Summer shook her head at him. “A quiet, lonely, pretty place to have a picnic. You know this kingdom better than I do. Lead, Mordred, lead.”
Mordred gently pressed his knees into the side of the mare, taking off, slowing down only to wait for her to catch up. “There is a place just over the next ridge line,” he tells her after awhile.
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.