The Guinevere Deception

by Kiersten White

  Tremendous bellows filled the air. He held out his good hand and Lancelot took it, helping him stand. He waggled a finger chidingly at the younger fighter, then took her hand and lifted it in the air.

  The crowd went wild. Lancelot had done it. She had bested all five knights.

  Arthur cheered loudest of all. He stood on the wooden plank, then jumped onto the field. It was his turn.

  And Guinevere did not know who to cheer for anymore.

  Guinevere did not want to watch, and she could not look away.

  Arthur walked directly up to Lancelot, clasping her shoulder and leaning close. No one could hear what was said. Guinevere felt a spike of jealousy as blunt as the tournament swords. Not because she knew Lancelot was a woman. But because if Lancelot became a knight, she would know Arthur in a way Guinevere never could. She would probably even see him more than Guinevere did.

  And perhaps a bit because Lancelot was a woman. What would Arthur think when he found out?

  She realized she also liked that she knew Lancelot when no one else did. She would lose that. The closeness, the intimacy of their midnight talk on the walkway, would be gone. Everyone would know Lancelot as she did, and Arthur would know her better, even.

  Arthur broke away from Lancelot, drawing Excalibur. The crowd erupted. Guinevere’s stomach turned. She clutched at it, suddenly hot and cold at the same time.

  “My lady?” Brangien asked.

  Guinevere stood, then fell. Brangien knelt at her side. Guinevere’s head was swimming. She shivered all over.

  “What is it?” Mordred asked, joining Brangien.

  “The wine, maybe? The spices?”

  “Does she need air?” Dindrane asked.

  Mordred put his soft fingers against her cheek. The spark of him reached her, and she grasped hold of it desperately, as though it were a line dropped to her. She felt impossibly far away, trapped somewhere deep inside.

  “Guinevere,” Mordred whispered. “Guinevere, where are you?”

  And then, as fast as it had come on, it passed.

  She shuddered, closing her eyes, then opening them with great effort. “I do not know what came over me.”

  “You swooned,” Dindrane said confidently. “Too much excitement. That is why ladies do not fight.”

  Mordred took her elbow and helped her back into her seat. Brangien gave her a handkerchief. Guinevere pressed it to her face, wishing she were back in the castle, alone. But she was here, and she was the queen. The weight of the jewels against her forehead reminded her. She looked out, worried, but no one was looking at the royal box. Not with Arthur and Lancelot on the field.

  Arthur had re-sheathed Excalibur, leaving it against the weapons stand. That damn sword. He was chatting happily with Lancelot, pointing to various weapons like they were choosing fruit from a dish.

  Mordred still crouched at Guinevere’s side. “Are you sure you are well?”

  “Yes, thank you. Too much excitement.”

  “Hmm.” Mordred looked out at the field. “I suppose so. At least they did not choose to battle on boats, right?” He smiled wickedly at her. She scowled, throwing the handkerchief at him. He snatched it out of the air, tucking it into his vest and then disappearing back to his seat.

  Guinevere tried to shake off the lingering feelings of dread and emptiness. She felt as though she had not eaten in days. Brangien, ever observant, passed her a bowl of berries and nuts. Guinevere chewed on them nervously.

  Arthur picked long swords. It was not a surprising choice. He was good with every weapon, but Excalibur was a long sword. He tossed one to Lancelot, then strode confidently to the center of the field. The crowd hushed in anticipation. In all the tournaments, no one had ever made it to Arthur. Lancelot was the first. And while many of the men of Camelot would be called upon in a war, a majority of the watchers had never seen Arthur fight.

  He did not swing his sword as a showman would. Like Lancelot’s, his movements were calm, measured. Contained.

  Thus it was a shock when he burst forward, impossibly fast, his sword a streak. Lancelot parried the blow, their blades ringing. But Arthur continued pushing forward, forearms out, shoving Lancelot off balance. Lancelot spun, twisting free and swinging her sword. Arthur met the blow, then delivered one, two, three of his own. Lancelot swung her sword as though desperately swatting insects from the air, only just managing to redirect each blow so that it would not hit her. Arthur was giving her no opportunity, no quarter. Lancelot had barely done more than deflect and parry.

