“You were a boy still.”
He brought their hands to his mouth and brushed his lips across the back of her hand. His lips were soft and cool, and she felt it through her whole body. “You are generous. Thank you for letting me tell you. All these long years, it has been a secret shared only by myself, Mordred, and Maleagant.”
She moved closer to him. Knowing this secret made her feel important, like she mattered in his life. But it also made her worry even more. If Arthur was not a virgin king, was their false marriage holding him back from things he wanted? She had worried about him missing alliances and politics. She had not considered that they were both missing…physical alliances.
“I do not mind,” she said, her voice as soft and quiet as the darkness cocooning them in the tent. “If you…pursue other women. I understand. I do not want you to think that our arrangement prevents you from that.”
He shifted closer to her, his body solid and radiating heat. “I would never give people a reason to talk about us, or to scorn you. I know we do not have a normal marriage, but I am happy with you by my side. Are you?”
“Yes.” She did not hesitate. In this moment, the heat of him warming her through, she was perfectly happy.
“Good. I want—” He paused.
She strained closer, the pause after want hinged with unknown promise. Finally, he spoke again. “I want to get to know you. The real you. We are both here because Merlin wanted it so, but it is time he is no longer between us. We are in this together, Guinevere. I like that.”
She turned so her smile pressed into Arthur’s shoulder. She did not know whether she was hiding the full effect he had on her, or whether she was pressing her joy into his shoulder as a kiss. “I like it, too.”
“So tell me something no one else knows about you.”
She laughed. “Arthur, no one else knows anything about me. Only you do.”
His laugh was embarrassed. “I suppose that is true. I gave you one secret; you gave me all of yours. Except…your name.”
A cold rush of emptiness descended on her. She wanted to tell him. To give it to him. But when she reached for it, it was gone. She had given it to the flame, and it had been devoured. The loss hit her anew.
“How about I tell you a story instead. About the stars. I named them all.”
Arthur nodded, slipping his arm around her and stroking her hair with a movement so soft she wondered if he realized he was doing it. She wove the story for him, tying it around him like knots until he fell asleep.
This journey had brought so many new revelations, so many new threats. Maleagant was not one she could fight. Neither was the ghost of Elaine and Arthur’s failure. Her heart broke for him, carrying that alone all these years. And somehow he had taken that pain and forged it into something powerful and sharp. Something to wear as naturally as he wore his crown.
She rested a hand against his heart, her own beating like a bird startled from a bush. She wanted to give him her name. She wanted to give him everything.
And it terrified her.
Guinevere awoke to an argument.
“How could you?” Sir Tristan demanded.
Guinevere sat up. She tried to rub her bleary eyes clear, but nothing worked. If she did not end up using the knots she had tied that cost her this, she would be furious. She checked that her hair was still more or less in order, then crept to the tent opening and listened.
“Maleagant knows I am here,” Arthur answered. “That means Camelot is vulnerable. I did not want our waiting men cut off.”
“But now we have no men to bolster our forces! Maleagant knows you are here, which means you are vulnerable.”
“Better I fall than Camelot.”
“If you fall,” Mordred said, his voice softer than Sir Tristan’s, “so does Camelot.”
“Camelot will live on. And so will we. I know Maleagant. He will lie in wait for us along the roads or set a trap in a village. We will ride through the forests.”
Sir Bors sounded like gravel crunching underfoot. “Of course he will wait on the road, because riding through that much forest is madness.”
“I like our chances.”
Guinevere could hear the smile in Arthur’s voice. He sounded as though he was looking forward to the challenge. She sided with Tristan, though. Better to protect Arthur than to send the waiting camp back without them.
She steeled herself. If they were all he had, they would be enough.
She gathered her knots, checking each one to make certain they were still tight. There was no time for the weakness that making new ones would induce. She had to be her best for the forest.
Lifting a tent flap, she emerged into the brilliant sunshine.
“What about the queen?” Sir Tristan asked, challenge in his voice as he used her as a reason not to follow Arthur’s plan.
“The queen,” Guinevere said, pulling up her hood, “is ready to ride at her king’s side, wherever that takes her.” She strode to her waiting horse. Arthur lifted her to mount.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
Confident and afraid in equal measure, she smiled down at him. “I am.”
* * *
She maneuvered so she would be the last to enter the trees. A branch brushed her arm; she draped a single knot of confusion and blindness there. Anyone pursuing them would be unable to find the trail.
Once under the trees, everything changed. Even the air was different. Warmer. Closer. As though the trees were breathing, wrapping them all in the steam of their exhalations. They had to slow their pace as the horses picked careful paths through the undergrowth. There was no discernable trail. No one was stupid enough to go through the forest if they did not have to.
Still, it was boredom and heat that oppressed Guinevere more than fear. After several hours of slow progress, she had removed her hood and longed to unlace her sleeves. The knights around her had not shed any of their metal-plated leather armor, and they all sweated in silent misery.
Mordred rejoined them from scouting ahead. “More of the same. Trees and leaves and insects. If we continue south, we should break free on the borders of Camelot within two days. Tonight when we make camp, I will set traps for—”
A howl sliced through the thick air.
“We have daylight yet!” Sir Bors said as the horses jostled, ears alert, nostrils wide. “They cannot be hunting.”
Another howl answered. Then another. And another.
“They are hunting,” Arthur said, his expression grim. “And we are surrounded.”