Summary
After a conversation with Jacinth leaves him troubled, Galahad seeks clarity from Fredrick.
Chapter 21 Me and Thee
Galahad found Jacinth in the castle gardens, kneeling beside a bed of vibrant chamomile and lavender, a small basket of picked ones at her side. Her copper hair shone brightly in the late afternoon sunlight, glowing like burnished metal. Freckles sprinkled across her porcelain skin in a pleasing arrangement as her slender fingers sorted through the plants. For a moment, he simply watched her work with an ease that warmed his heart.
Her presence here stirred memories of when he'd first glimpsed her in the great hall – timid, trail-worn and exhausted in the shadows. Her shocked eyes had snapped to every voice or movement during the heated council, but she'd always return her focus to the queen or to Sir Fredrick. When Galahad had arrived at the physician's chambers with Merlin and Lady Wynefreed, she'd barely acknowledged him until that intense magical moment drew her closer—a fleeting touch, eyes meeting briefly, a flicker of awareness shifting the undercurrents between them.
"The chamomile looks healthy this season," he greeted, the rustle of his cloak and tunic accompanying his voice.
Startled, Jacinth nearly dropped the stems in her hand before looking up at him. "Oh! The nice knight with the curly hair." Her eyes widened in mortification. "I mean—Sir Maxwell—no, um…" Her cheeks flushed as she stumbled over her words. "Sir Galahad, forgive me. You surprised me." She gazed at him for a heartbeat longer than necessary, the same curious assessment she'd made once before during a tense moment of the seer's ritual two days ago.
"My apologies, Mistress Jacinth." Nice knight with the curly hair? he thought as he bowed to her. "Maxwell. Galahad. Either will do," he replied smoothly. Diminished to curly hair. He gestured to the empty bench beside the herb garden. Was that all she could remember of me? "Care to join me for a short respite?"
She nodded, dusting soil from her hands and lifting her basket. Galahad extended his hand to help her rise, a gentle smile forming on his lips. Her fingers trembled slightly against his when they touched before she withdrew them the moment she stood upright. A flush spread across her cheeks while the ghost of her contact awakened the nerves along his skin. But before either could speak, she stumbled stepping onto the stony path, clutching her basket tighter. Galahad grasped her arm, steadying her with a gentle tug that brought her to face him.
Golden flecks dancing in pools of green, he thought, his mouth drying like summer grass beneath sun as he gazed at her.
"These shoes…" Jacinth began, staring at him then falling silent, before moving hurriedly to the stone bench nearby.
Galahad followed, his smile fading as he noted how quickly she'd pulled away. Perhaps she finds my touch distasteful, he thought, the notion settling uncomfortably in his mind as he sat beside her, careful to maintain a respectful distance while his fingers curled against his palm, still tingling from their brief contact.
This nervous habit reminded him of how she'd reacted in the physician's chambers, flinching at each magical display while struggling to maintain her dignity. Now, as then, she seemed trapped in her own discomfort rather than present in their surroundings.
"I'm glad I found you, Mistress Jacinth," Galahad said, hoping to calm her nerves. "I wanted to ensure you were adjusting well to castle life."
"Everyone has been kind and patient given the circumstances," Jacinth said, her fingers continuing their restless dance with the stems. "Though I fear I've made quite the fool of myself. Sir Fredrick says protocol matters little compared to sincerity, but I can tell he's embarrassed by my mistakes." She looked at her hands, her cheeks blossoming to a deep pink.
"Sir Fredrick mentioned your... difficulties with court etiquette?" Galahad's smile tightened slightly at the older knight's name, his fingers tensing almost imperceptibly on his knee.
"He's been very helpful," she replied, calm entering her voice. "But I saw his face when I called Queen Guinevere 'Your Majestical' upon realizing who she was." She laughed suddenly, a bright sound that seemed to surprise even her. "I couldn't remember the proper address and started babbling about 'Your High Queenly' and then convinced myself she should be called 'Your Grace.'"
