I also had a plan for the blade itself. If I closed my eyes, I could see the ripple of waves that I would etch into the side in order to match her unique brand of magic.
It would be a blade fit for a queenanda courting gift to show her that I indeed wished to be her alpha.
From the moment her lips touched mine, there was no other option than to become hers. If I did not, I feared I would end up throwing myself off of the cliffs in the west in an effort to make myself forget her completely.
Once the metal was my desired thickness I began to form the tip of the blade, thinking of all of the handles I had carved and fashioned that may work for Guinevere’s hands.
Hours later I sat polishing the new blade and its white oak handle that would fit in Guinevere’s slender hands perfectly, holding it up in the dim light and turning it one way and then the other to see how it gleamed.
It was perfect. Now all that was to be done was to give it to her.
As I reentered the courtyard, I realized I would not have to look far for the queen as she was just getting off of her horse with the help of Gawain.
“Did you go for a ride, your majesty?” I asked, making her jump and whirl around to face me.
Guinevere nodded, her cheeks flushed from the cool early evening air. “Just a short one—Sir Gawain has been teaching me how to handle Monet here without landing on my backside in the dirt.”
At the sound of her name, the beautiful spotted mare lipped at the heavy cape Guinevere was wearing, staring at the woman with an affection I was sure would be reflected in my own eyes. Everyone around Guinevere could not help but love her.
Gawain’s smile was soft as he gripped both the reins of his horse and the overly attentive mare’s, his gaze shifted from the queen over to me. “Did you need her majesty for something, Sir Bedivere?”
Out of every soul that lived in this castle, I had never met someone as observant as Gawain of Lothian. In every situation,the man’s blue eyes could be seen shifting back and forth, watching everything and storing the information away for later.
“I do—I figured now would be a good time to take her up on her offer to help me in my workshop.”
Guinevere’s brown eyes widened with surprise as she pulled off her leather gloves, turning to whisper something in Gawain’s ear. The other alpha nodded, taking her gloves and heading for the stables with both horses in tow.
“Are you sure?” Guinevere asked, her tone heavy with meaning. It was clear that this would be more than just her assistance and we both knew it.
I nodded resolutely, though I feared my heart was only moments away from beating out of my chest. “I am.”
Guinevere nodded before she tucked her hand into my elbow. “Well, then lead the way.”
My workshop was dim when we entered, the smell of coal and burning metal filling the air.
All of my projects for the day lay out on my tables, neatly organized, and Guinevere rushed ahead of me to examine them all.
“You did all of this today?” she asked, reaching out for a horseshoe but pausing, seeming to remember the last time she had been in my workshop and how it had ended. “May I touch?”
I nodded silently, watching as she picked up one of the horseshoes and held it up to the light. “It’s so smooth.”
“It takes a firm hand to get it just right for the horse,” I explained, reaching for another one and holding it up. It was considerably bigger than hers. “This is for the king’s stallion, Llamarei, while the one you are holding is for your mare.”
“For Monet?” she asked, sounding surprised. “Does she even need a horseshoe if she won’t be going out much?”
I nodded. “It protects all horse’s hooves regardless of how much they are ridden.”
“I see.” She put the horseshoe down and moved on to the ornate door handles that had taken me far too much time to form. “And these?”
“Are for the wing of the castle that is being refurbished—his majesty would like to have guests come next spring, but there will need to be more rooms completed to do so.”
“Guests? For what?”
“Imbolc,” I told her, picking up the door handle and putting it in her hand so she could feel it. “It is a festival during the spring right before growing season and his majesty’s favorite ever since we were boys. You just missed it by the time you came.”
“What does one do at Imbolc?” she asked, her mouth forming the new word as if she was tasting it.
I shrugged. “We dance around fires, plant new seeds, cleanse our homes, and pray for a year of growth.”
