CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE #3
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 partners without 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?"
"And Sir Lancelot."
"And did either of them speak to you?"
"No, my lord."
"Then what in the bloody hell did you do while you were in there?"
She seemed nervous at my lack of patience, her throat clearly working as she swallowed. The girl's eyes darted between my face and the ground, as if seeking escape from my penetrating stare.
"We were escorted in," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "Walking in a line, one of us after the other. The guards positioned us just so, ensuring we could all be seen clearly." She paused, wrapping her arms around herself despite the warmth of the day.
"Go on then."
She nodded. "We were brought to stand before the king. He sat in that great wooden chair—the one with the carved lions on the arms—"
"Get to the bloody point, girl!"
"Apologies, my lord!" She appeared on the verge of tears, her lower lip trembling and her eyes growing glassy.
That was the absolute last thing I wanted to deal with.
Women and their bloody tears! I had neither the time nor the patience for such feminine theatrics, especially not when I was trying to piece together whatever strange game Arthur was playing with his parade of potential brides.
"What happened then?"
"He looked at us, my lord. Not the way most men do, but as if he were searching for something specific in each of our faces. His eyes moved from girl to girl. Then he shook his head, just once. The guards stepped forward, and we were dismissed. That's all, my lord. Nothing more happened."
"What did they say to one another? The king and his companions?"
"I heard... snippets, my lord." She glanced toward the chapel and lowered her voice.
"From what I could understand, it seemed the king was looking for someone specific.
He said something about a certain shade of hair—silver or white, I think it was.
And he was looking for violet eyes. None of us had the right combination, so we were all excused. "
I knew not what to make of that at all. "Is that all?"
"Aye, my lord. That's all I know." She shifted, tucking the coin into the laces of her kirtle before something seemed to occur to her, and she looked up at me once more. "Has the king selected his bride, then? Will there be an announcement?"
"How the bloody hell should I know?" I waved her off. "Get on your way."
She scurried past, as if afraid I might strike her, skirts rustling. I remained beneath the trees, staring at the chapel's weathered stone as I wondered what in the bloody hell had gotten into Arthur.
White hair. Violet eyes.
Did this have anything to do with that peculiar incident from weeks past—the night Arthur had torn through Camelot like a man possessed, searching every corner of the castle for some elusive servant girl?
I hadn't witnessed the spectacle firsthand, naturally, having been sensibly abed while my foster brother descended into whatever madness had gripped him.
But by dawn, the whispers had reached me.
Yes, it was most important to have a cultivated network of informants—maids who owed me favors, guards who'd learned the value of my coin, kitchen staff who knew which side their bread was buttered on.
The tales they'd brought me painted a picture of a king gone mad.
Arthur had roused half the household in the dead of night, demanding to know the whereabouts of some girl who'd apparently vanished like smoke.
He'd searched the servants' quarters personally, something unprecedented in all his years of rule.
The guards had been sent to scour the grounds, the stables, even the crypts beneath the chapel.
And yet, despite all this frantic searching, no one could quite describe who they were looking for.
The details had been maddeningly vague—a serving wench, some claimed, though others insisted she'd been a scullery maid.
Young, they all agreed, but beyond that, their descriptions dissolved into contradictions and uncertainty. And no one knew her name.
Now, here was Arthur again, gathering women with specific physical traits. White hair, violet eyes—features so distinctive they couldn't be coincidence.
Was he going mad? Following in Father's footsteps?
Was this how it had started for Father? Chasing phantoms, seeing enemies in shadows? He'd died muttering about dragons coming for him, about fire in his veins, about crowns that burned.
What madness was slowly overcoming Arthur?
-LANCE-
Arthur and I walked the long corridors in silence, boots striking stone as Camelot faded behind us.
Minutes later, we were in the saddle, heading for Thornhallow Forest—Arthur’s favorite refuge. The trees rose around us, their tall forms swaying gently in the evening breeze. The air was cool and damp, thick with pine and loam.
Nero moved steadily through the undergrowth, hooves muffled by a thick blanket of needles. Behind me, Arthur rode in silence, the fury in his posture slowly easing beneath the forest’s quiet hush.
For a long while, we rode in silence. Then, unable to restrain my curiosity any longer, I asked, “Are you certain you remember this woman correctly? Memory can be… unreliable, especially when bound to strong emotion.”
Arthur reined in Cabal abruptly. The animal snorted, tossing its head, but he didn’t move. “I see her face every time I close my eyes,” he said, his voice tight with conviction. “A face I could no more forget than my own name.”
