Shaking, her hand in searing pain, she grabbed a canteen and helped Sir Tristan drink. His skin had lost the killing heat of the infection. His eyelids fluttered open. “My queen?” he asked.
“Rest.” She cradled his head in her lap. She tipped the water into his mouth, little by little, too frightened to look up lest the wolves of men descend on her for her transgression.
* * *
They battled the pack all night. When morning finally pushed back the darkness, the knights were weary, but none bloodied.
“The way they moved,” Sir Bors said. “It was as though they were drunk. They could never figure out where we were. God has protected us.”
“Yes,” Arthur said, his voice firm and bright. “God has protected us.”
Guinevere said nothing. Her knots had done their work. She had felt it as each one wore out, her vision finally back to normal. Her eyes ached and stung, but the pain was nothing compared to that of her burned hand.
Sir Tristan was checking the horses. Arthur embraced him quickly. “You are well?”
Sir Tristan flexed his arm, looking down at it. “It is sore, but the fever has passed.”
Arthur clasped his shoulder. “You scared us.”
Sir Tristan smiled, his full lips blooming like a spring flower. “I shall endeavor to never scare my king again.”
“See that you do,” Arthur said with a laugh. But when he turned and caught Guinevere’s eyes, his smile disappeared and his face darkened. He knew what she had done.
He did not speak to her. Neither, for that matter, did Mordred. Now that things were calmer, she stood, tense and ready for the accusations. But all the knights prepared their horses with efficient and practiced focus.
“Guinevere needs a horse,” Mordred said.
“She can ride with me, if that is acceptable to my king,” Sir Tristan said. “I cannot wield a sword well on horseback with this wound, but I can protect her.”
“Thank you.” Arthur inclined his head, giving permission. She wanted to speak with him, but there was no privacy, no opportunity.
Guinevere joined Sir Tristan on his horse. They rode for hours, their passage swift but cautious. There was no sign of the wolves. No hint of pursuit. The nature of the forest changed, as well. The trees loomed less, the air cleared out. It was still a wild and untamed place, but it felt less threatening.
Late afternoon, they broke to rest. A creek babbled nearby, and the men led the horses there to refill their canteens. Guinevere walked in the opposite direction. She kept everyone in sight, but her head ached with the strain of the night before coupled with the stress and fear of discovery. She wished Arthur would join her so they could talk about what she had done, but he remained with his men.
Sir Tristan walked among them. Healthy. Alive. She had done that. And she did not regret it. Even if she had been caught, she could not have regretted it. It had been the right thing to do.
Arthur had told her once that he would never put anything above Camelot. Remembering this, she cringed, guilty. She had put Sir Tristan above Camelot. If she had been caught, it could very well have threatened Arthur’s rule. She understood why he had forbidden her. But she could not bring herself to accept that Sir Tristan should have died to keep her secret safe. She would have lied, said she was sent to trick Arthur. Said she had bewitched him and he never knew. Done whatever she had to in order to protect him.
She rested between the roots of a massive tree. A hand against its bark revealed no bite, no malice. Just the deep, peaceful slumber of soil and sun and water. She closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of the sun on her. A brief, silly wish for leaves and roots filled her. How peaceful to be a tree! Trees had only to grow. Trees had no hearts to confuse and complicate things. Trees could not love kings and still disobey them.
A shadow blocked the sun from her imaginings. She opened her eyes to find Mordred standing over her.
She stood to meet his accusation. He gestured for her to hold out her burned hand. The evidence of her forbidden magic use. It had been agonizing all morning, but she had kept it covered beneath her clothes. She held out the proof with a defiant gaze.
“Your eyes are green today,” he said. He crushed several leaves and then pressed them gently against her blistered skin. The sensation was instantly cooling. She let out a soft sigh of relief. Mordred wrapped a band of torn fabric around her hand to hold the leaves in place. Their skin never touched. She was glad. She did not want another spark right now, and Mordred ever seemed to burn. “They are not always green, your eyes. Sometimes they are blue like the sky. In Camelot, they are gray like the stones. I like green and blue better.”
Guinevere did not understand what he was saying. She had never thought about her own eyes. But she did understand that he was not accusing her or announcing her guilt. He was protecting her.
“How do you know how to do this?” she asked, wanting to talk but not about what she had done. She lifted her soothed hand.
“Not everything in the forest is destruction. The forest is also life.” He pulled a delicate purple-and-yellow blossom free from his leather vest. “Can you feel it?”
“I can,” she said, tentative.
“Some things only grow outside of walls.” He held out the flower with a secret smile. He was not going to tell the other knights. He was going to protect her. “Keep it outside the walls and no one needs to know.”
She took the flower. “Thank you,” she whispered. Relief and gratitude swelled in her. Mordred was on her side. Guinevere tucked the flower beneath her dress, against her heart, where it would be both secret and safe.