She pushed her food listlessly about her plate, as if it no longer interested her. Not that the stewed mutton had been anything to tempt the appetite of a queen. She needed something to enervate her blood – meat from a swifter creature than an aging sheep. Venison, perhaps, or fresh pork from a wild boar.
Perhaps the hunt would do her good.
Yet she shot down that suggestion as swiftly as a sleeping swan on a frozen lake.
The convent it must be, then. The holy women there might be able to help her, for heaven knew he could not.
"You have hunting falcons?"
Had he mentioned the birds? He'd been rambling, trying to find the words to suggest she go to the convent, but he forgot it all in the spark of light in her eye.
The first he'd seen in far too long.
He drew himself up with pride. "The finest in the kingdom, Your Majesty. King Artorius brought his best birds here, and they bred true." Though it had been a long time since the King had had the time to fly his birds, and now he never would.
The spark in her eyes kindled into flame. "Show me."
Lancelot offered her his arm, a gesture he'd repeated half a hundred times since he'd brought her to his home. But this time, the way her fingers tightened around his bicep was different. Like one of his falcons closing her talons on prey.
Yet no prey had ever been so willing to be captured as himself at that moment.
"Have the falconer bring the birds out by the lake," Lancelot ordered, not wanting to expose Guinevere to the mess in the mews. His castellan had died during the summer, and he'd been too busy in Castrum to come home to appoint a new one. He would need to remedy that soon, or risk not having enough stores to last the winter. Perhaps he should take Guinevere around the long way to the lake, to give the falconer time to find perches for the birds.
"Your apple trees have a bountiful crop this year. Your blackberry hedges are doing well, too. I imagine your alewife will be very busy over the coming weeks." Guinevere reached up and plucked an apple. She bit into it, closing her eyes. "Mm, ripe already and sweeter than I expected. I'm surprised your men have not harvested these yet. Or is the grain harvest late this year?"
A queen who knew about agriculture? He'd thought ladies knew less about farming than he did. "I would have to ask my men. My castellan would know…" Or he would, were he not buried in the churchyard. Did he even have an alewife? He ducked his head. "Forgive me, my queen. I should know more about my estate than I do, but my castellan has taken care of this estate since before the King gave it to me, and he died recently. Alas, he did not impart any of his vast knowledge to me before death claimed him."
Her lips lifted in a tiny smile. "My mother told me most men do not look further than their next meal, and then only notice if it is missing. Those who have the most, notice the least. Too busy waging war and playing at politics, tilting at tourneys or clashing swords. Women are the ones who make the world work."
Stunned, he stared at her. He'd never heard her speak so openly before. His mouth was dry as he tried to work out how to respond to such a strongly-worded statement without offending her. Finally, he settled for, "Without women, none of us would be here."
"I understand men also have a part to play in the begetting of children." She patted his arm. "Rest easy, Sir Lancelot, for the world needs men, too."
He couldn't help it. He burst out laughing, then stopped, anxious not to offend her.
Her eyes danced as a wry smile touched her lips. "Are knights forbidden to laugh?"
He sobered. "No, but offending the Queen is frowned upon."
Another pat. "I think I'd be more offended if you do not laugh at my jokes, Sir Lancelot. Or perhaps it has simply been so long since I told one that they are no longer funny. If they ever were."
He longed to reassure her, but anything he said would be a lie. He wasn't even sure why he'd laughed, for her words hadn't been that funny. Perhaps it had been her tone…
Deep in thought, he walked beside her in silence to the lake shore, where the falcons sat, hooded and hunched on their perches. One perch stood empty.
The beating of great wings heralded the falconer's return with King Artorius' favourite bird.
"She's magnificent," Guinevere breathed, approaching the golden eagle without a hint of fear. She accepted a glove from a servant and slipped it on with all the familiarity of a skilled falconer. Then she held out her arm for the King's bird.
Lancelot held his breath as the eagle stepped from the falconer's glove to hers. Artorius had rarely flown the bird himself, complaining that the eagle was heavier than his sword. Yet Guinevere did not lower her arm. Instead, she lifted it, launching the bird into flight.