  “Good!” Arthur shouted as Lancelot dodged another strike. He laughed, his chest heaving. Lancelot swung and Arthur raised his blade to meet hers. He held it there, forcing Lancelot to keep pushing the blow. But Arthur was bigger, his shoulders broader, his arms more powerful. He pushed harder and Lancelot stumbled back, losing her footing for the first time in all the fights. Lancelot fell. The crowd gasped. But Lancelot kept going, rolling so that her legs flipped up over her head. She landed with her knees on the ground, then jumped to her feet. She had never let go of her sword.

  Arthur laughed again, delighted. And then he charged. Now it became apparent Arthur had been holding back. His sword winked and shone, blinding in the sun. Lancelot ducked and weaved, blocked and parried. A particularly brutal blow knocked her once again to her back. Arthur swung his sword, stopping it just shy of her neck.

  Her own sword was held straight up, pressed against his belly.

  They did not move.

  No one made a sound.

  And then Arthur threw his sword, shouting in joy. He grabbed Lancelot’s hand and hauled her to standing, raising her hand in his own. “Sir Lancelot!” he shouted. “Knight of Camelot!” He embraced Lancelot, clapping her on the back.

  * * *

  After the tournament came the celebration. And if Guinevere thought the tournament had been violent and loud, she had no idea how a celebration with thousands of inebriated and very ecstatic people was.

  She clung to Brangien, even the space around the box now filled with revelers in the twilight. Her head rang from the nonstop noise. Everything smelled of ale and wine. Her stomach had not settled from her attack earlier, and neither had her nerves. She wanted to congratulate Arthur, to toast Lancelot, but she had not seen either of them in hours. Dindrane and Sir Bors were standing scandalously close to each other in a dark corner, whispering. Sir Tristan had come to check on Brangien and Guinevere, but had been pulled away by Sir Gawain to find more to drink.

  Whoever was supplying the drinks would come away from the tournament a bigger winner than anyone.

  “Can we go to the tent?” Guinevere shouted. Brangien nodded. They pushed through the crowds. It was too dark or the people were too drunk to realize they should part for her. The tent, at least, was separated from most of the masses. Guinevere sat gratefully on a cushion. With a buffer between herself and the noise, she felt better already.

  “I will go find some food and something to drink. But not spiced wine!” Brangien left Guinevere there with a lamp.

  Guinevere lay back on the cushion. She should be happy. Lancelot won. No one could deny her prowess. She would be a knight now. Guinevere could feel it. If anyone had discovered Lancelot was a woman, Guinevere was certain she would have heard of it. Better to get Lancelot back to the castle, away from the crowds, and sort it all out there. She was confident Arthur would take Lancelot’s side. There was no reason to deny her.

  She sighed. It was a good day’s work. She had helped more than one friend. Planned a tournament that would be talked about for years. Why was she not happier? She was being queen, like Arthur had suggested. Like Merlin had wanted.

  But it was not enough.

  Before, she had been sure of her purpose, of her place. Now, she felt like everything she was depended on Arthur. She knew that Camelot would always come first. Must come fi
rst.

  But what about when she needed someone? She tapped her fingers against the cool stones Arthur had given her.

  She heard the whisper of the tent flap. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Do not thank me yet. You have not even looked.”

  Guinevere sat up, startled, to see Mordred kneeling next to her.

  “I thought you were Brangien!”

  “Not a lot of people get us confused. I am much handsomer than she. Are you still feeling unwell?” He lifted his hand to feel her forehead. She swatted it away.

  “Brangien is coming back with something to eat.”

  “Is she? Or was she waylaid by Dindrane to get advice on how soon a lady can wed a knight?” Mordred sat back, leaning on his elbows.

  “Does Arthur know you are here?”

