i. Gwytha comes up to him as he's leaving the training grounds, soaked with sweat and grimy with the dust and cursing bitterly.

"Sweet, what is it?" she says, in an undertone so that anyone passing by won't know how boldly she's addressing him. Mordred groans.

"He came to me--"

"What did he want?"

"To tell me I'm doing well, and he's pleased."

"Is that so bad?"

"It's bad," he says angrily. "I don't want to talk about it."

Gwytha catches him by his filthy shoulder and kisses him full on the mouth; he stiffens at the touch, and she pulls him against her, never mind who's going to see.

ii. "I don't know how to talk to women, for Christ's sake."

Gwytha laughs. "I'm a woman."

"You're different."

"How? I'm one of Sagramore's ladies, thou'st never been pleased by any of them, and thou hast no trouble speaking to me."

"Thou'rt different," he insists, and kisses her cheek softly, like a brother.

iii. Every time he kisses Sagramore, it's as if the kiss goes to Gwytha's lips through him. Mordred tries to suppress the feeling--it'll betray him, he's certain, one way or another--but he might be in love with her, and he thinks he can taste her on Sagramore.