No more thoughts of Mordred. Only thoughts of Arthur. Arthur, her friend. Arthur, her husband in name only. Arthur, who was out fighting their battles alone because they could not fight them side by side. “How did you cross that divide between what you were and what you became? Were you scared?”
“Scared of discovery? No.” Brangien scowled. “Love between women is seen as harmless. Encouraged sometimes, even, as a means for high-born girls to expel excess energy with no threats to lines of succession. As though what we had was a child’s game instead of more real than any of their arranged unions.”
Guinevere had not even thought about being afraid of discovery. That had not been what she meant at all. “Were you scared that once you made it clear you loved her, what you had before would be lost to you forever?”
Brangien’s strokes were distracted. “All I knew was that I wanted Isolde—all of Isolde—in my life, beside me. There was no fear in that first kiss. Only hope. We were both surprised, I think, but there was no fear. Not then.” Brangien stopped. “Have you— Guinevere, this morning when I asked about your night, you were upset. Have you and Arthur not been…together yet?”
Guinevere closed her eyes. If it was known that she and Arthur had only shared a bed as friends, their marriage would not be considered legal. Not to mention the need for heirs to solidify Arthur’s reign and protect him from usurpers. But she trusted Brangien with her life, and with almost all her secrets. “I keep thinking—hoping—maybe one night he will be tired, or perhaps have had too much wine, and that will make it easier for him to kiss me and it will just happen and then we can move forward.”
Brangien put down the comb. She took Guinevere’s chin in her hand and lifted her face so they were looking at one another. In the low candlelight Guinevere could almost see herself reflected in Brangien’s dark, pretty eyes.
“Would you really want a kiss that was not meant?” Brangien asked.
Guinevere felt the misery pooling in her stomach. “But we are already married.”
“Give him time. He loves you.”
“But not like you love Isolde.”
“I should hope not.” Brangien laughed. “I am selfish and vengeful and jealous. The king is…honest. I think he will never offer you anything that he cannot commit to fully. I do not wish to dismiss your worries, but I promise it is better than a husband who treats you as a possession.” Brangien’s face darkened once more.
“Maybe I should kiss him,” Guinevere said.
Brangien smiled, twisting her lips into a teasing shape. “That is the best way, I think. Your first kiss is special. Why should you not be the one to choose when it happens?”
Guinevere cleared her throat and stood hastily. It would not be her first kiss. She had not chosen the first one, but she had not rejected it.
Brangien turned down Guinevere’s bed and then tended to her own. “I will tell no one, of course. You and the king are young. You have time to find your way to each other as husband and wife.” Brangien lay down and Guinevere tucked the blankets around her. “So much time.”
Brushing a kiss against Brangien’s forehead, Guinevere draped a cloth with a sleeping knot across Brangien’s chest, and her friend was gone to say goodbye to her true love.
Guinevere envied her—both the true love and the sleep. Guinevere would not risk another dream invasion, and so had resolved to stay awake. She could not sleep this night anyway, knowing Arthur was out there fighting their battle alone. After wrapping herself in a cloak, she slipped out of her rooms. There was an exterior door next to them. She unlocked it and walked out onto the stairs that encircled the castle, winding and soaring to the very top. Perhaps from the alcove near the top she would be able to see the distant line of fire. Regardless, she could work.
A figure peeled itself from the darkness and she screamed.
“My queen!” Lancelot held her hands up.
Guinevere covered her mouth, her heart racing. “Lancelot!” She leaned against the wall, trying to calm herself. “What are you doing?”
“King Arthur is not in the castle.”
“That does not explain why you are lurking out here.”
Guinevere could not see Lancelot’s face in the night, just an impression of her. But Lancelot’s voice was as clear and purposeful as her gaze would have been, had it been visible. “King Arthur is not in the castle, which means Excalibur is not in the castle. I always watch this door when the king is gone.”
“But you must be exhausted. Do you do this every time? He is away so often.”
“I am never exhausted. I am always ready.”
Guinevere laughed. “Well, that makes one of us. I feel always exhausted and never ready. Come on, then. We are climbing.” Lancelot followed her as they carefully wound their way up the side of the castle to Mordred’s favorite alcove. The night was cloudy and felt even darker than usual. Guinevere was glad for the unexpected company.
Other than Arthur, Lancelot was the only person in Camelot who knew the truth about Guinevere. She also knew the full extent of Guinevere’s magic, having seen her perform the worst of it in the hollow of trees where she revived the Dark Queen. If the story were known, Guinevere wondered, would she have an epic tale like Arthur and the Forest of Blood? Perhaps it would be called Guinevere and the Dread Hollow. But she would not be the hero of that story.
Sighing, she settled into the alcove. Lancelot stood at attention to the side. A thought struck Guinevere. “Did Arthur ask you to keep watch while he was gone?”
“I am the queen’s protector. He does not need to ask me to do my duty.”
Although she would have been delighted to know Arthur had assigned it—that he thought of her when he was not here—Guinevere was happy that Lancelot had chosen this, rather than being commanded. It was no small task, either. Arthur was constantly riding out, tending to borders. He always took knights, but never Lancelot. Lancelot was her knight, specifically, but Guinevere wondered how that made Lancelot feel. She had earned her place among Arthur’s knights, the same as any of them. Better, even. She had gotten further in her tournament than any other knight ever, fighting Arthur himself to a draw. And yet she was always left behind. Just like Guinevere.