Guinevere leaned out over the balcony, squinting as though she could penetrate his mask that way.
“That is what is so unusual about the patchwork knight,” Brangien said. She was embroidering a strip of cloth, scarlet thread pulled through in a pattern Guinevere could not see yet. Brangien barely looked at it, her deft fingers knowing their business. “He has obviously been trained. All the other trained knights who competed, like Sir Tristan, announced themselves. Their names, their titles, where they came from. The patchwork knight has never said so much as a word.”
“Interesting.”
“Be careful,” a voice said behind Guinevere, startling her so she nearly fell forward. Slender fingers grasped her waist. She looked up into Mordred’s face. He released her, stepping back to a respectful distance. “You should not lean too far out. You might fall. Perhaps the queen should not be so invested in the fights that she risks her own neck to see them better.”
Mordred sat on Guinevere’s right side. Brangien scowled on her left. “Most of the men,” Brangien said, directing her voice to her embroidery, “do not sit in the box. They are too busy training.”
Mordred laughed. “Most of the men have something to prove down there in the dust and the blood, playing at war with blunted blades.”
“Do you watch the fights often?” Guinevere asked, trying to keep the conversation banal and civil.
“Only when there is someone worth watching.” He stared directly at her. She narrowed her eyes, but before she could reprimand him, he nodded his head toward the patchwork knight. “I could not miss this.”
The second aspirant was still on the ground. No. It was a new one. The patchwork knight had defeated his third opponent. His actions were like the other men’s, but more forceful, more efficient. He moved faster, he struck harder, he anticipated every blow before it came. When he did get hit, he twisted away from the pain as easily as if the swords were reed switches.
Guinevere had never before seen fights. Even knowing the swords were blunted and the blows not fatal, she cringed and ached in sympathy at every one. And several times she almost found herself joining the elated shouts of the crowd when the patchwork knight defeated yet another aspirant.
After perhaps an hour, she allowed herself to glance to the side. Mordred was leaning forward, his eyebrows drawn low in concentration or concern. He, too, watched the patchwork knight. Not admiringly, or excitedly, like the crowd. But as though he was studying a foe. Or a threat.
“You seem quite intrigued by the patchwork knight.” Guinevere sat up straight and delivered an artfully fake yawn to imply she was not just as invested in the knight. “If you do not fight, why the interest?”
Mordred leaned back. “Look at the way he moves. Every fight is the only fight for him. He does not want this. He needs it. Anyone that intensely focused on a goal, anyone with a purpose that single-minded, is dangerous.” His words surprised her; it must have shown on her face. He smiled. “Not all of us protect my uncle king with fists and swords. And I am always watching.”
She wanted to look away from the intensity and the intelligence she saw in his mossy-green eyes. This time she did not question his meaning. He was watching the patchwork knight, yes. But he was also watching her. And he wanted her to know.
A cold prickle of danger passed over her. She was here to protect Arthur, like Mordred was. But her methods of protecting the king had to remain secret at all costs. She turned deliberately back to the fights. “I am glad my king has you on his side, then.”
“On his side and at his side, whenever he needs me, however he needs me. Did you ever hear the story of the Green Knight?”
“No,” Guinevere answered.
“Well, you are not likely to because it features a knight who is not quite human, and definitely not Christian. And we do not tell these stories anymore. Do we, dear Brangien?”
“We do not tell that story because you tell it so often there is no need,” Brangien grumbled, not looking up from her work.
Mordred laughed. “Tongue like her needle, just as clever and twice as sharp. But our queen has not heard it.”
Brangien heaved a sigh and dropped her sewing. “Before the Dark Queen was defeated, Arthur and his earliest knights were questing, looking for supporters. Sir Mordred, Sir Percival, and Sir Bors came to a path through the forest—the only safe one—and found their way blocked by a knight. Green armor, green skin, beard of leaves.” She waved a hand dismissively. “All green.”
“You are terrible at telling stories.” Mordred frowned, sounding hurt.
“He would not let them pass unless they found a weapon that could defeat him. Sir Percival tried a sword, but the blade got caught in the thick wood of the knight’s arm, and Sir Percival could not pull it back. Sir Bors tried a mace and chain, but the dent in the Green Knight’s chest blossomed and re-formed.”
“They were at a loss,” Mordred cut in. “Their weapons had no effect, and they could think of no way around a problem other than hit it and hope it bled. Not everything can be solved with iron. So while they were occupied trying and failing to hack the Green Knight apart, I crept into the forest and—”
“A deer,” Brangien interrupted. “He brought a deer back to eat it. The Green Knight thought it was hilarious and let them pass.”
“Brangien.” Mordred put a hand to his chest as though wounded himself. “You have the soul and imagination of a hammer. Stories are not nails to be driven home. They are tapestries to be woven.”
“Your stories are burdens to be endured. Now can we please watch the match?” Brangien retrieved her sewing, belying her words by focusing on that instead.
“What happened to the Green Knight?” Guinevere asked, intrigued. No one here spoke about the time before the Dark Queen was defeated. It seemed a wondrous and strange landscape. One she felt more akin to than the order and stone of Camelot.
“Excalibur happened. And that was a far more permanent end than being nibbled on by a gentle doe.” Mordred’s tone was wry. Whether he was mocking himself or Brangien’s storytelling, Guinevere could not tell. He stood and bowed. “Allow me to find refreshment for you.”
Brangien hissed softly after he walked off. She looked up, then smiled and tucked away her embroidery. “Oh, there! He has defeated another. That makes fifteen. I believe there are only thirty vying today. He may yet get to the knights, if you wish to stay that long.”
“Is he likely to meet King Arthur tonight, then?”
“No. If he gets to the knights, it will be an official tournament. Each knight will choose his preferred form of combat, and meet him on the field. He does not have to defeat all of them to win his spot. But he does have to defeat at least three.”