“That’s not true. They’re—” But she stopped. This morning in the market, a woman’s laugh had stopped abruptly when her eyes fell on Vera. Her face had hardened as she hastily grabbed her husband by the arm and left in a huff. Vera had been deliberately ignoring it, but all the glares these past weeks had been directed at her. “But … why?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Matilda said, but she must have noticed how Vera tensed. She laid a hand on her arm. “We’ve told Arthur, and he’s asked Percival to put his ear to the ground. We’ll get it all sorted out. People behave strangely under stress.”
“Don’t make me talk to them.” Vera tucked in against the cart, yearning for the invisibility that once felt like a curse.
Almost simultaneously, the atmosphere shifted. It didn’t take but a few moments for grumbles to morph into electric murmurs and for all eyes to point in the same direction. Vera knew what she’d find before she turned to see.
Arthur was there. He alone had that impact on a crowd. He and Vera had never gone on these endeavors together, though he’d been out amongst the people constantly. Their eyes caught for a second. He gave a stiff nod to Vera, and she returned a fleeting smile, her heart stuttering.
She pressed into her nook behind the seat, her back lodged against the cart, avoiding eye contact with anyone. But she was constantly aware of Arthur. The other times she’d seen him in town, he stayed on the opposite side of the square from her. This time, he weaved in. Closer and closer until Vera could take a few steps, reach to her right, and touch him.
She could hear him even through the crowd’s noise, sometimes only the tone of his voice, not quite loud enough to form words. As his volume raised in laughter or to call to someone farther off, she’d make out a few words. She was entranced in listening, soothed by his presence—and unnerved that he had that impact on her.
He shifted as Lancelot called out to him, pulling him out of Vera’s view. She peeled herself from her hiding place and moved forward as if her adjustment were to tend the horse.
Arthur’s eyes found her immediately, as if he’d known her every move as she’d tracked his. This time, his brow was furrowed as his attention was drawn back to whatever Lancelot was saying.
Then Lancelot pointed at Vera, and the couple they’d been speaking with turned around with bright faces—and it wasn’t just a couple. There was a cherub-faced toddler with mussed curls like he’d been freshly woken from a nap as he nuzzled into his father’s trousers, and the mother cradled a bundle of white cloths in her arms, which proved itself to be a baby as it thrust a tiny fist into the air.
They were coming toward her now. Shit. There’d be no avoiding this. The man, who must have been the one to bestow his son with curls (though his were not so unruly), closed the distance with a few strides and bowed. “Your Majesty, my name is Roger, and this is my wife, Helene.”
Helene ducked her head and drew her dress out with one hand in as best a curtsy as she could manage with the baby in her arms. Lancelot smiled with a glint in his eye from behind Helene while Arthur stood tense at his side.
What the hell was this about?
“It’s … it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Vera didn’t know if she should ask the couple a question, but Roger solved that for her.
“We know you aren’t taking queries, but … we hoped you would bless our new daughter,” Roger said.
“Oh.” If this had been one of Guinevere’s duties before, it could be added to the countless other things Vera didn’t know about.
Arthur cast Lancelot an uncharacteristically unguarded glare before he sighed and stepped close to Vera, between her and all the others. He leaned next to her ear and spoke quietly, raising goosebumps on her neck. “This is quite customary, and you’re fully capable if you’d like to say yes,” he said. “But I can do it if you’d rather.”
Vera hadn’t ever been this close to him and had his eyes locked on hers for this long. There was no cold mask in place. This was a matter of ruling well, and no loathing or bitterness could stand in Arthur’s way of loving his people. She wanted to show him that she could do something that might be helpful.
“I can try,” she said. Arthur nodded as he stepped away, and Vera turned back to the couple. “Just, erm, a standard sort of blessing, then? For a, er, healthy life and the like?”
Roger smiled. Helene nodded.
Did Guinevere have religious training that she didn’t know about? Helene wore a veil. Was that a religious choice? Vera licked her parched lips. “Shall I use Christian or pagan prayers?” She didn’t know many of either.
“It doesn’t matter to us,” Helene answered. “We’ll be honored by whatever blessings you offer.”
Vera swallowed. “May I?” she said, with a gesture toward the little bundle.
Helene’s rosy cheeks dimpled with her smile as she passed the bundle to Vera. The baby, barely older than a newborn, wore a white christening gown. The tiny perfect fingers of one hand waved through the air occasionally, and the other fist balled up under her button of a chin. Her face, with its delicate nose, lips, and closed eyes, was relaxed as she slept.
As if she’d sensed the transfer into a stranger’s arms, the baby started fussing, fitful cries piercing the newfound quiet of the square. Vera bobbed her in rhythm with a soothing “shh-shh-shh” until she calmed back into her deeper sleep.
“What’s her name?” Vera asked quietly.
“Guinevere,” Roger said. “We’ve named her after you.”
Vera’s breath caught. “Thank you,” she mumbled, surprised to be fighting back emotion. After all, the baby was named for the real Guinevere. Not Vera.
“Our town was nearest the final battle. We love our king,” Roger said with a glance at Arthur, “and we have not forgotten it was our queen who saved us.”
Imposter. Liar. Vera couldn’t stop berating herself. But the baby was beautiful and the family sweet—and people were watching.
