Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

Gawain waited for Gaheris to speak, hiding his impatience.

  “It is time for you to get a wife, brother,” Gaheris said, his voice low.

  Gawain’s impatience evaporated. He realized he was staring. “A wife? Why, in the name of all the gods would I want to do that?”

  Gaheris glanced around once more, making Gawain frown as he realized that there was more to this than a silly suggestion.

  Gaheris leaned toward Gawain. “The wound…that wound…remember?”

  Gawain nodded. He remembered well enough. Last year, in late summer, Gaheris had gone hunting with Arthur’s officer cohort. A bear had surprised them, which put the bowmen out of reach, and those closest had fought the bear off with spears and swords and knives.

  Gaheris had received a small scrape to his groin and had thought nothing of it. It had barely bled. He had spent the rest of the day in the saddle, for it had been a successful hunt that had supplemented the Samhain feast, three days later.

  Not that Gaheris had enjoyed that feast at all. The wound had festered, leaving Gaheris abed with a fever that made him ramble and shout, for days on end. And for more than a moon cycle afterwards, he had remained upon the bed, too weak to rise.

  Eventually, his strength had returned and until this moment Gawain had thought nothing more about it.

  Gaheris’ throat worked. “Merlin has confirmed what I had begun to suspect,” he said, his voice strained. “I will sire no children.” His gaze dropped to the tankard in his hands, and his white knuckles.

  “So…it falls to me and mine to secure the kingdom,” Gawain concluded.

  Gaheris nodded, even though he did not lift his gaze from his mug.

  Gawain considered his brother’s unhappy face. “You have my sympathy, Gaheris. That is not an easy fact for a man to wear.”

  Gaheris’ gaze flickered to his face and away. “You’ve never given marriage a thought. I know that. And you have not had time to become accustomed to this news, but I have, and I have considered it deeply in the last few days.” He straightened and his gaze came back to Gawain. He had moved beyond the humiliating part of the conversation and could look at him directly once more. “The decision of who to marry is a complex one for a son of Lothian.”

  “We’re not exactly loved, thanks to our dear father…nor our beloved mother,” Gawain rumbled and drank. Marriage! He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh at the idea of him as a husband and father, or dive straight to the bottom of a barrel of wine.

  “It is more complicated than that,” Gaheris said in a lecturing tone. “As a northerner, you should marry a woman of the south to avoid insulting the southern kingdoms, but the northern kingdoms would not like that.”

  Gawain rolled his eyes. “Why can’t I find a pretty, amenable girl who pleases my eye and be done with it?”

  “Because you are Gawain of Lothian, the High King’s direct cousin and at the moment, the closest to the throne counted in blood ties,” Gaheris said in the same stern tone. “Just any woman will not do.”

  Gawain considered him. “You have been thinking about this.”

  “Because I knew you would not,” Gaheris replied. “I knew you would want to get the deed done in the swiftest way that taxed you that least.”

  “Then who should I marry?” Gawain said, trying to laugh at Gaheris’ accurate prodding. Then he put it together with a jolt that slopped wine upon his sleeve. He put the mug down before he dropped it, staring at his brother. Now he knew why Gaheris had been sitting at the Dunoding table, his head close to the Dunoding king’s. “No, no, Gaheris. I will not. Not to her. I refuse.”

  Gaheris showed no surprise at his protest. “Tegan of Dunoding is very nearly the only woman you can marry whose alliance with Lothian will not insult anyone. Dunoding is not counted as either North or South, because it is so new a kingdom. Her mother was an Irish princess, so her bloodline is of the highest and quite suitable a match to yours.”

  Gawain shook his head. “No. Find someone else.”

  Gaheris plucked the mug from Gawain’s fingers. “Time to shoulder the burdens of the family, little brother. What do you care if she hates you? You only have to bed her, which you’ve already done at least once, so I know it isn’t her form that repels you. Anything else is irrelevant. Get yourself an heir, then ignore her.”

