The Guinevere Deception

by Kiersten White

  Arthur pulled out a seat for Guinevere, then sat next to her. She lowered her hood. Her smile felt vacant and disconnected. It was not feigned. She could understand none of the chatter around her. King Nechtan sat next to Arthur, Mordred sat on Guinevere’s other side, and as far as Guinevere could make out, she was the only woman present.

  She wondered where the Pictish queen was. If Guinevere was there to show trust, why did the Picts not do the same? She hoped it was because Arthur came from such a place of strength he could afford to be generous, whereas the Picts needed to appear strong.

  Food was brought. She reached for her goblet, parched.

  “It has all been tasted,” Mordred whispered into his cup so his mouth was hidden. “Nothing is poisoned.”

  Guinevere froze with the wine halfway to her lips. She had not even considered it. There were so many ways for men to hurt each other, so many methods of ending one another. No wonder Arthur’s knights did not worry about magical threats. They had a world full of other menaces to consider.

  Her appetite considerably diminished, Guinevere picked at her food enough to be polite. Arthur and King Nechtan kept up a steady stream of talk. It sounded friendly.

  “We have peace with the Picts,” Mordred said, his voice so low she could barely hear it. “But it is tenuous. They are renowned fighters.”

  “Why have they not come against Arthur, then?”

  “They have. We bought peace with five thousand Picts dead by our swords.”

  “That is a steep price.” Guinevere had never seen five thousand people together. The enormity of imagining five thousand dead was more than she could hold. Her head swam.

  “Arthur is here to remind them that we are friends, because we have not always been so.”

  “How am I doing with my part?”

  “You are exceptional at sitting and being lovely.”

  Guinevere wanted to roll her eyes, but it was not queenly. Arthur leaned close to her, a smile on his face. But he spoke to Mordred through gritted teeth. “Where are Geoffrey and Gildas? They agreed to come. Their presence here—and their apologies and assurances of peace—was the whole point.”

  “I will find out what I can.” Mordred moved to stand, but froze. The conversation at the table, a low constant hum, snapped shut like it was caught in a trap.

  A man stood across from them. He pulled out a chair and sat, leaning back. “No, do not get up.” He gestured for everyone to sit. All the men around Guinevere were half-standing, hands on swords. “I came for a meal, not a fight. Though rumor has it the Picts’ food is not nearly as good as their fighting.”

  “Maleagant,” Arthur said.

  Guinevere felt a chill down her spine. Sir Maleagant. The one Arthur had been receiving messages about.

  “What luck this is. I wanted to visit King Nechtan, and here he is on my own borders, waiting for me.”

  “These are not your borders,” Arthur said, his voice terribly still and calm.

  Maleagant ripped off the leg of a roasted fowl. “Are you waiting for Geoffrey and Gildas? I am afraid they will not be coming. Our land negotiations went well. For me.” He tore a hunk of meat from the bone, then reached out, snagging Arthur’s own goblet and taking a long draught from it. “These are my borders,” he said, setting the goblet down. “And, King Nechtan, you are most welcome.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” King Nechtan said. Guinevere had not known he spoke their language. Arthur communicated with him in Pictish. Maleagant offered no such courtesy. “I am very…curious about this new development.”

  “Time for that later. Tonight we should celebrate! We three happy kings, sharing borders and a meal!” Maleagant turned toward Guinevere. She did not need perfect sight to be unnerved. If the leaf in the devouring forest had teeth, Maleagant’s gaze had tentacles. She could feel it crawling over her. “Arthur, you brought a pet. Younger than I remember you liking them. Introduce us.”

  Arthur did not respond to Maleagant’s command. He turned back to King Nechtan and resumed speaking in Pictish.

  Guinevere felt Maleagant’s eyes like a burden. He was angled to watch her as he ate, as he drank, as he laughed and interrupted Arthur and King Nechtan’s conversation. Guinevere’s hands twitched beneath the table, longing to cast her blindness knots at him if only to force him to stop staring. She startled as another hand found hers under the table.

  Arthur squeezed her fingers. He did not turn toward her or react to Maleagant, but he noticed. His steady warmth and strength coursed through her. Rather than looking away from Maleagant, she stared—unsmiling, unblinking—at his silhouette. She did not turn away or blush or do anything that a girl would be expected to do. She was no pet. She was no queen, even. She was a secret weapon.

  Maleagant laughed. He raised his goblet in a toast to her.

  “Best not to draw his attention,” Mordred whispered at her shoulder, pretending to lean closer to hear something Arthur was saying.

  “And how do you recommend I avoid it as the only woman at this table?” She turned toward Mordred with a smile. “What should I do instead?”

  “You are tired. You wish to retire for the evening.”

  She was and she did. She hated the idea that Maleagant would think he had driven her off, but she trusted that Mordred would advise her well.

  “King Nechtan,” she said, “it has been an honor to dine with you. But I am afraid the journey here was wearying. I should like to retire for the evening.”

  Arthur stood. King Nechtan did as well. Maleagant leaned back, stretching his long legs. “I can escort her if you would like, Arthur.”

