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The sky was grey and darkly clouded. Lancelot squinted up at it; his heavy mail and armor making him sweat, despite the lack of sun. He cursed and pulled his gauntlets off, one of the squires that rode with him giving him a look of surprise.
No, Sir Lancelot does not curse. He is the perfect example of a knight, and who else would be fit to sit by the King’s side every day?
Shaking his head, his dark hair flopped and drooped into his eyes. He shoved it back impatiently. He had removed his helm a few hours ago – it was too warm, and besides, he was going to meet a bridal party, not a raging knight who’d challenge him to a death match.
A few droplets of rain hit his head, and he turned his face up to the sky again, his dark eyes closing as the moisture cooled him slightly.
“Sir,” one of the boys said nervously, “what shall we do if it begins to rain in earnest? The King would not like his future bride to arrive soaking wet.”
“And that is why her retinue will bring a canopy,” Lancelot answered the squire, trying to keep his tone from being too testy. “If they have any brains at all.”
He spared a glance at the boy and cocked one eyebrow as the squire met his eyes. The boy suppressed a squeak and looked away hastily.
Lancelot had to wipe his mouth with a hand to hide his smile.
The sun broke through the clouds, and he slouched back into the saddle, his mind reminding him just where he was bound and what he was doing.
Who is this maid, Arthur?
The daughter of King Leodegrance, Lance. I’ve told you. And I’ve heard people say that she’s fairer than the sun on flowers in Maytime.
Arthur. My friend, anyone will say that to get rid of a daughter. Besides, you are the most powerful man in Britain. Who wouldn’t want their child married to you?
Lancelot frowned as he recalled the conversation – hell, the many conversations he’d had with his King in regards to this Guinevere. Just who was she, really? The fact that Arthur was already half in love with her just from the description was annoying, and some other emotions that Lancelot couldn’t name truly – they were burgeoning thoughts in his mind and he was afraid if he named them, he’d never be wholy happy again.
Arthur. Lancelot sighed and saw the face of his closest friend in his mind’s eye – the brown hair, the laughing mouth, the strong, capable hands and the broad shoulders that carried much more than they should.
He loved Arthur. He always would. The man was the best and brightest human Lancelot had ever met – and he would be damned by God’s almighty legions if he allowed Arthur to be duped or taken in by someone who wasn’t worthy of him.
“Sir,” came the whiny voice of the squire.
“Yes, Tom?” Lancelot said through clenched jaw.
“I see people in that clearing ahead.”
Lancelot’s mind snapped away from thoughts of Arthur, and he pulled his gauntlets back on. Sitting up straight, he kicked his horse into a canter, and rode into the grassy area, the sun finally breaking free of its cloud prison and lighting the whole countryside with a warm, friendly glow.
So not like how Lancelot wanted to feel.
He pulled his horse to a stop when he reached the small party. He could see a woman in the center, but a few guards blocked his view of her, and he dismounted.
“I am sent by King Arthur, Lord of all Britain, to claim his future bride, Guinevere, daughter of Leodegrance. Are you her escort?”
“I am she.”
Lancelot turned his head to the center of the group, and bowed respectfully as the woman the voice had come from got off her horse and came toward him.
When he looked up, the sun dazzled him for a moment, and all he could see of her was gold-shot hair and big flowers surrounding a gauzy veil. A whiff of sweetness reached his nose, and he shut his eyes briefly as he stood, breathing in the scent of lavender and rose.
When he stood, the sun moved to a more strategic position in the sky and he got his first glimpse of Arthur’s future wife.
Lancelot blinked once, and sucked in a breath involuntarily.
She was young, yes, but so was Arthur. Her hair was indeed blond, but not just one mousy plain color. It was the gold of the famous Greek fleece. It blew about her face in the mild breeze, and the flowers that ringed it made it seem unearthly in its flight.
Her eyes were dark, though. As dark as his own. Lancelot couldn’t help himself, and laughed.
“Do you see something funny, Sir knight?”
The young woman sounded somewhat tetchy, although she smiled prettily at him. He was again struck by just how the stories of her beauty hadn’t been the half of the truth.
“My lady,” he said, taking her hand and brushing the back of it with his lips. “May I greet you in the name of your future husband, and welcome you to his kingdom.”
Guinevere cocked an eyebrow as he stood back up and let go of her hand. “Sir – Lancelot,” she said, a faint question at the end of his name. He smiled, slightly puzzled.
“Yes, although how did you – ”
“Stories of your fame have traveled all over our country, Sir Lancelot,” she interrupted, her voice musical and low. He found he couldn’t suppress a shiver at the sound it made, the words seeming to trip up his spine and catch each little hair on his skin with invisible fingertips.
“I am pleased my future husband chose to send his best knight to meet me.”
Lancelot laughed at that. “He would have been remiss to send any other.”
“And how fortunate you are so sure of your talents,” came the dry answer. Lancelot smiled again, helplessly. He noticed upon closer inspection her eyes had flecks of black in them amid the dark brown.
“Are you ready for the journey? It is not far from this place. I would guess this is your retinue,” he said, his gauntlet covered hand gesturing at the group of people watching them closely. One older woman coughed sharply, and Guinevere sighed.
“Yes, to all questions. Please,” she leaned forward, and whispered in his ear, her hand grasping at the armor that covered his forearm. “Get me out of here. I’m tired of old women and too young squires.”
He laughed, a full blown sound that made the others in their parties eye them as if they were being inappropriate – or perhaps a bit insane.
“Gladly, my lady.”
She remounted, and Lancelot did the same, his squires taking the lead, his own horse at the rear of her column.
A few minutes into the journey, and the sun disappeared, a thunder strike was heard, and the rain began to fall. Lancelot moved his horse up next to Guinevere’s, while her companions either hunched miserably or were busy trying to get her canopy up while staying dry themselves.
“Lady, we can stop in the trees if you’d care to,” Lancelot told her.
“No,” she said, and waved a hand at the guards who were attempting to keep her dry. They looked at her like she was mad, but put away the canopy as the rain got a little stronger.
“I like feeling it,” she said, her words conspiratorial and amused. “I’ve spent most of my life indoors, so this is a rare blessing.”
Lancelot watched her, and his eyes trained on her every move as she rode along, a tall, willowy flower amongst weeds. Her hair and beautiful clothing was soaked almost immediately, but she seemed not to care. In fact, a small smile played about her face as the others riding with them complained mopily or snarled at the sky.
He will love her.
A tiny spark of jealousy was lit in him at that moment, and although he wanted to ignore it, the more he watched the future Queen, the more he saw her good qualities and strengths. He tried to be happy for Arthur, his beloved friend, the closest thing Lancelot had to a brother, but….
Seeing the two of them meet for the first time was something Lancelot would never forget.
He’d never seen that look on Arthur’s face before. He’d never heard Arthur laugh like that. He’d never seen him blush, for God’s sake!
Guinevere put her hand on Arthur’s arm as they made their way into the great hall for dinner, and Lancelot found himself hanging back, his arms crossed over his still armor covered chest. He was wet and tired and achey because this woman hadn’t wanted to get out of the rain.
Her slender, white hand curled around Arthur’s arm, and a fleeting thought struck the knight who stood by himself on the steps of Camelot’s huge banquet hall.
Would that it were me.
But in Arthur’s place, or Guinevere’s, he couldn’t say.