“I would not wish to cross any of us.” Guinevere said it with joking enthusiasm, but she felt formidable.
Sir Tristan emerged from the shack and hurried toward them. The rocks along the shore were gray, nearly black with the clinging moisture and littered with items deposited by the incessant waves. Guinevere tried not to imagine that the saltwater-soaked hunks of wood were from other ships.
Sir Tristan had an odd expression when he reached them. “Wilfred is not home. But his sister, Hild, will take us. She can transport the horses, as well. I have retained her services for the next seven days.”
“How much will it cost us?” Lancelot asked. They had a handful of Guinevere’s jewels to bargain with, safe in her bag alongside her brush and her dragon’s tooth.
Sir Tristan looked flushed. He scratched the side of his neck in a nervous gesture, staring back at the shack. “Less than it should, I think? She was excited by the prospect.”
“Intending to kill us and take the horses?” The matter-of-fact way Lancelot stated it made Guinevere stare in shock, but Sir Tristan took it as understood and shook his head. Did they really have to anticipate this level of violence whenever they left Camelot? How were men any worse than the Dark Queen? Her violence was random, at least. In a way, that felt kinder than men preying on each other for profit.
“Hild does not seem the type, and we are both larger than she is. I told her we would pay half now and half upon landing, delivered to our companions who would be waiting for us. It seemed the wisest lie. She said two days to sail to the southernmost point, and then another day and a half to sail to where we will disembark. She did not ask questions about why we chose our route.”
“That is probably for the best,” Guinevere said. A thrill of excitement spread up her spine. Everything had been theoretical, but now it was real. They were going to do it.
They were going to get on a boat. For two days.
She felt less excited and more ill.
* * *
Hild was younger than Guinevere had expected. She could not have been more than eighteen. They had not seen her until after she had rowed out to her boat and then maneuvered it as close to the shore as she could. A long gangplank was dragged out and placed in the water. The horses would have to wade to it. Lancelot went first, to stay aboard with the horses in case Hild planned to load the horses and then leave.
“Welcome, welcome!” She spoke their language, but with a heavy accent. Her hair was almost yellow, her cheeks ruddy, her bright-blue eyes already hinting at how they would line from years of squinting in the sun. There was something inherently cheerful about her, and if appearances were anything to go by, she was absolutely thrilled to meet them.
She chattered happily as Lancelot guided her horse up the ramp and then returned for the others. “The horse cannot see? That is good! Very good!” She laughed. “Beautiful horses. I hate horses. Too-big teeth.” She gestured at her own teeth and then bit down in an exaggerated manner. “Never trust a beast that can fit your—” She gestured to her shoulder, looking at Sir Tristan.
“Shoulder.”
“Yes! Shoulder. Never trust a beast that can fit your shoulder in its mouth.” She snapped her teeth again for emphasis and then laughed and leaned a little closer to Sir Tristan. “I never bite.”
Sir Tristan’s eyes widened with alarm. Guinevere did not much know what to make of the comment, either. Perhaps it was an issue of language. Or perhaps…
Well, Sir Tristan was very handsome.
Sir Tristan cleared his throat. “That is all the horses. Should we board? Where is your crew?”
Hild gestured at the four of them, then at Lancelot. “Crew! My brothers all hired out for harvest. Last sail of the year. Good time.”
That would explain her eagerness and her willingness to go along with their requests. It gave her a chance to earn money that she was not expecting to have again until the spring.
“How do we get to the ship?” Guinevere asked.
Hild squinted at her. “I do not understand.”
“How do we get to the ship?” Guinevere gestured to herself, Sir Tristan, and Brangien, and then pointed at the boat.
Hild turned to Sir Tristan. “Is she…” She pointed to her forehead and then made her eyes go wide and unfocused while tilting her head vacantly to the side.
Guinevere folded her arms. “No, she is not!”
“We walk to the ship? Like the horses?” Hild laughed. “Boots will dry. Everything dries. Everything gets wet. It is the sea.” She stretched out her arms and spun once, then sloshed toward the ship.
Brangien looked at Guinevere with alarm. There was a loud splashing as Lancelot hurried from the ship toward them. Without a word, she scooped Guinevere up and carried her through the water toward the ship.
“Have to beat Hild back, in case she decides to sail away with our horses,” Lancelot said.
Guinevere put as much weight into her arms around Lancelot’s shoulders as she could to relieve some of the strain on Lancelot’s arms. “Thank you,” she whispered. The gangplank creaked alarmingly when Lancelot set her down, and she rushed up onto the deck.