giving you that choice now. Will you? Still be my queen?”
Guinevere’s heart raced. It felt like a far more intimate question than their wedding vows had been. Then, they had known she was not his queen. Not really. What was he asking now?
“I will,” she said, feeling as tender and hopeful as a spring bud.
Arthur’s face broke into a smile. “I—”
“Uncle king,” Mordred said, standing politely several feet away. “The Pictish envoy is here. And the stewards have questions about the tournament.”
Arthur turned toward Mordred. It felt colder when his eyes were directed elsewhere. “Good. Good. Actually, Guinevere should be involved in the planning. Will you take her with you to the stewards, Mordred? I trust her to take care of this on my behalf. It is an excellent queenly duty.” He beamed at her, then strode away.
That had not been quite the duty she had wondered if he was asking her to participate in.
Determined to make an effort, she fetched Brangien. They met with the stewards to discuss seating, flag colors, how many would be at the feast and where to put them, whether food and wine should be provided for the common spectators, and a hundred other decisions too small for a king but right for a queen.
Mordred leaned by the door, yawning exaggeratedly whenever she caught his eye. After several hours, with only a fraction of the plans settled and a meeting scheduled for the next morning as well, Guinevere was released. Mordred walked her to the dining hall. She looked hopefully for Arthur, but he was not there. Unless it was a scheduled feast, attendance at meals was unpredictable. The knights with wives ate with their families. Those who were single were usually found at mealtimes, but not always.
Guinevere and Brangien sat next to Arthur’s seat. Guinevere waited for him join them, but by the time she finished her meal, his seat remained vacant. She realized she had hoped that their tenuous new understanding would mean more time together. But while it changed things for her, Arthur still had to be king every waking moment. She sighed, picking at the stitching on her pale pink dress.
“Do two such fair ladies have plans for the evening?” Mordred spun his knife on the table. “Perhaps a lively discussion of what color our queen will wear so as best to stand out at the tournament?”
Guinevere made a face. She could not help it. The idea of spending any more time on the logistics of the tournament was sour in her belly. She wanted to help Arthur, but she had lost being a magical protector for this?
Mordred laughed. “Good. Come with me. We are going to a play.”
“A play?” Brangien repeated, her expression dubious.
“You enjoy watching men pretend to be at war in the arena, but not actors pretending to be in love? Surely we have enough of war in reality. Why play at it in all our free time? Come. Let us celebrate the wonders of humanity.”
Guinevere looked at Brangien. Brangien wrinkled her nose, then shrugged in agreement. “I do not actually want to talk about the tournament any more tonight.”
Mordred clapped his hands together, rubbing them excitedly. “Excellent. You have not seen the majesty of mankind until you have seen Godric the Fair compare his mistress’s charms to the variety and quality of winds he releases from his—well. I do not want to spoil it.”
Both horrified and intrigued, Guinevere could not say no.
* * *
They walked back as twilight lingered and the bells chided them to hurry home.
Guinevere wiped away a tear, her stomach sore from so much laughter. “That was the worst thing I have ever seen in my life,” she said.
“It truly was.” Mordred danced in front of them, moving backward to face them. “It truly was. I have lived nineteen years and could live one hundred more and see nothing worse. Are you not delighted?”
“I am.”
Brangien huffed, but she had laughed harder than any of them when Godric the Fair had mistaken his horse for his betrothed and made amorous advances. The theater was in the lowest part of the city. It was not nearly as nice as the arena, but it was just as packed. If tournaments made the heart race and the blood boil, plays made the heart dance and the tears flow.
“Thank you,” Guinevere said. “I think that was precisely what we needed.”
Mordred bowed, sweeping his arm out. “I am the queen’s most humble and devoted servant.”
Brangien scoffed. “You are