The Guinevere Deception

by Kiersten White

  The knights rode directly through the crowd to shouting and cheers so loud Guinevere would have covered her ears had it not been rude to do so. Rows of rough-hewn benches had been placed all around the combat field. Flags snapped from poles. Jugglers and minstrels strolled around the edges, entertaining the crowds while they waited for the fights to begin. Beyond them, there were tents in case any of the ladies wished to retire, or the knights needed to pray or change clothing or otherwise prepare themselves. In the prime position overlooking the field was a raised platform, enclosed like a box with rippling yellow and green fabric walls. It held a large, high-backed wooden chair, a smaller one next to it, and several rows of benches for the ladies and for knights who would not be fighting.

  Arthur’s chair was empty. Guinevere rode to the stand, then dismounted. Servants led the horses away. It was amazing how many things she had to worry about—her clothing, her wrists, her ankles, her hair, whom she spoke to and for how long, so on and so forth—and yet how few things like choosing what to wear, paying for it, taking care of her own things, preparing her own food. She had not even held a coin since coming to Camelot.

  She stepped up and into the shade of the royal box. She paused in front of her chair, waving. The crowd shouted in appreciation. Then she sat, and waited.

  For Arthur.

  She was still not very good at it. The thought of how much time in her future she would have to practice waiting for him made the brilliant day dimmer.

  Brangien arrived at her side with a goblet of spiced wine. Spices were so expensive, they rarely used them. But tournaments were even more special than weddings, apparently. Guinevere sipped, idly watching the performers as they made the rounds. Dindrane joined them. She shifted in agitation.

  “Is something the matter?” Guinevere asked.

  “Yes. No. I am not certain. Time will tell.” Dindrane put her hands to her mouth, grimacing. Then she smoothed her lovely brown hair and set her hands primly in her lap. “I gave my handkerchief to Sir Bors. I am not certain he even knew what to do with it. But if he wears it today, I think—I hope—perhaps I will be courted soon.”

  Guinevere wanted to laugh at the idea of clever, waspish Dindrane with that bull of a man. But he was good, at heart. Arthur trusted him. And he was older. He had had a wife many years ago, but she died in childbirth. He had a son still, and did not need an heir. Dindrane would be a good match for him.

  Guinevere smiled and reached across Brangien to pat Dindrane’s knee. “I hope he wears it. And if he does not, he is a fool.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt he is a fool. But I dearly hope he will be my fool.”

  Finally, Guinevere had permission to laugh. She settled into her chair, still searching the crowds, looking for something. She caught herself. Looking for someone. Where was Arthur?

  There was a ripple, a drop of commotion that spread outward from the crowd across the field. People jostled, exclaiming, pushing to get a better view. A child sitting on his father’s shoulders was lifted free and put on a different set of shoulders. Arthur emerged from among the crowd. No horseback entry for him. No immediate delivery to the separate, raised platform. Arthur galloped across the field, the child shrieking in delight as the king pretended to be a horse. Then, swinging the boy back to his waiting parents, Arthur raised his arms in greeting.

  If Guinevere thought the shouting for the knights had been too loud, this was deafening. Arthur ran the full length of the field, passing each section so everyone would have a chance to see him. To be near him. Hands reached out and he held his own to them, brushing them as he passed.

  He leapt onto the platform. Guinevere beamed at him, but he did not even look at her before turning around to face his people.

  “Camelot!” The roar swelled and then faded to a low hum. “My people! Friends from near and far! Today is a wonderful day. Is it not?” Another tremendous roar. Arthur held up his hands and it quieted. “Today represents the very heart of Camelot. Today represents everything we work for. Today, we recognize valor. We test bravery. And we reward strength and goodness! Today, the brave warrior who saved my queen—” The crowd roared in approval again, and Arthur let them carry on. Guinevere raised her hand, acknowledging the people, though her only role in this narrative had been to be in peril and be saved. When they stopped cheering, Arthur continued. “He saved my queen from a rampaging beast. But you already know him from the arena. You have long watched the patchwork knight. Today, you meet Lancelot!”

