“We do not tell that story because you tell it so often there is no need,” Brangien grumbled, not looking up from her work.
Mordred laughed. “Tongue like her needle, just as clever and twice as sharp. But our queen has not heard it.”
Brangien heaved a sigh and dropped her sewing. “Before the Dark Queen was defeated, Arthur and his earliest knights were questing, looking for supporters. Sir Mordred, Sir Percival, and Sir Bors came to a path through the forest—the only safe one—and found their way blocked by a knight. Green armor, green skin, beard of leaves.” She waved a hand dismissively. “All green.”
“You are terrible at telling stories.” Mordred frowned, sounding hurt.
“He would not let them pass unless they found a weapon that could defeat him. Sir Percival tried a sword, but the blade got caught in the thick wood of the knight’s arm, and Sir Percival could not pull it back. Sir Bors tried a mace and chain, but the dent in the Green Knight’s chest blossomed and re-formed.”
“They were at a loss,” Mordred cut in. “Their weapons had no effect, and they could think of no way around a problem other than hit it and hope it bled. Not everything can be solved with iron. So while they were occupied trying and failing to hack the Green Knight apart, I crept into the forest and—”
“A deer,” Brangien interrupted. “He brought a deer back to eat it. The Green Knight thought it was hilarious and let them pass.”
“Brangien.” Mordred put a hand to his chest as though wounded himself. “You have the soul and imagination of a hammer. Stories are not nails to be driven home. They are tapestries to be woven.”
“Your stories are burdens to be endured. Now can we please watch the match?” Brangien retrieved her sewing, belying her words by focusing on that instead.
“What happened to the Green Knight?” Guinevere asked, intrigued. No one here spoke about the time before the Dark Queen was defeated. It seemed a wondrous and strange landscape. One she felt more akin to than the order and stone of Camelot.
“Excalibur happened. And that was a far more permanent end than being nibbled on by a gentle doe.” Mordred’s tone was wry. Whether he was mocking himself or Brangien’s storytelling, Guinevere could not tell. He stood and bowed. “Allow me to find refreshment for you.”
Brangien hissed softly after he walked off. She looked up, then smiled and tucked away her embroidery. “Oh, there! He has defeated another. That makes fifteen. I believe there are only thirty vying today. He may yet get to the knights, if you wish to stay that long.”
“Is he likely to meet King Arthur tonight, then?”
“No. If he gets to the knights, it will be an official tournament. Each knight will choose his preferred form of combat, and meet him on the field. He does not have to defeat all of them to win his spot. But he does have to defeat at least three.”
“And if he defeats all of them?”
“That has never happened. But if it did, then Arthur himself would challenge him in combat.”
Guinevere felt ice in her stomach. “Here?”
“No. Past the lake, in the meadows.”
The meadows. Where Arthur had pushed back the Forest of Blood and reclaimed the land. That dirt was soaked in the blood of magic. If the patchwork knight was a fairy creature, he would be more powerful there than in this ancient, dead city. And Arthur would be vulnerable, ensnared by his own rules. If Guinevere were planning to attack the king, that is where she would do it. Where the knights still felt comfortable and at ease, but the protection of their city was not around them.
Guinevere stood. “I am feeling faint. I would like to return to the castle.”
Brangien scrambled to pack her things back into her satchel. On their way out they passed Mordred, who was carrying a goblet of wine and a plate of bread and cheese.
“Leaving so soon?” he called. Guinevere did not answer. She needed to speak to Arthur. And, more importantly, she needed to break free of her maid in order to follow the patchwork knight after he was done fighting for the day.
* * *
“The king is not in the castle.” Brangien offered the explanation with an apologetic tone. Guinevere had sent her to find Arthur as soon as they returned to her rooms. “He is often gone. He travels his lands constantly, checking in with the farmers, ensuring the roads are clear. He is not one to sit idly on a throne.”
“Where is he now?” Guinevere tried not to be hurt that he would leave the day after their wedding. Obviously she knew it was not a real marriage, but no one else did.
“The forest,” Brangien said, her eyes lowered. “The one that took the village. He left with men to burn it back.”
“But it is not within the borders of Camelot.”
“He does not turn away from a fight. Even when it is not his own fight.”
Guinevere admired that about him. He was king to his people, yes, but he extended that responsibility and protection wherever he could. Even when there was neither threat nor benefit to himself. Arthur was…good. That was the burning warmth inside her when she thought of him.
She was glad for it. But today it was inconvenient. She wanted to warn him about the patchwork knight and her suspicions. Perhaps the delay was better, though. She needed more information.
“Brangien, thank you for taking me out. It was wonderful. But I am afraid I have overtaxed myself. My head aches, and I would like to lie in the dark. Is there a meal I am supposed to attend tonight?”
“Of course you should rest. Feasts only happen once a month. A few nights you may be expected to dine with the knights and their wives, but no one has inquired about you for tonight. If anyone does, I will tell them you are—” She paused, looking for the right word.
“Overwhelmed with love for my new king and country and insensible with joy.” Guinevere smiled slyly, and Brangien laughed.
“Unconscious with joy, even.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
Brangien drew the curtains and pulled down the covers. Then she helped Guinevere undress, unlacing her from her sleeves and outer gown. “I will be in the sitting room, sewing. I will not disturb you or enter unless you call for me. If you fall asleep for the night, rest well.”
Feeling silly and deceitful, Guinevere climbed into bed. Brangien adjusted the blankets over her, and then slipped from the room.
Guinevere climbed out of bed.
She checked the first trunk. No woman of her status would be in the streets alone. Neither would a lady’s maid of Brangien’s caliber, but there was more room to improvise there. The queen needed a tincture, or requested a special spice for her food, or some such thing that would demand the urgency of a maid rushing into the city alone. Surely even the queen’s maid could get away with being out after curfew if it was under a direct order from the queen.