Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “It is a magical place, yes,” Lancelot said. “It is also a deadly place. Let go of your blade. I intend no harm. I merely wish to speak to you both.”

  Cadoc hesitated, then let his hand drop. “Why do you want to speak to us?” he demanded, with a dry note.

  “Why do you ask?” Lancelot’s tone was curious. “Are you, perhaps, feeling overlooked, these days?”

  Cadoc’s glance slid to Tegan. Neither of them had spoken about it in earnest, yet both of them had noticed that their father was less and less often about the fire. Days went by without him appearing there to eat with them, or merely talk to them.

  “What do you know of it?” Tegan demanded of Lancelot.

  Lancelot nodded toward the logs around the fire. “May I sit?”

  Cadoc snorted. Tegan understood that. Neither of them could stop the man from sitting if he chose to.

  “Sit, then,” Tegan said warily.

  Lancelot nodded as if she had been gracious. He pushed two logs of almost even height together and settled upon the low seat, his knees bent and his cloak around them. “I am aware of that feeling of being overlooked,” he told them, “for it has happened to me of late, too.”

  “You?” Tegan breathed, startled. She didn’t know anything about the man, except that he had an oddly compelling air that made it hard to believe anyone would overlook him. Liking him was a different matter. There was a hardness in him she had only ever seen in very powerful men like the war duke, Arthur. Merlin, the druid who advised Arthur, was like that, too. Tegan knew nothing of this Lancelot, yet she could sense the unforgiving edge inside him.

  Lancelot considered her with his black eyes. He did not laugh at her or disparage her for her scorn. “I was taken to the Perilous Forest when I was small, just after my father died. I was raised to be a warrior by the Lady of the Lake, but I never forgot my mother. You were younger than me when your mother went away, weren’t you?”

  Tegan nodded. She had been six years old. “She died,” she amended.

  “Yes,” Lancelot said, with a nod. “So we all know what it is like to be alone and now it is happening again.”

  “It is?” Cadoc asked, his voice wavering with a sudden childish fear.

  “Yes,” Lancelot replied. “But this time, for one of the very best reasons in the world. Your father and my mother are learning to love one another.” He looked from Cadoc to Tegan. “They believe they are hiding this from everyone and even they are not certain about the path ahead, but I see how they look at each other…” He paused. “You mustn’t mind that they are together.”

  Tegan considered this. “I do not mind,” she said, then added, “I think.”

  Lancelot nodded again. “It is reasonable to be wary about it, for we do not want the memory of those we have lost to fade. When I was growing up in the Perilous Forest, Nimue—the Lady who raised me—she told me a very wise thing which has remained with me always. She said that by opening our hearts to more and more people, we are increasing our capacity to love, which means we can only love those who have passed on even more than before.”

  Tegan considered the idea for a moment and decided that she liked it.

  Cadoc’s mouth turned up at the corner.

  “Nimue told me this because I missed my mother,” Lancelot said. “Afterward, I did not miss her at all, for I knew I was learning to love her more than ever before. Now I have that opportunity once more…and so do you.”

  Again, he looked at each of them, studying them.

  “They will be together forever, Father and…and your mother?” Cadoc asked.

  “They will be together in their hearts forever,” Lancelot said gravely. “Although they do not know that yet,” he added. His expression lightened and he smiled.

  Tegan found herself smiling with him. “Are you…a soldier?” she asked, for his cloak hid any weapons or armor.

  “I am,” Lancelot said. “A very special one,” he added.

  “Oh?” Cadoc said, his interest caught.

  “I have a different way of fighting,” Lancelot said, his tone confiding, as he leaned toward them a little. “The officers who fight with Arthur will not like it,” he added, “but I believe it is the way the British will defeat the Saxons, in the end.”

  “Teach me,” Tegan said quickly. Earnestly. “Teach me how you fight.”

  Lancelot sat back. “You want to be a warrior?”

  “More than anything,” Tegan breathed.