Galahad's eyebrows rose in amusement, but his mind lingered on her mention of Sir Fredrick. "Did you now?" he asked, his head tilting slightly as he watched her. She nodded eagerly, missing the slight strain in his voice.
"Then I wondered aloud if dukes and ducks shared the same title. Duke-ducks, I said! Can you imagine?" Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she mocked her own ignorance. "Poor Sir Fredrick—he could barely maintain his composure. I think he was thoroughly embarrassed on my behalf."
Galahad found himself chuckling along with her, though his shoulders tensed at the older knight's continued presence in her story. "I would have paid good coin to witness that," he said, forcing levity into his voice despite the small knot forming in his chest.
"The queen was remarkably patient too," Jacinth said, her expression softening with affection. "She just sat there, trying not to laugh while I made a complete spectacle of myself."
"Queen Guinevere has always had a generous heart," Galahad agreed. "It's one of her finest qualities."
Jacinth nodded, her gaze drifting momentarily toward the castle walls where guards patrolled. Her fingers resumed their nervous movements with the flowers in her basket. "Sir Fredrick barely speaks to me these days," she said, her smile dimming slightly. "Perhaps he's more ashamed of me than I want to believe. He's very kind and brave though." A wistful sigh escaped her lips before her tone brightened artificially. "Did you know he rescued me and scores of others from the Southrons?" Her voice took on that familiar admiring tone. "He's so modest, wouldn't you agree?"
An uncomfortable hollowness formed beneath Galahad's ribs at her obvious adoration, particularly noting how she seemed more enamored despite Fredrick's apparent distance. "Sir Fredrick is indeed modest about his accomplishments," he replied, swallowing the bitter taste that rose in his throat.
"He says that you'd helped in my rescue – that you'd used magic," she added, blinking with mild curiosity.
Galahad's lips twitched sideways, suddenly aware of being reduced to a side note scribbled in a great manuscript's margin. Merely an afterthought in the legend of Sir Fredrick the Magnificent. "Just a little, I suppose," he mumbled, the words feeling inadequate against the magnitude of what had actually occurred.
Yet, he'd never sought glory for his part in the rescue of the Southron captives, far from it. The death of his friend Ector had broken something in him, grief causing his magic to explode in a terrifying way, eliminating all their opponents in a flash of rage. Not truly his finest act, indeed. Even now, the memory left him with little desire to claim credit.
"During our journey from Longstead," she continued eagerly, her voice dissipating Galahad's memories of the past, "Fredrick told me all about his adventures." Her posture straightened as a dreamy smile played across her lips.
Fredrick, not Sir Fredrick? he noted, silently chiding her infatuation. So you are on familiar terms? Quickly chastising his own pettiness, he softly cleared his throat as Jacinth's gaze drifted toward the castle battlements, as though picturing those heroic deeds of Sir Fredrick.
"Did I mention he once outran an entire band of outlaws on his stallion while protecting a noblewoman?"
Why am I not surprised? "I don't believe you've shared that particular tale," Galahad said, struggling to maintain his pleasant expression as his jaw tightened slightly. A deeper ache formed at her obvious adoration, particularly how she seemed more enamored despite Sir Fredrick's apparent distance.
"He only told the story because Sir Gwaine kept goading him about it," she said, leaning forward slightly as though sharing a confidential detail. "Fredrick was so…" she searched for the perfect word, "unpretentious, not wanting any glory, or recognition. He said that's not what some soldiers seek."
"I tend to agree," he replied, shifting slightly on the bench as if her words physically displaced him.
Jacinth continued recounting Fredrick's exploits he'd shared during their five-day journey, how he'd defended villagers against bandits, survived three days in the wilderness with nothing but a dagger, and served as a royal guard since before Arthur was crowned. Each word fortified Galahad's certainty about where her affections lay, each venerated deed diminishing his hopes. Finally, seeming to realize her enthusiasm, she stopped abruptly. Had he grimaced or twitched unconsciously? Had she seen his crushed heart plainly in his expression?
