It’s a bit of a race, through the fields surrounding Camelot proper, her hair flying and laughter following them. Summer slowed when he did, pulling her horse to a walk. “I thought for a moment there you meant to lead me on a chase,” she called, “in retaliation for this morning.” They topped the ridge, and she could immediately see the place he meant — sheltered by a tumble of rocks to one side, with a little stream burbling round one edge and sunlight falling through the leaves.
He laughs. “I thought about it, but I didn’t want to embarrass you with my amazing horsemanship,” he teases, tugging on the reins gently as he carefully led the horse down the hill. “Be careful, it gets slippery.”
“Ah, well, the folk of Dover are not born ahorse like some other peoples I could name. You would be very upset if I were thrown.” Sensibly, she dismounted and picked her way down the hillside, tethering the horse to a tree with grass and undergrowth nearby. As she untied the rug, she said over her shoulder, “Is there aught I can do better than you, my lord?” and stuck out her tongue at him.