  On cue, Lancelot rode into the center of the field. Guinevere was delighted to see she rode her own horse. The loyal, smart blind steed that had taken such good care of them. Lancelot turned toward their box and inclined her head. Guinevere felt a thrill of nerves for her.

  The crowd was wild, collectively giddy to finally see the patchwork knight face real opponents. Until now, Lancelot had faced only other aspirants. Today, Lancelot faced knights. Arthur’s knights. And there was no one better.

  In truth, Lancelot faced more than just the knights. But all an aspirant had to do at tournament was defeat at least three knights in combat chosen by those knights. Nowhere was it noted that the aspirant had to be a man.

  Arthur sat. He turned toward Guinevere, beaming, his excitement contagious. “I have something for you,” he said. He reached into a pouch at his side and pulled free a chain of silver, green jewels delicately clasped and streaming from it.

  Brangien bit her lip in delight. “You cannot wear jewels in your hair anymore,” she whispered, “but you can wear them on your head.”

  “For a queen,” Arthur said, his voice pitching soft. “For my queen.” He tried to fasten the piece around her head, fumbling it. Brangien huffed and stood, taking over. Guinevere felt the cool touch of the silver against her forehead, the subtle weight of the green stones. It was not a crown or a circlet, but it was a reminder. Of who she was. Of who Arthur had chosen her to be.

  “I had it made the same day as your iron threads,” he added. When she, as a witch, had been commissioning pieces to protect him, he had been commissioning them to make her a queen. “Beautiful,” he said, and she did not know if he meant the jewelry or her.

  “Thank you.” She lifted a finger to run along the lifeless stones. She had meant to bind magic to her jewels. But they bound her to Arthur now, which was a sort of magic. She hoped.

  The crowd roared, drawing Arthur and Guinevere’s attention from each other. Sir Tristan, newest of Arthur’s knights, was first and had walked onto the field. A year ago he had been there as aspirant. He had bested only four of the five knights, so he had never faced Arthur. None of the knights chosen through combat had.

  “Who defeated Sir Tristan when it was his tournament?” Guinevere asked.

  “Mordred,” Brangien said, watching nervously as Sir Tristan looked over the wall of weapons. He was on foot, which meant he had chosen horseless combat.

  “Mordred?” Guinevere asked.

  “You wound me,” a voice murmured over her shoulder. She turned to find him with a smile on his face, his eyelids half closed. He was not watching the fight preparations. His posture said he was at ease, uninterested. “I am always the last defense between anyone and the king. And no one has ever gotten to him through me.”

  “Which is why I asked Mordred not to compete today,” Arthur said. He was only half-listening to them. “I want to fight Lancelot.”

  All conversation was ended with the roar of the crowd. Sir Tristan let Lancelot choose first from the offerings of blunted swords. The rules were simple: First combatant to strike what would be a killing blow was the winner.

  But simple did not mean safe. Dindrane nervously listed every injury that had happened during a tournament. Broken ribs were most common. Concussions. Broken arms. During the first tournament, where multiple aspirants had been trying to gain knighthood, one unfortunate combatant never woke up after a
vicious blow to his head.

  Tournaments were not games. They determined the fate of a potential knight. And knights determined the fate of Camelot.

  Sir Tristan and Lancelot circled each other. Sir Tristan wore his own leather armor, plated with sections of metal, and a metal helmet that left his face clear. Lancelot, much to the delight of the crowd, was fighting with mask in place.

  “Do you think he is ugly?” Dindrane speculated as the fighters circled each other. Sir Tristan feinted, the blow easily knocked aside by Lancelot.

  Guinevere’s heart raced as she watched, hoping. She liked Sir Tristan, but she very much wanted him to lose. “Lancelot is not ugly at all.”

  “And how would you know?”

  Guinevere froze. She was not supposed to have seen Lancelot’s face. As though any person would be wandering the forest in full armor and mask, all by themselves, on the off chance they would have the opportunity to rescue the queen from a wild boar.

