Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The Druid girl urged the destrier forward, an antidote to the panic beating its fists against her sternum. What was done was done; she’d find an angle to press, a gap in the wall to slip between. Just like she always did.
Through the lush woods the war horse galloped, moving with startling agility, responding to the slightest shift of her weight, the lightest press of her leg. As the old-growth forest faded into grassy meadows and shrubs, she slowed, risking a glance over her shoulder.
She found only the dark sweep of black-green, the King’s Wood reaching shadowy fingers over the surrounding meadows. A chill skittered down her spine, but at least there were no mounted knights pursuing her, no red and white flags rippling in the cool, early spring air.
“Easy,” the Druid girl murmured, slowing the courser. It responded so instantly that she lost her balance, pitching forward and pinching with her knees to catch herself. In response, the horse tossed its head, its black ears pinned against its skull.
“My apologies,” she murmured, patting its muscled neck.
“I am not accustomed to a horse as fine as you.” She stroked its shining coat, thinking about its excellent training, and her mind drew her back to the knight in the clearing.
He had been waiting for her, he’d said. Impossible, she knew.
And still, something low in her belly fluttered, an ache unfurling from deep within her bones.
She gritted her teeth against such thoughts, happy to find her praise appeased the destrier as it moved into a lofty trot, its ears pricked forward again. The Druid girl loosened the reins, giving the horse its head and praying it knew its way home in a way she certainly never had.
When the destrier took her onto a winding, tree-hemmed path, her blood jumped back into a quick, sharp thrum.
There was a reason she’d stuck to forests and farmlands in her journey, not the Roman roads—a woman traveling alone was never safe in these lands, no matter the false promises Arthur Pendragon had made time and time again, speaking of chivalry and codes and decency.
Gathering up the reins, the Druid girl checked in both directions and found she was still alone.
A relieved exhale escaped her mouth as she leaned forward, adjusting her skirts into a more proper drape, preparing for the moment she was seen—by knights, by guards, by townsfolk.
She’d play the little damsel. It would work. It always did.
The stolen horse trotted down the path, coming around a tight curve that crested a hill.
At the top, the southern lands spilled out beneath her: forests to fens and marshes, then farmlands and more hills, tall grasses glimmering with morning dew.
Small homesteads stood in the distance, smoke trailing lazily from chimneys.
The sun broke through the clouds, and she raised one hand to shade her eyes, reining the destrier to a halt.
And there it was, seated on the far horizon like a king upon his throne.
Camelot.
The city rested on a large hill, casting a heavy shadow onto the lands gathered at its feet.
The castle speared the highest point of the slope, reminding her of a sword in its scabbard, only the hilt visible.
Its stony face swallowed up the bright sunlight.
A maze of walls circled the city, low and crumbling around the castle, growing taller and taller toward the citadel’s edges.
The Druid girl swallowed, pushing away an auburn curl the breeze tugged free of her braid.
Camelot’s ancient keep might be a sight to behold, she thought, if she were seeking entrance to its court for any other reason.
If the man who reigned at its center did not possess the power to threaten the lives of anyone who didn’t share his vision of a united Isle.
Unconsciously, the girl slipped her hand beneath the collar of her linen blouse, reaching for the seal that hung from a chain around her neck.
Despite the flush of her skin, the metal was cool to her fingertips.
She traced the worn ridges that formed the imprint of a rushing river, three rocks clustered to one side, a gull flying in the top corner.
The seal of the Or’Afon family, once trusted advisors to Uther Pendragon.
Her flesh prickled hot with the weight of everything.
Panic overtook the Druid girl all at once, quick as a storm surge.
She closed her legs around the destrier, urging it forward.
The horse leapt into a gallop with glee.
Good—she did not want to meander along the road to her destiny, trapped in memories and questions that would never be answered.
She wanted to confront her Fate and see if she would tumble into its gaping maw or best the great beast like a heroine of old.
As she rode out of the fens and into the farmland, a few folks raised their heads from tilling and planting, staring at her with wide eyes.