"Forgive me," she said, blushing deeper. "I'm talking too much again. It's just—on the road from Longstead, his stories made him seem so..." Her fingers twisted a chamomile stem almost to breaking, her voice trailing off as she studied her basket with unusual intensity. When she mentioned Fredrick's name, her shoulders tensed slightly—a subtle contradiction to the admiration in her words. "I wanted to know everything about him," she finished, her gaze falling away from Galahad's as though hiding something.
"It's quite all right," Galahad assured her with a dismissive wave of his hand, though the knot in his chest suggested otherwise. "Your admiration for him is understandable." Curious that in five days of travel, not one tale of Sir Gwaine's exploits made an impression. The boisterous knight surely spent those days regaling her with his own adventures—the man could hardly pass a meal without sharing some heroic feat.
Jacinth plucked a fresh lavender stem from her basket, this time inhaling its calming fragrance. "May I ask you something, Sir Galahad?" she asked, examining the purple blooms. "Something... personal?"
"Of… course," he replied, his pulse quickening with both hope and wariness. Her sudden interest in him personally sent his thoughts tumbling like dice on a gaming table, uncertain where they might land.
She looked at him, color rising once again across her cheeks. "Have you ever admired someone greatly, but worried they'd never see past your... shortcomings?"
His eyebrows rose slightly while his heart sank to its bottomless pit. She wishes to discuss whether Sir Fredrick could find acceptance with her, naturally. Galahad cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly. Jacinth didn't shift away despite the reduced distance between them—though she had no worry of his advances. "We all doubt ourselves at times," he answered carefully. "Even knights question their worth."
She nodded thoughtfully. "But how do you make someone see you differently? As more than just a village girl who can't tell a duke from a duck?" Her gaze fixed on the herbs in her basket, avoiding his eyes.
"Time reveals character better than any words could," Galahad said gently, his gaze dropping to his lap as he spoke. "If this person truly matters to you, patience may be your greatest ally."
"Time," she repeated softly. "Yes, I suppose that makes sense." She glanced at him suddenly, her gaze lingering on his face with an intensity that made his breath catch. "What about you, Sir Galahad? Is there someone who holds your admiration?"
The direct question disarmed him, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. Their hearts followed separate paths toward different destinations—he would not deny that. But now, he found himself truly seeing Jacinth—the earnestness in her golden-flecked eyes, the determined set of her jaw despite her bashfulness, the soil beneath her fingernails conveyed her comfort with honest labor. Even her graceless stumbling held a certain charm—her sincere nature unvarnished by courtly pretenses. This realization—these endearing qualities she possessed—only filled his heart with more affection for her.
"There is someone," he admitted, surprising himself with his honesty, a spiked wire coiling around his heart. "Though I've only recently recognized it."
"Oh," she replied, surprise in her features before she quickly glanced away. "Well… She must be quite remarkable to catch a knight's attention."
"She is," Galahad confirmed with a smile, wondering at her sudden shift in demeanor, the wire uncoiling and lessening its painful grip somewhat. "Though I doubt she sees herself that way."
"Everyone knows knights and nobility don't court common girls," Jacinth suddenly blurted out.
Galahad blinked. Had she heard any of what he'd just said? he thought, sighing slightly under his breath. Dismissing his subtle confession as if his brief personal time for connection with her had ended? Had her mind already wandered back to Sir Fredrick and the potential difficulties of societal acceptance of them?
"It's how the world works," she continued, her hands clutching her basket so tightly her knuckles whitened. "Such unions create complications. Expectations that can't be fulfilled." Rising abruptly from the bench, Jacinth stepped a few paces away.
Galahad stood as well. Yes, to Sir Fredrick it seems. He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing her shoulder. The gentle contact was enough to make her turn toward him. "Don't you know who our king and queen are, my lady? Their union proves that worth isn't measured by birth but by character."
Jacinth's cheeks flamed crimson. "That's different. They're... they're them." She clutched her basket tighter, the wooden handle creaking from the pressure. "Not everyone can be so fortunate."