  She was saved from answering by the first true clash of swords. It was as though a spell had been broken. Fighting began in earnest. Terrible blows were blocked with such force Guinevere shuddered, imagining how even that would hurt. Every strike Sir Tristan tried was blocked. Lancelot used the space better than Tristan, dancing around him. Sir Tristan was fast and strong. But Lancelot was faster. Lancelot leaned back, dodging a huge swing and dropping to her knees. She slammed her sword upward, stopping just shy of Sir Tristan’s chin. Had their blades been sharp, she could have run a real sword through his head. Even a fake sword would have injured him at that angle.

  Sir Tristan backed up and dropped his sword. He bowed. Lancelot stood, returning the bow. Then she went perfectly still, waiting the next challenge.

  “That was risky,” Mordred said. His face was between Guinevere’s chair and Arthur’s.

  “How so?”

  “If Sir Tristan had been faster, Lancelot would have been on his knees and unable to dodge quickly again. Lancelot risked everything, counting on an opening that was not guaranteed.”

  “But it worked.”

  Arthur was clapping fiercely. “Yes. Lancelot is smart, but more than that, he is brave. He holds nothing back. But he also showed tremendous restraint. Most knights would have delivered an actual blow as a matter of pride. I am very glad he did not injure Sir Tristan.”

  Brangien was slumped in her chair, exhausted from the strain of watching Sir Tristan fight. Guinevere patted her friend’s leg. “He is fine. He fought very well.”

  Brangien nodded, wiping at her forehead with a handkerchief. “The patchwork knight is special. Sir Tristan could beat any of the other knights.”

  “Almost any of the other knights,” Mordred corrected. Guinevere turned. He was examining his fingernails.

  Brangien rolled her eyes, ignoring him.

  “What weapon would you choose?” Guinevere asked. “Perhaps a vicious deer?”

  Mordred’s eyes lit up with delight. “Oh, Lancelot is not nearly so fearsome as the Green Knight. For him, rabbits would do.”

  “Sir George is next,” Arthur said, ignoring them. His leg bounced impatiently. Guinevere suspected if he could, he would leap out of the stand and take Sir George’s turn.

  Sir George rode on a proud black stallion, signaling a fight on horseback. He lifted his spear and shield to the crowd. They cheered. Lancelot retrieved her horse. The crowd tittered nervously. There were groans scattered throughout. No one wanted to see the tournament ended so soon.

  “Is his horse blind?” Arthur was horrified. “I would have given him one of mine!” He slumped back in his chair. “I cannot believe Sir George is going to win because of a better horse.” Arthur took a long drink of his ale, scowling as he watched Sir George prance around the field. Lancelot was still and straight on her horse. She accepted the shield and spear handed to her.

  “Next time we will make rules about horses as well as weapons. I should have checked.” With a sigh, Arthur leaned forward again, resigned.

  Sir George roared, galloping straight for Lancelot. He lifted his spear in the air—and with no discernable direction from her rider, Lancelot’s horse danced to the side. Sir George galloped straight past. He pulled on the reins, forcing his horse to a quick stop. But it was too late. Lancelot’s mount had turned as she moved, putting her rider in perfect position. Lancelot’s spear sailed through the air, thunking painfully against the center of Sir George’s back before falling to the ground.

  Sir George’s curse echoed across the field.

  The crowd erupted again. Everyone stood. Most people used the benches not for sitting, but to stand on. Arthur himself had burst from his seat, clapping and whistling.

  “Did you see that?” he asked, his eyes shining.

  Guinevere laughed, nodding, but Arthur turned around. He had been asking Mordred. “On a blind horse!”

  “He let go of his spear. If he had missed, he would have been unarmed.”

  “I know!” Arthur crowed his response as praise in response to Mordred’s criticism. He grabbed Guinevere’s hand and kissed it, then threw his own in the air, unable to contain himself. He did not sit again, but stood leaning out across the beam that fenced in the stand.

  Sir Gawain also chose horses, but this time with swords. Guinevere marveled with the rest of them at the superb control Lancelot had of her horse. They were as one creature. Because the horse could not see, she did not spook or react to things on her own. She followed Lancelot’s guidance with perfect accuracy. This fight lasted longer, repeated blows being exchanged, but it ended the same way: Lancelot triumphant.

