That night, after welcoming Arthur into her arms and trying to push thoughts of Lancelot away, she lay quiet for a time, then broached the subject. “My Lord, I am disappointed that I am not carrying your heir yet.”
Arthur turned toward her and kissed her forehead. “There is time yet.”
“It is kind of you to say, but perhaps I cannot conceive.” Tears filled her eyes. “I fear I am barren and you need an heir.”
“Oh, Gwen, my love.” He wiped her cheeks with a corner of the bedclothes.
She took a deep breath and plunged forward. “I fear Mordred will not be a good leader.”
His hand stilled. “Has he done anything?”
“Not really. There’s just something about him I don’t trust. As if he’s hiding something or he is holding some deep grudge.”
Arthur lay silent for so long she thought he’d drifted off to sleep. Then he said, “We still have time, my love.”
She propped up on her elbow. “Arthur, I want you to listen. If I do not conceive, perhaps you send me away and take another.”
He grabbed her and pulled her against him. “Never! I would never send you away for such a thing.”
“But, my Lord, you must have an acceptable heir. It is your duty.”
He put his finger to her chin and turned her face to him. “It is not so long ago that the clans chose the king.”
“But you are the High King—”
He interrupted her. “It matters not.”
“The clans have another custom. It is acceptable to break our handfasting and take another for any reason.” She watched him in the dim candlelight.
He just shook his head.
“You have united England,” she whispered. “Would you have all you’ve fought for overturned by a barren womb?” Then she laid a finger on his lips before he could answer and blew out the candle.
Chapter 20
Arnold restrained himself from asking how Tyrone’s team had gotten access to the traffic cams. Instead, he watched Sylvia track Knight’s car as soon as it hit Highway 190. Once it reached Interstate 495, the silver Jaguar XJ was easy to trace. They followed it into Georgetown, but lost it under tree limbs until it reemerged in a street lined with brownstones. The car parked and a figure emerged. The image was too fuzzy to be sure, but the height and weight looked like Knight. Except he seemed to be wearing his pajamas. He walked under the trees and it was impossible to say exactly which house he went into.
“Run these addresses. See what names pop up,” Tyrone said.
“Yes, sir,” Sylvia bent close to the screen, her big black glasses sliding down her nose a bit.
Arnold wondered about this mania for clunky glasses. What these kids saw in fifties’ fashion, he’d never know. He shook his head and refocused.
The owners of all the buildings in a four-block radius popped up.
“Any rentals?” Arnold asked.
“That will take some digging,” she replied.
“Check the owners first. Start with these four houses, then expand. See if the police or FBI have anything on them. Find their employers.”
She typed for a few minutes, then sat back. “These houses here,” she opened a tab that displayed the traffic cam shot, “are owned by these people.” She opened another tab that listed the real estate in the area.
Tyrone and Arnold leaned over her shoulder and they read the list.
Mr. Stephen Wood
Ms. Margaret Schuster
Mr. Robert Jones
Ms. Viviane Lake
“Run a quick check on these names,” Arnold said.
“Yes, sir.”
Arnold gestured for Tyrone to step aside. “He was in his pajamas. Any sign of dementia?”
Tyrone shook his head. “Sharp as a tack.”
“When did he last have a physical exam?”
“I don’t really keep up with that,” he said. “Let’s look at these owners before we dig into his medical history.”
Arnold always kept up with the medical history of the Le Clairs. He believed in being thorough. “But, why would he suddenly drive off in the middle of the night not even dressed?”
Tyrone shook his head and moved back behind Sylvia. She pulled up four files and displayed them side by side. They all read through them, searching for any connections to Knight.
“This Wood guy works for an oil and gas lobbying firm.”
“A possibility. Maybe they want to stop Knight’s new project.”
“But they’ve rented the property,” Sylvia pointed out.
“To whom?”
She squinted at the screen. “Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Redman. Police officer and teacher.”
“Do we have pictures of these people?”
Sylvia worked for a few seconds and pictures popped up. She pointed them out by name.
“Wait,” Kate said from behind them. “Doesn’t she look familiar?”
Tyrone nodded. “She does. Think she has any aliases?”
Sylvia grabbed the picture and opened a face recognition program. “The same woman appeared with four names, Viviane Lake, Alice Bailey—”
“Alice Bailey, my ass,” Arnold spit out.
“What?”
“She’s a famous psychic. And she’s dead.”
Sylvia kept reading, the light from the computer screen reflecting off her glasses. “Simone Weil, and Nina Lockhart.”
“Nina,” Kate shouted.
Sylvia jumped, almost knocking over her coffee mug.
Who’d had time to make coffee, Arnold wondered.
“Nina Lockhart. That name rings a bell,” Tyrone tapped his chin, thinking. “I believe she’s on the list of people admitted to the house for Mr. Knight’s magical activities.” He said this last with just a shade of distaste.
Arnold smiled, remembering his initial distrust of the Le Clair’s mystical goings-on. It took a while for a practical man of action to see that magic produced results and even longer to admit it to fellow operatives.
“Let’s run a full background check on this Nina,” Arnold suggested.
