“Yes—No,” she said, changing her mind as she spoke. This wasn’t fair. “Wait until after the tournament tomorrow. It will only be a distraction that we can’t talk about until the day is done anyway.”
“And we can’t have him punching Merlin,” Lancelot added, and Vera knew it was only half a joke.
“Thank you, Gawain,” she said, determined to push it away. In the end, nothing had changed since this morning. It was all as it always had been. “Can you give Lancelot and me a minute, please? And no listening devices.”
Gawain nodded, eyes darting between them.
“Wait for me here on the landing,” Lancelot said, giving Gawain’s elbow a squeeze.
“Am I wrong to wait to tell Arthur about the potion?” she asked once they were halfway down the corridor.
“Honestly, I don’t think it matters. I have known him all my life. He’s never looked at anybody the way he looks at you.”
She wanted to believe that, too. When Arthur held her in his gaze, she could nearly believe she was the most important, most lovely human alive. Nearly—because it was tainted. “He’s never been under a potion to adore someone either.”
Lancelot sighed dramatically. “There’s not a mage alive who could make a potion with those results.” He leaned on the doorframe as they stopped outside Vera and Arthur’s chamber. “And why does it even matter? What’s so bad about two married people being disgustingly in love?”
“What if I’m playing right into some awful destiny that I can’t stop?” The words were tumbling from Vera now. “Merlin was adamant that the stories about Arthur from my time didn’t get any of it right, but there’ve been a number of suspicious coincidences.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first, there’s the two of us. And I know it’s not an affair, and we’re not in love or any of that …”
“Speak for yourself.” He raised his eyebrow suggestively.
“Oh, shut up,” she shot back, grateful for a reason to smile. “But Gawain’s in the legends, too. At first, I didn’t think much of it because I knew the Gawain in those stories was a knight and ours wasn’t, but then—”
“Ah. I see.”
“And,” Vera went on, feeling rather silly, “there’s a whole part in the story about how Arthur’s knights are the knights of the round table. Did you hear what Percival said today?”
“Yes, but he was talking about poker.”
“I know. It’s ridiculous. But,” she said, realizing it as she spoke, “history has little evidence from this time period. To even get Arthur’s name right, let alone so many others, and their roles, and you, and me … It’s strange.”
“Huh.” He tilted his head back and stared into space as he considered it. “You said there are a lot of different stories written about it. Is there a primary one? One that’s better than the rest?”
“I think Le Morte d’Arthur was the first that told the whole story.”
Lancelot pulled a worried face. “The Death of Arthur? That sounds pleasant. Is that what it’s all about?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t actually read it.”
He snorted. “Shit. That’s unfortunate. I wish you had.”
“You and me both.”
“The amount of time you are spending alone at the queen’s room has now crossed the boundary from acceptable to suspicious,” Gawain called from the stairwell.
Vera and Lancelot laughed. “Thank you, Sir Gawain. I’m coming.” Lancelot rolled his eyes, but his face lit as he said, “It’s always an adventure with Gawain. Look, I’m sure it’s nothing. They’re … oddities—and they aren’t quite bang-on right, are they?”
She supposed not. She’d never heard anything about Gawain being a mage. And certainly, the round table wasn’t in reference to poker.
Lancelot kissed Vera’s cheek. “Night, darling. Lock your door. Arthur has a key.”
“I know. Thank you, Mother. See you tomorrow.” But she watched Lancelot’s back as he left. Her intuition hummed that there was something odd in her interaction with him, but she couldn’t place what.
Vera didn’t need help changing, but she wanted to talk to Matilda. She crept over to her door and listened carefully for a minute, not wanting to interrupt if Randall was there. After a stretch of quiet that reassured her, she knocked. No answer.
If Matilda wasn’t here and she and Randall left at the same time … Vera giggled alone in the hallway. What a conversation that would be tomorrow. She couldn’t wait to tell Arthur.
She changed and got into bed. It had been a splendid evening, the kind that led to things like pining lovers finding one another’s arms.
The unbidden image of beautiful Marian with her lips inches from Arthur’s ear came to Vera’s mind. Her eyes shot open. What if he didn’t come back at all tonight? Maybe he’d go to Marian’s bed. He was allowed to, after all. Vera had no claim on him. He made it clear that she could pursue whoever she wanted, and he had the same right.
They were friends, and she was leaving soon. In fact, it would be better if he ripped off that bandage tonight and found intimacy elsewhere. As much as he emphasized not wanting Vera backed into a corner, he was stuck, too. She wasn’t the only one being fed a potion to manipulate her feelings.
Something could have already happened between Marian and Arthur. She acted awfully comfortable with him. There was that year-long gap after Arthur had already witnessed three versions of Guinevere perish. He didn’t even want Merlin to bring Vera. Why shouldn’t he have found pleasure or even love in that time?
Vera wanted to throw up.
She lay in bed, trying not to think about it and finding that she seemed to have no other thoughts. After at least an hour, she was nearly asleep when the faint sound of metal clinking came from the lock. She opened her eyes just enough to see Arthur’s distinct silhouette in the door. He took care to shut and secure it quietly. He didn’t even change his clothes. He took off his shirt and crawled into bed.
Vera was infuriated to notice that she was so relieved she was nearly in tears. She rolled over toward him and laid a hand on his bare chest, surprised by her own bold familiarity. He didn’t wait to pretend to be asleep. He reached up and covered her hand with his own.
She shivered. Vera wanted to lay her whole body on top of him, and her heart heaved at the thought of it.
He traced his thumb over the back of her hand. “Goodnight, Vera.”
“Goodnight,” she said.
The only jousting tournament Vera had attended was at the Glastonbury Abbey’s Medieval Faire, where there was also a man dressed as a jester who juggled one-handed while playing a plastic recorder through his nostrils. Camelot’s festival was short a juggling nose musician, and the jousting was a far cry from the staged reenactments at the Faire. Those entailed graceful unhorsings that ended up in choreographed sword fights on the ground.
Sitting on the sidelines with Arthur in the raised suite for royalty and nobility and watching bout after bout of real jousting had Vera alternately clenching her eyes shut or with them shocked wide, unable to look away. Lances exploded into splinters, collisions sent riders flying from their horses, and there were plenty of injuries. In Wyatt’s first bout, he took a lance right to the face shield of his helmet. While there wouldn’t be any lasting damage, he was far worse for the wear. Vera gripped the arms of her seat tightly as each run began, shrinking and cringing like she could sink through her chair if she pushed back hard enough.
Arthur noticed her tension and kept a firm hold on her hand. He distracted her with trivia and jokes. It was barely mid-morning when a server appeared at Vera’s side with a glass of wine. She took it out of politeness but was confused because she hadn’t asked for it.