  Lancelot’s gaze slid to Cadoc. “And you? You look old enough to join the ranks. Have you trained?” His tone became serious, one professional speaking to another.

  Cadoc’s chest lifted. “I have trained,” he said proudly. Then some of his pride extinguished. “But Father will not let me fight until I am twenty.”

  “I judge that is but a year or two away at most,” Lancelot said, measuring him with his gaze.

  Cadoc nodded, his mouth firming into a hard line.

  Lancelot gave a decisive nod. “Then, until your father says you are ready to fight, and because we will do everything to support our parents, I will train you until that day comes. When you do face your first battle, you will be the stronger and better for my training. Do you agree?”

  Cadoc drew in a deep breath, fighting to hide his pleasure. “I agree.”

  Lancelot turned to Tegan, his expression just as serious as it had been with Cadoc. “And you, little one…Tegan, yes?”

  She nodded.

  “For now, you must grow both stronger and taller. When you are strong enough to hold a full-length sword and not let the tip drop, I will train you.”

  Tegan’s breath evaporated as sheer delight swamped her. “Next year,” she said, her voice high and tight with excitement.

  “Perhaps,” Lancelot said in agreement. “Or the year after, or the year after that. I will not take the offer away, Tegan. When you are tall enough and strong enough, I will help you become the warrior you want to be.”

  Lancelot had held true to that promise. Two years later, Tegan joined the ranks of fighters learning how to fight as Lancelot did. By then, her father and Elaine were openly a couple, but had not formalized their arrangement. Tegan learned that Lancelot was right about that, too—she opened her heart to Elaine and it merely enhanced the memory of her mother, instead of replacing it.

  In the year before Badon, Tegan had joined the Queen’s Cohort, along with the wild and angry Cara of Brynaich. Lancelot had celebrated her promotion by presenting her with a sword he’d had made for her—a light and airy and wickedly sharp sword which sang a high and beautiful note when she wielded it.

  Cadoc found good, thick leather which he’d had made into armor for her.

  But the man she had really wanted to notice her achievement remained indifferent. Gawain was too busy being one of Arthur’s greatest fighters and closest companions. At times, she suspected he was utterly unaware of her existence.

  The Battle of Mount Badon confirmed that suspicion.

  For a while, Tegan had forgotten why Lancelot and all the Lesser Britain lords had hurried to Camelot. She had escaped into older memories in order to disregard the new, freshly hurtful ones.

  When she stepped into her father’s house and was confronted with closed shutters, silence and stillness, she remembered.

  Bricius sat at the long table, peering into the dark. Not even a fire was built in the hearth.

  Tegan’s middle tightened. Her throat ached.

  Elaine.

  She moved over to where her father sat and lowered herself down beside him, so her back was to the table and she could look at his face. “Father. Lancelot has just arrived. We must dress and present ourselves at court.”

  Bricius stirred. “Lancelot? Oh…yes.” But he made no attempt to stand.

  Tegan rested her hand on his arm. “In time, it will not hurt quite so much,” she said gently.

  His glance shifted to her and away again. “I know.” His voice was stronger and sounded more normal, this
time.

  “We must hurry, Father,” she added. “The King will expect us there and I would like for Lancelot to see at least one friendly face among the court when he presents himself to the High King.”

  “Yes, you are right,” Bricius replied. He hesitated, then added, “I have been sitting here thinking I have stolen more luck than a man deserves—two loves, both beyond compare…I do not deserve such luck ever again.”

  “No one but those with the Sight knows the future,” Tegan reminded him. “You opened your heart and let in a second great love, which has only made the first all the greater. If you let yourself stay open, then a third love may bring them all to a burnished shine in your heart.”

  Bricius glanced at her, startled. “That is…an interesting idea, daughter.”

  “It is not mine. Lancelot taught me this.”

  He sighed and ground the heel of one hand into each eye. “It is far too soon to speak of another.”

  “In time, you may come to it,” she said gently. “I speak of it now only to offer you hope and a way of honoring Elaine. And to get you on your feet and moving, for we will be very late indeed if we do not move now.” She tugged on his arm, as she got to her feet. “Where is Cadoc?” she asked.