  Lancelot triumphant. She had done it. Guinevere felt tears in her own eyes as she clapped so hard her hands—particularly her still-healing burned one—stung.

  “Three!” Arthur shouted. “Three!” He raised his fingers in the air and the crowd roared. Lancelot had just guaranteed herself a place among Arthur’s knights. Rather than raising her arms and exulting, Lancelot bowed her head. Then she turned her horse toward the king’s stand and put a fist against her chest, bowing even deeper.

  But she was not done yet. No knight would quit without going as far as possible. It was a matter of pride. Sir Percival hurried onto the field. He, too, had chosen swords. Though he was fresh and Lancelot already three knights deep into a fight, the match was over almost before it began.

  Dindrane snorted. “Oh, Blanchefleur will be so embarrassed.” She said it just loud enough for her sister-in-law, seated behind her, to hear.

  That was four. One remained. Sir Bors strode onto the field, wisely forgoing horseback combat as well. Dindrane squealed, grabbing Brangien’s arm. “Look! Look! On his sleeve!”

  A white handkerchief waved like a flag there. Guinevere’s friends had given her so many reasons to be happy this day. Lancelot would be a knight, and Dindrane had a suitor who, while slightly ridiculous, would provide her with a happy and comfortable life.

  Dindrane, tears in her eyes, turned to Guinevere. “Thank you,” she said, her voice so low it was hard to hear over the cheering.

  “Why are you thanking me? It is Sir Bors who recognizes a prize when he sees one.”

  Dindrane shook her head. “No one in the castle paid me any mind until you did. Your kindness has…” She stopped, dabbing at her eyes. “Well. You are right. Sir Bors simply had the good sense to snatch me up before someone else did.”

  Guinevere beamed and leaned across Brangien to embrace Dindrane. Even Brangien laughed and hugged Dindrane as well.

  Dindrane screamed Sir Bors’s name, her shouts lost in the chorus of Lancelot ringing through the air. Sir Bors paced the length of the weapons stand. He had not lived this long by luck. With only one working arm, he was at a disadvantage with any combat that required a shield. And he had seen how fast Lancelot was with a sword. Far older, Sir Bors could not match Lancelot’s speed.
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br />   But he could best nearly anyone in sheer strength. He picked up a wickedly heavy mace and chain, swinging the weapon experimentally. The crowd hushed. They could see the same strategy at play. Only the strongest could wield that weapon with any dexterity or skill. And no one had ever seen Lancelot use it in the arena.

  “Damn,” Arthur muttered.

  Guinevere’s heart fell, too. She had wanted Lancelot to best all five knights. Then not a single one of them could argue against her appointment.

  Lancelot picked up the other mace and chain. Where Sir Bors made it look like a child’s toy, in Lancelot’s grip it became clear how heavy it was. It was a weapon of blunt force, made for smashing through things. Shields. Armor.

  Bodies.

  It was also difficult to imagine a blow from even a mace without sharpened spikes would not do serious damage to the recipient. Guinevere rubbed at the still-healing wound beneath her sleeve. She wanted Lancelot to win every match. And, for the first time, she feared it was impossible.

  Sir Bors swung his mace and chain through the air so fast it made a whistling noise. He circled Lancelot, twirling his weapon with ever-increasing speed. Lancelot did not move her feet, keeping the mace ball on the ground.

  Sir Bors swung for Lancelot’s ribs. Lancelot darted back, the mace squeaking across her armor. The speed and force of the blow carried Sir Bors past Lancelot. Without losing momentum, he spun, following the wickedly heavy ball back around for another blow. Lancelot was ready. She dove and, rather than swinging her mace, kept it anchored to the ground. Lightning fast, she wrapped the chain around Sir Bors’s leg.

  Sir Bors, his own momentum too much, fell forward to the ground. Lancelot scrambled onto his back, pressing her knee at the base of his spine so he could not rise. Then she dragged her mace up and set it gently at the base of his skull.

  “That was cheating!” Dindrane screamed.

  Sir Bors was shaking. The crowd quieted. Had he been injured? Lancelot stood, removing pressure. Sir Bors rolled onto his back, and the source of the shaking was revealed. He was laughing.