"Not everyone has their courage, you mean," Galahad corrected gently, taking a step toward her. The impulse to close the distance between them overrode his sense of propriety, though he knew he should maintain a respectful space.
She backed away, nearly stumbling over the hem of her gown. He reached futilely for her, a spike of guilt and concern pounding his chest, but she regained her balance on her own.
"Apologies, my lady," he said, immediately retreating a step backwards. "That was inappropriate of me."
"No. It's not-not you. It's me." Her expression flustered, her feet twisting beneath her skirts. "It's getting late. I should get these to George before he worries."
"Perhaps we could continue our conversation another time?" Galahad suggested, reluctant to end their exchange on such a strange note and his blunder. "I could show you the western gardens tomorrow, after your duties, of course."
Jacinth hesitated, conflicting emotions flashing across her face. She shook her head. "I don't think that would be wise. I'm—I'm still finding my place here, and I wouldn't want to..." She squared her shoulders. "My heart is..." Their eyes met, vulnerability flickering in her gaze. "It wouldn't be fair to... you..."
The quiet declaration stung like salt in a fresh wound, more painful than he had expected. "A friendship only," he replied, maintaining a polite smile despite the hollow feeling settling in his chest. "I ask nothing more, Mistress Jacinth." He stepped further back, physically accepting the boundary she had drawn between them.
"Thank you for understanding, Sir Galahad." She moved away, creating more distance between them. "I should go. Sir Fredrick is helping me with..." Of course he is. The man is apparently everywhere at once. She shook her head, dismissing the notion of revealing any of their secrets to him. "Never mind. It doesn't matter right now."
Galahad forced his own smile, truth settling beside him like a bitter comrade. Her esteem for Sir Fredrick had been evident in every anecdote she shared. Every story, every blush when mentioning the older knight's name—these were not subtle signals he had overlooked, but clear markers of a heart truly claimed. Honor demanded restraint and acceptance of this reality, he reminded himself.
With that, she turned and hurried away, her copper hair rippling like flames that seemed to take his hopes with them before she disappeared around a corner. Galahad wandered the garden, absently trailing his fingers across the chamomile blooms she had tended. The unexpected disappointment lingered in his chest, but his path was clear—honor demanded he respect her choice and the boundary she had drawn.
Friends, then, he thought. It will have to be enough.
Several hours had passed since his conversation with Jacinth in the garden and Galahad had settled in a corner at the Rising Sun to be alone with his thoughts—if that were even possible in a tavern, he'd mused—but he needed distraction that he couldn't find at the castle. Knights and castle servants sought respite from their duties, merchants celebrated successful trades, and locals drowned daily sorrows—yet he sat alone, an island of misery amid the sea of revelry.
Galahad rarely frequented these establishments and seldom partook in the spirits that clouded mind and body as so many others did. He preferred to always maintain his wits—a warrior must always be ready. He'd engage in drink during the occasional celebration out of respect or for camaraderie's sake. One had never caused him much harm.
Now, he stared into his tankard, the murky ale reflecting his equally clouded mind. He knew the duties that began before dusk should have stopped him, but one drink kept leading to another as he drowned deeper into his sorrows. How many had he consumed already? Three? Four? He'd lost count, an unusual lapse for a man who prided his perfectionism. Sir Gwaine would have downed twice this amount by now and still stand steadier than I feel. He tilted the tankard, draining what remained. The liquid washed down his throat, bitter yet oddly comforting as it dulled the edges of his thoughts just enough to make them bearable. Why didn't I speak with Sir Percival instead of resorting to this? Merlin, where on earth are you?
A boisterous laugh cut through the tavern's buzz, drawing Galahad's inspection of his empty tankard to a table not far from him, a jovial merchant something with his companion. What's he so happy about? Galahad jeered in his mind, searing his sullen eyes into the man. Three days had passed since Jacinth gazed at him with those gentle eyes in the physicians' chambers, igniting the spark of affection that had already simmered for her. Now, after their garden encounter, he knew for certain that had been a sad misinterpretation on his part. There's no room left for happiness in me right now, he thought, his shoulders hunching further as he stared into his empty vessel.
