They were not in Camelot anymore.
Guinevere had not expected the change to be so sudden and stark, but she could feel when they crossed the border. The fields fell apart, becoming patchy and disorganized. A few shabby villages clung to the borders, but there were no children playing there. The people who watched them pass did so with narrowed eyes and hands on weapons.
They also skirted around great stretches of forest. Part of Guinevere longed to go through them—she missed the cool green spaces more fiercely than she knew was possible—but the white-knuckled grips the knights kept on their swords reminded Guinevere that these were not Merlin’s trees.
Their company was twenty-five men strong. All of Arthur’s best knights, plus five servants with packhorses carrying their supplies. They were meeting on the edges of Pict land. Guinevere drew deeper into the shade of her hood as they passed the burned-out shells of an old settlement. The sooner they met the Picts, the sooner they could leave.
Glad as she was that they had left Brangien behind, she missed her maid and friend. It would have been comforting to share this with someone. Though she was in the center of the men, constantly surrounded, she felt very alone.
“Not long now,” Mordred murmured, once again at her side. Guinevere had not noticed him. Her hands were busy beneath a shawl she had draped over them. She finally had enough feeling in her fingers to work with the strands of thread she had stolen from Brangien’s things. Her knots were all about confusion, blindness, disguise. If things got bad, she could throw the knots at their enemies and buy some time. But it cost her her own vision. Everything was blurry and indistinct.
She did not mind a veil being drawn over her eyes to hide the state of the world they rode through. If her journey from the convent had been punctuated by the one strike of terror in the new forest, this one was drawn low with an undercurrent of bleak dread, constantly tugging at them. How did people live out here? How could anything survive this unending stress and fear?
Arthur called something out and his men stopped as one. Mordred took Guinevere’s horse’s reins. The horses snorted and stamped, impatient.
“A party is coming to meet us,” Mordred whispered.
“What should I do?”
“Exactly what you are.”
“And what is that?”
“Look beautiful.”
Guinevere snorted like her horse. Mordred’s laugh was low and pleased. “No one expects you to speak or understand Pictish. Stay by Arthur’s side or by mine. Do not ever step out anywhere alone, and never let one of their servants or men lead you anywhere. This should be painless.”
Guinevere relaxed and let her features settle into pleasant, cool detachment. They thought her a decoration. That was good. If she had to attack, no one would expect it.
She watched as Arthur greeted the man-and-horse-shaped blur that rode up to them. Arthur gestured toward her. Mordred urged their horses forward and she was delivered to her husband’s side.
Arthur said something in a musical language. She heard her name and inclined her head. The Pictish king, Nechtan, was a bulk of beard and fur and menace as he leaned toward her. He reached out a hand, so she lifted her own. His engulfed hers. He lowered his forehead to the back of her hand, then released her.
The impression she got from his touch was far sharper than her vision. He was like a falcon. Circling. Watchful. Predatory. But not immediately threatening.
They were led into camp. Arthur lifted her down from her horse and tucked her hand against his elbow. She was grateful. He did not know how poorly she saw right then. He guided her to a large table set up in the middle of a field. Beneath it they had laid bright rugs. Who had brought it all out here or who would be responsible for taking it back, she could not say. The table gleamed with candles in the fading afternoon light. Bonfires burned in orange blurs around them.
Arthur pulled out a seat for Guinevere, then sat next to her. She lowered her hood. Her smile felt vacant and disconnected. It was not feigned. She could understand none of the chatter around her. King Nechtan sat next to Arthur, Mordred sat on Guinevere’s other side, and as far as Guinevere could make out, she was the only woman present.
She wondered where the Pictish queen was. If Guinevere was there to show trust, why did the Picts not do the same? She hoped it was because Arthur came from such a place of strength he could afford to be generous, whereas the Picts needed to appear strong.
Food was brought. She reached for her goblet, parched.
“It has all been tasted,” Mordred whispered into his cup so his mouth was hidden. “Nothing is poisoned.”
Guinevere froze with the wine halfway to her lips. She had not even considered it. There were so many ways for men to hurt each other, so many methods of ending one another. No wonder Arthur’s knights did not worry about magical threats. They had a world full of other menaces to consider.
Her appetite considerably diminished, Guinevere picked at her food enough to be polite. Arthur and King Nechtan kept up a steady stream of talk. It sounded friendly.
“We have peace with the Picts,” Mordred said, his voice so low she could barely hear it. “But it is tenuous. They are renowned fighters.”
“Why have they not come against Arthur, then?”
“They have. We bought peace with five thousand Picts dead by our swords.”
“That is a steep price.” Guinevere had never seen five thousand people together. The enormity of imagining five thousand dead was more than she could hold. Her head swam.
“Arthur is here to remind them that we are friends, because we have not always been so.”
“How am I doing with my part?”
“You are exceptional at sitting and being lovely.”
Guinevere wanted to roll her eyes, but it was not queenly. Arthur leaned close to her, a smile on his face. But he spoke to Mordred through gritted teeth. “Where are Geoffrey and Gildas? They agreed to come. Their presence here—and their apologies and assurances of peace—was the whole point.”
“I will find out what I can.” Mordred moved to stand, but froze. The conversation at the table, a low constant hum, snapped shut like it was caught in a trap.
A man stood across from them. He pulled out a chair and sat, leaning back. “No, do not get up.” He gestured for everyone to sit. All the men around Guinevere were half-standing, hands on swords. “I came for a meal, not a fight. Though rumor has it the Picts’ food is not nearly as good as their fighting.”
“Maleagant,” Arthur said.
Guinevere felt a chill down her spine. Sir Maleagant. The one Arthur had been receiving messages about.
“What luck this is. I wanted to visit King Nechtan, and here he is on my own borders, waiting for me.”