  “Does he know you are here?” Mordred had all the confirmation he needed in her expression. His own turned serious. He sat up, leaning toward her. “Guinevere,” he said, the lamplight low and flickering in his dark-forest eyes. “My uncle is a good man. But he is not a good husband. And he never will be.”

  “It is not like that,” Guinevere whispered.

  Mordred lifted an eyebrow. “What is it like?”

  “Like…a partnership. But it is not the partnership I thought it would be. And I am trying to discover what I want it to be.”

  Mordred reached up and ran his fingers along a strand of hair that had escaped her braid. He tucked it behind her ear, his fingers lingering there. She shivered.

  “Are you cold?” He leaned closer. His eyes held her there. His eyes that were always watching, always seeing. Mordred always noticed her. Whenever she was in a room, she was the center of it for him. She knew that. Just as she knew she would never be the center of anything for Arthur.

  Mordred closed the distance between them, brushing his lips against hers. The same spark she had felt at his hand was there, intensified. She gasped, and he drew her closer, pressing his mouth against hers. His hands were at the small of her back, her hands in his hair. She could taste how much he wanted her, how dark and smoldering his desire.

  She had never known what it was to be desired. It was sweeter than damsons, more intoxicating than wine.

  He grabbed her arm, sliding his hand along it to move her hand from his hair to somewhere else. But his fingers pressed her wound. The jolt of pain startled her out of the hungry haze she had lost herself to.

  She pulled back, putting her free hand to her mouth. She shook her head. “Mordred,” she whispered. “We cannot.”

  The light burning in his eyes slowly dimmed, like that of smothered coals. He hung his head. “Please forgive me. I would never hurt Arthur. I would never take something he loves. But, Guinevere…” Mordred looked back up, pain and pleading in his face. “He does not love you. I will. I do.”

  She did not answer. She could not, frozen by her own internal strife. Had she betrayed Arthur? She was not his wife. Not really. And Mordred was right. Arthur did not love her. He had never asked anything more from her than friendship. She was a companion to him, but never a priority.

  To Camelot, she was queen. In her heart, she was a girl who had lost her way. She was Guinevere, and she was not even Guinevere. She was without a purpose. And she desperately wanted to be wanted.

  All this time she had thought of what she was denying Arthur by being his wife. Tonight, like a blade to her heart, she felt what she was being denied.

  Mordred interpreted her silence as a dismissal. He stood. “Forgive me,” he whispered again. Then he left the tent.

  Guinevere pulled her knees to her chin, wrapping her arms around them. How had things gotten this complicated? Fighting the Dark Queen herself seemed simpler than trying to be a queen who was not a queen, to a king who did not need her.

  How much had Arthur sacrificed over his lifetime, how much of what he wanted to do and who he wanted to be had he given up to keep Camelot safe?

  Would she do the same? Would she live forever next to him, beside him, waiting for him to need her?

  No. It was not enough. She would go out, find Arthur, and kiss him. Surely it would feel like it had with Mordred. Everything felt new and different, everything had changed. She would use a kiss to change everything with Arthur now.

  But what if she kissed him and nothing changed? What then? That unspoken space between them was safe. If she closed it, they could never go back.

  Lancelot was brave enough to jump from her cliff, not knowing what bottom would greet her. Guinevere would be, too.

  There was a footstep outside the tent. She looked up, hastily wiping the tears from her face. She did not know who she hoped to see. Brangien? Lancelot? Arthur?

  Mordred?

  The man who came through wore a black cloak, a black hood, and carried a large burlap sack. She had never seen him before.

  “Good night, little queen,” he said.

  She did not have time to scream before everything went black.

  Men are hungry fools.

  If they cannot eat it, wear it, or use it, they kill it anyway. They spread like fungus through the heart of the world. Lift a rock, and there: man.

  But that is not quite right. At least fungus grows and feeds other life. Men only devour. Everywhere they reshape in their image. To their needs. Forests are felled for their homes. Fields are forced to bear their fruits, their grains, their decisions. A fungus only kills. Men change. Men demand order from nature. Men melt rocks and form metal, biting iron to pierce and slay. What can she do against such poison?