"Another, Sir Galahad?" The tavern keeper's daughter asked, pitcher in hand, her smile warm yet concerned.
What was her name again? "Indeed," he replied, pushing his vessel toward her, his fingers tingling from the sensation of the ale's influence.
As she poured, he tried to focus on the amber stream rather than the memory of copper hair, of a voice stumbling awkwardly through court protocol. Of "duke-ducks" and fumbled curtsies that had somehow pierced the armor around his heart before he'd even realized it needed guarding.
The tavern door swung open, admitting a gust of evening air that momentarily cleared the haze of pipe smoke and ale. Galahad's attention drifted toward the entrance, snagging on a familiar figure settling into a shadowed corner on the other side of the room. Sir Fredrick—Queen Guinevere's steadfast protector and the unwitting recipient of Jacinth's affections.
Galahad's fingers tightened around his tankard. The older knight's weathered face appeared drawn, and Galahad felt a contradictory surge of both sympathy and satisfaction at the man's evident fatigue. Yet even in repose, Fredrick maintained that quiet dignity, that unshakable composure that had earned him the queen's trust.
"What does she see in him?" Galahad muttered into his ale, dismissing the obvious answers that surfaced unbidden—Fredrick's unwavering heroism, his steadfast loyalty to the crown, the dignified silver at his temples that only enhanced his rugged features. The words she hadn't finished in the garden now hauntingly clear. My heart is his, she might as well have said. My heart is Fredrick's.
Another sip. Another thought emerged, the ale now steering him toward treacherous waters, a notion forming sluggishly in his ale-addled mind. Perhaps Sir Fredrick used his charm to disarm Mistress Jacinth, taking advantage of the girl's innocent admiration. Could the seasoned soldier secretly harbor intentions less honorable than his reputation suggested?
"Ridiculous," Galahad scoffed at himself, yet the seed took root. "Utterly ridiculous."
But was it? He drummed his fingers against the wooden table, recalling men he'd known, noble and common alike, who had succumbed to baser instincts when presented with adoration. Even those sworn to knightly virtue weren't immune to temptation's whispers.
He drained his tankard in several gulps, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The rational part of him—the part not drowning in fermented grain—knew the man to be honorable to a fault. But that part grew quieter with each swallow, his irritation at Fredrick's seemingly perfect reputation grew louder. If not him, who would ensure Jacinth's heart remained unbroken? Who would question Sir Fredrick's intentions?
Galahad rose somewhat steadily to his feet, his mind fuzzy but his purpose crystallizing with alarming clarity. His fists clenched with newfound resolve. He would speak to Sir Fredrick. Man to man. Knight to knight.
His sword caught on the chair leg, causing Galahad to wrestle it free while wobbling slightly. Displaying less poise than Jacinth ever had, heat rose to his cheeks as he steadied himself on the edge of the table. No matter, he thought, straightening his tunic and gear, his chin poking out. Some conversations required liquid courage, and this one certainly qualified.
Weaving between patrons with less grace than usual, Galahad approached the corner table. The older knight looked up, surprise flashing across his features before settling into polite acknowledgment.
"Sir Galahad," Sir Fredrick greeted him with a nod, gesturing to the empty bench across from him. "Care to join me?"
Galahad sank onto the offered seat, studying Fredrick's face with an intensity that might have seemed comical to any observer. "We need to discuss a matter of importance," he declared, the words tumbling out with the deliberate enunciation of one trying very hard to sound sober.
Fredrick's eyebrows rose slightly. "Yes. Arthur."
"No." Galahad leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Jacinth."
The name felt like a gauntlet being thrown down between them, and Galahad watched as confusion, then understanding, then something like resignation passed across Fredrick's features. A flicker of satisfaction warmed Galahad's chest—he'd caught the man off guard.
"I see," Fredrick said simply, taking a measured sip from his own cup while regarding Galahad over the rim with cautious interest.
