The Guinevere Deception

by Kiersten White

  She clung to him, her seat on the horse terrifyingly precarious. Arthur had one hand around her waist, the other wielding Excalibur. Her head swam. Cold sweat broke out, and she had the sudden urge to throw herself back to the wolves rather than stay on the horse.

  But the howling had faded. Arthur pushed his horse dangerously fast until they came to a clearing. He stopped and Guinevere dropped down, crawling away, trying desperately not to vomit. Her whole body shook.

  “Form a circle,” Arthur commanded. “Bors, Gawain, gather wood for a fire. It will be dark soon and we cannot be in the trees.”

  “Guinevere.” Mordred crouched next to her. His hand hovered over her back, but he did not touch her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. It was a lie. She could not stop shaking. Something had affected her more than the fear. Perhaps she had breathed in some of the mist. “Is Sir Tristan here?”

  “I am.” Sir Tristan sat heavily beside her. His arm was wrapped in a piece of cloth. It was not bleeding too much.

  “Thank you.” Guinevere rolled to her side, then sat up. “You saved me.”

  “You are my queen,” he said in answer. Then his face softened. “And you are Brangien’s friend.”

  She stayed where she was next to Sir Tristan, with Mordred standing near, as the men organized a defensive circle and got a fire going. When she had recovered enough, she stood and found Arthur.

  “I can help,” she said.

  He shook his head. “No. I need you safe. Please.”

  The pleading in his voice softened her. But she had to help. “I already have knots made. They are for blindness and confusion. If we place them around the meadow, it might slow or deter any wolves. Or other predators.” She could only imagine what else might be in the trees. She certainly counted Maleagant’s men as predators.

  “Does it have to be you who places them? Like the door knots?”

  “No. Anyone could.”

  He unbuckled his sword belt and set Excalibur, now sheathed, gently on the ground. “Give them to me. I will do it.”

  She reached into the pouch secured around her waist and withdrew the knots. “Leave them at even intervals. Circle the whole camp.”

  Arthur disappeared into the trees. She rejoined Sir Tristan. Even in the waning light, his color did not look good. “Let me look at your wound,” she said.

  He held out his arm obediently. She unwrapped it. The blood was trickling out, but not at a pace that was worrisome.

  Worrisome, however, was the heat of his skin around it. He was burning up. Guinevere put the back of her hand against his forehead. It radiated heat. But there was something…different there. Something that was not Sir Tristan. Like mold growing on bread. “Why is he so hot?” she asked, her voice high and tight.

  Mordred heard her and knelt by Sir Tristan. He examined the wound. “This is too soon for infection to set in.”

  “What is infection?”

  He frowned at her. “You have never seen? It is blood poisoning. Something gets in through the wound that should not be there. It…” He trailed off. He would not meet her eyes. Sir Tristan leaned back, lying on the ground. “I will get him some water.” Mordred hurried away.

  “Cold,” Sir Tristan said, his teeth chattering.

  Guinevere took off her cloak and draped it over him. He shivered and shook. Then, worse, he went still.

  “Arthur!” she shouted. Sir Tristan did not stir. After a few moments Arthur rejoined them. The look on his face confirmed her worst fears.

  “There is nothing we can do,” he said. “The infection spread too fast.”

  Guinevere shook her head. She could not accept that. She would not. Sir Tristan had been hurt protecting her. But how could she fight poison in his blood? She could not clean it, could not—

  An idea took hold of her with as much force as any wolf’s jaws. The rest of the knights were far enough away, and Sir Tristan was in no position to hear or understand her. “I think I can help him.”

  “How?”

  “Cleansing. I have only ever done it on myself, and only on the outside of my body. But if I focus it on his wound, I might be able to burn out the parts that are not him. The parts that are killing him.”

  Arthur looked down at his knight. He stroked a hand down Sir Tristan’s cheek. Then he stood. “No.”

