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All of her knights were clad in green to go a-Maying, but her eye was drawn only to one. Not to Sir Pelleas the lover, drooping like a green shoot in his saddle as his thoughts roved off after another poem to present to his lady: not to Sir Persant of Inde, who wore a length of green silk wrapped turban-fashion and rode with his hands lightly on the reins, as if no horse could present any challenge to a man who in his youth had ridden elephants; not even to Sir Sagramore le Desirous, who carried a fair hawk on the green glove at his wrist.
Her eye was drawn to a knight clad in the dark green of pine-trees. She watched him as her ladies wove the garlands, and when it was time to place the garland of May around his neck, she kissed his hard lined cheek.
She might have been kissing a statue of the Virgin for all the response he gave. Only a single muscle flickered at the corner of his mouth. She thought how much his face looked like his brothers; both Gawaine and Mordred, though Gawaine and Mordred themselves were nothing alike. Agravaine was the balance-point between them; and Guinevere wondered, with a chill like stepping out barefoot into the early dew of May, which way the balance would tip.
"Why did you come a-Maying with me, Agravaine of the Hard Hand?" she asked him playfully. "For when the knights of my husband's court gather to do me honour, you are not among their number. You do not pipe for me, or dance for me, or leave garlands of roses on my bed."
"Better I did not come nigh your bed," he said harshly. "Better no knight came nigh your bed than your husband. You sell yourself too cheap, and King Arthur and his realm will pay dearly for it."
Sir Sagramore put his hand to his sword-hilt and stepped forward to avenge the insult to her, and so did Sir Kay the Seneschal. She held up her hand for peace. This was her world, the woman's world of words and glances and kisses. She would return to her husband's world when the Maying was done, led by the knights like an enchanted captive; but this morning of May was her kingdom, and Agravaine a strange savage presence within its borders.
She led him away by the hand to the shade of a tree, and looked up at him. "You do not like me," she said. It was not a question.
"Like?" He shook his head. "No, my Queen, I do not like you."
"Then I ask you again - why did you come a-Maying?"
"Why do you ask me such questions, my Queen? I do nothing to seek your notice, and yet you follow me." His dark brush-strokes of brows drew together. "Better you leave me alone, lest I may be your doom."
"If I see my doom coming, I shall put a garland round its neck and greet it like a Queen," she said, and leaned up to kiss his other cheek.
His shoulders shuddered under his mail, like a man stabbed through the belly feeling the great cold of death sweep up through his bones and encompass him. "Ay, you would, would you not? If you were a coward, and Lancelot had threatened his way into your bed, I could bear it. If you were a brainless, faithless hussy like my own mother, whoring with anyone who passes because you had not the wit to tell one man in mail from another, I could bear that too. But you are you, and you are not chaste."
She shook her head. "It's not that simple, Agravaine."
His hand closed over hers, and she knew all at once why they called him Agravaine of the Hard Hand. He went down on one knee before her, bowing his bared dark head. She could not break his grip. She had a fleeting thought that to anyone who glanced in their direction, they would look a picture of chivalry, the lady and the knight her servant. But this was not chivalry. This was the fire that burned between two who were each as stubborn, and as flawed, as the other. The fire that would burn them both to ashes.
"It should be simple," he said. "It could have been simple. If I had seen you before my uncle did..."
"Speak no more of that," said Guinevere sharply. "What's done is done."
He looked up at her, and she saw her death in his dark eyes.
"I came a-Maying with you because I could no more resist than the earth can resist the plough," he said. "I will follow you, and I will guard you, and I will tell the truth about you until the end of my days, because I can do no other."
Guinevere would have spoken, but her throat was full of tears like the sky full of stars. She closed her hand around his, tightly, like a leaf wrapped about a bud, and kissed him for a third time, lightly, on the top of his dark head; and then she raised him to his feet, and went back with him to the knights and damosels, leading her doom by the hand.