"She's very young," Galahad continued, emboldened by Fredrick's noncommittal response. "Barely past girlhood. Innocent. Inexperienced in the ways of court. Of men."
The corner of Fredrick's mouth twitched. "Indeed she is."
"And you—" Galahad jabbed a finger toward Fredrick, missing his target by several inches, "—you are not young."
A hint of amusement flickered in Fredrick's eyes. "A fact I'm reminded of with increasing frequency these days."
"She admires you," Galahad pressed on, his tongue loosened by ale and emotion. "Looks at you like you're some hero from the old tales. But you and I both know heroes are rarely what ballads make them out to be."
Fredrick set down his cup, his expression sobering. "What exactly are you implying, Sir Galahad?"
"Your perception is clouded, sir," Galahad declared, planting both palms on the table with more force than intended. That got his attention. Now he'll listen. From Galahad's periphery, a nearby patron glanced their way before returning to his own drink. And a few others perhaps. He pinned Fredrick with his most solemn expression. "I am not blind to what is happening. A young woman's affections aren't to be trifled with. I'm asking—no, I'm demanding to know your intentions toward Mistress Jacinth."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, Fredrick's eyes never leaving Galahad's face, studying him with increasing comprehension. To Galahad's surprise, Fredrick let out a soft chuckle.
"My intentions?" he repeated, the amusement in his voice unmistakable now. "My intention is to maintain as much distance as propriety allows, while hoping fervently that she transfers her misplaced affections to someone more suitable." His gaze fixed pointedly on Galahad. "Someone closer to her own age, perhaps."
The words took a moment to penetrate Galahad's ale-fogged mind, their meaning slowly registering. "You're not... interested in her?"
"God above, no!" Fredrick exclaimed, looking genuinely appalled at the suggestion. "I could be her father!" Well, don't look so horrified, sir. Everybody knows that. Galahad shifted uncomfortably, his self-righteousness faltering.
"More than that, in fact," Fredrick continued after taking a healthy swallow of ale. "I've been trying to discourage her attentions since the moment we rescued her from the Southrons."
"But she speaks so highly of you," Galahad insisted, struggling to maintain his resentment. "Always 'Sir Fredrick this' and 'Sir Fredrick that.'"
"Yes, and it's been the bane of my existence," Fredrick sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "I've told her repeatedly that it was Sir Maxwell—you—who truly saved her that day. Your magic cleared the path for our escape. I merely opened her cage."
"At least you aren't considered as a sidenote in her rescue." Galahad slumped back, his indignation deflating like a punctured waterskin. His finger, which had been jabbing accusingly moments before, now fell limp at his side. "She called me 'the nice knight with the curly hair,'" he muttered, recalling the first words out of her mouth when she's recognized him in the garden.
Fredrick's chuckle didn't soften the blow, and Galahad sunk further in his chair. "She's young, Galahad. Her heart is still learning the difference between gratitude and deeper affection." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Between us, I've been hoping she might notice someone else. Someone who could respond to her admiration in kind."
The implication took a moment to sink in, but soon caused heat to rise in Galahad's cheeks. Still disbelieving, he mumbled, "She told me her heart belongs to another."
"And of course you took that to mean me—like everyone else who sees her attention toward me, I suppose," Fredrick said with a knowing shake of his head. "But for a man renowned for his wisdom, you appear to be remarkably dense right now, Sir Galahad." His eyes held no malice, only patient understanding.
"What… do you mean?"
"I mean," Fredrick said slowly, as if he were now explaining to a child, "that perhaps you should speak to her again. Listen more carefully this time."
I heard every word she'd spoken, my good man, he thought, folding his arms across his chest defensively. Her message had been clear. But before Galahad could voice his disagreement, the tavern door burst open, admitting a group of knights fresh from patrol. Their boisterous entrance drew attention from throughout the room. Galahad frowned at the ill-timed interruption as Fredrick straightened at the sight of fellow knights.
