“And if he defeats all of them?”
“That has never happened. But if it did, then Arthur himself would challenge him in combat.”
Guinevere felt ice in her stomach. “Here?”
“No. Past the lake, in the meadows.”
The meadows. Where Arthur had pushed back the Forest of Blood and reclaimed the land. That dirt was soaked in the blood of magic. If the patchwork knight was a fairy creature, he would be more powerful there than in this ancient, dead city. And Arthur would be vulnerable, ensnared by his own rules. If Guinevere were planning to attack the king, that is where she would do it. Where the knights still felt comfortable and at ease, but the protection of their city was not around them.
Guinevere stood. “I am feeling faint. I would like to return to the castle.”
Brangien scrambled to pack her things back into her satchel. On their way out they passed Mordred, who was carrying a goblet of wine and a plate of bread and cheese.
“Leaving so soon?” he called. Guinevere did not answer. She needed to speak to Arthur. And, more importantly, she needed to break free of her maid in order to follow the patchwork knight after he was done fighting for the day.
* * *
“The king is not in the castle.” Brangien offered the explanation with an apologetic tone. Guinevere had sent her to find Arthur as soon as they returned to her rooms. “He is often gone. He travels his lands constantly, checking in with the farmers, ensuring the roads are clear. He is not one to sit idly on a throne.”
“Where is he now?” Guinevere tried not to be hurt that he would leave the day after their wedding. Obviously she knew it was not a real marriage, but no one else did.
“The forest,” Brangien said, her eyes lowered. “The one that took the village. He left with men to burn it back.”
“But it is not within the borders of Camelot.”
“He does not turn away from a fight. Even when it is not his own fight.”
Guinevere admired that about him. He was king to his people, yes, but he extended that responsibility and protection wherever he could. Even when there was neither threat nor benefit to himself. Arthur was…good. That was the burning warmth inside her when she thought of him.
She was glad for it. But today it was inconvenient. She wanted to warn him about the patchwork knight and her suspicions. Perhaps the delay was better, though. She needed more information.
“Brangien, thank you for taking me out. It was wonderful. But I am afraid I have overtaxed myself. My head aches, and I would like to lie in the dark. Is there a meal I am supposed to attend tonight?”
“Of course you should rest. Feasts only happen once a month. A few nights you may be expected to dine with the knights and their wives, but no one has inquired about you for tonight. If anyone does, I will tell them you are—” She paused, looking for the right word.
“Overwhelmed with love for my new king and country and insensible with joy.” Guinevere smiled slyly, and Brangien laughed.
“Unconscious with joy, even.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
Brangien drew the curtains and pulled down the covers. Then she helped Guinevere undress, unlacing her from her sleeves and outer gown. “I will be in the sitting room, sewing. I will not disturb you or enter unless you call for me. If you fall asleep for the night, rest well.”
Feeling silly and deceitful, Guinevere climbed into bed. Brangien adjusted the blankets over her, and then slipped from the room.
Guinevere climbed out of bed.
She checked the first trunk. No woman of her status would be in the streets alone. Neither would a lady’s maid of Brangien’s caliber, but there was more room to improvise there. The queen needed a tincture, or requested a special spice for her food, or some such thing that would demand the urgency of a maid rushing into the city alone. Surely even the queen’s maid could get away with being out after curfew if it was under a direct order from the queen.
Then again, Guinevere had no idea what—if any—authority the queen actually had in Camelot. It had never had a queen. She would have to ask Arthur about that, as well.
The first, second, and third trunks all held her things. She paused, her hand hovering over them. Not her things, not really. How quickly she forgot. The fourth, a small one in the corner, held Brangien’s possessions. Her clothing was simpler. Guinevere could put it on alone.
Guilt twisted inside Guinevere as she pulled out a dress and a hooded cloak. Clothing was expensive and valuable. This was the bulk of Brangien’s material wealth, and Guinevere was stealing it. But she would return it all unharmed.
Relatively unharmed. She pulled a seam from the cloak, knotting and tying the broken thread in a confusing mess. It would be impossible to untangle. And when she pulled the hood over her head, the knot magic would extend so that anyone glancing at her face would find themselves unable to untangle who, exactly, she was.
Guinevere pulled on the hood, then swayed. A little of herself went into every knot, every piece of magic she did. And she had done more in the last twenty-four hours than she used to do in a week. She really would have loved to crawl into bed and sleep away the evening. But much like faithful Brangien, she had work to do, and she would not neglect it.
She stepped into the hallway and walked with the hurried efficiency of a woman on a mission. She followed their path from this morning, navigating the stairs in the low afternoon light. Hopefully she would be back before nightfall.
There were more people out now, errands being run and business being finalized before they lost the sun. The masses in the streets, gossiping and calling to each other, buying and selling and haggling, meant she was just another person in the crowd. She loitered outside the arena. There had been some women in the seats, but only accompanied by husbands. She knew she would stand out if she were to go inside alone. The roars and cheering told her that the combat was still going strong.
Needing something to fill her time, and not wanting to miss the patchwork knight through an error of her own, she walked the circumference of the arena. Houses were built close to the walls, and she skirted puddles and crates. Arthur’s little shits did their jobs well, though. It was remarkably clean.
On the far side of the arena was a small door, inconspicuous and nothing like the great gate that would open to spew spectator and combatant alike onto the main street of the city. She could be wrong—in which case all her efforts were wasted—but this seemed like a door for someone who wished to go unseen. Someone like the patchwork knight. She found a crate in the deep shadow of a leaning stone building and sat there.
She was very good at waiting. She had once spent an entire day lying perfectly still on the forest floor, unmoving, to lure a doe to her side. It had worked. She smiled, remembering the velvet nose as it nudged her face. Less pleasant was what she had needed the doe for.