Guinevere Alternate Ending

Rendered speechless, Drea took several long, deep breaths. It seemed impossible that she and her dearest friends would all go through this challenging time together, but she realized it was an incredible gift.
Finally, she managed to form words. “How far gone are you?”
They discovered they were all due to give birth within weeks of one another, ad they screeched, embraced, and cried. If their husbands returned home before midsummer, as planned, the ladies would all be roughly six months along.
“I knew before Gawain left,” said Drea, “but I didn’t want to add to his concerns, so I kept it to myself.”
“I did the same,” said Joan, and Alis and Carina nodded in affirmation. “Our men need to be as focused as possible. Besides, it’ll be a lovely
surprise when they return.”
“When do you think we might hear from them?” asked Alis.
Drea shifted closer to Alis. “Before Beltane, I’m certain.”
Still, that was fortnights away.
XXXX
Beltane was a mere week away, and Joan’s back had begun to ache.
Her protruding belly was obvious now, as were her friends’, so their news of their pregnancies was well known. Joan had told Queen Guinevere the exciting news before anyone else, and Guinevere was thrilled.
“You’ll bloom along with the spring flowers,” Guinevere said. “Your husband will be so excited to return home to your round bellies. Just think, they’re halfway through the campaign. They’ll be home before we know it.”
But when Guinevere spoke those words, she had a faraway look in her eyes. She, too, missed her husband, but as queen, she had a duty to appear stalwart, to shore up those hurting. However, she had shed tears in front of Joan in private.
On a mild spring afternoon, Joan sat on the castle steps leading to the courtyard. Around her sat Drea, Carina, and Alis. The sun warmed the stone, and it was the first sunny day in some time, so they tipped their faces toward the sun and soaked it
in.
The clack of hooves against the cobblestones caught Joan’s attention, and she glanced down.
There were three young riders, each with several stuffed satchels strapped to their bodies and their mounts.
“Good day,” the youngest called, dismounting. “We bear letters from Camelot’s army.”
Joan’s legs propelled her down the stairs before her mind caught up. A few heartbeats later, she stood before the young rider and all but flung herself at him. Meanwhile, her friends were all but dragging the other riders off their horses.
The queen appeared in the courtyard, giving orders about rounding up crates to hold the letters and handing over coins to the riders, whose eyes widened at the uncommonly generous offering.
Joan and her friends had made it their routine to keep letters for their husbands in belt pouches that they now wore all the time. She dug into the pouch, extracted five missives that she had folded into small squares and sealed, then thrust them into the rider’s hands.
“My husband’s name is on these. Sir Perceval.”
“Oh, I believe I saw him up north. Very tall fellow, strapping?” The rider transferred all the letters he carried into a wide crate.
“Yes! That’s him. Did he look
well?”
“Definitely.” He glanced over his shoulder at his comrades. “Sorry, my lady, but I must leave. We have other deliveries.”
After a quick bow, he mounted and rode off.
Joan and her friends dropped to their knees and began their frantic digging through the crates until they found the letters emblazoned with their names on the front. They took care to not bend or ruin the other missives, as they understood how precious the words therein would be to the recipients.
Before long, a crowd blossomed outside, and women grew hostile with one another, throwing a sharp elbow here and there, while trying to get their hands on messages. The queen ordered them to step back and ordered that Sir Kay and Sir Aled take over and hand out the parchment.
Joan tapped Kay’s shoulder. “Sir Kay, the ladies and I are going to the garden to read our letters.”
He stiffened, stopped his work, and turned. “I am afraid you must wait for me.”
“I’d rather not. I’m anxious to read.”
“Then I must abandon my work to accompany you. I made your husband a sacred promise, Lady Joan, that I would watch over you and your son.”
Joan glanced at the eager faces of women in the crowd, all longing to cling to long-awaited words from their husbands, sons, and fathers. Some of them would need to be read to. Joan stuffed away her letters into her pouch and helped with the distribution, as her friends and the queen did the same. The moment the last recipient possessed her letter, Joan jogged for the garden with her friends. Their guards, hanging back at a respectful distance, followed.