  “Likely pestering Vivian about the poison again,” Bricius said as he pulled at the bottom of his tunic, straightening it.

  “There is a grease stain on the breast, Father. You cannot wear that. Where is the white tunic? The one with the house banner stitched on it. Is it in the chest? Go and put it on…and your cloak and the gold fibula…and comb your hair. I must change.” As her father trudged over to the great chest in the corner, she whirled and ran up the stairs to the rooms on the second floor. One of them was hers. She burst into it, already pulling off her garments. She frantically changed into a gown suitable for Arthur’s court and tried to comb her hair and arrange it in a pleasing fashion. She settled for pinning it back with a brooch, so it hung down her back and out of the way. It would have to do.

  She reached for the green veil and paused, her hand hovering over the gauze.

  You speak of hiding true natures, Tegan the warrior, but you wear gowns and veils every day.

  Tegan drew in a breath which felt thick and hurt her throat. She snatched her hand back and held it against her shoulder, staring at the translucent green fabric. Then she whirled away again, scooped up her eating dagger and strode from the room, aware of the trailing edge of her gown and irritated by it.

  Chapter Four

  The fort was in an uproar over the arrival of the Lesser Britain lords, but when Gawain stepped through the high archway into the courtyard of the palace, calm surrounded him instead.

  It was always this way, yet he marveled every time at the miracle. When Arthur had been campaigning against the Saxons through twelve long and hard battles, the area around the white tent he had used as his command headquarters had always seethed with activity that bordered on hysterical, especially before a battle. After a battle, the mayhem had grown in intensity even as the pressure had subsided, as drink and gratitude for surviving, and grief for those who had fallen made themselves felt.

  If he had considered it at all, Gawain would have anticipated that the new palace, with its white walls and red ochre Roman roof tiles, would churn with the same barely controlled mania, for it was the very heart of Camelot, the focus of all concerns.

  Yet the palace itself was a peaceful place. Oh, there were always people moving along its covered verandahs, or across the tiles of the court itself. The palace was a busy place, just not a frenzied one. People spoke quietly and sometimes laughed, even as they went about their business. There was a steady hum of conversations farther away, of industry behind closed doors.

  Gawain resettled his best cloak and straightened his shoulders as the calm made itself felt. Some of his ruffled uneasiness disappeared.

  A boy was lighting torches along the verandahs, even though the day was still broad. They were a warm note of welcome for the new arrivals.

  When Gawain stepped into the big hall, the room was just as bright with torches and lamps. Servants moved swiftly and surely, clearing tables, benches and stools. Today would be a formal presentation, with everyone but Arthur and Guenivere on their feet.

  The two great chairs were being carefully placed at the head of the hall. Already, the members of the court were assembling, in hastily donned finery.

  As Gawain stood just inside the big doors, measuring who was here and who was yet to arrive, he heard the clatter of horses in the courtyard behind him. The travelers were here. They would have stopped at their family houses to prepare just as he had, to honor Arthur and the court, but they rode their horses to the palace as if they had come directly from the gates. It was another of the formalities which dogged the court these days. The endless ceremony and customs irked Gawain with their tedious and unnecessary details.

  Cai hurried over to the portal door at the back of the hall and disappeared. He had gone to warn Arthur and Guenivere.

  Everyone else swiveled to watch the door.

  Bedivere moved down the long aisle in the center of the room, coaxing people to move and leave the center aisle clear. It also left a clear view all the way to the front of the long hall, where the two big chairs sat.

  Just before the chairs was Bricius and Cadoc…and Tegan. They waited to greet Lancelot, as the nearest members of his family at court.

  Tegan wore a gown which outlined her hips and breasts and the small waist. The soft green fabric trailed the ground. The sleeves almost reached her feet, too. Gawain scowled at the sight of her. She was a prickly woman and should not appear so agreeable to a man’s gaze.