  “I have to try! It might not work, but—”

  “It is not about that. You cannot do magic here, in the middle of my men. You could be discovered.”

  “But Sir Tristan—”

  “Sir Tristan knew the risks of fighting at my side.”

  “As do I!”

  “Guinevere. Please. If what you are were known within the kingdom, at best you would be banished. At worst? It would disrupt everything I have built. People would suspect that I knew, that I allowed it. How could I justify all the people who have been banished or killed for using magic? Sir Tristan lived with honor. If he dies, it will be the same way, and he will always be remembered. I will not lose both of you.”

  “Arthur, I—”

  “No.”

  She shrank from his voice. This was the first time he had spoken to her not as Arthur, but as a king. The power and weight of his command had a physical aspect to it that left her cowed.

  “I have to keep you safe,” he whispered, Arthur once again.

  “King Arthur!” one of the knights shouted. “Wolf!”

  “Form a circle around the clearing!” Arthur strode away, picking up his sword from the ground and unsheathing it. Guinevere shuddered. “Face out! Let nothing through!”

  Mist was curling around the clearing, sending tendrils in as though probing for weaknesses. There was no howling, no noise. Which made it worse, in a way. Then Sir Gawain shouted, and there was a snarling yelp. Guinevere could do nothing.

  But…no one was watching her. They were all occupied with staying alive.

  She hurried to the fire and took a single twig from the edge. The tip of it glowed with a spark. Back at Sir Tristan’s side, she knelt and closed her eyes. She needed to change the way the magic flowed, change what she wanted it to do. She risked the fire taking control and burning Sir Tristan from the inside out. Either way she would be responsible for his death. She would not let it happen without a fight.

  She put her finger against the spark, let it jump to her. Fed it her breath. Then she held it in front of Sir Tristan’s mouth and let it taste his breath. She brought it to his wound and coaxed it from her finger to his skin. Sir Tristan flinched, but did not wake up.

  “Burn all that is not him,” she whispered, focusing on the flame, focusing on bending it to her will. It danced, a shimmering light, along the marks of the wolf’s teeth. And then it disappeared.

  Sir Tristan twitched. Sweat broke out on his skin and then evaporated as quickly as it appeared. She kept her hand on his arm, kept herself attuned to the spark running through him. It was greedy, starving. She commanded it to only feed on what was not Sir Tristan. There was so much there. She could feel the infection, a creeping darkness trying to take him. It felt menacing and angry and…sentient.

  She pushed the fire harder. It ate, and ate, and just when she thought it would not work fast enough to save Sir Tristan, the fire paused. There was nothing left for it. Nothing that it had been commanded to eat. It turned outward, ready to devour Sir Tristan.

  She called it back. It hesitated. She was going to lose control. Panic flared, but she met it with determination and instinctive desperation.

  She would not lose him.

  Something inside her, something unknown in the midst of all the knots and spells, surrounded the fire, drawing it back. Chasing it and channeling it away from Sir Tristan. It rushed back to her hand, burning her. She cried out in pain, smothering the flames with her hood. Her fingers were blistere
d. But the fire was out.

  She looked up to search for a canteen but froze like a deer before a hunter. Mordred was watching her. He was half-turned to the forest, but his eyes, ever attuned to her, had seen everything.

  She was caught.

  It was over.

  Then Mordred looked back toward the forest without a word.

  Shaking, her hand in searing pain, she grabbed a canteen and helped Sir Tristan drink. His skin had lost the killing heat of the infection. His eyelids fluttered open. “My queen?” he asked.

  “Rest.” She cradled his head in her lap. She tipped the water into his mouth, little by little, too frightened to look up lest the wolves of men descend on her for her transgression.

  * * *

  They battled the pack all night. When morning finally pushed back the darkness, the knights were weary, but none bloodied.

  “The way they moved,” Sir Bors said. “It was as though they were drunk. They could never figure out where we were. God has protected us.”

