Mordred pointed their way. “We are meeting my uncle king at the smithies.”
It was a relief that she would be able to get to work soon. Mordred led them through the crowds and stalls to the other end of the market. The smithies were kept at a distance because of the heat and smoke. Seeing Arthur waiting for them there, Guinevere felt her heart grow lighter. Everything she learned about him made her more sure she had made the right decision in coming here. Arthur was a protector, and it was a very fine thing to protect a protector. She smiled as she took his arm. The sun winked on his silver circlet crown, and the crowds gave him a respectful berth—aided, no doubt, by the knights orbiting around him.
“Did you enjoy the market?” he asked.
“It was…illuminating.”
“You will never guess who we met,” Mordred said.
“Who?” Arthur asked.
“I will give you a hint: they evaluated your perfect bride by commenting on her teeth, her hair, and the size of her—”
Arthur groaned, putting a hand over his face. “Sir Ector and Sir Kay are here.”
Guinevere patted his arm. “It was informative.”
“Please accept my apologies for anything they said, and anything they may say in the future. They mean well, but—” He paused. “Actually, I am not sure they mean well. But they are benign creatures. If they are not good, at least they are not bad.”
Mordred tucked a handkerchief back into his vest. “Their smell, on the other hand…”
Brangien laughed. Then she ducked her head modestly. Mordred met Guinevere’s eyes and grinned over the victory of making Brangien laugh. Guinevere matched his smile. She felt better now that she was back with Arthur and working on a problem she had a plan for.
Heat radiated from the smiths’ shaded work areas. There were fewer people here—most could not afford what the smiths were offering. But Arthur and Mordred were both familiar with the best smiths, who had their spots closest to the main market.
“My queen would like iron metal as fine as thread,” Arthur said to a smith with arms like tree trunks.
“Why?” Mordred asked.
“To weave through my hair,” Guinevere said. “I cannot wear jewels in it anymore now that I am married”—a rule she had not known until Brangien told her—“but I thought the metal would sparkle nicely. It has to be very thin and supple, though, so I can twist it how I want.”
“I do not understand women’s fashions.” Mordred frowned, examining a selection of daggers and swords.
The smith had no such qualms. He scratched his beard, his smoke-blackened face wrinkling in thought. His hair was cut as close to the scalp as Arthur’s. Now that Guinevere thought about it, most everyone at the market had close-cropped hair. Only the obviously wealthy men had longer hair.
“I can do that,” the smith said. “Give me an hour.”
They spent the time examining other wares. Arthur bought Guinevere a pretty iron dagger. When she touched it, it was as though there were a note playing just a fraction too low for her ears to hear. It was unnerving. She sheathed it and the sensation stopped.
Brangien passed a bag to Arthur, then begged leave to pick up some supplies of her own, promising to meet up with them later.
“Go,” Guinevere said. “Take the rest of the day for yourself. I will see you back at the castle.” That way, she would be free to use the tunnel instead of the ferry. With a grateful, excited smile, Brangien curtseyed, then hurried back to the main market.
“Why not silver?” Mordred asked, testing the heft and balance of a sword. He might not join the knights in the arena, but there was no question he was skilled with a blade. It looked like an extension of his arm—deadly grace and ease in every movement.
“Silver?” Guinevere looked up from the horseshoes she was pretending to examine instead of watching Mordred and his sword. Arthur was nearby, speaking with the smith about something. But Mordred had not abandoned his charge to remain with Guinevere.
“For your hair. Silver shines better than iron.”
“Oh. Yes. Well. I am not certain it will work. I want to try with a less precious metal before wasting King Arthur’s funds on silver. It is frivolous already.”
Mordred gave her a twist of a smile. “I thought ladies were encouraged to be frivolous. That it was a duty of your rank.”
“If you think so little of us, perhaps that is why you have yet to marry.”
Mordred laughed. “Oh, I think very highly of women. Fearsome and wondrous, every one. You, in particular, I find most fascinating. You are a puzzle.”
“I am no such thing.” Guinevere picked up a horseshoe as if she had any idea how to evaluate one for quality.
“Unlike most in the city, I have been to the southern reaches of the island. And you do not have a southern accent.”
Guinevere startled. “I— My time in the convent must have softened it.”
“Mmm. I have also never seen a lady of your standing so delighted by a market, or so willing to smile and engage with a dirty chicken-maid waif.”
She scowled defensively. “Arthur loves all his people.”
“Yes, but Arthur was not raised a king. He was raised a servant. He sees the world as no nobleman ever could. And you, I think, see it as no princess would.” He raised his hands. “It is not a criticism. I am surprised, is all. You are nothing like what I expected.”
She made her voice cold and low like the iron. “I am sorry for not meeting expectations, Sir Mordred.”
He leaned close, picking up one of the horseshoes. She could feel the heat of him beside her. “I am not sorry, Lady Guinevere.”
A bright burst of laughter drew her attention and she beamed with relief at the break from Mordred’s intensity. A group of children had a leather ball and were kicking it around an open space of ground in the middle of the smithies. Arthur had joined in, and was just then balancing the ball atop his head. A boy slammed into him, knocking it free. Everyone watching held their breath. The boy had hit the king.
Arthur laughed even harder, grabbing the boy and lifting him in the air before he could kick the ball.
“Sometimes I forget how young he is,” Mordred said, his voice soft.
“Guinevere!” Arthur called, setting down the boy and kicking the children’s ball so they would have to scurry after it. Guinevere hurried to his side, feeling oddly chilled once she moved away from Mordred. And grateful to escape the conversation and his inconvenient observations. She flashed Arthur a falsely bright smile.