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A good dozen hands reached for the boat and helped guide it to the dock and make it fast. More of them reached for the stretcher on which Arthur lay. As they lifted him out of the boat, to Gwen’s shock, he opened his eyes and raised his hand.

“Wait,” he whispered, and he beckoned to her.

She found tears pouring down her cheeks, again. “I—forgive me—” she choked out. “I never meant to harm you. I wanted to protect you from Medraut, and then—I thought you didn’t care for me, I thought you would be pleased to see the back of me.”

“It is you who should forgive me. I tried to make you—what you were not. I took a warhorse, and tried to fit it to a plow.” Pain contorted his face for a moment. “Go, and be yourself again. I release you from—every promise, every duty, everything.”

He waved his hand. The monks carried him away with Gwenhwyfach in close attendance, leaving Gwen and the old queen standing on the dock. And in that moment, a blankness came over Gwen, mercifully taking all thoughts with it.

Gwen came back to herself sitting in the Abbey church, with no recollection of how she had gotten there, nor how she had come to be clean of the mud and blood of combat and reclothed in another set of trews and tunic. The old queen was on her knees at the altar in the front of the church, but Gwen could not muster the strength or the will to move. It was dark in here, with only the candles on the altar and a small red lamp for light, but it was also dark beyond the windows. Somehow full night had fallen, not the strange twilight of the mist, while she had sat unaware.

Another blank came over her; this one was probably not as long as the last, for when it passed, Gildas was sitting beside her; he peered at her when she moved her head a little. “Ah,” he said. “You are back among us.”

She nodded and looked at the altar for the old queen. But she wasn’t there.

“Arthur?” she asked, her throat sore and dry, her voice coming out as a hoarse whisper.

“He is gone,” the Abbot said, simply. “And . . . so is your sister.” He shook his head. “When Arthur died, she went mad. She was like a wild thing. She railed at us, that we had not tried hard enough to save him, that we had stolen her crown and her king.” He blinked. “I can truly say that I have never seen such . . . such a strange and fearful sight. She was like one possessed.”

Numbly, she shook her head. “Only by her own selfishness.” He sighed. “She attacked my monks, clawing at them like a cat, in a frenzy. If she was not possessed, then surely she was mad.”

Gwen blinked. “But you said—she was dead—”

“We managed to repel her and drive her out of the chapel. We found her in the morning at the edge of the lake, drowned. She died within moments of him, we think.” He shook his head. “She must have fallen in at some deep point. She must have truly loved him to have been so frenzied.”

She decided not to disabuse him of his notion. “Yes,” she said slowly. “She did.” Or at least, she loved his crown.

“Then we will bury them together.” He peered into her face. “Come. You should sleep.”

“But—”

“The old queen—we call her Sister Blessed now—will hold vigil over them. And we shall have them buried by your Ladies, here, though not in ground consecrated to Christian use. Come.” He took her hand and tugged at her. She stood.

And then there was another blank moment, and when she came out of this one, she was lying on a pallet, covered by a wool blanket, in a small wooden hut. The door stood open, and sunlight poured through it.

She was still numb, and her mind . . . wouldn’t work. It was almost as if she were under the influence of one of Medraut’s potions. Finally she just gave up trying to think at all. She let people lead her about, ate and drank what was put in her hands, did what she was told. She stood at the side of the grave as the monks laid Arthur and Little Gwen in it. That gave her a strange sense of dislocation—she felt a moment of utter terror as she looked at the dead face that was so like her own, could have been her own. For that moment, it seemed as if it were