“Yes, I was a step ahead of you. Even if this unfortunate situation had not occurred, I was taking steps to cripple your power.” Arthur looked up, like a thought suddenly occurred to him. “That reminds me, I also have in my possession a decree stripping you of all your authority and awarding it to your wife. She will rule in your place.”
Lot was processing the information as fast as he could. Ana? But she was Arthur’s sister—she would never betray him. The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning. That was the point. Arthur had severed the artery that fed Lot’s influence; he would never again be able to plot an insurgence without someone knowing. A string of curses and foul words flowed through his mind.
“But all of this was going to happen anyway,” Arthur continued. “I am back to asking myself, what is the most fitting punishment for your crimes?” He said it almost as if he were expecting Lot to answer. Then his face lit up with inspiration. “If I do not take your life, perhaps this will illuminate for you where your loyalty should lie.”
At the slight incline of his head, one of Arthur’s men came forward, grazing his own blade against Lot’s neck. Arthur rushed into the throng of men, disappearing from view. When he emerged, he dragged forward two men with tattooed right arms. He shoved them to the ground at Lot’s knees. Two other men with identical markings were treated the same by one of Arthur’s guards. The hands of all four were bound, and each now had daggers to their throats.
Had I voice in this realm between worlds, I would have screamed. One of them was Aggrivane.
“Your sons came to warn me of your treachery and voice their opposition. They accompanied me on this journey to witness your censure. Now I find they may be more useful than I expected. Perhaps the sons should indeed pay for the sins of their father.”
Arthur turned his back to Lot, and one of the guards applied pressure to his blade, drawing a thin trickle of blood from Lot’s eldest son, who flinched but remained silent.
“It is your choice, Lot. Your life or theirs. And by the way, I know where my sister and your youngest are staying at the moment. Tintagel, isn’t it? It would be a shame if your boy had an accident.”
The threat behind Arthur’s words was so real I could almost see it come to life: a young boy, an untried horse, a mountainside trail, and bloodied rocks below.
Lot wrestled with himself internally, fighting two opposing instincts. His sense of self-preservation urged him to sacrifice his sons, but his impulse as a parent was to save his progeny. Compromise. There had to be a compromise.
“Is there no other way—no middle ground?” he finally said, and as he did so, his demeanor cracked.
Arthur only watched impassively as tears seeped from his prisoner’s eyes. Behind him, Lot’s sons bowed their heads, sharing in their father’s anguish.
“So be it then.” The words were the last breath escaping from a dying man. “Take me,” Lot answered. “I have sealed my own fate.”
Arthur approached, and as he drew his sword, Lot lowered his head. He waited, resigned, but the death blow never came. He opened his eyes and slowly looked up. Arthur stood before him, naked sword at his waist, tip to the earth.
“Lot of Lothian, I will take your life but not your mortality. Swear to me now an oath of loyalty, and you shall live.”
Lot pledged his fealty, kneeling at Arthur’s feet and kissing his hand. He acknowledged Arthur as the one and only high king of Britain, swore to uphold and defend him, and to remain true to him to his dying day. His words were repeated by all of the men who joined him in revolt. They had seen to what lengths their king was willing to go to preserve his title and were not willing to stand in opposition of him.
“All of my former conditions regarding your treasury and your right to rule remain in place,” Arthur said. “And I will release your sons on one condition—”
“But they have done nothing wrong,” Lot protested, back to his belligerent self now that the danger had passed.
Arthur silenced him with a single glance and continued as if uninterrupted. “They will take up permanent residence at my court. I know they will appreciate the opportunity, and should you ever decide to rebel again, they are easily within my reach.”
Arthur’s threat—or was it a promise?—weighed heavily on my mind until I finally slipped into complete unconsciousness.
Chapter Fifteen
Spring 496
I remained in an unresponsive state for the better part of a week, alternately restless in my dreams—as Lyonesse chose to call them—or sleeping so still and silently that several times they thought me dead from fever. They had even called in Father Joseph to give me the final blessing.
“That’s when the real fun began.” Isolde smiled slyly at the memory as she sat at my bedside one cold, sunny morning. “Father Joseph examined you and declared you very much alive, though gravely ill. That was when I gave you the diluted drop of wolfsbane.” Her tone held the slightest hint of remorse. “I know it was dangerous, but you were already more among the dead than the living . . .”
I gently placed my hand on top of hers. “Isolde, you did very well. It was probably that tiny drop that brought me out of my illness. Viviane used to tell us that wolfsbane was one of the few herbs that could draw a soul back through the veil and release it from the grip of death.” As if on cue, a rumbling cough welled up in my chest, leaving me breathless.
Isolde looked away, embarrassed, and continued with her story. “Anyway, Lyonesse had received word that morning that what you were seeing about Lot and the high king really was true. The letter even confirmed Arthur’s bitterness at Uriens’ betrayal—”
A shock raced through me. My eyes widened. “What did you say?”
Isolde cocked her head to the side and scrunched up her forehead in confusion. “That Arthur is upset Uriens sided with Lot.” She continued without letting me respond. “The letter also said that when it was over, Arthur took away Uriens’ right to rule the town of Carlisle. They say it will be Arthur’s new capital.”