She must be quite a sight, she knew—an enormous warhorse commanded by a girl with dirt on her cheeks and twigs in her unraveling braid.
A quieter entrance might have been better, shuffling through the gates alongside the traveling merchants and laden carts and barefoot, unruly children.
But the Druid girl had never been very good at making herself small.
The destrier galloped right up to the gates, only wheeling on its hindquarters at the last moment, raising its front legs from the ground.
She grabbed a handful of its braided mane and just barely managed to keep her seat.
The massive creature’s hooves slammed back down onto the dirt like a challenge.
The two guards at the gate exchanged a long glance before one stepped forward, hand sliding to the pommel of his sword. “State your business in Camelot,” he commanded.
It was not lost on the Druid girl that he did not address her as “my lady.” Flipping her long braid over her shoulder, she pulled the seal from beneath her cloak, brandishing it like a weapon. The metal winked in the sun, bright as the dawn.
“I am Nyneve Or’Afon,” the Druid girl announced, pleased—and a little surprised—at the way her voice rang out in the clear morning. “My father, Geraint Or’Afon, helped put King Arthur on his throne. I seek a place at court, as is my due.”
The guard peered at the seal and then startled, shifting away from her. “Apologies, my lady,” he said, sweeping into a low bow. “Your traveling clothes concealed your noble birth.”
Nyneve bit down on her tongue, forcing herself to smile demurely and gaze at the ground.
“My horse spooked,” she explained in that soft, trembling voice she’d cultivated for situations such as these.
“A kind knight in a hunting party offered me his mount, though I fear it is unused to a simple lady rider like myself, and it bolted.” She stroked the destrier’s arched, muscled neck with her fingertips, hoping it did not take offense to her falsehoods.
The second guard—older, with the bearing of a soldier—stepped forward. “Consider yourself lucky this horse brought you to the gates,” he said, taking hold of the destrier’s reins. “’Tis no mount for a woman.”
“Lucky indeed,” Nyneve agreed, though her face heated at his words, her fury rattling in its cage.
She slipped down from the saddle, careful to ensure her skirts kept her legs covered.
“I owe much gratitude to the knight. I’m afraid all the excitement flustered me and I did not manage to catch his name. ”
That ancient yearning slunk out from beneath her breastbone. She didn’t need to know his name, Nyneve realized. She’d know him by his eyes, by that full mouth, by the line of his powerful shoulders. By the sound of his voice, dark and rich as an autumnal night.
She gritted her teeth against the oddly romantic thoughts, rising unbidden from the strangest corners of her being.
The younger guard offered Nyneve his arm, which she took gratefully.
Again, the two guards exchanged a glance.
She tried to hide how keenly she watched them, unsettled by their own unease.
The older guard cleared his throat and led the destrier forward, waving to the soldiers atop the gate with one hand. The towering, iron-latched gates began to creak open. Nyneve let out a sigh of relief.
“A word to the wise, my lady,” the older guard said, keeping his voice low as the four of them walked toward the threshold of the great city, into the mouth of Nyneve’s destiny.
“Yes?” she asked, turning toward the guard. The pain in her ankle hammered her mind with each step.
“My lady may not wish to be associated with the knight whom this mount belongs to,” he said, fatherly now, his kindness genuine, as far as she could surmise. “If you seek a marriage match, I mean.”
Nyneve swallowed down her rage. She could gallop a monstrous destrier to the very gates of this city, rein it in with one hand, and display the seal of her once-great house, and still the first thing on this guard’s mind was her marriage options.
Evidently, limping on an injured ankle was a better option than riding the destrier of a knight she shouldn’t be associated with—all for the sake of some nebulous future husband.
“Of course,” she said through clenched teeth. “But I still wish to thank him, you see.” And she wanted to know the name of the enemy she may have made.
No knight of the Round Table would publicly refute her story of assisting a hapless maiden—as long as she told the story first. But still, she’d made a choice. The tree of her Fate had borne another limb, and she’d be a fool not to know the names etched into its bark.