  “Yes,” Arthur said, his voice firm and bright. “God has protected us.”

  Guinevere said nothing. Her knots had done their work. She had felt it as each one wore out, her vision finally back to normal. Her eyes ached and stung, but the pain was nothing compared to that of her burned hand.

  Sir Tristan was checking the horses. Arthur embraced him quickly. “You are well?”

  Sir Tristan flexed his arm, looking down at it. “It is sore, but the fever has passed.”

  Arthur clasped his shoulder. “You scared us.”

  Sir Tristan smiled, his full lips blooming like a spring flower. “I shall endeavor to never scare my king again.”

  “See that you do,” Arthur said with a laugh. But when he turned and caught Guinevere’s eyes, his smile disappeared and his face darkened. He knew what she had done.

  He did not speak to her. Neither, for that matter, did Mordred. Now that things were calmer, she stood, tense and ready for the accusations. But all the knights prepared their horses with efficient and practiced focus.

  “Guinevere needs a horse,” Mordred said.

  “She can ride with me, if that is acceptable to my king,” Sir Tristan said. “I cannot wield a sword well on horseback with this wound, but I can protect her.”

  “Thank you.” Arthur inclined his head, giving permission. She wanted to speak with him, but there was no privacy, no opportunity.

  Guinevere joined Sir Tristan on his horse. They rode for hours, their passage swift but cautious. There was no sign of the wolves. No hint of pursuit. The nature of the forest changed, as well. The trees loomed less, the air cleared out. It was still a wild and untamed place, but it felt less threatening.

  Late afternoon, they broke to rest. A creek babbled nearby, and the men led the horses there to refill their canteens. Guinevere walked in the opposite direction. She kept everyone in sight, but her head ached with the strain of the night before coupled with the stress and fear of discovery. She wished Arthur would join her so they could talk about what she had done, but he remained with his men.

  Sir Tristan walked among them. Healthy. Alive. She had done that. And she did not regret it. Even if she had been caught, she could not have regretted it. It had been the right thing to do.

  Arthur had told her once that he would never put anything above Camelot. Remembering this, she cringed, guilty. She had put Sir Tristan above Camelot. If she had been caught, it could very well have threatened Arthur’s rule. She understood why he had forbidden her. But she could not bring herself to accept that Sir Tristan should have died to keep her secret safe. She would have lied, said she was sent to trick Arthur. Said she had bewitched him and he never knew. Done whatever she had to in order to protect him.

  She rested between the roots of a massive tree. A hand against its bark revealed no bite, no malice. Just the deep, peaceful slumber of soil and sun and water. She closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of the sun on her. A brief, silly wish for leaves and roots filled her. How peaceful to be a tree! Trees had only to grow. Trees had no hearts to confuse and complicate things. Trees could not love kings and still disobey them.

  A shadow blocked the sun from her imaginings. She opened her eyes to find Mordred standing over her.

  She stood to meet his accusation. He gestured for her to hold out her burned hand. The evidence of her forbidden magic use. It had been agonizing all morning, but she had kept it covered beneath her clothes. She held out the proof with a defiant gaze.

  “Your eyes are green today,” he said. He crushed several leaves and then pressed them gently against her blistered skin. The sensation was instantly cooling. She let out a soft sigh of relief. Mordred wrapped a band of torn fabric around her hand to hold the leaves in place. Their skin never touched. She was glad. She did not want another spark right now, and Mordred ever seemed to burn. “They are not always green, your eyes. Sometimes they are blue like the sky. In Camelot, they are gray like the stones. I like green and blue better.”

  Guinevere did not understand what he was saying. She had never thought about her own eyes. But she did understand that he was not accusing her or announcing her guilt. He was protecting her.

  “How do you know how to do this?” she asked, wanting to talk but not about what she had done. She lifted her soothed hand.

