I was saddened to see Liam among them. He had been trapped into defending himself against two much older men, a situation even his skill could not have prevented; only experience would have saved him. When he reached the sidelines, Guildford clapped a hand on his shoulder, obviously proud despite the defeat, and led him away.
There was a lull as the remaining men lined up, the scribes recorded their names, and they drew lots to determine the order of combat. Once they were sorted, the men returned to a holding area beneath our stand to rest and tend any minor injuries. This gave us a clear view of each man, and Isolde and I amused ourselves by critiquing them.
Galen appeared, and Elaine breathed a sigh of relief.
Eventually, Aggrivane led his brothers into the pen. I wanted with all of my heart to cry out to him, but I did not dare due to the close supervision I was under. Lyonesse had stiffened, well aware of who was a mere stone’s throw away. All I could do was stare at Aggrivane and pray he noticed.
He must have felt me watching him because he looked up, pausing in disbelief. Once he was sure I was who he thought, he inclined his head slightly in greeting and smiled the crooked grin that had illuminated my dreams for the last year.
Our joy was short-lived, however, as the horn sounded once again and the men lined up for one-on-one combat. The first to spar were two of Lot’s sons, Gawain and Gaheris, paired by chance. Gawain was the victor.
A litany of nobles followed, most of whom I did not know. Gawain and Accolon held a lengthy duel, at the end of which Accolon was forced to concede defeat; a lanky blond from Cornwall named Tristan battled Galen and emerged the victor, much to our family’s disappointment; and a brawl ensued when an unruly Parisi nearly decapitated one of Pellinor’s men. Both were disqualified, the Parisi for this disruptive action, and the Dyfed warrior for his extensive, bloody injury.
Although Arthur cheered with great joy and conviction at each round, eyes bright with mounting excitement, I could not match his enthusiasm. My concentration was beginning to wane when one of the men in the next pair was called by a name I hadn’t heard in years—Peredur of Gwynedd, Octavia’s son.
That couldn’t possibly be correct, could it?
I strained to see the features of the muscular man with curly blond hair. If I looked at him just right and peeled away the years in my mind, before me stood the young boy I had bid farewell so many years ago.
I calculated in my head. Peredur was seven when I left him and his mother behind for the isle. I was in Avalon roughly four years, and it had been almost a year since I arrived in Dyfed. That meant Peredur couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen years old, at least a year younger than the minimum age to compete as an adult. He must possess incredible talent to be allowed an exception to the rule. Either that or whomever he fights for is very powerful.
Peredur wielded his sword with a skill and grace well beyond his years. The crowd stilled to silence as he danced across the dirt, blade held horizontal in his gloved hand as he defended against the long reach of his opponent’s spear. He barely seemed to be making an effort, while his dumbfounded opponent fought with all his energy, trying to keep Peredur at bay and land a blow. In the end, Peredur defeated him with expert precision, using an attack that began by advancing on his opponent in a series of quick, short steps, and then deflecting his spear off to the left in an arc, which opened him up for the final blow. Peredur’s blade sliced a long line through his opponent’s armor and into his ribs. The warrior dropped his weapon, and Peredur held him captive. The tournament advanced to the semi-final round, crowd roaring its approval as the fighters changed places.
Isolde poked me in the ribs and inclined her head toward Arthur, whose gaze was fixed in our direction.
“That is the third time he has looked this way. Who do you think has captured his attention?” she asked, hope obvious in her voice.
I almost laughed when I imagined what we must look like to him—Elaine, Isolde, and I—all sitting here in a row, prize geese for the picking. We could not be more different in appearance—Isolde, tall with flaming curls, bursting with lust for life; Elaine, the petite, blue-eyed, blond definition of demure; and me, a short, raven-haired jumble of Roman and Votadini. Whatever his taste, odds were one of us would be to his liking. Even though I probably should have felt honored by that, I could not help but feel a little like a whore on display in a brothel.
I met his eyes only briefly, but long enough to see him smile just slightly. I returned his gesture with a slight inclination of my head and a soft upturn of my lips, a pleasant expression I hoped would convey kindness and respect, before turning back to Isolde.
“I think he is watching all of us,” I whispered, not wanting her to know Arthur’s attention was on me. I chanced another glance at him.
His eyes had shifted to Elaine.
“Actually, he seems to be concentrating on Elaine.”
“Not if I can help it,” Isolde muttered under her breath and sent him a smoldering look. “Will you look at those muscles? I bet he would be fun to take to bed.” Her fantasies played out in her expression.
