CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN #5
“Even if the prisoner formally states that Galahad attempted to fuck her, yes I gain a usable accusation, but I also face a problem: she’s a prisoner. An enemy. A spy. It would come down to her word against his and he’s a knight of the Round Table who also happens to be a holy man.
In any formal proceeding... her testimony would be immediately contested. Galahad’s faction would produce counter-testimony. The case would become a public spectacle that humiliates the crown more than it punishes Galahad.”
I knew this, and I was fairly certain that Guinevere knew this.
I believed it was the reason why she hadn’t told me the full truth: not just because she didn’t trust me, but because she’d already run the calculation and knew her confirmation changed very little structurally.
It would give me a tool, yes, but a tool I’d have to wield carefully enough that the wielding might not be worth the cost.
“All I’m hearing is why the truth can’t win out.”
I studied him for a long moment. “Why do you care so much?”
He didn’t respond right away, and the two of us just looked at each other, no words passing between us.
And it was at that moment that I wondered if he was the man: if he was responsible for taking her virginity.
Even as the thought occurred to me, I rejected it because there was no way Lance would betray me in such a way, and yet...
“Is there more to this that I should know, Lance?”
“No,” he answered quickly. “If you’re able to get the truth from her, and it turns out that Galahad did attempt to force himself on her, you’d still keep him at court?”
“It’s the right political decision.”
“But the wrong moral one.”
“Yes,” I said. “Those are often the same thing.”
Lance shook his head in one short movement. It was the gesture of a man swallowing something that tasted foul. “Then we’ll have to agree to disagree.”
“We frequently do.”
“This one’s different.”
“I know.”
Regardless of whether or not Lance understood my position, I understood it.
And I understood the weight of the decision I had to make.
I could only punish Galahad on grounds that couldn’t be disputed: the violation of the king’s explicit order was documented and witnessed.
It avoided the evidentiary problem of a potential assault.
It also allowed me to look principled without taking the prisoner’s side.
It didn’t give Galahad’s followers a martyrdom narrative built around religious persecution, because the stated cause of punishment was institutional, not theological.
“I will formally rebuke Galahad in council for acting in defiance of direct royal instruction regarding the treatment of a prisoner. He will be placed on restricted duties: no independent custodial authority, no independent command,
and he’ll be required to be supervised in all interactions with the prisoner.”
I paused. “His congregation is a separate problem, though.”
I would have to handle that through different means.
“Then his title stays intact? And his seat at the Table stays intact?” Lance asked. “And his public status stays mostly intact?”
“But his actual power, his ability to act autonomously, is stripped completely. He’s caged while looking unchained.”
I paused. “It means Galahad faces real consequences that look like almost nothing from the outside. The court sees the king asserting authority. Galahad’s followers see their leader still standing. But Galahad himself knows he’s been boxed.”
Lance was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice had gone from flat to something colder.
“And what message does that send,” he said, “to every man who wears your crest? That a knight of this realm can force himself on a woman in your own keep, defy your direct orders regarding a prisoner, and walk out of it with his head on his shoulders and his title still intact?”
The words landed in the room and stayed there. I didn’t answer immediately because he wasn’t wrong, and I knew he wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t say anything because I had nothing left to say.
He held my gaze for another beat; then he gave me the short, formal inclination of his head that served as a bow when he was furious and had too much discipline to show it. He turned for the door.
“Lance.”
He stopped and turned slowly around.
“You attacked a knight of my Table,” I said.
“That is real. The consequences are real. But you’re still—” I stopped.
“You’re still the finest knight I’ve ever had the misfortune of being friends with, and for what it’s worth, I understand why you did what you did. And... it hasn’t changed our... friendship.”
Something crossed his face then, something that was brief and unguarded.
“High praise,” he said.
“Don’t let it inflate your head. You’re still suspended.”
He nodded and left. I stood at the window for a long time afterward, just watching the yard below. Two younger guards crossed it toward the armory, and a stable boy led a gray horse by the halter.
Galahad touched her, the dragon said. Not the low, rumbling pressure from before, but something quieter, something almost mournful.
They all touch her.
I pressed two fingers against the bridge of my nose.
Outside, the morning light moved across the stones and lit nothing
.