I wasn’t listening. As she prattled on about Arthur using the town to keep a close watch on the aged ruler of Rheged, I went through our earlier conversation in my head. I had told her about Lot’s revolt and the anguish I’d felt at seeing the king threaten Aggrivane’s life, but as for Uriens’ involvement . . . I was still trying to figure out why he was there.
“I never told you that,” I interrupted Isolde mid-sentence.
“What?”
“When I recounted my visions to you, I never told you Uriens was there.” An accusatory edge crept into my voice unbidden.
Confusion clouded her face, but then just as quickly cleared into another sunny smile. “No, silly, not then. You told me that while the sight was upon you. You practically narrated everything you were seeing.”
I was stunned silent. I saw the visions as clear as day, but as though I was out of my body. I had no connection to it, no way to make it work, which was why I could not scream.
I shook my head. “That is not possible. I tried several times to speak before I knew what was happening. I tried to call out to Arthur, to Aggrivane, to react to what I saw.”
Isolde’s eyes were bright with wonder as she tried to reconcile what she had experienced with what I was telling her. “But you did, Guinevere. You screamed like you were being murdered. That must have been when you saw Aggrivane,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“But how could I have been telling you what I saw?”
“You answered every question I asked you, responded to my voice . . . did you not hear me?”
“You were questioning me? I heard nothing but the sound of my visions. I would have remembered your voice. I am sure it would have brought me back to you.” As soon as I spoke, I heard the affection in my own voice. I was truly growing to love Isolde.
She caught the inflection and blushed in response. “
It was the same with Islene,” she said quietly.
“Who?”
She looked uncomfortable now. “Islene, my sister. She has the sight. Growing up, I used to coach her through each one of her visions, asking her what she saw, drawing more description out of her. It became so ingrained in me that when I realized you were not merely dreaming like Lyonesse thought, I automatically began asking you questions. And you responded just like Islene used to.” Her words rushed out, pensive and hushed as they always were when she was thinking aloud, a frequent habit. “But your gift is different than hers. Islene can see the future. You seem to be able to see things that are happening in the moment, but far away. It’s almost like you can be in two places at once.” Her voice wavered with emotion.
I leaned forward hoping she would go on.
“Islene told my mother not to send me here, not to sign the treaty. But no one listened to her—no one ever did.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.
I patted her shoulder gently, intending to comfort her, but she winced, distracting me from my intended question about Islene’s visions. “What is wrong?”
She wiped her eyes with her hand and looked down. “Nothing. I have gotten away from my point. We were talking about Lyonesse and Father Joseph.”
Isolde was forcing herself to be cheery, that much was clear, but her grimace hadn’t escaped my notice. I yanked back the neck of her gown, ignoring her feeble attempt to pull away. A pattern of swollen, red flesh crisscrossed down her back.
She batted my hand away, as angry now as the patchwork of scars that marred her flesh. “It is no struggle to guess at whose hand I received these. I caught her at an inopportune moment, and she called me a witch for trying to heal you. That is all you need know.” Her eyes flashed a warning that made it clear I was not to ask any more.
I opened my mouth to respond.
“Father Joseph gave you a general blessing,” she said, cutting me off as she turned back to the original point of our conversation. “He was nearly out the door when Lyonesse stopped him. Since it seemed you were going to live, at least for a little while, she told him about your strange dreams and said she thought you were possessed by a demon. She demanded that he perform an exorcism on you. Naturally, Father Joseph refused. He emphatically stated that your body was ill, not your spirit, and what you needed was healing and love, not fear and paranoia. He told her she would have to find another priest if she wanted that ritual performed. This, of course, infuriated Lyonesse. She commanded him to baptize you instead.” Isolde leaned toward me, her previous irritation forgotten.
I could tell she was enjoying spinning this yarn. She had a gift of being able to recount things in a way that made me feel that rather than being an unconscious presence in the room, I had actually witnessed them. I could understand why Elaine was so enraptured by her.
“I have never seen a Christian priest come so close to assaulting a woman before. In a split second, Father Joseph went from a patient servant of God to an impassioned defender of the faith.”
She deepened her voice in imitation of the normally mild-mannered priest. “‘My lady, I care not what title you claim upon this earth; no one can command another who has reached adulthood to be baptized. That most holy of sacraments must be conferred by free will and a genuine desire to embrace our faith.’
“He gritted his teeth and laid into Lyonesse like no one had ever dared, advancing on her without fear. ‘This woman has obviously made her choice.’ He gestured to the mark of priestesshood on your sweaty brow. ‘Our Lord is much more gracious and understanding than you could ever comprehend. She will be saved by her own faith, should He call her home, so you need have no concern for her soul. I advise you to pay as much attention to the state of your own spirit and leave hers to her conscience. I bid you good day!’ And with that he strode out of the room.”
Another coughing fit shook my body, but after a few minutes, I managed to clear my lungs enough to speak. “I am sorry I missed that.”