"Magnificent," she repeated, watching the bird soar out over the lake.
"In his cups, King Artorius would often say that Sir Gawain was the most lethal of all his knights," Lancelot said. "More kills than the rest of us put together."
When Guinevere laughed, it was like the first spring sunshine, after a winter of dark nights. "The bird is a knight?"
Lancelot's heart swelled in his chest. This was the beautiful woman who'd stolen his very breath in the King's court. More magnificent than any eagle.
"King Artorius held a tourney here, to celebrate Zurine's sixteenth name day, a few years ago. Many knights came, in the hope of winning a favour or token from the princess, including one who called himself the Green Knight. He was greener than I, as it turned out, getting his helm bashed in by a stray lance early on. He continued to ride, but in the next round, instead of aiming for his opponent, he headed for the King." He found Guinevere's eyes on him instead of the eagle now, and hurried to continue, "The falconer was bringing out the birds for some hunting after the tourney, and Gawain managed to get loose. Instead of flying away, though, the bird headed for the Green Knight. She'd seen her own reflection in the knight's helm, and sought to do battle with the bird in her territory, I believe."
Guinevere gestured for him to continue.
"Gawain fastened her claws around the helm, and pulled it off the knight's head. Now able to see, the knight veered away from the King. Thus, the bird saved him from the Green Knight's lance. At the end of the tournament, before the champion was announced, the King knighted the bird for saving his life."
She laughed merrily. "I had heard many tales about King Artorius and his knights, but never that one of them was a female bird!"
Gawain returned, her talons clenched around a bundle of brown fur that turned out to be a fat rabbit, which she dropped at Guinevere's feet. Ignoring the falconer's outstretched arm, the bird returned to Guinevere's glove, and the falconer hurried forward to feed the bird.
"Good girl, Sir Gawain," Guinevere crooned, stroking the bird's breast with her ungloved fingers while the bird's beak was busy. Then, as if some signal passed between queen and eagle, she lifted her arm to let the bird soar once more. "I prefer duck to rabbit!" she called after the bird.
Lancelot wished Artorius were here, to see the two together. The King would have lost his heart to the girl, as he himself already had.
For a girl who claimed she didn't hunt, she flew a falcon far too well for Lancelot's liking. "Where did you learn to fly an eagle like that?"
Guinevere shrugged. "My mother was fond of her falcons. Ever since I was a little girl, I remember watching her fly them. She promised me that on my fourteenth name day, I might learn to fly them, too, but when that day came, she'd entered her confinement. Yet when I went to see my mother that morning, she refused to lie abed. Her feet had swollen so that her boots did not fit, and her belly was so round I feared it would pop, but she meant to keep her promise, so she'd ordered the birds brought into the garden. All day, we stayed there, while she taught me everything she knew about hawking. It was wonderful."
Yet she'd left her mother behind to come to Castrum. "You must miss her," Lancelot said.
Her eyes fixed on the wheeling eagle. "Every day. Perhaps if she hadn't gone hawking that d
ay, or if she hadn't fallen…to this day, I still don't know why she fell. The ground was flat and even, yet she was suddenly on the ground, in a dead faint, one side of her face sagging just like Artorius', that morning after the wedding…" She wiped her eyes.
Realisation dawned. "Apoplexy. You knew."
"Yes." She sighed and stared at her feet. "Mother died, some hours later, and the baby with her. I knew it was only a matter of time before the same happened to the King. When Mother died, Father blamed the birds. He…went mad in the mews, taking an axe to perches and birds alike. I tried to stop him, but his madness must have clouded his vision. He struck me, and I hit my head when I fell. When I awoke, all the falcons had flown away. He would allow no birds in the castle after that, ordering them shot on sight. Mother had always loved them so…and to lose them, so soon after losing her… After Mother died, I became the castle chatelaine, and was too busy to have much time for anything. In Castrum…there was Lady Ragna to run the place, while I had…no place…" Tears trickled down her cheeks.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her as she wept. "You have a place here, for as long as you wish." Forever, if he had his way. Even as her tears soaked through his tunic, he'd never been happier, his heart soaring up there with her eagle.
