lips. “I am afraid even I cannot protect my queen from this.”
Guinevere sighed. She imagined herself in a forest, fighting evil side by side with Arthur, wielding magic with all the confidence and earth-shaking power of Merlin. But she was not in a forest, wild with power. She was in Camelot; she was queen. She could not fight like Merlin, and she did not want to. Not really.
She took a deep breath and drew strength from her friends on either side. Brangien was right. They would face whatever was to come, whatever horrors awaited them. Starting with Dindrane’s wedding plans.
After being trapped in Dindrane’s room until the impending curfew finally gave them an excuse to leave, Guinevere wanted to be anywhere but the castle. No, that was not true. She wanted to be only one other place. At Arthur’s side, fighting the Dark Queen. She paced nervously along the outer walkways, but the forest was too distant to be seen. A few reports had been sent back—nothing that caused alarm. Still, she would not feel settled until Arthur returned. She should have insisted on staying. At least if she could not help, she could bear witness. Could be nearby should something terrible happen.
Cross and anxious as the sun set and night brought no answers, Guinevere tried to distract herself with her own small problems. She had dreams to attend to. Brangien was somber and distant as Guinevere helped her prepare for bed. She combed Brangien’s straight, thick, nearly black hair, careful to avoid the section with Isolde’s knotted auburn strands. They would remove them in the morning.
“How did you meet Isolde?” Guinevere asked, wanting something new to think about. Then she hurriedly added, “We do not have to speak about it if you do not wish to.”
“No, it…it would be nice to speak openly about her. I held her as a secret for so long, it became instinctive.” Brangien released a breath and some of the tension in her shoulders disappeared. Guinevere continued combing, the soft rhythm of it soothing them both. Normally Brangien was the one to prepare Guinevere for bed, but Guinevere wanted to offer this kindness and was grateful that Brangien accepted.
“I hated her when we first met. My father worked hard to get me placed in a good house as a lady’s maid, but I had been spoiled by my mother and resented that I would now have to perform all these minor tasks for someone my own age. And Isolde—” Brangien laughed. “It is funny to think of it now. All the things about her I hated that eventually would become so dear. Isolde was dreamy. Forgetful. She would leave tasks half-finished. I was constantly picking up her sewing throughout the castle, left in the oddest places. I would find Isolde curled up in a window, asleep there like a cat in the sun. I thought she was the laziest girl I had ever met. What did she need to sleep so much for? After a month of finding her napping in odd places, as though she was hiding from me, I decided to stay up all night in secret and watch her. Perhaps she was not sleeping well. I had tricks for that, you know. And I had potions, as well. I do not do those here. They
cannot be hidden like my sewing.
“That night I pretended to sleep on my cot in the corner as usual. After an hour, Isolde slipped out of the room. If she were going to visit someone—a guard, perhaps—and she fell pregnant, I would be blamed. I followed her. When she went to the kitchen, I assumed she was there to eat. I watched through a crack in the door as Isolde tiptoed around her ancient nurse. The woman had been moved to the kitchens when I came on as Isolde’s maid, and she was fast asleep in the corner. Isolde made dough and set it to rising, tended the fires, then cleaned and scoured and prepared everything for the morning so that when her nurse awoke, all her duties would be done. It took Isolde nearly four hours to complete everything. When I could see that she was almost finished, I stole back to our room. Everything I thought I knew about her was wrong. She was not lazy or dreamy. She was constantly leaving her tasks undone because she saw that her nurse needed help, or that a page was lost, or that a maid was being berated for her work and needed help. Isolde was the kindest, most generous person I had ever seen.
“After that, I tried to emulate her. I found ways to make her life easier, the way she did for others. And she noticed, and did the same for me wherever she could. We would work together, and she sang or told me stories. We were no longer lady and maid. We were best friends. And then one day, laughing as we cleaned out the fireplace and sneezed on ashes…we were more. It was as natural as breathing.” Brangien stopped, and Guinevere paused her combing. Doubtless Brangien was thinking of their parting. But Guinevere wanted Brangien to fall asleep with the memory of love, not loss, foremost in her mind.
“How, though? How did you know you were more than what you had been?”
“When I looked at her, everything felt right. And her hand in mine…” Brangien looked down at her hand, her fingers curling over something that was no longer there.
“It felt safe?”
Brangien laughed. “No. It felt anything but safe. It still felt right, though.” Brangien turned and stole the comb, starting on Guinevere’s hair.
Guinevere wanted to know more. Needed to know more. She had crossed that line with Mordred, but he had never been bound by the same rules she was—or at least, that she was trying to be. He had always been there to disrupt and undermine Arthur. It hurt most of all, that maybe he had never seen her as anything but a means for attacking Arthur. She had felt things when they touched, and they had felt true. But even though he had begged her to come away with him, she could not trust that his motives were anything other than causing further pain to Arthur.