“We should have a dossier. We research everyone who has regular access to Knight,” Tyrone said. He ordered one of his team to go fetch it.
“Wait,” Sylvia said. She waved them over to the computer screen running the traffic cam images. They watched a group emerge from under the canopy of trees. Knight shuffled between a man and a woman, his arms over their shoulders. The man and woman wore black clothes and baseball hats.
Arnold pointed at the screen. “Do they ever look up?”
“No, sir,” Sylvia said.
The group rolled Knight into the back of a white van. The woman climbed in after him, and the man got in the front and drove off. The next camera picked them up as they merged onto 35th Street NW and followed them down to the river where they went through the Canal Street Tunnel. When they emerged onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway, two more identical vans were spread over two lanes. Two vans stayed on the Parkway and the third merged onto Lee Highway. Sylvia split the screen. On the Parkway, another van merged from the next exit.
“It’s a service van. There are thousands in the D.C. area.”
“But at this time of night?”
Arnold nodded. “True, but food delivery, cleaning services—they’re all out in the wee hours.”
“Could you get a license plate?” Tyrone asked
“Looks like it’s been deliberately smudged,” Sylvia said.
“Blow it up. Look for any identifying marks,” Tyrone instructed.
“That will take a few minutes,” Sylvia said.
“Let us know when you have something.”
Tyrone’s man arrived with Nina’s dossier. “Want to check out Ms. Lockhart?” Tyrone asked.
Arnold and Leo accompanied Tyrone into the dining room where he unfastened the documents and spread them on the dark table. He switched on the chandelier above. “Be my guest. I’m going to go see if the rest of my team has found anything.”
Arnold and Leo went to work.
Guinevere went down to breakfast the next morning late and found that Mordred and his men had left before dawn.
“Did they say why?” she asked.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” Arthur said, but she could tell something troubled him. There was something he wasn’t telling her.
Lancelot sat at the table pushing porridge around in his bowl with a wooden spoon. The silver cutlery only came out on diplomatic occasions. “Did he speak with you before he rode?” he asked. Apparently Arthur hadn’t shared his concerns with Lancelot either.
The rest of Arthur’s men rose from their table at the far end of the room and went out to the yard, leaving the three of them alone for the first time since Arthur had returned home.
“I was still abed,” Arthur said. “Perhaps he was called back to Lothian on urgent business.”
“But to leave without speaking to you?” Lancelot asked.
Arthur shrugged. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Lancelot avoided Arthur’s eyes and studied the table in front of him as if the answer to Mordred’s departure lay there. Guinevere watched steam rise from her bowl. If they were not careful, Arthur would know something was wrong. If he didn’t know already.
Guinevere shook off her fear. She mixed honey into her bowl and took a bite. “Yum,” she said, “I love it when cook has berries for the porridge.”
Arthur seemed to gather himself up and with an effort smiled. “Yes, it’s good to be home.”
“What are your plans, my lord? Will you ride east soon?” Lancelot asked.
“I want to get caught up with Ronan on how things are here. Walk through town. Check with the heads of the guilds. Look at the fields. Perhaps we can talk tomorrow.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Arthur reached over and put his hand over Lancelot’s. “Arthur, my friend. Call me Arthur.”
Lancelot nodded and his shoulders seem to relax. “It’s good to have you home, Arthur.”
The High King looked back and forth between them, something in his face making Guinevere uneasy. Then he said, “You two are my best friends.”
Guilt twisted her stomach and she pushed her porridge away. Lancelot stood and touched Arthur’s shoulder. “I will always be true to you,” he said.
And yet we have already betrayed him, she thought.
Guinevere did not see much of either man in the next few days. Arthur visited with the guild masters and inquired about the state of the crops and the livestock, then met with his closet counselors to discuss his plans for the rest of the summer. At least that’s what she presumed he was doing. He came to bed late and did not disturb her sleep, although she feigned it. She lay listening to his breath soften and become regular as he fell into sleep.
She yearned for Lancelot’s touch, but did not dare seek him out. Nor did he look for her. At meals, they were a bit stiff in their interactions, both deferring to Arthur. If he felt anything was off, he did not show it.
A few days after Arthur’s return, the rest of his knights and fighting men arrived, and Guinevere was driven off her feet taking care of the household, helping Leigh by foraging for healing herbs for those injuries that occur even in peace time, seeing that the food stores would not be overdrawn. The harvest looked promising. She sat at table, listening to the stories of their adventures, the news from the clans, entertaining the knights. Heilyn, the old harper, enjoyed the addition of Carataos, and the two conspired to play many ballads that were rarely heard. One night they had a harping contest that had the hall stomping and cheering.
But a week later, Mordred arrived bringing with him Iddawe, Melehan, Agravain, and a group of soldiers. Mordred strode into the great hall with the kings of the west surrounding him. He called out for Arthur as if he were a servant.
Arthur arrived after Mordred had bellowed his name a few more times. “What is this racket?” he asked, as if he were addressing naughty children. “Iddawe, Melehan, welcome to Camelot. Agravain, it is good to see you again. Had I known you were coming, we would have chambers ready. But come, sit.” He looked to Guinevere, who hovered in the passageway behind him. “Please order ale and food for our friends. They look thirsty from their dusty ride.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mordred said. “We will not take ale from the hand of a dishonorable woman.”
