“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.
“Mordred pays a lot of attention to details.” Her eyes widened, trying to convey more than she was saying. “Like my manner of speech.”
Arthur frowned, then shook his head. “You have nothing to fear there. If he speaks to me of it, I will divert his suspicions.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Come, the iron should be ready.”
She examined the thin strands, this time with the careful eye of someone who knew exactly what she needed. The thread fulfilled every requirement. She showered the smith with praise for his work. He bowed stiffly, his thick leather apron creaking. “It is my pleasure. Anything for the king, which means anything for his queen.”