With My Last Breath

After Gawain good-naturedly prevailed over his brother, they shoved each other out of the arena, much to the crowd’s delight. Sir Bedivere and Sir Kay followed them with Kay as the winner. Gaheris and Bors de Ganis were next.

As they faced off, Guinevere whispered to me.

"How are you feeling? Are you okay in this heat?"

I reached over and squeezed her hand. "I’m fine, your highness. The breeze is nice, though, is it not?"

The ocean breeze blew in from the sea, breaking up the horse and dust smells.

Without that, the smell around the arena could become stifling, particularly to a newly pregnant woman. It seemed that all smells were becoming more potent to me now. I could even smell the sweat from the horses from here.

"Oh, look!" Guinevere nudged me. "Lucan’s turn!"

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With My Last Breath, Book Three

My eyes shot to the arena to seek out my soulmate. He was poised, tense and ready, waiting for the scarf to fall. It dropped, fluttering in the wind, and he and Sir Percivale went head to head, their horses’ massive hindquarters digging into the dirt as they ran.

Lucan raised his lance and deftly knocked Percivale from his seat. The crowd erupted into cheers and Lucan rode directly to my feet, taking off his helmet.

"For you, my lady!" he called. I blushed and blew him a kiss. The crowd roared once more and Guinevere laughed, while Lucan retreated to help his brother-in-arms out of the dirt.

I glanced toward the end of the arena to find Mordred tensed and at attention, waiting for the signal to begin. As the newest knight, it was his turn to face Lancelot, the king’s champion. Even though this was simply an exhibition, tradition must be adhered to.

Mordred’s eyes were trained with razor sharp precision on my father as he dropped his visor and something about his stare put me instantly on edge. Everyone else was jovial and light-hearted. But Mordred was icy and tense. The hackles rose on my neck as the black scarf dropped in the wind.

They tore off for each other and as Lancelot raised his lance to knock Mordred from his horse in a sweeping motion, Mordred raised his lance as a javelin. While Lancelot’s arm was raised, Mordred impaled my father beneath his arm, in one of the few spots where armor was vulnerable.

The crowd gasped in unison and Guinevere jumped from her seat, her hands covering her mouth as Lancelot tumbled from his saddle.

"Mother, don’t," I warned as she hurried for the stairs. She ignored me and rushed into the arena. We were closer than anyone else, so we were able to get there more quickly than Arthur. He too hurried for his champion’s side, but Guinevere reached him first.

Easing off his helmet, she murmured, "Are you alright?"

"Of course," he nodded slowly. "It is but a scratch."

Pushing in beside my mother, I lifted his arm and examined the wound. Mordred’s lance was embedded a few inches beneath Lancelot’s right arm. I swallowed hard. A mortal could bleed to death from such an injury.

Mordred had yet to dismount, instead sitting above us, the evening sun casting his shadow over where Lancelot lay.

"This was an exhibition!" I snapped up at him. "What were you thinking?"

His face was meant to be sympathetic, I’m sure, but to me he seemed impassive as he apologized to the King.

"Your highness, I apologize. I meant no serious injury. It was a slip of the lance. I have only the utmost respect for your champion and I beg your forgiveness, uncle."

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With My Last Breath, Book Three

Arthur clenched his jaw and remained silent as he knelt beside Guinevere.

Gripping the lance firmly, he wrenched it from my father’s side. Lancelot groaned and blood gushed from the wound. I quickly took off my cloak and wadded it up against the injury, hoping to staunch the blood.

Arthur called to the knights, "Come- bring your shields. We must carry him inside."

The knights quickly brought their shields and laid four of them on the ground in a line. They transferred my father onto the makeshift gurney and then carefully carried him toward the castle with Mordred straggling behind them. Arthur turned to his squire.

"Find the medicine woman," he instructed. "And hurry."

The boy took off running as Arthur studied his wife. She still sat in the dust, her skirts tangled around her legs, next to a pool of Lancelot’s blood. Her hands were visibly shaking, her face pale.

"Are you alright, my queen?" Arthur asked in concern, reaching down to help her stand. "Your concern for my champion is admirable. You have a very kind heart."

She nodded and allowed him to pull him into an embrace, and she laid her head onto his shoulder. He patted her back gently for a moment, before stepping back, gazing down at her. His blue eyes were full of emotion.

"I must see to Lancelot," he said. "But I will see you at dinner." He looked to me.

"Can you see her to her chambers, Heleyne?" I nodded.

He strode quickly from the arena, but as he retreated, I noticed the strangest look on his face and my heart stilled for a moment. It seemed that perhaps, my mother had given herself away.

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With My Last Breath, Book Three

Chapter Eleven

"By all that is holy!" my father thundered. I smiled under my breath. I could hear him all the way down the stone hall. The medicine woman had already attended to him by cleansing and dressing his wound before she decreed that he would live.

But he was pissed.

Apparently, my father wasn’t enjoying the limitations of mortals, in particular the slow healing process. I knocked lightly on his door and found him propped in his bed, while a page tried to help him into a clean tunic.

"I do not need a shirt!" he yelled in agitation. The boy shrank away.

"But sir, you must be dressed. Particularly in the company of a lady…" he trailed off at the look on my father’s face.

"I do not give a rat’s front teeth about decorum right now," my father enunciated clearly and loudly. "I have a hole in my side! Have you not noticed?"

I smiled and motioned for the boy to leave.

"I can assist the kind knight," I told him gently. "Why don’t you bring something for him to eat?"

The page more than happily took his exit while Lancelot scowled. "I am not hungry, either," he informed me, his expression dark and sulking.

I stepped closer and rounded the bed, my skirts trailing behind me with a rustle.

"Um, you do know that you are the god of war, right?" I asked with a raised eyebrow. My father stared at me for a moment before exploding into laughter, holding his side as he did.