  “Bricius agreed to this…this madness?” Gawain asked, glancing at the Dunoding table. Bricius was concentrating on his platter and cup. There were no other family members at the table, only Bricius’ senior officers. Even Cadoc was absent.

  “He thinks the match is a fine one, but the decision ultimately is Tegan’s,” Gaheris replied.

  “She would rather spit upon us. She will refuse.” Oddly, that pleased Gawain.

  Gaheris didn’t smile. His mood actually darkened. “For the sake of the gods and for Lothian, Gawain, you will find a way to coax the woman into an agreeable state of mind. You were once the best in the army at seducing women. Have you lost your touch?”

  Gawain flexed his jaw, recognizing that Gaheris was attempting to goad him into accepting a challenge to his manhood. “Bedding a maid isn’t the same as marrying one,” he growled.

  Gaheris’ mouth curled down. “What is the matter with you?” he demanded. “You’ve never turned down a challenge in your life, until now. And this one does not risk your neck, either.”

  “Don’t be too sure on that point, brother.”

  “Do not tell me, then,” Gaheris said. “I care for nothing but a marriage that will secure the future of the kingdom. Marrying her will achieve that. I cannot do the deed, therefore, you must.”

  Gawain growled into his mug and drained the rest of the wine, for that was an argument he could not dispute.

  Gawain was almost all the way to the High King’s table before Tegan realized his intended direction. She tore her gaze away from his approach and turned on her stool to properly face Guenivere. “Do try to eat a little more,” she coaxed the Queen. “The meat, at least.”

  “Just the smell of it makes my stomach roll,” Guenivere murmured. She nodded. “Gawain awaits your attention.”

  Startled, Tegan looked up. Guenivere was right. Gawain stood at the corner closest to where Tegan sat, watching her. “I thought you wanted to speak to Arthur,” she told Gawain. The officers who approached the high table generally did want to speak to the king.

  “I would prefer that be my reason for standing here,” Gawain answered. “But I must speak to you, instead. Can we…would you care to step out into the courtyard?”

  Tegan shook her head. “Guenivere is not well.” She kept her voice down so she did not announce Guenivere’s true health to the entire court.

  “I am well enough for you to step away for a moment or two,” Guenivere said just as softly.

  “Cara is not here…are you sure?” Tegan said, her heart sinking. “Melwaes waits only for you to be alone,” she added, not quite nodding in that lord’s direction. “I would not leave you to face his overtures.”

  “The Queen has nothing to fear,” Lancelot said from the other side of the table, making both Tegan and Guenivere jump, startled. Tegan had not realized that Lancelot listened to their whispered conversation. She had thought him occupied with the discussion Arthur and Merlin and Cai were holding at the other end of the table.

  She was only thankful the man had the sensitivity to keep his voice lowered, too. “Prince Lancelot, I thank you, but I would be neglecting—” Tegan began, her voice a little louder.

  Lancelot shook his head. “The Queen is perfectly safe as long as she remains at the table. Melwaes will not be aware that he is being rebuffed, if it comes to that. Have your conversation, Lady Tegan.”

  Tegan blinked. She had come to the conclusion that Lancelot was indifferent to the Queen. Yet he alone at the table had noticed and understood the Queen’s predicament. Tegan looked at Guenivere, to ensure she was happy with this arrangement.

  Guenivere did not smile, but she gave a short nod.

/>   Tegan sighed and got to her feet and moved over to where Gawain stood, strumming with a barely hidden impatience.

  “After you,” he told Tegan, his voice low, as he waved toward the end of the hall.

  He did not seem to be very drunk tonight and it was already the end of the meal. Normally, Gawain was half-way to stumbling by the end of the meal.

  They were not the only people moving through the tables, heading for the big outer doors onto the courtyard beyond, or through the inner doors to the small family hall and the external doors beyond that.

  There were servants moving about the tables, pouring more wine, depositing pitchers and delivering more food for those who liked to eat to excess on such occasions.

  In a while, the toasts would be made and wine drunk and then the true merriment of the evening would begin.