I studied him carefully. “And none of the women we’ve seen matched her? None of them even close?”
He let out a harsh breath. “Some had pale hair, yes, but hers was…” He searched for words, then shook his head. “Different. Otherworldly. As if she wasn’t meant to walk among mortals.”
I frowned, my concern deepening. “Then where could she have gone? If she’s not in Logres—”
Arthur’s expression hardened. “Perhaps she didn’t flee. Perhaps she vanished. Or perhaps,” he said, his voice lowering, “she was never real to begin with."
"A dream then? A hallucination?"
He shook his head. "I am growing more and more convinced that she is a witch sent to torment me. A witch from Merlin.”
The accusation caught me off guard. “A witch?” I echoed. “You truly think Merlin could have sent her?”
Arthur’s gaze turned flinty. “It fits his style—testing me through temptation and doubt.”
We had discussed the idea that this could have been Merlin's doing early on when Arthur had first told me about the girl. Now I wondered if we were headed in the right direction. I hesitated. “To what end?”
“To undermine my rule,” he answered bitterly. “What better way to unravel the faith of my people than to have another draw the sword that crowned me? It would be just like him—to cloak treachery in beauty.”
“And if Merlin had nothing to do with it?"
Arthur turned to look at me then, his eyes shadowed beneath his brow. “Then the world itself has turned against me, Lance. And I don’t know which thought I fear more.”
We rode in silence for a while before I found the courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at me.
“What will you do if you find her?”
Arthur’s face was unreadable. “I haven’t decided. Part of me wants her dead—for the threat she poses.” His voice dropped, darker now. “But another part…”
I knew that look in his eyes—the same one I’d seen when he spoke of Annwyn, when he hungered for Merlin’s power. It was the look of a man who wanted the very thing that could destroy him.
“I must possess her,” he said, his voice low and charged, the same tone he used when speaking of conquests—on the battlefield or in bed. “I’ve never wanted a woman more, Lance. She haunts my dreams every fucking night.”
"How long has it been since you took a woman to your bed?"
His glare was pronounced. "If you're going to advise taking a wench to bed in order to get this goddess out of my mind, save your breath. From the moment I saw her, thoughts of any other women died. They are nothing. She is… everything."
His vigor was unnerving. This wasn’t mere desire—it had now turned into full-blown obsession.
"Arthur—"
He turned to me, his eyes burning. “I must have her.”
I couldn’t speak. My throat tightened like something unseen had seized it. Arthur’s fixations were always dangerous—for his enemies, certainly, but often for those caught in the middle. This woman—whoever she truly was—had wandered straight into a storm. If she was real, that is.
I wanted to warn him against this insanity—because that was exactly what it sounded like. To remind him that not everything could be claimed by right of crown or sword. But I didn’t. And yet, the hesitation must’ve shown on my face because his gaze hardened.
"Had you seen her, Lance, I daresay you would have felt the same way."
Undoubtedly not. I might have lusted after her, certainly, but my feelings for women were straightforward—they provided a service I needed. End of story. I never got attached, and I never would get attached.
“We should return,” I said. “The Hunt Trial preparations require your attention.”
"Very well."
We turned our horses back toward Camelot, twilight thickening around us.
I watched Arthur’s posture—tense, unyielding.
His jaw clenched tight in that familiar way that meant he’d already made up his mind—he would not divorce this poison in his mind.
He would continue to do everything he could to find her, to see her again, to claim her.
As we emerged from the trees, Camelot came into view—its towers silhouetted against the darkening sky. But it looked different now. Less like a beacon of hope, more like a fortress bracing for war.
What would I do if Arthur found her? If he commanded me to arrest—or kill—her based on nothing more than obsession?
Or if he planned to do the dirty deed himself?
Would I allow him to go through with it—to murder an innocent woman, one chosen by Excalibur?
The oath I’d sworn bound me to my king—my friend.
The man who had lifted me out of obscurity and given me purpose.
But that oath had been to the Arthur who embodied justice and mercy.
Not this shadow he was becoming. And certainly not to the dragon within him.
We dismounted in the courtyard. Arthur clasped my shoulder, his grip firm.
“I can always count on you, Lance,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. “When the moment comes—and it will—I’ll need you beside me.”
I nodded. “Always, my king.”
But as he walked away, disappearing into the torchlit halls, I remained in the courtyard, staring after him.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t certain I could keep that promise.