If she could only be herself around him, perhaps it was true that he could only be himself around her. And she suspected Arthur desperately needed to be an eighteen-year-old boy sometimes, instead of the hope of all Camelot. This was a different type of protection she could offer him. It was certainly not what Merlin had in mind. But, oh, she wanted it. Because if Arthur was eighteen, she was only sixteen. She was not a weary, ancient dragon, ready to fade, or a gnarled old wizard content to retreat to his forest shack and mutter inscrutable prophecies.
She wanted to live. She wanted to live here. She leaned forward, batting her eyelashes. “Will it be terribly dangerous?”
“Oh, very much so. You will have to talk to Sir Percival’s wife.”
“Save me!” She threw a hand over her forehead and pretended to swoon. He laughed, catching her against himself. He pressed her to his chest and she felt and heard as his steady heart began to beat faster. Her own matched its pace. He stood, slowly, pulling her up with himself. “Guinevere,” he said, his voice as soft as the night around them. She wanted to touch his hand, to feel him. To feel if what was sparking in her like flint trying to catch a torch was also inside him.
They stumbled a bit as she rose, and she knocked into Excalibur leaning against the wall. Her fingers brushed the hilt and—
Oh
Oh
No
Darkness and void and nothing
Nothing, so much nothing she spun in it, she fell in it.
But falling is something falling has a destination falling stops and this this would never stop could never stop—
Her fingers left the sword. She ran from the room and into hers, emptying her stomach into the washbowl. Over and over, her body spasming, until at last her head stopped spinning and her heart stopped twitching. She ran her hands over her body. She was here. She was here. She was real.
“What is wrong?” Arthur asked, concern tightening his voice.
“I do not know,” Brangien answered. Guinevere had not even realized Brangien was there holding her hair back. “Maybe something she ate.”
Guinevere sank weakly to the floor. It had not been magic. She would have recognized a magical attack. This had been…the opposite of magic. If magic was chaos and life, this was a void.
And she had felt it when she touched Excalibur.
What was the sword?
* * *
Guinevere had imagined riding next to Arthur, her cloak streaming in the wind.
Instead, she rode beside the ladies. They did not even trot. Their horses plodded along at the same pace as the conversation. Guinevere kept Brangien by her side. She was still not feeling entirely herself after last night’s brush with Excalibur. When they had set out this morning, she could barely look at Arthur, knowing he carried the sword.
She remembered, now, how she had felt on his horse in the forest when he was wielding it. How throwing herself to the wolves had briefly seemed preferable. At the time, she had dismissed it as the panic of the moment. But now she knew it had been the sword.
Fortunately, the men—and the sword with them—were allowed to gallop. They quickly outpaced the women, riding ahead to set up the day’s camp. Around the women were several soldiers, and behind them, the carts with the supplies. A few carts and servants had been sent the night before so that they would not arrive to an empty field.
For a few sullen minutes she wished she had not promised Arthur she would stay. That she were riding away, alone, to do what needed to be done. She longed to prowl barefoot through the trees. Canopies and cushions and company were not something she required or wanted.
And maybe Arthur could meet her there, in the secret embrace of the forest. And maybe if they were not king and pretend-queen, maybe things would not be so complicated….
But he would leave. She could not keep him that way. She could not keep anyone. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the realness of her, her ribs and her breasts and her heart beneath it all. She did not want to be alone. She wanted to be real. And seeing herself reflected in the eyes of those she loved made her feel more real than anything.
“My lady?” Brangien asked.
Guinevere sat up straight. “Yes?”
“I said, are you feeling better?”
“Our queen was ill?” Dindrane perked up and shifted her horse closer so as not to miss any of the conversation. She was trimmed in scarlet and blue. Since Guinevere had worn the colors at the wedding, most of the women had begun wearing them with greater frequency. Guinevere wore green and brown. Her hood was yellow, shading her face from the sun. Brangien, next to her, wore all brown.
Dindrane was counting on her fingers. “You were wed on the evening of the festival, which was not three weeks ago, so—” Dindrane leaned past Brangien to see Guinevere. “Has she had her courses yet?”
“She thinks her courses are none of your concern!” Guinevere said, leaning forward to block Dindrane’s view.
Dindrane just laughed—a bright, brassy sound. “My sweet queen. Your courses are all of Camelot’s business. People are placing bets on how soon you will provide an heir. Most think within a year. But a few worry you are too delicate.”
Guinevere slumped, the weight of a nation on her shoulders. A queen should provide an heir. Arthur had said he did not care about alliances, did not need a queen for that. But what about for securing the future of Camelot? A kingdom without heirs was a kingdom without permanent stability. He had to know that. Had to see it. He was young, yes. But so many children died in infancy, and he himself was a warrior king. Nothing was certain.
He had chosen to marry her, though. And last night she had thought, hoped…She tried to imagine herself a mother. Instead, she remembered Elaine and her fate. Igraine, too. And her own mother. She had never known one. Merlin had never spoken of her. Who had she been? What had happened to her?
Was there not enough peril in the world already without the dangers of simply being a woman?
“I am sorry,” Dindrane said, her voice soft. “I did not think. I am so used to hearing constant talk of wombs that I forget myself.” Her own hand drifted to her waist. Her shoulders straightened and she lifted her chin, the picture of feminine strength. “I will stop anyone I hear speculating about you. It will be easy. I will tell them Blanchefleur sleeps in the nude and that will shift every thought away from you in an instant.”
Guinevere forced a laugh. “You are a fearsome friend.”
“Yes, I am.” Dindrane filled the rest of the hours of their ride with happy chatter. Guinevere was grateful. She had nothing she wished to say on any of the topics.
When they arrived at camp, they found the men testing spears, pulling back the strings on longbows, and in the case of a couple of the younger knights, wrestling. Arthur helped her dismount and sat close to her. She appreciated his quiet strength, as her own strength was still lacking.