The Guinevere Deception

by Kiersten White

  Guinevere and Brangien sat next to Arthur’s seat. Guinevere waited for him join them, but by the time she finished her meal, his seat remained vacant. She realized she had hoped that their tenuous new understanding would mean more time together. But while it changed things for her, Arthur still had to be king every waking moment. She sighed, picking at the stitching on her pale pink dress.

  “Do two such fair ladies have plans for the evening?” Mordred spun his knife on the table. “Perhaps a lively discussion of what color our queen will wear so as best to stand out at the tournament?”

  Guinevere made a face. She could not help it. The idea of spending any more time on the logistics of the tournament was sour in her belly. She wanted to help Arthur, but she had lost being a magical protector for this?

  Mordred laughed. “Good. Come with me. We are going to a play.”

  “A play?” Brangien repeated, her expression dubious.

  “You enjoy watching men pretend to be at war in the arena, but not actors pretending to be in love? Surely we have enough of war in reality. Why play at it in all our free time? Come. Let us celebrate the wonders of humanity.”

  Guinevere looked at Brangien. Brangien wrinkled her nose, then shrugged in agreement. “I do not actually want to talk about the tournament any more tonight.”

  Mordred clapped his hands together, rubbing them excitedly. “Excellent. You have not seen the majesty of mankind until you have seen Godric the Fair compare his mistress’s charms to the variety and quality of winds he releases from his—well. I do not want to spoil it.”

  Both horrified and intrigued, Guinevere could not say no.

  * * *

  They walked back as twilight lingered and the bells chided them to hurry home.

  Guinevere wiped away a tear, her stomach sore from so much laughter. “That was the worst thing I have ever seen in my life,” she said.

  “It truly was.” Mordred danced in front of them, moving backward to face them. “It truly was. I have lived nineteen years and could live one hundred more and see nothing worse. Are you not delighted?”

  “I am.”

  Brangien huffed, but she had laughed harder than any of them when Godric the Fair had mistaken his horse for his betrothed and made amorous advances. The theater was in the lowest part of the city. It was not nearly as nice as the arena, but it was just as packed. If tournaments made the heart race and the blood boil, plays made the heart dance and the tears flow.

  “Thank you,” Guinevere said. “I think that was precisely what we needed.”

  Mordred bowed, sweeping his arm out. “I am the queen’s most humble and devoted servant.”

  Brangien scoffed. “You are as humble as Godric’s poetry was lovely.”

  Mordred staggered. “You wound me, fair Brangien. Now hurry along, or we will be picked up by the watch and forced to spend the evening in a cell so we cannot commit any mischief.” He raised an eyebrow, indicating that he was not opposed to mischief of any kind, then turned his back to them and continued stepping merrily toward the castle.

  “You seem to have softened toward Mordred,” Guinevere said, watching his lithe form. He was lean, slender and almost delicate. A reed to Arthur’s oak tree. But he was lovely, and he moved with surprising grace. She remembered how he had swung his sword as though dancing with it. And she remembered the spark when his hand had touched hers.

  She had been very careful not to touch his hand since.

  Brangien nodded. “When I ran from the trees, certain the boar was still behind us and we were about to be killed, he was the first to me. I screamed that you were still in the woods and he did not hesitate. He ran straight in. He did not even have his sword. What he thought he would have done had he found the boar, I do not know. But his willingness spoke volumes. I might have misjudged him.” She paused. “Slightly. And I only said might.”

  Guinevere had, too. She had thought him her enemy. But really, he loved Arthur as well as or better than anyone. She suspected he watched her so closely because he was the only other person who knew Arthur’s history with Elaine. He did not want Arthur hurt again. They were united in that.

  And he had understood why she healed Sir Tristan. He knew they could not have magic within the walls, but he was not so rigid as to betray her actions in the wild.

  When they entered the castle, Guinevere felt settled. Something that might grow to happiness had taken seed in her chest. This was a life. A real one. Not the one she had dreamed of, or thought she had, but one that she could fit into in time. Mordred bade them goodnight and she returned to her rooms with Brangien.

  Together, they knotted the hairs for Brangien to visit Isolde in her dreams. Brangien thought it a sacrifice that Guinevere was giving up her own dreams night after night, but Guinevere did not want to dream. There was nothing for her to hope to see. And if Brangien and Isolde could only be together when sleeping, Guinevere would make it happen. At least her magic could accomplish this one thing.

  Guinevere curled up into her own bed. She toyed with Merlin’s hairs, still wrapped around her finger beneath a silver ring. She could visit him the way Brangien visited Isolde. But she was still so angry with how he had misled her, and that he had chosen to let himself be trapped. How could a wizard so wise be so foolish?

  She closed her eyes, grateful that she would see nothing.

  Though Camelot had been buzzing with anticipation for two solid weeks, the tournament seemed to get no closer. Lancelot stayed out of the city—to protect her identity, Guinevere suspected, though in armor and with her voice lowered, Lancelot was not obviously female. But it frustrated those who wanted to have Lancelot in their homes and manors for meals, or to watch the patchwork knight train.

