It suited her better. And it would help remind her that she was not a queen. She was a protector. Protectors, like the knights around Arthur, did not take days off to celebrate trips to the market.
Still, she smiled and waved prettily as they walked down the streets. She had just as much protecting but far more pretending to do than any knight.
Though some horses were stabled inside Camelot’s city, they were very rarely ridden there. The streets were too steep. Brangien had explained the previous day that the horses kept here were ferried across the lake to be exercised. Most people in Camelot had no horses, or the horses they had were stabled on the plains beyond the lake.
Guinevere could see a great flat ferry ahead of them was already packed with horses. The horses were perfectly calm, used to their transportation. Guinevere was not calm at all. She had not considered how they would get to the market.
Her body froze. Arthur felt it. He held up a hand for his men to stop; then he leaned close, putting his mouth next to her ear.
“Trust that I will let no harm come to you.”
She did. She truly did. But who was Arthur to water? Arthur was a king. The wielder of Excalibur. That mattered nothing to the lake. It was dark and deep, cold and eternal. Someday it might dry up, but the water would flow elsewhere. It could not be unmade.
And they were fragile, breakable, one choking breath away from death.
She stumbled numbly forward, Arthur leading her. When they got to the edge of Camelot, the lake gnawing at the shore, she could go no farther. Arthur scooped her up into his arms, laughing brightly to cover the necessity of his actions. He was cloaking it in jest.
“My queen is so light, I could swim her across the lake myself!”
His men laughed as well. A hand was on her back. Brangien. Guinevere buried her face in Arthur’s chest. He talked and joked with his men as though carrying his queen onto a ferry was a perfectly normal action for a king to take. And because Arthur acted as though it were normal, it became normal.
Guinevere stayed curled against him; she was trembling, hiding herself from the water. She felt it in the sway of the raft, heard it in the hungry slapping of the water against the wood. Arthur directed the ferryman to cut to the side of the lake, shortening their journey and meeting up with the horses instead of steering directly to the market. “I would like to ride in,” he explained.
He did not put her down until they were on dry land again. Brangien stepped in front of her, blocking everyone’s view and pretending to fix one of Guinevere’s braids. “Take your time,” she whispered. “Wait until you can breathe again. Wait until you can smile.” She held Guinevere’s eyes. And soon, Guinevere could breathe. Soon, she could smile.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Brangien squeezed her hand, then stayed with Guinevere while the horses were made ready. Brangien’s touch felt like dusk or dawn—something was nearly in view, but Guinevere could not tell whether Brangien would be illuminated or hidden completely given enough time.
“I think,” Guinevere said, making her voice as light and breezy as the summer day around them, “I have found my new preferred form of transportation. I will never walk again. Nor shall I ride horses. I want to be carried everywhere by a king.”
The men laughed.
“The queen has expensive tastes,” Mordred said. “Imagine how many kings we will have to find to take turns so my poor uncle king can rest on occasion.”
“I am up to the challenge.” Arthur picked Guinevere up by the waist and spun her around. She laughed at the surprise, aware of how they were being watched. If Arthur pretended to adore her enough to want to hold her all the way across the lake, she would make certain everyone knew the feeling was reciprocated.
He set her on a horse. She settled herself, but had a moment of disappointment when he mounted his own horse instead of riding behind her as he had on their wedding night.
Brangien directed her horse to Guinevere’s side. Arthur was on her other. Around them, Arthur’s most trusted knights escorted them along the wide, curving shore of the lake. Guinevere would have preferred more distance from the water, but she hoped that for the return trip Arthur could think of an excuse to break away and take the tunnel instead of another wretched ferry.
Her thoughts were overtaken by the market ahead of them. Already it was bigger than any village they had passed on their journey here. It was acres. Far more people were there than Camelot could ever hold.
“They come from all around for the markets,” Arthur said. “On market mornings, I send men to the roads and make certain passage is safe. Everyone who wants to buy, sell, or trade is welcome.”
“For a fee,” Mordred added.
Arthur smiled. “For a fee. I have to pay the men who guard it, the ones who make the roads safe. But a safe market is a prosperous market.”
“Are all markets like this?” Guinevere asked Brangien as Arthur and Mordred discussed something to do with a border.
“Have you never been to market before?”
Guinevere flinched. Her voice had been filled with wonder. She had spoken like a wild thing from the forest, not like a Guinevere. She covered with a lie that would give her excuses for future mistakes as well. “I was never allowed. My father did not think it appropriate. I rarely left our home at all, and then I was in the convent.”
“Well, you have started with the best. There are no markets in the world like Camelot’s market. Our king has seen to that. He speaks of the safe roads as though it is a simple task. I assure you it is not. He has fought these last three years to create this kind of far-reaching safety.”
It was no hard thing to pretend to be delighted with and proud of Arthur. Who could not be proud of such a man? Of such a king? Her fears of losing herself in the pretense were unfounded. She was allowed to think the best of him.
They rode up to the edge of the market. Guinevere searched the borders, but saw nothing menacing. Brightly colored strips of cloth were raised on poles, like flags. Some had images painted on them, advertising where certain wares could be found. Music and laughter and the general chatter of people in a celebratory mood surrounded them.
Arthur helped her dismount. “Go and explore. I will meet you at noon to visit the smithies.”
“But what about you?” She scanned the crowds nervously. “How can I protect you if we are not together?”
Again, he looked surprised. “Oh. Is there…a knot? Something to connect us? I must be with my men. And I am afraid your presence would be too remarkable.”
Guinevere plucked out three of her hairs. Arthur leaned close as though whispering something to her while she knotted them around his wrist. His breath was warm and pleasant against her ear, the prickling sensation on her scalp connecting her to the hairs almost unnoticeable in comparison.