The stablemaster murmured to him, under the guise of checking over his horse’s bit and bridle, “There’s been Saxons seen on the channel of late, my lord.” He didn’t admonish the knight to caution the way he had Summer, but nodded, man to man, instead.
Summer didn’t hear. She put her mare to a canter as soon as they were free of the courtyard, not waiting for Mordred, not even glancing back. The wind caught at the loose strands of her hair and dried the tears on her face. She only slowed when she came to the path down to the strand, which was steep, sandy, and rocky.
Mordred nodded. “Are you certain they are Saxons?” Mordred questions, uncertain. “Morgana would never send her men this far west, it’s too much time, too much effort from what she really wants,” he tells him. “Believe me, I know, but I will keep my eye out. Thank you.”
When she finally scrambled down to the narrow beach, Summer looped the reins of her horse over a convenient pillar which showed signs of being used that way many times before. She barely glanced at Mordred, pacing down to the water’s edge. After a moment staring out over the water, she pulled her shoes off and stepped down into the waves. The wind from the ocean swirled her hair, mostly fallen out of the braid, around her back and shoulders like a bright banner.
There was something easing to her soul about that place, standing between sea and sand, sun and sky. Summer stood there for a long time, face tipped up to the sky, until the last tension eased out of her body.