  Instead, he turned his attention to the portal door at the back of the hall as it opened.

  A horn blew three notes. Everyone faced the High King as he led Guenivere to the big chairs. Neither of them sat. They took their places in front of the chairs and watched the big doors.

  Another pair of horns blew, high clear notes, and with a flash of color and movement, the newly arrived lords entered the hall. Lancelot walked at the head of the procession even though he was not a king.

  Gawain shook his head. Of course Lancelot had placed himself at the front. The man was full of blind arrogance. Lancelot’s opinion of his own worth far outreached his true value—except in matters of war. In that regard, Lancelot was as good as he claimed to be. It was his ways and his style of fighting which had won the Battle of Mount Badon for Arthur. Gawain would give the man that much credit. It was for this reason Gawain worked with King Pellinore each morning to lead fighters living in Camelot in the training arena, teaching them and drilling them on the unconventional forms Lancelot had shown them all. Gawain also prodded his younger brothers, Agravaine and Gareth, to rise early each morning and maintain the discipline of a fighter.

  Now Gawain was seeing Lancelot after five years of absence, the sight of him reminded Gawain just how much he disliked the man. He had carefully kept his opinion to himself, for Arthur, Cai and even Bedivere appreciated qualities in the man which were invisible to Gawain.

  Lancelot walked the first half of the hall with a grave expression on his face. Then he gave a great smile to Arthur and the Queen where they stood at the other end of the hall and threw out his hands. The gesture and the smile seemed to say he found the silly procession tiresome but was going through the motions to please them…but he really wished to greet them as friends.

  Even Arthur smiled at the irreverence. The King actually looked happy for a change Gawain realized with grumpy concession.

  Behind Lancelot, the other kings and lords; King Hoel and Alun, King of Brocéliande among them, all looked just as pleased to be here. There was only one among their company who did not seem happy at all. The man was a stranger to Gawain, and he’d thought he knew all the Lesser Britain kings. The man was young, perhaps only a year or two an adult. Dark of hair and eyes, with a thick beard and olive skin—he looked like a man of the
East.

  As a stranger among the company, he would be introduced to Arthur at the first possible moment. Then Gawain would learn along with everyone else who the man was.

  When Lancelot reached the front of the hall, he bent low in a bow, his hand on the big sword, Taranis.

  “Your return is auspicious, Lancelot, Alun, Hoel,” Arthur said. “Welcome back to Camelot.”

  “It has been far too long, Arthur,” Hoel said in his gruff voice. “T’would be better to be here for a more joyful occasion, but still…” He grimaced.

  Lancelot’s smile faded.

  Gawain spotted the man’s diminished pleasure. At least he had the grace to mourn his mother even in this moment of glory.

  Arthur turned to him. “Lancelot, it is so very good to have you back.” Then he shocked the entire court by stepping to Lancelot and embracing him tightly. Lancelot seemed to appreciate the gesture just as much.

  The two of them actually chuckled as they gripped each other’s upper arms. Arthur slapped Lancelot’s shoulder. “Five years…you have been away far too long. We have missed you.”

  “I had work to do,” Lancelot replied. “Cleaning up the mess you left behind on the eastern borders of Lesser Britain.”

  They spoke as if the rest of the court was not there. Gawain watched curiously, for the change in Arthur’s demeanor was startling and worth studying.

  Guenivere, Gawain noticed, had taken several steps backward, putting herself well out of the way of the two men. Did she not like Lancelot, either? It would not be a huge surprise to Gawain if she did not. Lancelot was a monk among men, with no time for delicate women and their ways. Guenivere, who was as soft and gentle as a woman could be, would be beneath his notice, and would resent that it was so.

  “Ah…Claudas. We have much to thank you for, Lancelot,” Arthur said, letting Lancelot go. “Word of your dominion over that man reached us some time ago. I thought you might present yourself long before now, to tell me about it.”

  “I would have, but there were a few details to take care of before I left the lands to fend for themselves.” Lancelot looked over his shoulder.