An ominous silence fell on the company. Arthur glared at Mordred, then finally said, “I offer you the hospitality of my hall and you come here to insult my lady?”
“We come here, the rulers of all the lands you have brought together under your banner, to speak with you about a weighty matter. Let us adjourn to the meeting hall.”
Arthur turned to Ronan. “Let all the knights know we will assemble with Sir Mordred’s guests in the High Hall in one hour.”
Guinevere fled up the stairs to their chambers, then looked wildly around. It had come, the moment she dreaded had come. They would tell her secret. These men would tear apart her heart like a rabbit among hounds, her true love that had finally ignited her spirit and made her life full of joy and hope. Their vile words would degrade the union of their bodies. Her shoulders shook with her weeping and she sank down on the floor next to the bed, arms around her legs, her head on her knees.
How could she explain to Arthur that she loved him as a friend, honored him as a wise sovereign, had never wanted to harm him, but that Lancelot—he was like a bright comet that had swooped in and lit up the night sky of her heart, setting her ablaze? She could no more have resisted him than she could have resisted taking her next breath.
The door opened and she heard footsteps. Hands reached down and came to rest on her shoulders. “Oh, my darling Gwen. I am so sorry.”
Surprise choked her tears. “You? Sorry? It is me who is sorry, my lord.”
“I knew it was a marriage of duty, but I hoped you would come to love me.”
“Oh, Arthur,” Guinevere leaned into his warmth. “I do love you, but not like . . .” Sobs overwhelmed her again. How could he still be so good?
“Mordred sent a messenger to me in the west telling me about you and Lance. I rode here not to stop you, but to stop him from harming either of you.”
She looked up into his face, astonished by what he’d said.
“I can’t explain it, Gwen, but I love you both. You as my wife and Lance as my heart’s brother. What can I do?”
He was lost. His eyes begged her for an answer.
Resolve straightened her spine. She sat beside him on the bed. “You must do as I said when you first came home. You must send me away.”
“No, I could never—”
“You must, Arthur. Say I have not given you an heir. Send Lancelot back to France. Then you can marry again and produce a son to contest with that Mordred.” She spit out the name.
“I must go speak to the knights who’ve supported me.”
“Should I come down?”
“I think you must.”
Arthur left and Guinevere looked around the room at the familiar dressing table, the bed, her chest of clothes. Where would she go? Perhaps she could return to Anglesey, live in that small cottage that nestled at the top of a cliff overlooking the sea. It was lonely, yes, but people would shun her anyway. Perhaps she could escape to France with Lancelot, live out their days herding sheep or cultivating grapes. But he was King Hoel’s nephew and could no more escape court politics than she could. He would not be shunned. Damn the Christians and their ridiculous ideas. Her marriage contract with Arthur under clan law was the longest—five years. She had stayed with him seven already. According to the old ways, she would be free to go with no repercussions.
She walked over to the wooden chest that held her cloths, ran her fingers over the mirror that had been a gift from her father on her wedding, opened her jewel box and looked at the amber necklace she had worn the first day Lancelot had arrived. She called for Hester and instructed her to pack enough clothes for her, b
ut to leave her finery behind.
“What is happening, m’lady?”
“I don’t know, Hester, but I must be prepared to leave. Please don’t ask me any more questions. I don’t know how to answer them.”
Hester came and wrapped her arms around her mistress. The tears she’d been holding back fell.
“Now, now, mistress. All will be well. You’ll see.”
But Guinevere was certain this was far from the truth. She dried her eyes and dressed in a plain, black dress, then made her way downstairs.
When she arrived in the hall, the knights sat around the table, with those she knew to be loyal to Arthur clustered around him. Galahad, Tristan, Kay, even Gawain and Gareth sat on his side of the table, ignoring where their banners decorated the walls.
Mordred sat on the other side of at the Round Table with several of his men, although they didn’t belong there. Agravain stood behind him. Gaheris sat close to him. The rest of the knights seemed confused and sat, tense, hands hovering near their belts, although no one carried weapons into this chamber.
All Mordred’s men muttered when she walked further into the room and took her place standing behind Arthur. Then she noticed another empty seat. Lancelot was not here.
“Sir Mordred from Lothian has called us together to consider what he calls a weighty matter,” Arthur began. “He has seen fit to insult the queen. Let him explain.”
Mordred pointed to Lancelot’s empty seat, but before he could speak, Arthur spoke up.
“Where is Sir Lancelot?” Arthur asked. “Sir Tristan, would you go with Ronan to look for him?”
“My Lord, I would be loath to leave your side.” Tristan eyed Mordred.
“Please,” Arthur said in a soft voice.
“As you say, my king.”
The men spoke in low whispers among themselves as they waited, the room filling with the kind of tension that forebode an enormous thunderstorm. But this storm would not bring refreshing rain and wind. It would bring blood.
Tristan rushed into the High Hall, Ronan struggling behind, his face red. “He is gone, Arthur. Sir Lancelot asked the stable boy to ready his horse, and Lancelot rode out over an hour ago.”
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