“Behave yourself,” I admonished in jest, stealing one last look at Arthur. She is right. He is a handsome man.
Just then, Aggrivane’s name was announced, and I whipped around. He stepped into the ring to face an unfamiliar opponent. The man, a foreigner from Brittany called Lancelot, was dark-haired like Aggrivane, but his eyes were a captivating shade of blue that reminded me of the wildflowers that dotted the hillsides in this part of the country.
Isolde grabbed my clammy hand and held it so tightly I thought she was going to break it. She was bouncing nervously beside me, an action that was not helping my anxiety any.
As the men circled each other, I took a deep breath and did not let it out. Not only was my love part of this duel, it would determine which one of the two men would go on to compete to be Arthur’s second. Every sinew in my body was singing Aggrivane’s name, willing him to victory.
They rounded each other for a while, posturing and testing like feral dogs. Finally, Aggrivane’s sword lashed out like a snake. But Lancelot blocked him and parried with a technique I had never seen, a nimble flick of the arm he must have learned in Brittany. From that moment, Aggrivane was on the defensive, never able to regain the upper hand.
Lancelot fought with a grace I did not know possible; it was as though his sword were merely an extension of his arm. He followed Aggrivane’s every move, hawk-like, calculating his next several moves in response. Whenever Aggrivane changed tack, Lancelot had a response that kept him off balance.
Lancelot eventually forced Aggrivane up against the hay bales forming the perimeter of the pitch. As they fought nose-to-nose, Aggrivane abandoned his sword for a long dagger hanging at his belt.
“Brilliant!” I whispered, quietly congratulating him on his ingenuity. There was no rule against multiple weapons, though few had brought more than one into the pitch. But before I could get too excited, Lancelot had wrenched it from Aggrivane’s grasp and had his sword at Aggrivane’s throat.
The breath whooshed out of me as I exhaled in disappointment. I felt terribly for Aggrivane and wished I could comfort him, resenting more than ever the shackles of propriety that bound me to my seat. Isolde rubbed the small of my back comfortingly, and I placed my head on her shoulder, ready to be done with the tournament.
The final two combatants, Lancelot and Kay, Arthur’s foster brother, paced at the edge of the ring, waiting for the king to give the word.
I lifted my head from Isolde’s shoulder. Beside us, Elaine was wringing her hands, a habit she had when she was trying to make a decision. She called her maid over to her, removed one of the flowers from the garland in her hair, and handed it to the woman. Elaine spoke a few words to her before the maid departed, but I could not hear them.
The maid fought her way down to the edge of the ri
ng and attracted Lancelot’s attention. She said something to him, pointed toward us, and handed him the flower. He raised his hand in our direction and smiled. Though the gift had come from Elaine, I could have sworn he was looking directly at me.
“What was that?” Isolde asked warily.
“I’m not sure, but it worries me.” It was very uncharacteristic of Elaine to make any bold moves, especially in so public a venue. “Did Lyonesse or Pellinor see?”
Isolde looked over my shoulder. “No, they are deep in conversation with your father.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know whether to be relieved that they had not witnessed the strange turn of events or worried that they were speaking with my father. The last conversation they had had brought me here, so I was fairly certain I did not want to know where this one would lead.
Chapter Twenty-One
Several hours later, I opened the door to my chamber, expecting to find Isolde there. Before the investing ceremony, during which Lancelot turned down the position at court he had rightly won, Isolde had said she was going to try to get an audience with the king and insinuated I should use the time to find Aggrivane. She disappeared into the crowd, and no one had seen her since.
The room was empty. My heart fell, and I worried over her whereabouts as I stepped out of my sticky dress, washed, and put on a fresh garment. I was just reaching for my comb when I saw it—a small pouch lying on my pillow.
I picked it up cautiously, curiously, mind racing with who could have left it and what it could possibly contain. I slid apart the drawstrings and turned the bag upside down. Two round red stones and a small roll of parchment fell into my palm. I turned the stones over in my hand. Two queens. I knew without touching the paper who the message was from.
I sank down on the bed, tears already welling in my eyes. Reluctantly, I opened the tiny scroll and steeled myself to read its contents. It was Isolde’s handwriting, as flowing as her enthusiasm but cramped on the small page.
Guinevere,
I am fine, and you will be too. Breathe. I know you do not understand now why I have gone, but you will.
I smiled. It was like she was standing right next to me. The tears began to fall of their own accord.
I have returned home, to a place where I am loved and where my future is assured. Galen is with me, but it is not what you think. It is not what they will accuse me of. Please know that I am doing this for a very good reason, and I will explain as soon as I am able.
