“I will be right outside,” he said, apparently deciding he preferred the glare of the sun to the company of Sir Ector and Sir Kay.
Guinevere did not find either of them appealing. But she was intrigued. What had Merlin seen that made him think Arthur would best be served by being raised by them? It took nearly thirty minutes for them to get drunk enough that their stories became interesting. Then Guinevere’s patience was rewarded and she understood Merlin’s decision.
“Back, what, ten years ago?” Sir Ector asked.
“Ten years.” Sir Kay nodded, staring into his empty tankard.
“Uther Pendragon was still in charge. And I am not saying I am unhappy with Art being king. Makes a great king.”
“A pretty good king,” Sir Kay said with a shrug.
“But our lives were much easier under Uther Pendragon.”
Guinevere frowned. “I thought he was a terrible, violent tyrant.”
“Oh, he was! Absolutely. Meant there was a lot of work for knights-for-hire such as ourselves. When the king thinks nothing of using a sorcerer to help him, ah, conquer another man’s wife—meanwhile having that man killed—well, you can imagine what was going on in the countryside.”
“Not to mention the fairies,” Sir Kay added.
Sir Ector blew a noisy, wet blast of air between his lips. “Fairies. Bah.” He patted his sword affectionately.
Sir Kay raised his glass. “Poor Igraine, though. I hear she was beautiful.”
“Had to have been, for Uther to go to all that trouble.”
Brangien stabbed her needle into the cloth. Guinevere did not blame her for her silent rage at the way these men were speaking of Arthur’s mother. Merlin had told her the story. Uther Pendragon, warlord king, had seen the Lady Igraine during a treaty negotiation. He had tried to get her to his bed, but she refused him. She loved her husband deeply. And Uther wanted that more than he wanted her. He wanted to feel what it was to be so loved by a woman. Uther lured Lady Igraine’s husband into a battle, trapping him there. Using dark magic, he disguised himself as her husband and entered her chambers in the middle of the night, declaring the battle won. And then he took what she willingly gave to the husband she loved. But it meant nothing, changed nothing, because she did not love him. Who could?
He left her husband dead and Arthur in her womb.
Igraine had older children. Mordred’s mother was among them. Morgan le Fay, Mordred’s mother and Arthur’s half sister, wanted vengeance. When Arthur was born, Lady Igraine died of a fever. Morgan le Fay planned to kill the child and deliver the body to Uther. That was when Merlin found him and whisked him away.
“Art was too young to fight back then, so we brought him along as our page. Oh, he cried when we found that slaughtered village, you remember?”
Sir Kay nodded, wiping his nose. “Cried all night. No use in crying. They were already dead. He was always soft.”
“If you stopped to cry over everyone who died because of Uther Pendragon, you would have your own lake.”
“Might be where Camelot’s lake came from!” Sir Kay slapped his leg as though he had made a funny remark.
“Maybe the Lady of the Lake was dribbled out of his snotty nose!” Sir Ector laughed so hard he turned purple. Finally he caught his breath and took another drink. “Anyway. I was saying. We showed Art what the world was like. Village to village. Even fought a few fairy knights.”
Brangien made a doubtful noise in the back of her throat.
“No one was more surprised than us when he pulled the sword from the stone,” Sir Kay said. “You know about that, right? A great hulking stone with a sword in the middle used to be in the center of Camelot. Old as time. No one knew where or when it was from. But the sword never dimmed or rusted. And on the stone, it was written that only the true king could have the sword. Made old Uther Pendragon furious. He could budge neither the sword nor the stone that held it. No one could. The great mystery of Camelot. And to think! All that time we had the true king with us. Polishing our boots and feeding our horses and cooking our meals!” Sir Kay grinned proudly. “Not many can say they used to whip the king for burning their breakfast. Do you remember that time—”
Guinevere let their storytelling meander. They were lost in their own reminiscing, each filling in details about a time they had been hired by a village to kill a dragon and had tricked the villagers into thinking it was done.
As she heard about what they had seen and done in the years under Uther Pendragon, Merlin’s choice to leave Arthur with them re-formed itself with crystal clarity in her mind. If Arthur had been raised in seclusion in the forest, under the tutelage of a kind wizard, how would he have known the work there was to be done?
He had seen the suffering under his father. He had seen what a tyrant inflicted on the land. He had seen how little use men like Sir Ector and Sir Kay were. And rather than letting that break him, rather than letting the tragedy and violence of his very existence turn him bitter and angry, he had decided to do something about it.
He had decided to become the king his land needed.
Merlin never walked a straight path. His choices often seemed to be absurd or wrong. But he saw through time, pierced it with the arrow of his magic, and always hit his target at the other end. It was reassuring. He might not have armed her with as much knowledge as she needed regarding the coming threat, but if he had sent her here, this was where she should be. Time would prove it.
“Thank you, good sirs.” Guinevere stood, cutting them off mid-story about lighting pigs on fire to scare a charging band of thieves. “This has been most informative.”
They hurried to stand. She inclined her head to them and they bowed. Brangien lifted her eyes in relief, packing up her sewing. Guinevere stepped into the now-blinding light of day, followed by their voices.
“Breasts are rather small,” Sir Ector said.
“Pretty enough face, though. He can always find big breasts elsewhere.”
She repented of any kind thoughts she had had toward them. Merlin might have made the right decision, but that did not mean she had to like them. Ever.
“I feel like livestock,” Guinevere hissed to Brangien as the tent flap closed behind her, sealing away Sir Ector and Sir Kay.
“At least they are all talk and no hands.” Brangien glared at the tent. “With the exceptions of Sir Tristan and King Arthur, I could do without men entirely.”
“You wound me, fair maid.” Mordred stood from where he was leaning against a stall. He held out two perfect plums.
Brangien snatched her plum and aggressively bit a chunk out of it, turning her back on Mordred. Guinevere held hers, rubbing her fingers against the smooth skin. It had no stories to tell. She had had enough stories for the day, though.