  Tegan hoped she could coax Guenivere back to her apartment at that moment. Then Tegan could slip away from the palace, too. She longed for silence and the cool air of the evening upon her cheeks.

  The air in the courtyard, when they stepped out into it, was not as cool as the night air should be, for torches mounted upon every column flared and fluttered in the evening breeze. They were burning scented oil, for it was a feast night.

  There were few shadows and private corners for couples to linger within, so those in the courtyard were crossing it, or walking the length of it to reach another destination.

  Gawain stepped out into the middle of the yard, well beyond the verandah and hearing range of anyone who might be on it.

  Tegan followed him, a touch impatient but also a little curious. She couldn’t think what Gawain might possibly have to say to her that required this discretion. She was surprised he was even taking such pains to avoid being overheard. Gawain was rarely subtle.

  He turned to face her as she came up behind him. He did not smile. “For reasons that are not mine to share, I have learned tonight that…” He trailed off.

  Tegan waited, her puzzlement deepening.

  Gawain shook his head. “I have been informed that…”

  “That…?” she prompted, as he halted once more.

  Gawain rubbed his jaw, the red whiskers making a rasping sound. “I was better at this once,” he muttered.

  “Better at what? You move like a man stepping upon hot coals, Gawain. Perhaps you’d best be blunt and get it over and done with. There is little you can say to me that could offend me any greater than you have already.”

  “You will not let that be, will you?” he shot back. “That was…gods! Years ago.”

  “And you haven’t changed a single jot in all those years.” Her tone emerged icy, surprising even her. “Why should I let bygones go, if they have not actually gone?”

  “Those were different times,” he muttered. “We were at war.”

  “You still wear Durandel. You are still at war.”

  He looked down at his sword and seemed surprised to find his hand curled around the hilt. He let the sword go and flexed his fingers. “You are not making this any easier to say.”

  “Making what easier to say? Say it and let me return to the Queen. I don’t trust Lancelot to keep an eye on her, not when Arthur is speaking of battle tactics.”

  “That man can spot a conversation about war from across the room,” Gawain muttered, his tone withering.

  “And insert himself into it instantly, too,” Tegan said, a smile pulling at her mouth.

  Gawain gave a snuffled snort of laughter.

  Tegan’s smile formed fully. She adored her stepbrother, but Lancelot did get easily distracted by matters of war and fighting.

  Gawain shoved his hand through his hair. “Your father and my brother believe we should be wed, you and I.”

  Tegan felt herself shift backwards, as though she was staggering in shock. And she was shocked. Gawain’s statement was not simply unexpected. It was so far beyond any possible conversational topics that she could barely encompass that he had actually said it.

  Gawain lifted his hand. “I know,” he said, in a tone which said he fully understood her surprise. “I would not consider the proposition for a heartbeat, either, except that my brother…well, for reasons not mine to disclose, it has become my responsibility to provide an heir to the kingdom.”

  Tegan reached for something to say. Anything. “I do not know what to say.” Her voice was strained.

  Gawain grimaced. “It is pleasing to know that something has the ability to leave you speechless.”

  “You’re actually…you are seriously considering this?”

  Gawain’s expression didn’t change. She could read nothing in his eyes. “You are a daughter of kings, a princess of Ireland. Your father’s kingdom is neither north nor south and would offend no one if it was aligned with mine. Your son would be the King of Lothian.”

  “I would buy your family respectability,” she interpreted, marshalling her own voice so it gave away none of her incredulity.

  “There is that, too,” Gawain said in agreement.

  “And what of the impediments to such a joining?” she inquired sweetly.

  “Impediments? There are some?” He sounded merely puzzled.

  “Impediments,” she repeated. “Such as the fact that I despise you, and that you care nothing for me.”

  He shrugged. “They are merely emotions. They will not impede a successful union.”

  Somewhere in her middle, wild laughter gripped her and made her tremble. “Yes, they will,” she said, her voice straining. “I refuse to consider it. My distaste for the idea grows with every passing moment you stand there and…and…care less about it.”