Guinevere lifted her head. "Thank you. Every day I spend here, I find myself more reluctant to go to the convent you said you would send me to. Nor would they allow me a falcon, let alone an eagle as magnificent as Sir Gawain."
"Then stay here instead. Until I choose a new castellan, I will name you castle chatelaine, and you may order the estate as you wish. Including Gawain." His mouth was suddenly dry. "For as long as you desire."
There was longing in her eyes as she looked at him. He did not make the mistake of imagining it was for him. More likely it was his estate, or the eagle.
"And what happens when someone comes from Castrum, to make sure the traitor queen is safely imprisoned in a convent, where she can no longer harm the kingdom, and they find me ruling your household instead, as free as a bird?"
"Then I will honour my king's final command, and protect you with my life."
Guinevere shook her head. "Artorius would not have wanted you to die for me. You are still young, and with this fine estate…you should find a wife, have children."
Lancelot managed a smile. "There is but one woman I want for my wife, and I fear she stands so high above me, I dare not ask for her hand." Now he could not meet her eyes, or she would know.
"You're in love with Princess Zurine?"
"What? Of course not!" He stared at her.
She relaxed. "Then I see no impediment. As the leader of the King's knights, you are second only to the King himself. Merely ask the woman. No woman in this kingdom with any sense would refuse you."
Lancelot wet his lips. "She is a widow, still in mourning." Surely she would guess.
She drew in a sharp breath. "You fell in love with another man's wife? I can't believe your high honour would allow such a thing. And yet…if you did not pursue her…yes, perhaps I can see that. You have hidden depths, Sir Lancelot. Few men would resist a lady like you have. But now…if her husband is dead, you have only to wait until she is done mourning, and there is nothing to stop you from marrying her. Unless…she knows nothing of your love…"
Lancelot bowed his head, not daring to speak, for he knew not what he might say.
"Right," Guinevere said brusquely. "Then you have her mourning period to make your intentions known. She will be your wife before the year is out and I…I will retire to the convent, for a new wife will not want another woman around, running her household."
Lancelot's heart sank. How had she misunderstood so completely?
"My queen…" he began, not sure how to continue.
Guinevere waved her hand. "You have been kindness itself, Sir Lancelot. It would be cruel indeed to stand in the way of your happiness, and for all my sins, cruelty is not one of them. Merely say the word, and I shall yield to your wife, as readily as she must yield to you." She lifted her arm as the eagle returned, carrying a particularly plump duck.
Guinevere was too busy praising the bird and dealing with her gift to have any attention for Lancelot, or the proposal that lingered on his lips. Better that he never ask, for to have her in his household, to see her every day, would be enough…he daren't risk losing her. The lady he loved, who would never love him in return.
To be near her was enough.
Forty-Three
Guinevere was true to her word, giving orders to the household for all the world like it was her own. At first, she'd seen nervous glances directed toward Lancelot, before some of his bolder servants had summoned the courage to whisper their questions in his ear, their eyes fixed fearfully on the woman they'd surely heard was the traitor queen.
Lancelot nodded gravely at their concerns, but after the third such report, he held up his hands. "Queen Guinevere honours me with her care for my household. Without a castellan, we might not have stores for the winter. Out of the kindness of her heart, while she remains with us, she has offered to act as chatelaine to my humble estate. She has commanded royal castles, the staff of kings, including, 'tis said, the kings themselves. I am a fighting man. I know more of swords and arrows than turnips and preserves. Know that if she tells me to dig turnips, I will gladly pick up a shovel in her service. She is our queen, and we are all honour bound to obey her orders. Including me."
There was some laughter at this, but it quickly faded into silence. A round of nods passed across the hall, and Lancelot's people got to work.
