Arthur

Chapter 1

          The bandages wrapped around my middle rub harshly against the wound on my side. I grit my teeth against the pain, taking it as a reminder of why I am like this.

            I feel like an idiot. The clothing Edith gave me is several times too large and it makes me look sickly and small. My hair has been brutishly shortened and probably resembles a knotted bird’s nest on the top of my head. A few curls fall haphazardly over my eyes and refuse to stick behind my ears. 

            It’s as though I’ve entered a foreign body. I’ve never been a good liar, but my entire appearance is a façade. Surely this is simply a disaster waiting to strike. 

            The only benefit of wandering down this godforsaken road is that fact that there is no one around to uncover my charade. I may look a fool, but at least I look a fool all on my own.

            I puff out my chest; shoulders back, head held high, and take a deep breath. I am not a girl. I am not Gwen. I do not have breasts. Legs apart, back straight, eyes down. Don’t attract attention. Don’t sway your hips. Remember, you are not a lady.  Edith’s words echo through my mind and I try to adjust accordingly.

            At least, I think, I don’t have to wear a blasted corset anymore.

             My legs feel strange. I’ve never worn breeches before and my shoes are too large, causing massive blisters that ooze pus and blood to erupt on my feet. My entire body is sore. Edith didn’t see it fit to loan me her horse so that I could cut my journey in half.

             I glare at the dirt road, pockmarked with hoof print and deep indents, obviously made by wagon or carriage wheels, as I walk. Follow the road, she said, it will take you where you need to go, she said.

            Edith may have saved my life, but she was cryptic and unwavering and just about enough to drive me mad.

             My water skin is eerily light in my hand when I lift it for a drink, but the soft sloshing sound is convincing enough for me to chance a drink. I take a sip, letting it sit on my tongue and drizzle down my throat slowly. It does little to ease the burn of thirst, but I have no idea how long it will be before I find more water.

            The water skin hooks easily onto my belt and slaps against my leg as I go. I try to avoid looking at it; I have no desire to taunt myself with what I cannot have. I made the decision to place my trust in Edith, with her strange grey eyes and her even stranger cottage deep in the woods, hundreds of leagues from any town. She saved your life, I remind myself, why shouldn’t you trust her?

            “This is for Maeve,” I mutter under my breath, glaring down at my aching feet. “If you give up now you’ll die and Maeve will never have peace. This is for Maeve.”

            My eyes blur with tears. If I hadn’t seen the life leave her eyes I don’t think I could have ever believed she was dead. We had used to joke that Maeve would live longer than all the rest of our little family. She had always been the lucky one, the one who rarely fell ill and was always smiling. And now, the dead one. 

              And I don’t know why.

             I wonder what mother and father are thinking. Has a search party even been sent out to look for us? I frown to myself; there must have been one. We were to arrive in Camelot more than a fortnight ago. If the king places any value in his treaty, he surely would have sent his best knights out looking for us by now. Perhaps even Lancelot himself would deem the disappearance of his wife-to-be a worthy cause.