  “As I fully expected you to refuse, why should I give a damn?” Gawain said. His voice was harsh with control.

  “If I carve off your genitals, you will give a damn.”

  He raised a brow. “You could try.”

  “Come near me again with this ridiculous proposal and I will try,” she promised him.

  Gawain’s smile was hard and knowing. “Well, you have not changed a jot either, have you?”

  “I’ve changed as much as I care to for you!”

  Surprise skittered across his face. “What does that mean?”

  Horror spilled through her. “Nothing. Never mind.” She whirled, intending to stalk away.

  “Wait—” He gripped her wrist, to anchor her.

  Tegan spun back, fury and humiliation at her stupid slip of the tongue tearing through her. She raised her other hand, her fingers curling into a tight ball, but the strike did not land. Gawain caught her wrist and held it in an iron grip.

  He looked down at her. They were both breathing hard.

  “Let me go,” she breathed.

  “I will,” he assured her. “But think of this, Tegan. I find the idea as unpalatable as you. Only my sense of duty to my kingdom and my family prompt me to speak. Think of your own family. Your son would not merely be the nephew of a king. He would be the king.”

  “That will never happen,” she assured him, her voice low to hide the tremor in it. “I would sooner wed a Saxon—any Saxon—than you.”

  Gawain considered her, his eyes narrowed. “Now I truly understand the depth of your loathing for me. I did not properly grasp it before. I should thank you for that.” He let her go and stepped back, away from her. “Return to the Queen,” he told her. “Leave me to breathe fresh air.”

  She flinched. “You misunderstand—”

  “I did,” he said flatly. “But no longer. Good evening, my lady.”

  He turned away.

  Tegan stared at him, her heart thudding, alarmed at how bleak the air between them had become.

  He had left her no room or chance to respond. His back was unequivocal.

  So she turned and went back to the hall, uneasiness and a sense of finality gripping her.

  Chapter Nine

  For most of the day, Cadoc followed Dilwyn’s trail through the bogs and highways of the Summer Country. Ever the little man’s trail
led north, although sometimes the traces faded upon the firmer earth. Always, just when he thought he had lost the man, Cadoc found another spore. Once, he even spotted the little man’s silhouette, between two trees, far ahead, which had spurred him on.

  He knew he was close, despite the sun hovering near the treetops. He had moved far away from Camelot and not even the tall spire of Avalon could be glimpsed on the horizon behind him. The land here undulated, with folds and creases turning to deep valleys. The soil was sandy and poor, chalk white and dusty.

  It made following the man even easier.

  Even so, Cadoc did not let down his guard. In the entire day, Dilwyn had not paused to rest or linger by a pool of water. He knew he was being pursued. Even though Dilwyn was the most cowardly non-fighting man Cadoc knew, it was still possible he might lay a trap of some sort.

  The crevasse which Cadoc was following grew deeper and broader, the white soil a thick mat of dust between the high walls. Running through the narrow cleft was a damp channel, bereft of dust. It looked like a stream had once used the channel, but the water ran no longer.

  Just ahead, the cleft opened into a valley.

  Cadoc’s wariness spiked. He withdrew his sword, his heart strumming. He sensed the end of the chase lay just ahead.

  Echoing flatly between the high walls of the blind valley came distorted sounds. A crisp ruffling. Sharp in the late afternoon air was the acrid stench of woodsmoke from green branches.

  Soft muttering sounded, hissing sibilants repeating, disguising the words.

  Cadoc moved out into the bowl of the valley and came to a wary halt, absorbing the view before him swiftly.

  The valley had such steep sides because once, it had been carved by men. It was an old quarry, possibly worked for the powdery fine chalky rock. Only, the chalk had given way to a denser granite and the mining had halted and the man-made valley forgotten.

  At the far end of the sharp-sided bowl was a tumble of boulders and rocks, most of them twice the height of a man and just as wide, all of them a darker grey yellow against the white ground. They piled upon each other as if they had dropped into the bowl from the edges. It was another possible reason why the quarry was no longer being worked.