A gray flash leaped in front of her. The horse reared back, kicking its front legs. Guinevere fell hard to the ground and rolled free of the hooves. Her horse screamed, then disappeared into the trees with the wolf snapping at it.
But there was more than one wolf. She stared into the yellow eyes and bared teeth of the one padding closer to her. It opened its jaws and jumped. A man dove in front of her, tackling the wolf and rolling with it. Sir Tristan. The wolf clamped down on his forearm, breaking through the leather. Sir Tristan shouted with as much fury as the wolf’s growls. He threw it free. Then he ran to Guinevere, picked her up, and tossed her into Arthur’s waiting arms.
She clung to him, her seat on the horse terrifyingly precarious. Arthur had one hand around her waist, the other wielding Excalibur. Her head swam. Cold sweat broke out, and she had the sudden urge to throw herself back to the wolves rather than stay on the horse.
But the howling had faded. Arthur pushed his horse dangerously fast until they came to a clearing. He stopped and Guinevere dropped down, crawling away, trying desperately not to vomit. Her whole body shook.
“Form a circle,” Arthur commanded. “Bors, Gawain, gather wood for a fire. It will be dark soon and we cannot be in the trees.”
“Guinevere.” Mordred crouched next to her. His hand hovered over her back, but he did not touch her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she whispered. It was a lie. She could not stop shaking. Something had affected her more than the fear. Perhaps she had breathed in some of the mist. “Is Sir Tristan here?”
“I am.” Sir Tristan sat heavily beside her. His arm was wrapped in a piece of cloth. It was not bleeding too much.
“Thank you.” Guinevere rolled to her side, then sat up. “You saved me.”
“You are my queen,” he said in answer. Then his face softened. “And you are Brangien’s friend.”
She stayed where she was next to Sir Tristan, with Mordred standing near, as the men organized a defensive circle and got a fire going. When she had recovered enough, she stood and found Arthur.
“I can help,” she said.
He shook his head. “No. I need you safe. Please.”
The pleading in his voice softened her. But she had to help. “I already have knots made. They are for blindness and confusion. If we place them around the meadow, it might slow or deter any wolves. Or other predators.” She could only imagine what else might be in the trees. She certainly counted Maleagant’s men as predators.
“Does it have to be you who places them? Like the door knots?”
“No. Anyone could.”
He unbuckled his sword belt and set Excalibur, now sheathed, gently on the ground. “Give them to me. I will do it.”
She reached into the pouch secured around her waist and withdrew the knots. “Leave them at even intervals. Circle the whole camp.”
Arthur disappeared into the trees. She rejoined Sir Tristan. Even in the waning light, his color did not look good. “Let me look at your wound,” she said.
He held out his arm obediently. She unwrapped it. The blood was trickling out, but not at a pace that was worrisome.
Worrisome, however, was the heat of his skin around it. He was burning up. Guinevere put the back of her hand against his forehead. It radiated heat. But there was something…different there. Something that was not Sir Tristan. Like mold growing on bread. “Why is he so hot?” she asked, her voice high and tight.
Mordred heard her and knelt by Sir Tristan. He examined the wound. “This is too soon for infection to set in.”
“What is infection?”
He frowned at her. “You have never seen? It is blood poisoning. Something gets in through the wound that should not be there. It…” He trailed off. He would not meet her eyes. Sir Tristan leaned back, lying on the ground. “I will get him some water.” Mordred hurried away.
“Cold,” Sir Tristan said, his teeth chattering.
Guinevere took off her cloak and draped it over him. He shivered and shook. Then, worse, he went still.
“Arthur!” she shouted. Sir Tristan did not stir. After a few moments Arthur rejoined them. The look on his face confirmed her worst fears.
“There is nothing we can do,” he said. “The infection spread too fast.”
Guinevere shook her head. She could not accept that. She would not. Sir Tristan had been hurt protecting her. But how could she fight poison in his blood? She could not clean it, could not—
An idea took hold of her with as much force as any wolf’s jaws. The rest of the knights were far enough away, and Sir Tristan was in no position to hear or understand her. “I think I can help him.”