Chapter 44
Forty-Four
As Arthur’s hunting party rode home, the dense fog reached Camelot. A young girl stood on the riverbank, watching the towers dissolve into the sky.
Her name was Hildegard and her family lived in the castle.
Her parents rose before the sun to bake the day’s breads.
Hildegard wanted to be a knight, like Lyonesse or Dindrane or the giantess Bagotta.
She also liked to catch frogs. She was hunting for them that morning, when she spotted a smallboat.
The river was empty, save for the fish and tadpoles that swam through the currents and the cranes that nested on the muddy banks.
She squinted to see if she could recognize the smallboat’s captain.
Maybe the fog was too dense, or her eyes were playing tricks on her, but from her vantage the boat appeared empty.
She parted the bullrushes to get a better look.
Indeed, the boat was empty. A ghost? She shuddered at the thought, but the promise of a haunted boat secretly delighted her.
She stepped deeper into the current, her toes curling the mud.
The boat had a lantern hanging from its prow.
An embroidered tapestry flowed over its hull, the bottom edges of which were scraping the water.
This was not a Camelot boat. This was a boat from a different kingdom. Or a different world.
Hildegard willed herself to be brave. She stepped deeper into the river, her legs bracing against the cold. The current was mild, and she managed to keep her feet steady. As the boat angled her way, she gasped.
A woman with red hair lay in repose over the tapestry, her arms wrapped around a single white lily. A sealed letter was tied to her right hand. The woman was dead.
And Hildegard recognized her.
Suppressing the urge to scream, Hildegard lurched through the water, pulling the boat to shore. She had never seen a dead body before, and for the rest of her life she would never shake the image.
She scanned the banks for someone to help. But no one was around.
A knight would be brave right now, Hildegard reminded herself. She needed to be brave.
Hildegard reached for the letter, careful not to touch the dead woman’s cold fingers. Then she raced up to the castle.
The first person she saw, walking through the vaulted atrium, was Sir Mordred.