The thin line of his lips tipped downward at the corners, not a frown but a scowl set on Vera. “I require a private word.”
He grabbed Vera’s upper arm, his fingers digging in painfully. She cast a helpless glance over her shoulder at Matilda as the man—her father—dragged her into the side corridor, out of any bystanders’ eyeshot.
“You have shamed the north,” he spat as he yanked Vera’s arm to pull her around to face him. “You have shamed me.”
She had imagined she’d feel something if she met her father. She never expected him to be frightening. His face was inches from hers, and she couldn’t help but fruitlessly search for something recognizable in his features.
“Wulfstan would have been bad enough. And now I hear you’ve been playing the whore,” he said through gritted teeth as he bore down upon her. Vera stumbled backward against the corridor wall. “I swear to you, child, if you have defiled yourself, I will make sure you wish you’d died in that accident.”
Vera stared back, speechless, bracing herself against the stones behind her.
It wasn’t the right response. Her father reeled back and surveyed her from toes to head, disgusted. “You stupid cunt, did you open your legs?”
She should have categorically denied it. Of course. But she sputtered meaninglessly and, unable to bear his judgment, tore her eyes from him.
He grabbed her by the chin and forcibly turned her face toward his.
A deeper, more primal instinct than her need to pacify him rocketed through her. She yanked away to stare at the floor. She knew it was a mistake only a heartbeat before the back of his hand ripped across her face. Vera cried out when the ring he wore bit into the corner of her lip and stung even once it was gone.
His slap had pulled her face back in his direction. “I raised you for this. You must be perfect.” He grabbed Vera’s shoulders and gave her a violent shake. “You—”
“Lord Aballach!” Arthur’s voice came from the end of the corridor, and while it wasn’t a command, it sounded like one. Vera’s father obeyed by falling silent and dropping his hands to his sides. By the time he and Vera looked at him, Arthur had already closed the distance between them, but he drew up uncomfortably close to her father, his chest nearly touching Aballach’s shoulder as he exhaled a forceful breath.
“Do not,” he said with a growling fury that left Vera stunned, “touch my wife again.”
Aballach took a reflexive step back. “She is my daughter and—”
“And now she is your queen.” Arthur’s face quivered in his barely restrained ire. He shifted to stand in front of Vera, turning to face her and entirely blocking her view of her father. His eyes didn’t reach hers; they stopped at her lips and darkened. Vera touched the spot where the ring had struck and drew her fingers away. Blood. She felt a flash of pity for Guinevere—the real Guinevere—who’d grown up with this man.
“Go,” Arthur said, as quiet as a breath, before wheeling back around on Lord Aballach.
Vera had no delusions about the purpose of his intervention. He had to protect his rule. Still, she was grateful. Giving her an escape was the kindest thing he could do for her. She didn’t know what would have happened without his intervention.
If there hadn’t been guards at the gate to stop her, she’d have wandered out of the castle and kept going. Disappearing would be the best she could do for all their sake. But her feet took her to the chapel free of her mind’s guidance. Out of habit, she supposed, she wandered next to the statue of Mary and sank to the ground. She drew her knees in close, wrapped her arms around her legs, and lay her head atop them. It was as small as she could be.
Vera didn’t cry. She stared vacantly at the floor. She’d spent a lifetime learning how to steer her mind away from sadness, but now there was nothing else. So she stared at nothing as the weight of her transgressions pressed down on her. This was worse than being worthless.
When the door opened and the sound of footsteps followed, she tucked her head to her chest and closed her eyes. That would likely be Thomas. She wasn’t sure she could manage a conversation with him just now.
But it wasn’t him.
“Do you want me to get Lancelot?” Arthur’s voice, gentle and soft. He must have seen her come in this direction.
Vera’s eyes snapped open. She expected to find him angry or pitying her. But the stony mask was solidly in place. Anger sparked and pulled her from her stupor.
“No,” she said, “I need you”—she felt unbearable shame at the admission and hastily added—“to be able to be in the same room as me. Running to Lancelot is exactly how I’ve wrecked this so terribly.” Vera dropped her forehead into her arms. “I know you hate me—and at this point, you have every reason to. I am worse than an imposter. I have smeared Guinevere’s name and her memory. I’ve broken everything you made. I—I’m so sorry. I can’t do this. I can’t fix this.”
She waited for his voice to fill the silence long enough that she started to think she’d imagined him ever being there. She looked at him, utterly still except for his shoulders raising and lowering with his breath. His jaw shifted to the side, and he seemed to decide something.
“You’re right,” Arthur said, and dread flooded her, but he came over and sat on the floor next to Vera. “You cannot fix this. And you did not break it. There are some things that you need to understand. What you’ve heard—that Guinevere saved us in the final battle—is true. But a lot of people died because of it. It worked because it was so deadly, and no matter what I said, she bore the weight of it.
“I was meant to care for her. To protect her. I failed her so many times.” He swallowed and turned his head against the stone wall to look at Vera, and there was nothing cold or calculated there. Only anguish. “I thought if I stayed away from you that it would …” Arthur shook his head. “That it would be better for you, but I failed you, too. I need you to hear me. None of this is your fault. I have done everything wrong. All that’s happened these last few days, it’s because of my behavior. These are my failings.”
“But that baby,” Vera said, her throat instantly tight. “I held her, and now she’s dying. Maybe there is a curse—”
“That wasn’t you.”
“It was, though—”
