Arthur turned to face me, frustration visible in every line of his face. "She has to be somewhere, Lance."
I said nothing. What could I say? That his obsession was consuming him? That this mystery woman—if she even existed—might destroy him more thoroughly than any enemy's blade?
Instead, I simply nodded.
He began to pace again, frustration radiating off him in waves. He needed air. So did I. A break from Camelot, from Mordred, the court, the knights, the responsibility—all of it.
“Come riding with me,” I said, stepping closer. “Let's get some air, away from this stifling court."
He looked at me, searching for something—sense, maybe, or comfort. Then, with a weary nod, he followed.
-KAY-
The procession of fair-haired women wound through the old chapel like a ribbon of pale silk.
I watched from the shadow of the treeline, jaw tight, trying to puzzle out what game Arthur played now.
Two days. Two full days the king had claimed illness, barricading himself in his chambers. We were left to our owndefenses, occupied by the never-ending, inane chatter of the court. I'd handled more tedious lordling squabbles in forty-eight hours than in the previous month combined.
But now this. Women filing into the old chapel like penitents seeking absolution, their gowns catching the late afternoon light as they moved in nervous clusters up the weathered stone steps.
What in the bloody hell was going on?
I had never known Arthur to attend chapel services or religious ceremonies. And if the interest had taken him suddenly—if some strange fever had seized hold of his calculating mind—he certainly would not have come here, to this crumbling monument to forgotten gods. The chapel's stones were blackened with age and neglect, half its roof torn open to the sky where storms had already ripped away the slate. Weeds choked the walkways, and the wooden doors hung askew on rusted hinges that groaned like tortured souls with every gust of wind.
I counted the women in line. Twenty, perhaps more. All with hair in varying shades of blonde, from deep honey-gold to the palest pale. All young, all comely enough to catch a king's eye.
Was this some strange attempt by the king to find a wife? But Arthur had never shown interest in taking a wife. He'd made that clear to every lord who'd pushed their daughters forward, every alliance that required a marriage bed.
Given the humbleness of the maids' clothing (no silk, no velvet, no embroidered hems that would mark them as ladies of standing), these were certainly not daughters of nobles. Servants then? Perhaps a few merchants' daughters at best.
Was Arthur after a mistress then? That thought sat uneasily in my mind, like a splinter working its way deeper under the skin. Arthur had always been particular about his conquests. While a beautiful serving girl might have enjoyed his bed here and there, kitchen maids and scullery wenches didn't fit his usual pattern of seduction. He preferred his bed partnerswithout callused hands and the scent of lye soap clinging to their hair.
The last woman emerged from the chapel's shadowed doorway, her face pale and drawn with whatever had transpired within those walls. She clutched her rough-spun skirts as she hurried down the overgrown path, nearly slipping on the moss-slicked stones.
I stepped from behind the gnarled oak where I'd been watching, my boots silent on the carpet of rotting leaves. The woman startled like a deer when my hand shot out to catch her wrist—not roughly, but with enough firmness to halt her flight. Her eyes went wide, darting between my face and the knight's surcoat that marked my station.
Without a word, I pressed a gold crown into her trembling palm, feeling the calluses on her fingers that spoke of hard labor. The weight of the coin made her gasp, her gaze dropping to the gleaming metal that likely represented more wealth than she'd see in a year of service.
"Tell me what's happening in there."
"The king, my lord," she stammered, eyes wide. "He's selecting a bride from among us—"
A bride? The very notion struck me as absurd. If Arthur were truly seeking a wife, the entire kingdom would know of it. There would be grand proclamations, ravens sent to every noble house from here to the northern reaches, delegations arriving with dowries and bloodline charts. The Great Hall would overflow with silk-clad daughters of lords and earls, each one primped and polished like prize horses at auction.
Instead, Arthur skulked about this forgotten chapel, summoning serving wenches and kitchen maids—and all with fair hair? The whole charade reeked of deception, especially when Arthur wore his bachelorhood like armor, claiming the crown was bride enough for any man.
Whatever was truly happening within those crumbling stone walls had nothing to do with selecting a queen for Camelot, I was certain. Perhaps such was the lie he'd told these maids?
I released the girl's wrist but kept her pinned with my gaze. "When you were in the chapel, what did the king ask you to do?"
"Nothing. He asked nothing of me, my lord." She took a breath. "He did not even speak to me."
Interesting. "Who was with him?"
"There was a man with black hair streaked with white and mismatched eyes, my lord."
Mordred, I thought to myself. Not much of a surprise, as Mordred made it his business to follow the king anywhere and everywhere like a trained dog. Were he to wipe the king's arse after a shit, it would not have surprised me. "And?"