  Arthur took Guinevere’s hand and pressed his lips to it. His kiss felt like a shield. “Sir Mordred, would you see my queen to our tent? I still have much to discuss with King Nechtan.”

  Mordred bowed. King Nechtan nodded at Guinevere in farewell. She had not taken two steps when Sir Tristan was at her other side. Sir Gawain and Sir Bors both fell in step, as well.

  It had the opposite effect of making her feel safe.

  She wanted an excuse to visit the horses. If she could get to Maleagant’s horses, she could knot weakness and sleepiness into their manes. But surrounded by knights, she could do nothing. Cross and nervous, she was taken directly to a tent.

  * * *

  Arthur did not join her until the middle of the night. The tent was small, the ground covered with furs. Guinevere had been sitting in there, alone. She had not undressed for fear she would have to run or fight at a moment’s notice. Several times, she had peered out to find Mordred, Sir Gawain, Sir Bors, and Sir Tristan all still outside the tent.

  “Is he gone?” she asked as Arthur sat next to her and rubbed his face wearily.

  “Yes. An hour ago. Then I had to spend time making certain King Nechtan would remain on my side should Maleagant get aggressive.”

  “Will he?”

  He lay back. “I do not know.”

  “Maleagant was one of your father’s knights?”

  “One of my own, too.”

  “What?”

  Arthur closed his eyes. “He was my earliest supporter. Besides Merlin. He helped me plan the campaign against my father. I did not see then that he was using me to get Uther out. He thought me young and naïve enough that I would be an easier opponent. And in a way he was right. I banished him when I should have had him killed. It has haunted me ever since.”

  “You cannot blame yourself for his actions.”

  “I can, and I must. If he threatens Camelot, it is because I allowed it. Oh, I wanted to strangle him tonight.”

  “Was he difficult during the discussions?”

  “No, I mean when he would not stop staring at you.”

  A flush of surprise and pleasure coursed through Guinevere. She knew Arthur had noticed. But she was oddly delighted tha
t it had bothered him on a personal level. “What did he mean, that I am younger than I should be? I am only two years younger than you.”

  Arthur’s face twitched. He did not open his eyes. “Maleagant…knows more of my history than I would like. There is a reason I banished him instead of killing him.” His pause stretched so long that Guinevere wondered if he had fallen asleep. “Her name was Elaine. She was his sister. I thought she loved me. She told me she was with child, and I was ready to marry her.”

  Guinevere could not manage to draw a breath. The rumors that Arthur was a virgin king were…rumors. He had loved and been in love before. Somehow this felt almost as painful a revelation as Merlin’s role in Arthur’s birth. But Arthur had never lied to her. She had simply chosen to believe gossip because she wanted to. She wanted him to be as new to all this as she was, because it made her uncertainty feel less humiliating.

  “When I discovered Maleagant’s plans and misdeeds, I banished him, and in my rage sent Elaine to the south. She died giving birth. The baby, a boy, survived only a few hours. And I was not there.”

  Guinevere lowered herself to the furs next to him. She took his hand in her own. “I am sorry.”

  “Even when I knew she had deliberately trapped me—that Maleagant planned to assassinate me and use my child as a means to the throne—I still loved her.”

  Guinevere flinched. Maleagant’s plan was not so different from Merlin’s. At least Elaine seemed a willing participant, unlike Arthur’s mother.

  “Elaine begged me to be merciful. And because I put my own feelings before the good of Camelot, I did not kill Maleagant. My people will suffer—some may even die—because I acted as a man instead of a king.”

  “You were a boy still.”

  He brought their hands to his mouth and brushed his lips across the back of her hand. His lips were soft and cool, and she felt it through her whole body. “You are generous. Thank you for letting me tell you. All these long years, it has been a secret shared only by myself, Mordred, and Maleagant.”

  She moved closer to him. Knowing this secret made her feel important, like she mattered in his life. But it also made her worry even more. If Arthur was not a virgin king, was their false marriage holding him back from things he wanted? She had worried about him missing alliances and politics. She had not considered that they were both missing…physical alliances.

  “I do not mind,” she said, her voice as soft and quiet as the darkness cocooning them in the tent. “If you…pursue other women. I understand. I do not want you to think that our arrangement prevents you from that.”

  He shifted closer to her, his body solid and radiating heat. “I would never give people a reason to talk about us, or to scorn you. I know we do not have a normal marriage, but I am happy with you by my side. Are you?”

  “Yes.” She did not hesitate. In this moment, the heat of him warming her through, she was perfectly happy.

  “Good. I want—” He paused.

  She strained closer, the pause after want hinged with unknown promise. Finally, he spoke again. “I want to get to know you. The real you. We are both here because Merlin wanted it so, but it is time he is no longer between us. We are in this together, Guinevere. I like that.”

  She turned so her smile pressed into Arthur’s shoulder. She did not know whether she was hiding the full effect he had on her, or whether she was pressing her joy into his shoulder as a kiss. “I like it, too.”

  “So tell me something no one else knows about you.”

  She laughed. “Arthur, no one else knows anything about me. Only you do.”

  His laugh was embarrassed. “I suppose that is true. I gave you one secret; you gave me all of yours. Except…your name.”

