Over the next two weeks, she started seeking out nooks of delight. The first was the chapel Vera had noticed in the courtyard on her first night here. The inside was beautiful. Light shone through the stained glass in corridors of color, especially lovely when it bathed the many statues in its beams.

The sculptures with their draped clothing carved onto precisely chiseled musculature reminded Vera of the Roman statues she’d seen on display in the British Museum. But one statue, the one closest to the front on the left side, was a very pregnant woman whom Vera associated with Glastonbury’s imagery for Gaia, Mother Earth. It was something about how she stood, one foot slightly in front of the other as if walking. Her shoulders were back and chest up with her stare trained straight ahead, an expression of strength and wisdom forever fixed on her face. She had one hand below and one above the globe of her pregnant belly, pointedly framing it.

Vera had never seen the mother of Jesus sculpted with this aura of power before, but she was positive that the woman frozen in marble was intended to be Mary. She loved the chapel the second she saw it, and she had plenty of time to admire it when she’d attended Sunday services with a stalwart and silent Arthur at her side.

She’d been failing to resist the urge to look back at the chapel door every time it opened.

“He isn’t coming,” Arthur’s low voice had rumbled near her ear. He faced forward, his face impassive, but he’d inclined his head ever so slightly toward Vera.

“Who isn’t?” she’d replied instinctively.

“Lancelot,” he said, correctly guessing who she was expecting. “He follows the old faith.”

“Oh.” No one seemed to mind that the kingdom’s general followed the “old faith” as Arthur had called it. In fact, Vera learned that Camelot’s population was nearly an even split between Christians and pagans—and, evidently, they weren’t yet at a point in history when that had become contentious. Vera wasn’t sure whether this peaceful, seventh-century cohabitation was recorded in the schoolbooks collecting dust on her shelf back in Glastonbury.

Matilda was perhaps the most delightful surprise. Initially, her sense of propriety had her holding Vera at arm’s length, stiffly guarded in her presence. Vera tried including her in after-dinner banter with Lancelot, but she merely gave them the smile of a mother patiently indulging her children’s uninteresting stories.

She cracked the code of Matilda quite by accident the next week, as the young stable hand she’d met her first night (who she learned was called Grady) gave his weekly update. Grady’s father, the stable master, left him in charge while he was out training their newest horses. The boy was all of fourteen and took his role very seriously. He wore his father’s too-large boots and had slathered some sort of oil through his unruly dark curls that only partially smoothed them. Grady must have been told how sweet his dimply smile was all his life, for he hardly showed it during Vera and Matilda’s visit. Like all young boys, he wanted to be seen and treated as a man. Yet he was the least intimidating of all the castle staff, so Matilda encouraged Vera to resume her duties here first.

“Our feed schedule is right on target.” Grady pitched his voice lower than was natural as he led them through the stables. “And father tells me the new lot are training up exceptionally well. There is one small matter.” He paused, looking at Vera with concern. “With Calimorfis.”

It took Vera a beat longer than it should have to remember that was her horse’s name, as she’d not ridden since the night of her arrival. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing is wrong,” he said as he led them both into Calimorfis’s stall. She was pristinely groomed, and she whinnied, tilting her silky neck toward Grady. He forgot not to smile as he stroked her head. “Since your return, she hasn’t been ridden much, and she’s getting antsy.”

“Oh.” Vera was ashamed she hadn’t thought a thing about that. “Who rode her while I was away?”

“Mostly the king, Your Majesty. Occasionally, he’d ask me to. She’s an incredible horse. It was my honor.” Grady chuckled as the horse leaned her head into his shoulder. He nuzzled her back. “Any time you wish to ride, I will gladly ready her; just say the word. I can do it in minutes,” he said with pride. “And in between, if you’d like, I can ask one of the knights to ride her.” He sounded mournful at the idea of it.

“Would you mind riding her for me?” Vera asked.

His eyes lit up. “Me?” His low-pitched voice had vanished and was replaced with squeaky excitement.

“Certainly. But only if it isn’t an imposition—”

“Your Majesty, I’d be honored!” In his glee, he hadn’t even realized that he’d interrupted her.

“Thank you, Grady,” she said, grinning broadly as Calimorfis continued to lean into him. “She clearly adores you. I think I’ve lost her favor.”

“She’s easily won with only a bit of love. The king showed me,” Grady said. “Give her one good brushing, and you’ll be back in her graces. I could get a brush and show you?” He was so hopeful that Vera found herself nodding enthusiastically.

Grady tore out of the stall and ran down the stable row.

“He’s always fancied you,” Matilda said. “And now he’ll love you forever.”

Vera blushed and buried her face in her hands. They were both laughing, so they didn’t hear the ruckus immediately.

Grady must have been returning with the brush, but the moment’s peace was upended by angry shouting and the slam of a fist against wood.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, boy?”

Vera didn’t recognize the voice. Whoever it was shouted so loudly that she was sure it could be heard all the way to the entrance hall.

“My horse! My horse should have been ready an hour before my departure. You stupid fuck, what are you staring at?”

“I—my lord, I—” Grady stammered. “I was not informed of your departure.”

Vera helplessly looked to Matilda. She wanted to intervene in defense of Grady but was worried she might humiliate him by preemptively coming to his rescue in a situation he could handle on his own.

“Oh, like bloody hell you weren’t. Do it now, boy. Now!” The man sounded more furious by the second.

Grady, admirably, maintained his composure. “My lord, I will be there in a moment. I’m with the—”

Heavy footfalls stomped closer to the stall. Closer to Grady. “I don’t care, you insolent shit!” There was the distinct sound of a fist on flesh, the whimper and grunt of a boy, and Vera was in motion in half a heartbeat. She rounded the door. Grady was on the floor, his arms up defensively above his head, a pitchfork in one hand and a brush in the other.

An impeccably dressed nobleman who was short but more than twice the size of Grady owing to height and girth stood above him, poised to take a kick at the boy’s face.

“Stop!” she shouted. Vera could feel the blood surging through her, her face blazing hot with rage. She didn’t remember how she closed the distance between where she’d been and where she now stood, close enough to grab the wrist of the man in front of her.

He had a puffy face that looked extremely ugly with a scowl fixed upon it and a smear of something stinking and brown across the bottom half of his left cheek. It must have flung off the pitchfork as Grady was thrown to the floor. The nobleman’s hair was inky black, and he wore the sort of long velvet tunic and tights that Vera had imagined Arthur and Lancelot would wear before she met them. He paused and tore his glare from Grady, his lips curled with cruelty, ready to aim his vitriol at Vera until he saw her clearly, and recognition softened his features.

“Your Majesty.” He stumbled backward a step. “I did not realize you were—”

“How dare you disrespect a member of this castle?” Vera snarled.

“Disrespect?” the man blustered. “I have been disrespected. I have a four-hour ride ahead of me, and this stupid—”