  “Not everything in the forest is destruction. The forest is also life.” He pulled a delicate purple-and-yellow blossom free from his leather vest. “Can you feel it?”

  “I can,” she said, tentative.

  “Some things only grow outside of walls.” He held out the flower with a secret smile. He was not going to tell the other knights. He was going to protect her. “Keep it outside the walls and no one needs to know.”

  She took the flower. “Thank you,” she whispered. Relief and gratitude swelled in her. Mordred was on her side. Guinevere tucked the flower beneath her dress, against her heart, where it would be both secret and safe.

  Her wolves had almost tasted her. They came so close to knowing what the queen-not-queen was hiding.

  They failed.

  But they had succeeded, too. The queen-not-queen spoke to fire, and fire listened. And that is worth knowing.

  She brushes against the tree that cradled the queen-not-queen, feels the longing left behind in her wake. The queen-not-queen is not a creature of stones and walls, of rules and laws.

  The queen-not-queen is chaos.

  And Arthur brought her into his heart.

  At last they left the forest behind and were delivered safely to the borders of Camelot. The rest of Arthur’s men were waiting for them there.

  Arthur still had not spoken to Guinevere alone. Nerves and relief in equal measure seized her as he drew her away from the group. They stood together in the sun, out of earshot of anyone else. But Arthur’s face was clouded with an emotion Guinevere could not place.

  Ready to burst, she spoke first. “You cannot be angry with me for saving him.”

  Arthur sighed. “I can, and I am. And I am not. I am glad Sir Tristan is alive. He is very precious to me. But I cannot risk you.”

  She threw her arms in the air, exasperated. “I am not a fragile princess! I am here to be risked!”

  He opened his mouth to answer her, then deliberately drew his lips together and closed his eyes. He was holding something back, holding something in. She could see the strain of it on his face. Finally, he opened his eyes once more. “I have to go back out and see to the northern borders. We will speak more when I get back. Please do not do anything in my absence.” As though he could read her thoughts, he grabbed her hands in his. “Guinevere. Please. The banished woman will wait. When I get back, we will discuss it and come up with a plan. Together. Promise me you will wait for me.”

  She wanted to be defiant, but it was not anger or command in his face. It was g
enuine worry pulling his features tight with strain. She sighed, the fight leaving her. “Oh, very well.”

  “Thank you,” he said. Then, to her surprise, he pulled her close and brushed his warm lips against her cheek. The heat of him lingered as she watched him ride away once more.

  * * *

  The heat did not linger long enough to comfort her upon finding herself again on the barge to Camelot. Brangien held her as she cowered in the center. Even Mordred had gone with Arthur, so no one was there who could take her through the tunnel.

  Sir Tristan had been left behind in Camelot to heal, and along with Sir Bors he was in charge of running the city in Arthur’s absence. Guinevere had nothing to do but be queen. Exhausted, she let Brangien fuss over her once they were back in the castle. Her burn she excused as a hazard of tending to the bonfire in the forest. But thanks to Mordred’s ministrations, it was no longer painful.

  When it was finally time for bed, she planned to wait until Brangien fell asleep and then see to the magic-soaked rocks she had left hidden outside the alcove. They had given her an idea for something she could do during the intolerable wait. Instead, sleep fell as heavy and thick as a blanket over her.

  * * *

  The next three days were much the same. There was no Arthur, no Mordred. No patchwork knight to chase, no Rhoslyn-witch to conquer. Guinevere had made her own magic-bound rocks and placed them as sentinels throughout Camelot so any magic done within the city—not just the castle—would alert her. But as with the castle, all her knots were intact. Nothing had triggered an alarm.

  For the time being, she was simply a queen. It was tediously busy. Now that she had made it known she was available, she had callers all day. She made an effort to walk in the afternoons with Brangien and a guard, to visit merchants and be seen about the city. She did not want to be an invisible queen in the castle. Arthur did not rule that way. And she wanted to be his match. His equal.