And then she heard a noise from the front of the chapel. She sat stock still as fear pulsed in her gut. Maybe she wasn’t alone after all.
Vera realized now that she’d never walked to the very front. There might have been an alcove off to the left. She hadn’t thought to check.
She stood and took a few wary steps forward. “Hello?” she called.
Silence, heavy and ringing, answered.
The sun had set by now. Vera bit her lip, remembering the marble tile controlling the lights on the opposite end of the room. She wished she’d set them brighter. Out of habit, she nearly reached for her phone (that wasn’t there) to use as a torch.
“Is someone there?” Vera called more forcefully.
“Good evening.” The man’s voice came from behind her. She jumped and spun so quickly to face him that she nearly fell over.
“Sorry, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. He stood just inside the door and was around Vera’s father’s age with mostly grey hair save for darker spots clinging to their youthful nut brown. “I saw the light and thought Father John might be here. My name is Thomas. I was appointed deputy treasurer during your time away.” She was relieved he’d introduced himself and that this wasn’t one more person she had to pretend to remember. “I’m sorry to intrude. I was hoping Father John might scribe a letter for me, but it appears you’re alone here?”
“Yes,” Vera said. “Sorry.”
Thomas twisted his hands together, seeming torn between further entering the chapel or leaving. He bobbed for a moment and, with a deep breath, decided on the former.
“Would you pardon a moment of boldness?” Thomas asked.
Her curiosity stirred. “Gladly.”
He came toward her and happened to stop in a chink of blue light reflected from the stained glass. He did not notice that his face was awash in blue, and Vera did well not to chuckle at the sight. “It’s awfully heartening to see a lady spending her idle time in prayer,” Thomas said.
He meant it as a compliment. Vera murmured her thanks, curious what he would have said if he’d heard her cursing after stabbing her thumb.
“I know we choose with the grace of Christ to be tolerant of all,” he said hastily with a dismissive wave. “But with so many who follow the old pagan ways, I, for one, am grateful our king and queen follow the Christian path. You are the queen our people need.”
Vera had to consciously coach herself not to bristle at Thomas’s comments. Nearly everything about this time had been more free-thinking than she could have dreamed. And she was moved by his earnest conviction and generous compliments, even if she felt it was misplaced by being directed at her.
“You’re too kind,” she told him honestly as she searched for the right words to say. “I’m … not sure my prayers would satisfy the Lord.”
He beamed. In her attempt to be subtly truthful, Vera had unintentionally fit further into Thomas’s demure caricature of her. “You’re a sweet girl. It’s an honor to meet you, my queen.”
As she watched him leave, Vera remembered what Lancelot had said about her being alone with a man and wondered if the protocol breach registered with Thomas.
She never thought again about exploring the alcove at the front of the chapel, and she forgot to wonder: if not Thomas, what, indeed, had made the noise she heard on that rainy night?
In the three weeks since Vera’s first night in the chapel, she estimated that she and Lancelot had run more than one hundred and fifty kilometers over six different routes. They were both surprised when Randall was waiting for them on the outskirts of town as they returned to the castle one morning. Completely unprompted, he’d made Vera two more sets of running clothes, including one thicker shirt, which was much needed as the perfectly crisp mornings of fall had shifted to the biting chill of winter.
“I see you running nearly every damn day,” Randall said, pushing the bundle of clothes into her arms. “Having some extras might be helpful, and Matilda won’t need to collect the laundry as often.”
Vera thanked him profusely, which he waved off as he hurriedly made an excuse to leave.
“I like those shoes, Your Majesty,” he called over his shoulder. Vera and Lancelot stared at one another, wide-eyed.
The two had also gone back to play the keep-away game a handful of times, but they had not returned to the sacred grove. With December winds whipping up and rain pattering their heads more frequently, they moved their end-of-run chats from the hill to a well-shielded patch of wood near the castle wall with a perfect clearing for comfortable lounging.
Seated in the chapel, Vera completed three embroidery projects. Thomas stopped by at least once a week, always with polite conversation. He brought her a flower on two occasions, which she tucked into the bouquet in her room even when it did not match. He’d often wax on about her piety or purity, but he was kind to her, albeit slightly scathing about any other members of her sex. She cringed inwardly and reminded herself, magic or not, it was the Middle Ages, and politely tolerating him until he left was likely the least confrontational outcome.
Thomas was there the night she finished her third embroidery piece. It had been nice to have someone to celebrate with. She’d proudly passed him the hoop, and he’d fussed over it.
He traced his thumb across her tidy stitches. “If you give this sort of attention to your sewing, I can only imagine what you pour into your husband. Our king is blessed to have your devotion.”
Her smile had faltered. She doubted Arthur would share his admiration.
Beyond a muttered “Good evening” at dinner, Arthur had entirely avoided speaking to Vera. So when he sat down for the evening meal and straight away turned to her, Vera knew something was coming. Her cup had been raised nearly to her lips. She set it down without even taking a drink and arranged her hands folded in front of her on the table. In a blink-and-she’d-have-missed-it moment, she was positive she caught Arthur’s lips ticking up at the corners before he had time to cover it.
“Did Merlin tell you about court?” he asked her so seriously that Vera was convinced she’d imagined his flash of lightness.
She looked around the room. This was the court, wasn’t it?
“It’s not all this.” Arthur waved his hand toward the dinner gathering. “We’ve been on a pause since your arrival, but each week we usually hold court. Anyone in the kingdom can come to address us—address me. Merlin had planned for you to attend like Guin—” He clenched his jaw. “Like you used to before.”
Every time he stopped speaking, he clenched his teeth together and then relaxed them—a pattern performed on repeat. Vera wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been so near to him and hadn’t been studying his face with the fervor of a field botanist, waiting for any change in the foliage with patient diligence. The muscle in front of his ear lobes bulged and contracted with the rhythm of the clench-release cycle.
When he stayed silent, Vera noticed he was watching her closely, too. Their eyes met, and, for once, Arthur did not look away. Her stomach fluttered under the intensity of his gaze. Dammit. After weeks of his appalling rudeness, why did she care if he looked at her? Certainly, he was remembering Guinevere from before. Maybe her time here was making Vera seem more like her.
“I don’t mind coming,” she said quickly, anything to break the hold of this moment. “When is it?”