  A cold rush of emptiness descended on her. She wanted to tell him. To give it to him. But when she reached for it, it was gone. She had given it to the flame, and it had been devoured. The loss hit her anew.

  “How about I tell you a story instead. About the stars. I named them all.”

  Arthur nodded, slipping his arm around her and stroking her hair with a movement so soft she wondered if he realized he was doing it. She wove the story for him, tying it around him like knots until he fell asleep.

  This journey had brought so many new revelations, so many new threats. Maleagant was not one she could fight. Neither was the ghost of Elaine and Arthur’s failure. Her heart broke for him, carrying that alone all these years. And somehow he had taken that pain and forged it into something powerful and sharp. Something to wear as naturally as he wore his crown.

  She rested a hand against his heart, her own beating like a bird startled from a bush. She wanted to give him her name. She wanted to give him everything.

  And it terrified her.

  Guinevere awoke to an argument.

  “How could you?” Sir Tristan demanded.

  Guinevere sat up. She tried to rub her bleary eyes clear, but nothing worked. If she did not end up using the knots she had tied that cost her this, she would be furious. She checked that her hair was still more or less in order, then crept to the tent opening and listened.

  “Maleagant knows I am here,” Arthur answered. “That means Camelot is vulnerable. I did not want our waiting men cut off.”

  “But now we have no men to bolster our forces! Maleagant knows you are here, which means you are vulnerable.”

  “Better I fall than Camelot.”

  “If you fall,” Mordred said, his voice softer than Sir Tristan’s, “so does Camelot.”

  “Camelot will live on. And so will we. I know Maleagant. He will lie in wait for us along the roads or set a trap in a village. We will ride through the forests.”

  Sir Bors sounded like gravel crunching underfoot. “Of course he will wait on the road, because riding through that much forest is madness.”

  “I like our chances.”

  Guinevere could hear the smile in Arthur’s voice. He sounded as though he was looking forward to the challenge. She sided with Tristan, though. Better to protect Arthur than to send the waiting camp back without them.

  She steeled herself. If they were all he had, they would be enough.

  She gathered her knots, checking each one to make certain they were still tight. There was no time for the weakness that making new ones would induce. She had to be her best for the forest.

  Lifting a tent flap, she emerged into the brilliant sunshine.

  “What about the queen?” Sir Tristan asked, challenge in his voice as he used her as a reason not to follow Arthur’s plan.

  “The queen,” Guinevere said, pulling up her hood, “is ready to ride at her king’s side, wherever that takes her.” She strode to her waiting horse. Arthur lifted her to mount.

  “Are you ready?” he whispered.

  Confident and afraid in equal measure, she smiled down at him. “I am.”

  * * *

  She maneuvered so she would be the last to enter the trees. A branch brushed her arm; she draped a single knot of confusion and blindness there. Anyone pursuing them would be unable to find the trail.

  Once under the trees, everything changed. Even the air was different. Warmer. Closer. As though the trees were breathing, wrapping them all in the steam of their exhalations. They had to slow their pace as the horses picked careful paths through the undergrowth. There was no discernable trail. No one was stupid enough to go through the forest if they did not have to.

  Still, it was boredom and heat that oppressed Guinevere more than fear. After several hours of slow progress, she had removed her hood and longed to unlace her sleeves. The knights around her had not shed any of their metal-plated leather armor, and they all sweated in silent misery.

  Mordred rejoined them from scouting ahead. “More of the same. Trees and leaves and insects. If we continue south, we should break free on the borders of Camelot within
two days. Tonight when we make camp, I will set traps for—”

  A howl sliced through the thick air.

  “We have daylight yet!” Sir Bors said as the horses jostled, ears alert, nostrils wide. “They cannot be hunting.”

  Another howl answered. Then another. And another.

  “They are hunting,” Arthur said, his expression grim. “And we are surrounded.”

  Guinevere’s horse stamped its feet, tossing its head and jostling sideways. She looked down to see a fine mist creeping upward from the soil. It tugged at her horse’s hooves and wrapped lovingly around them.

  “The ground!” Guinevere shouted.

  “I see it, too!” Mordred drew his sword. “Ride!”

  He slapped her horse’s rump, sending it careening through the trees. All around her the knights did the same. She held tight to her reins, ducking branches that swooped down like grasping claws. The trees seemed to lean closer together, giving them a dozen separate paths for their horses. Separating them.

  “Guinevere!” Arthur shouted. She tugged on the reins, forcing her horse from its determined course and toward Arthur.

  A gray flash leaped in front of her. The horse reared back, kicking its front legs. Guinevere fell hard to the ground and rolled free of the hooves. Her horse screamed, then disappeared into the trees with the wolf snapping at it.

  But there was more than one wolf. She stared into the yellow eyes and bared teeth of the one padding closer to her. It opened its jaws and jumped. A man dove in front of her, tackling the wolf and rolling with it. Sir Tristan. The wolf clamped down on his forearm, breaking through the leather. Sir Tristan shouted with as much fury as the wolf’s growls. He threw it free. Then he ran to Guinevere, picked her up, and tossed her into Arthur’s waiting arms.