  She has been pushed back too far, for too long. But Merlin, the great defender of men, is sealed away. Chaos curls from Camelot. Where there is chaos, there are cracks. And where there are cracks, secret things can grow.

  She has been waiting for all the seeds she planted to sprout and grow, tangle, choke out what the usurper king has tried to claim. She needs the queen-not-queen and her heart of chaos.

  But someone else has taken her.

  Guinevere awoke to the sound of rushing water. It was worse than the splitting ache of her head.

  “Good morning, my lady,” a man said.

  Guinevere sat up, then regretted it as the world spun. “I am not your lady,” she said.

  “But you are Arthur’s lady, which suits my needs much better.”

  Holding a hand to her head, she blinked until the room came into focus. It was a dank hovel. A few holes near the ceiling let in knives of sunlight that did little to cut through the gloom of the small building. The walls were rock, roughly fitted together. The floor was packed dirt, scattered with chunks that had fallen from the walls. She could see no water, but she could hear it, all around.

  The man stood over her, hands clasped behind his back. He was shorter than Arthur, but broader. There was a thick power to him, the brutal strength of the boar. His hair, which had been braided back from his face, was traced through with streaks of gray like iron. His eyes were neither cruel nor kind. They betrayed no emotion, no expression. It was somehow more chilling that way. She wondered if they moved when he laughed. She suspected they did not.

  Maleagant, revealed. She had liked him better blurred. She had liked him better with Arthur at her side.

  Guinevere tucked her legs beneath her. Her clothes had not been disturbed, though somewhere her hood and the jewelry Arthur gave her had been lost. Movement caught her eye and she looked behind her to see two other men standing next to a heavy wooden door. The door was the only part of the structure that looked new.

  Her voice as dull as the rocks. “Sir Maleagant.”

  “No screaming or pleading. Good. I like southern ladies. You are always so well-bred. Like dogs, instructed from birth to serve your purpose. To obey your master.” He crouched so they were face to face. “I am your master now.” He slapped her. The impact snapped her he
ad to the side, setting it ringing again from the blow that had knocked her unconscious in the tent.

  She was used to pain, thanks to the demands of magic. This hurt, but it was not unbearable.

  He waited until she turned her face back toward him. “I have some questions for you. Answer truthfully.”

  “I will answer truthfully or not at all,” Guinevere said.

  “That is good.” He slapped her again. This time she fell to the ground. For a breath, she let herself rest against the grit. Then she pushed herself up. She was fiercely glad she was here in the real Guinevere’s place, taking this punishment. At least poor, dead Guinevere was not being hurt.

  It was not rational. But it gave her something to hold on to. It made her feel stronger than she was.

  “You did not ask me a question yet,” she said.

  “I find it is best to punish dogs before they are disobedient. Preventative. Here is your question.” He leaned closer, studying her face. Then he ran his fingers down one of her now-loose braids. “Does Arthur love you?”

  Guinevere could not think of a question she wanted to answer less. It had been the very question she had been about to find the answer to. Before they took her. Now she would never know. “He cares for me.”

  He raised his hand and she braced herself. Then he nodded. “I believe you. Would Arthur sacrifice Camelot to have you returned safely?”

  This was not a difficult question. Arthur would sacrifice anything to keep his people safe. Including her. She knew it was right, that he was king because of it. And she felt equal parts triumph and despair knowing she could not be used against Arthur. For a tiny moment, she let herself wish he loved her so much he would give up everything to save her. And then she let it go. She had once thought she would die for him. She had not intended to prove it to herself so quickly.

  “I know he would not,” she said.

  Maleagant rubbed his jaw. “That is unfortunate. I had hoped a pretty, fragile thing like you would play into his blind need to protect everything. My dear Elaine broke him, I fear.” He paused, tilting his head to the side and staring not at her face, but her torso. “Are you with child?”