  Finally, the night before the tournament arrived. No one was happier than Guinevere that the day was at last upon them. Not only because she hoped her friend would succeed. Or because she anticipated the excitement of watching.

  No, mostly because it meant she would never again have to adjust seating plans twenty-two separate times to accommodate all the ladies and their knights and cousins and friends while keeping in mind who was feuding with whom, who hated whom, who would be terribly hurt if they were not in the front, and who needed to be reminded that they did not have the right to demand a place closest to the king and queen. She would rather have done battle on the field than battle over the seating arrangements.

  But everything was as settled as it was going to be.

  Guinevere wanted nothing more than to sleep until it was time to leave. But with Brangien far away in her Isolde dreams, Guinevere found sleep eluded her. She paced. She could not help glancing at Brangien’s face, jealous not of the slumber, but of the company Brangien kept there. Guinevere was itching on the inside. Like she had been trapped beneath a layer of ice all winter and could sense the coming of spring thaw.

  She wanted out.

  She wanted a release.

  She wanted.

  She used the secret passageway to knock on Arthur’s door and then enter his room, but he was not there. She went back to her own rooms, disappointed. She did not know what she would have done if he had been there, but she hated being denied the surprise of finding out.

  There was an unexpected knock at her door; she opened it eagerly. There was no one in the hall. Puzzled, she closed the door. Then she heard the knock again.

  It was at her window.

  Which was in the middle of a wall high up on the side of the castle, with no walkway outside it. She rushed to the glass with a candle and peered out to see a face staring back at her. She barely muffled her scream, dropping the candle.

  “Sorry!” a voice shouted, muted by the glass.

  “Lancelot?” Guinevere could not believe it. She grabbed a cloak and wrapped it around herself. Then she snuck out the nearest door and leaned over the walkway. Lancelot st
ill clung to the side of the castle, hanging by only her fingertips and boots.

  “What are you doing?” Guinevere hissed.

  With more ease than Guinevere navigated a flat walkway, Lancelot climbed over to her, jumping the last several feet and landing as light as a cat.

  “I could not sleep,” Lancelot said, sounding sheepish. “I am sorry. This was presumptuous of me.”

  Guinevere laughed. “No, it was madness, not presumption. How do you do that?”

  Lancelot shrugged. She twisted her toes against the walkway, staring bashfully down. “I am nervous. For tomorrow.”

  “Me, too.” Guinevere led them around a curve to a more sheltered portion of the walkway, then sat, pulling her cloak around her. She felt suddenly shy. Both because she was in a nightdress, and because when she had last been with Lancelot, it had been a time filled with mortal peril and intense distress. Now, cocooned by the summer night, changed by what she knew of herself, she was not sure what to say. “How have you been?”

  “I have not encountered a single possessed boar, demon spider, or vengeful water spirit. The forest is quite dull without you there.”

  Guinevere laughed, leaning back. Lancelot copied her posture.

  When Lancelot spoke again, the playfulness had left her voice. “I am terrified.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of tomorrow. If I fail, then it is over. My dream is dead. I have nothing to build a future around. And if I succeed…I step past everything I have known into everything I have wanted. I feel like I am clinging to the side of a cliff in the dark, about to drop, and I do not know whether I will survive the fall.”

  Guinevere understood. More than Lancelot could ever know. Except she had been walking confidently in one direction only to find herself stepping off an unseen cliff. In a way she felt as though she were still falling. Where would she land?

  “Why do you want this so badly?” Guinevere asked.

  Lancelot looked down over sleeping Camelot. “I grew up under Uther Pendragon’s rule. My father died, forced to serve in his army. And my mother— I am not sure what happened to her. It is probably a kindness that I do not know. I was orphaned. Alone. No family, no future. So I swore that I would become the warrior I needed to be in order to kill Uther Pendragon. I trained without pause. I stole food, clothing, worked in fields as a boy, whatever I had to do to survive. And then King Arthur killed Pendragon before I could. At first I was angry. But I saw what King Arthur brought. And I realized my plan was as small and selfish as I had been. I wanted to kill Pendragon to make myself feel better. King Arthur killed him to make the whole world better. And so I decided that instead of becoming the warrior who would kill a tyrant, I would become the knight who would defend a king. I believe in King Arthur. I believe in his story. And I want nothing more than to be part of it.”

  Guinevere nodded. She understood this, too. Arthur was building something new. Something good. Something truly noble. And it drew those who could find that nowhere else. That was why most of his knights came. They could not find the justice and fairness they longed to defend in their own countries.

  Arthur was like a flame in the night. A burning brand. Even those like Rhoslyn who did not fit here did not begrudge him his light.

  Lancelot was ready to devote her entire life to Arthur, just like so many others. Guinevere envied Lancelot her certainty, her determination to become the thing that she knew she should be. Lancelot was born to be a knight.

  Guinevere was not born to be a queen. Would she land safely, filling this role? Would the fall kill her? Or would she continue falling, forever?

  “Thank you,” Lancelot said. “For everything. I hope the next time we meet in the castle, I will belong here.”