Isolde picked up a small vial from a nearby table and shifted her weight so she was sitting fully on the bed now, facing me. She uncorked the bottle and began rubbing the pungent oil on my chest. The woody, heavy scent threatened to overwhelm me, but I immediately felt a little relief. Pine oil. Whoever taught her the healing arts had trained her well.
“Oh, but it gets better. Lyonesse tried to baptize you herself after that.”
“She did?” My mouth dropped open, eyebrows knit in disbelief.
She laughed. “Yes. And you screamed at the exact moment she tried to bless you with the holy water.” She was laughing so hard now she was almost in tears. “Guinevere, you could not have planned it better. You scared the wits out of her. She has not been back to visit you since.”
Chapter Sixteen
Spring/Summer 496
Once it was clear I would live, life at Corbenic returned to normal, or at least what passed for normal in Pellinor’s household. He went back to interviewing, berating, and sometimes forcibly removing Elaine’s endless suitors one by one.
But for once, the house was quiet. In a small antechamber, Pellinor was penning a letter to my father. Lyonesse was studying her prayer book, and Elaine was humming quietly to herself as she stitched. I was toying with my own needle but not really accomplishing anything. I was wishing I could find a way to sneak out and track down Guildford for another lesson. Liam had learned to write the alphabet and spell a few simple words, and I was anxious to resume his lessons after the break caused by my illness. I also was eager to begin rebuilding the muscles that had atrophied from my time in bed.
I tried to catch Isolde’s attention—the artful Irish princess always was helpful in providing an excuse or distraction when one was needed—but she was too involved in a whispered conversation with two of the lady’s maids to pay me any heed.
I stood, stretching my stiff limbs, and drifted over to the window, intent on searching the grounds for any sign of Guildford’s whereabouts. I hadn’t taken three steps when the chamber door flew open, followed by a flushed servant who almost toppled into Pellinor in his haste.
“My lord, I told him the family was not to be disturbed. I told him to wait, but I could not stop—”
Before the puffing boy could finish speaking, a stately man appeared behind him. The visitor ambled in casually, as if he had been invited and was expected.
The intake of breath from every woman in the room was audible as we surveyed our handsome guest. Even from a distance, I could tell he was taller than Pellinor. He had dark hair and pale eyes that glinted merrily, as though they found pleasure in each and every object they took in. His complexion was clear and soft and he was finely dressed, from his polished boots to the colorful, embroidered cloak secured over his left shoulder. The circular brooch that pinned it in place was a familiar symbol to me—a stylized horse whose limbs became part of an eternal knot. It was the same symbol my mother had borne on her left shoulder blade—the one by rights I should bear—the symbol of the Votadini bloodline.
“My lord Pellinor.” The elegant foreigner turned to Pellinor, who had leapt to his feet, hand on his sword, at the intrusion, and addressed him with the greatest politeness. “I am Galen of the Votadini tribe, eldest son of Chief Donel the Bold. I apologize for arriving unannounced, but I was told a messenger would precede me and be sure all the proper arrangements were in place. But obviously that has not occurred.” An edge of irritation crept into his voice but was as quickly covered by cautious formality tinged with warmth. “Nevertheless, I come to your home seeking the hand of your daughter.” He swept into a low bow before Pellinor.
Pellinor, clearly shocked, made a slight movement as if to speak, but before he could do so, Galen turned from him and approached Isolde. I cringed, stealing a glance at the equally transfixed Lyonesse, expecting him to make the grievous blunder of mistaking Isolde for Elaine.
Galen smiled at I
solde, taking her hand in his. At his touch, Isolde’s breathing hitched, bosom fluttering as she struggled to maintain her composure. She beamed back at him, effervescent eyes and alluring smile brighter than a thousand suns.
“A wild Irish rose,” he declared, clearly appreciating her beauty.
Isolde blushed violently in response and dipped her head in acknowledgement of his assessment.
Galen reached back as if to stroke her wild hair but instead produced a perfect white rose in full bloom.
Isolde gasped and took the bud tenderly, gazing, speechless, back and forth from the flower to its benefactor.
“A reminder of your homeland.” Galen held her gaze.
She seemed most content to revel in it.
I rolled my eyes. More likely pilfered from someone’s garden on your way in. As attractive as the man was, I couldn’t help but wonder on how many other women he had used that trick. How long had he been watching us to know where she was from? Or had he sent a spy to gather information? I looked again at Lyonesse, but she seemed just as taken as everyone else, her left hand resting lightly over her mouth, frozen by the wonder of Galen’s gift.
He approached me next, eyes glinting much like a cat playing with its prey. His smile was sly, as though he knew I suspected him. He took his time studying my face, memorizing my features. Despite the protests of my mind, I felt my body growing hot under his gaze.
“If I am not mistaken, you are descended from the same race as I,” he stated seriously, followed by a chuckle at the astonishment that must have registered on my face.
It took me a moment to find my voice. “Yes, my mother was from the north, from the Votadini tribe.”
“We of the untamed, ancient land always recognize our own.” He winked at me and produced from beneath his cloak a flawless lowland thistle.
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