Trees and bushes became stripped of their fruit, and Guinevere herself moving between the smokehouse, alehouse and kitchens, supervising staff who needed little guidance once they knew what was wanted.
She even had time to hunt in the afternoons, which became a regular occurrence when the cook ventured that she would make duck confit from Sir Gawain's catch. The eagle was as fond of duck as Guinevere, it seemed, and would happily bring her mistress three or four a day.
When the lids on the first casks of berry wine were nailed shut, Guinevere ventured into the cellars to take stock of what stores Lancelot already had. There was time to brew another batch or two of ale, and Lancelot's men wanted to send out a hunting party to bring back some deer before the first snows fell, as Lancelot was apparently particularly fond of smoked venison.
She sent the hunters out happily – by the time they returned, the smokehouse would be finished with the last of the hams.
Lancelot's wine cellar, however, was one place she hadn't been.
She descended the steps into the dusty cellar, wondering what Artorius would have thought of her venturing into such a dirty place. He certainly had never envisioned it, if the white gowns he'd given her were any indication. She hadn't worn any of her queenly attire since she'd arrived, preferring the gowns she'd brought from home. She'd need some warmer ones before winter came, and perhaps a new cloak, too. She'd speak to Lancelot's weavers in the afternoon, before hunting. She'd already met the seamstress who made Lancelot's beautiful surcoats. The girl's eyes had gleamed at the prospect of creating clothes for a queen, albeit a dowager one.
When she reached the bottom of the steps, Guinevere held her lantern high. Its light did not reach the far wall of the cavernous cellar. For a man who drank sparingly, there seemed to be an awfully large number of wine barrels here.
Back home, she'd have kept a tally on the wall by the stairs to keep track of the cellar contents. She surveyed the walls until she found what she wanted – faint charcoal markings that looked like they hadn't been touched in years. That would change.
She enlisted a pair of maids to dust the barrels so she could see their markings, tallying them up on a fresh patch of wall. The numbers matched for some of the vintages, but others had not been recorded at all.
A particularly large collection of dust-caked barrels at the back, which all bore the same markings – a ring of what might be mountains
or teeth, surrounding a smaller circle – had not been included in the tally. She estimated half the barrels in the cellar were stamped with this mark.
None of the maids, the alewife or the cook seemed to know what it meant, so she decided to ask Lancelot at dinner. Yet when she entered the great hall, Lancelot leaped to his feet, incensed.
"What happened?" he demanded.
She stared at him blankly, then glanced down to make sure she hadn't torn her gown on a bramble bush again, like she had earlier in the week. Combined with a particularly dark berry juice stain, she had to admit it had appeared rather gory to someone who hadn't known she'd been picking berries all day. Today, however, her gown was unharmed, but for a cobweb caught on her hem. She brushed it away with her foot.
"Nothing to be concerned about," she said finally.
Lancelot shook his head, then pointed at her cheek. "But your face! Tell me who struck you. This will not go unpunished!"
She lifted a startled hand to her cheek, and it came away black. Guinevere felt her cheeks redden. "Forgive me. I was so caught up in my counting that I forgot to wash. I shall deal with it directly."
"Allow me." Lancelot beckoned to a servant, who brought forward a bowl of water and a cloth. He stroked the wet cloth across her face, his eyes so intent on his work that she did not dare lift her gaze to meet his, or she would blush even brighter.
Instead, she traced the spiky circle on the table with her dirty finger. "Do you know what this means?" she asked, taking the cloth from him so that she might clean the charcoal off her fingers.
Lancelot glanced at the table. "That's the mark of the kingdom of Moravia. Ringed by mountains, they make the finest berry wine in the world. So fine, only kings can afford to drink it. King Artorius shared a cup with me once, on the day he granted me my knighthood. It's a heady brew, sweet but potent. The barrels were locked in a special store room in the King's cellar. Only Lady Ragna had the key, and she guards it closely. They were part of the King's mother's dowry, I believe. She came from Moravia, along with Lady Ragna's mother."
Reflect- Snow White Retold Page 10