  “You already do.” Impulsively, Guinevere leaned over and kissed Lancelot’s cheek. “For luck,” she said, smiling.

  Lancelot put a hand against where Guinevere’s lips had been. Grinning, she stood, bowed, and then climbed straight down the side of the castle. Guinevere stayed outside long after, watching and waiting. She could not say for what.

  * * *

  In the morning, Guinevere sent Brangien ahead to the field to see to any last-minute needs. Being without Brangien also meant she could take the secret tunnel with Arthur.

  When a light knock sounded on her door, she hurried to it, happy with anticipation. She had barely seen Arthur since their talk in which he asked if she would be his queen. His days started before the sun was up and ended long after it had set—when he slept in the castle at all. But at least today she would get to be at his side the whole time. And she wanted to be with him when he saw how hard she had worked, how well the tournament had come together. It was proof to them both that she could do something other than minor magic. That she could be something like a real queen.

  She opened the door, beaming—

  Mordred’s face was already set in an apologetic grimace. She tried not to let her own face fall, but she could not help glancing past him, searching for Arthur.

  “He is not here.” Mordred looked at the floor, his thick, dark lashes covering his eyes. “There was a matter in one of the villages he had to see to before the tournament. He asked if I would escort you.”

  “I am sorry you have to.”

  “I am not sorry at all.”

  Guinevere did not know how to meet the challenge in his expression. Her stomach fluttered and she pulled up her hood, her fingers betraying her with the slightest tremble.

  She wanted one relationship—just one—that was simple. She envied Brangien her Isolde. Sometimes she wondered what they did in their dreams. Sometimes she wondered what she could do in a dream, if her actions did not matter. And she did not know whom she wanted in that dream with her as fire burned low and deep within her. Sometimes it was Arthur. And sometimes…

  She shrugged deeper into her hood to avoid looking at Mordred.

  She wore darkest blue today, but, in a nod to the patchwork knight, had asked Brangien to make her dress out of different squares of blue cloth. The result was playful, shimmering. Rather more like water than she had intended, but she did her best to ignore that. Her hood was deep green and only went around her shoulders, unattached to a cloak because the day was so fine. Her hair trailed beneath it, long and laced with delicate braids.

  “The queen looks radiant,” Mordred said. He offered his arm. She set her hand carefully and lightly on his elbow.

  “The king’s nephew looks quite dashing as well.” She bit her rebellious tongue for letting that out.

  Mordred tensed beneath her hand, then relaxed. She did not look over to see his expression. But his steps were light. Happy, even.

  “It is not easy,” he said as they walked through the tunnel. “I understand.”

  “What is not easy?”

  “Loving King Arthur.”

  Guinevere did not like this topic. She wanted to move away from it, and picked up her pace accordingly. “I am his wife. It is easy.”

  “We are alone. We need not pretend. I have seen the way you watch him, waiting for him to notice you. I know that feeling. Arthur—” He paused. Guinevere wondered how long Mordred had known Arthur. How it must have been to serve an uncle younger than yourself, knowing he existed because of violence done to your grandmother. Knowing your own mother had tried to kill him. Mordred had chosen Arthur. Chosen to believe in him and his cause. Just as Guinevere had. “He is like the sun. When he is focused on you, everything is bright and warm. Everything is possible. But the problem with knowing the warmth of the sun is how keenly you feel its absence when it shines elsewhere. And a king must always shine elsewhere.”

  Guinevere did not answer. But Mordred was right. She wanted more of Arthur than she had. Than she could have.

  “You deserve to live in the sun, Guinevere,” Mordred whispered, holding the sheet of vines so t
hat Guinevere had to brush past him as she exited the cave into the sunlight. In spite of the heat and the brilliance, she shivered. Part of her longed to go back into the cave. With Mordred. To trust him with all the wild and lonely things of her heart. Her honesty would hurt Arthur. She suspected—knew, even—that Mordred would not be hurt. He would understand.

  She hurried toward the horses instead. There was so much chaos and activity at the stable that no one even noticed the queen arriving with only one knight. By the time she was on a horse, she was surrounded by all the knights who would compete that day, and many others besides. Sir Tristan. Sir Bors. Sir Percival. Sir Gawain and Sir George, with whom she had never spoken, and several minor knights who were not in Arthur’s inner circle. Also, carefully avoided, Sir Ector and Sir Kay. Mordred subtly shifted his horse so that he blocked her from view.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He winked. She looked quickly away.

  The knights were in high form, their energy contagious. Lancelot would fight five of them before facing Arthur. They boasted and bragged, their excitement growing as they rode closer to the tournament field. This was Lancelot’s day, certainly, but it was also their day to perform in front of all of Camelot.

  More than just Camelot. Visitors had been streaming in for days, camping around the arena. Word had spread and the entire field was teeming with activity. Rickety booths and stands had been set up in every available space, selling food, drink, colorful strips of cloth representing favorite knights—Guinevere saw many patchwork bands tied to arms—and anything else that an enterprising person thought they could make someone pay for.