"Now," Fredrick said, rising from his seat, "if you've finished questioning my honor and intentions, I suggest we return to the barracks before this ale does any more damage to your judgment." He offered his hand to Galahad. "Unless you'd prefer to continue this 'brawl' you seem so determined to instigate?"
Galahad looked at the extended hand, then up at Fredrick's disarming smile. Shame and relief battled briefly in his chest before both gave way to a grudging appreciation for the man's patience.
"Perhaps another time," he replied, accepting the help to stand. "When I'm better prepared."
"And less drunk," Fredrick added with a chuckle, firmly grasping Galahad's arm.
"And less drunk," Galahad agreed, finding himself smiling despite his embarrassment as Fredrick skillfully navigated between two drunken merchants, guiding Galahad by the elbow through the increasingly crowded tavern.
Galahad was grateful for the firm grip steadying him, his steps less assured as he struggled to match the older knight's deft movements. A serving maid darted past with a tray of tankards held high, forcing Fredrick to pull Galahad sideways, narrowly avoiding a collision.
As they neared the door, Fredrick glanced at him with curious assessment. "By the way, I'm curious about something, Sir Galahad," he said as they sidestepped a table of rowdy soldiers. His voice dropped lower. "If you pardon my boldness, as a knight of your caliber, I... well…"
Galahad stopped abruptly, the sudden halt making him sway. Fredrick quickly grabbed both his arms to keep him upright. "What is it, Sir Fredrick? Knight to knight." He braced himself for some profound revelation.
"I've never seen you in such a state before—though I sympathize with your reason. Just how many tankards of ale did you consume?"
"Two, Sir Fredrick," the tavern keeper's daughter answered with a shrug as she squeezed behind Galahad and continued on her way, serving patrons and collecting coin.
Galahad's chin lifted in response to Fredrick's raised eyebrow and the grin he tried to conceal, before continuing their crawl through the maze of bodies.
"In my defense," Galahad appealed, his cheeks warming, "it seemed a noble cause at the time." This sort of living was not worth the cost of dignity and self-respect, he thought.
"The defense of a lady's honor always does," Fredrick said as they stepped into the quiet lanes of Camelot. "Even when the lady needs no defending and the threat exists only in one's imagination."
The night air cleared some of the fog from Galahad's mind as they walked toward the barracks. His confrontation with Fredrick had somehow transformed into a peculiar sort of understanding between them, their strides falling into comfortable synchrony as they walked. Yet beneath their companionable silence, Galahad's thoughts kept returning to Fredrick's words: "Listen more carefully this time." But something else nagged at him, a detail from an earlier conversation that seemed suddenly important.
Galahad halted abruptly again. Tilting his head back, he felt indignation rising in his chest as another memory surfaced. "Tell me, Sir Fredrick—if it does not violate trust between you and Mistress Jacinth—what exactly was it that you were helping her with tonight? It appeared to be quite… intimate… if I may say so myself."
Fredrick chuckled again, taking Galahad by the arm and continuing forward. "Well, Sir Galahad, one day Jacinth will step into the role of Gwen's lady-in-waiting. There are… certain things, little patterns that others miss when serving my queen. I thought it might be a good idea to share some of these observations with Jacinth. Perhaps these little measures might help Jacinth adjust to court life and find her place among nobility."
"Ohhh…" Apparently that's not the only thing I misinterpreted. How much else had I gotten wrong?
Had he truly missed something in Jacinth's gentle rejection? What clues had slipped past his usually perceptive understanding? The way she could barely meet his gaze, then those few moments when her eyes lingered on his face with unexpected intensity. Her nervous fidgeting whenever he drew near, yet she hadn't moved away on the bench until speaking of another's heart. The questions lingered, possibilities unfurling like sails catching wind as his steps grew steadier with each breath of fresh air. Perhaps, when his head cleared and the world stopped spinning quite so enthusiastically, he would seek her out again.
After all, a knight's duty included persistence in worthy pursuits—and few pursuits seemed more worthy than understanding the heart of a woman who spoke of dukes, ducks, and stumbled through curtsies, yet somehow navigated directly into his affections.