As you can see, I have returned your queen—you won it back today by your strength. Please accept mine as a gift. I no longer have need of it, but I pray you will find in it—and in the memory of me—the ability to endure your circumstances. You may return it to me when we next meet. I am certain we will.
Please take care of Elaine. She needs a companion, Guinevere, especially now that I have stolen away her love. I do not wish to break her innocent heart, but believe me when I say I had no choice. She will hate me bitterly for what I have done, but I tell you truly that by hurting her now, I have saved her from a much deeper pain.
I may not possess the sight, but I know you are destined for greatness. It was not by accident that I chose my gift to you. Whatever the days ahead may hold, remember that you create your own happiness; do whatever it takes to make life worth living.
Thank you for your kindness and friendship. Your presence has made the last year the brightest of my life. I love you as if you were my sister. You are in my heart always.
Isolde
For a long time after I finished reading, I could not move. I could not see or think. My mind kept recalling Isolde’s smiling face and replaying the events of the day. I had been by her side nearly all day. How could this have happened? How could she have just disappeared? It would take a long time for me to truly understand she was gone.
It was my duty to inform the others, so I returned the two stones to their pouch and secured it to the belt at my waist. That way Isolde always would be with me. I hurried down the stairs to the hall, where the family had agreed to gather.
Pellinor’s agitated voice reached me before I entered the room. “In truth, I know not where Galen is.”
I barged into the room, letter in hand. “I know where he is.”
Silence greeted my confident declaration, and I looked up, noticing with a start that the family was not alone. Four burly, dark-haired men with full beards were standing in a line before Pellinor. Their colorful, richly embroidered cloaks proclaimed them from the tribes of the north—those between Hadrian and Antonine Walls—like Galen. Each wore a brooch representing one of the four tribes.
“She is one of them; maybe she can tell us if what they say is true.” Lyonesse scoffed at me with unusual distain.
I had no idea what was going on or what Lyonesse meant. I was one of whom? I scanned each face in the room, searching for answers. Elaine looked pale, Pellinor was growing redder by the minute, and Lyonesse wrinkled her nose at her guests as though they emitted a foul stench.
One of the men handed me an official-looking document.
As soon as my eyes fell upon it, I understood part of the confusion. It was written in their native language, which was more a series of glyphs than letters, so no one else in the room was able to read it. It had been many years since I had studied my mother’s native tongue, but I understood enough to decipher its meaning.
“It is a ban of marriage,” I stated, still uncertain what this meant.
“Yes,” one of the strangers replied. “You will see that the bride is Fia, daughter of Brennen of the Selgovae.”
I nodded, seeing her name.
“And please tell us who is listed as the husband.”
My eyes dropped to next line, and I gasped. “Galen, son of Donel the Bold, of the Votadini.”
I looked up at Elaine in astonishment. For a moment, she mirrored my shock. Then she began to cry.
“He is married?” I could scarcely force the words past my lips.
“Yes, lady,” the tallest of the men addressed me. “And he is a wanted man. Not only did he abandon his wife, he has impregnated and deserted at least two other women in the lands between his home and here. We have come to take him to face his punishment.”
“But we do not know where he is,” Pellinor interjected, his face ashen now.
“I do.” I held up the letter. “He has fled to Ireland.”
Elaine began to sob.
“With Isolde,” I added. I couldn’t bear to meet Elaine’s gaze.
Elaine let out a cry so guttural and heart-wrenching, I thought she was going to collapse on the spot. I expected Lyonesse to comfort her, but instead she curled her fingers around the arms of her chair, digging her fingertips into the wood in anger, knuckles turning white. It was Elaine’s maid who took the poor girl into her arms, pulling her off to the corner of the room.
“Gentlemen,” Pellinor’s voice was sober as he passed Isolde’s note to the foreigners, “as you can see, I have no power where he has gone. I assure you that he was these many months engaged to marry my daughter, and I had no hand in aiding his escape. I suggest you take your grievances to the Queen of Ireland.”
The Votadini regarded one another, jaws clenched in frustration. One of them nodded, and they all bowed to Pellinor in unison. Their leader thanked Pellinor for his time, and without another word, they departed.
The tension in the room eased, but only minutely. Elaine’s sobs punctuated the silence at intervals. I quickly stashed away the note before it could be taken from me.
Lyonesse crossed the room to where Elaine stood, supported by her maid, the woman’s arms the only thing keeping her upright. Lyonesse reached out to Elaine and I thought she would embrace her grieving daughter, but was startled when her hand came down full force across Elaine’s cheek. The crack echoed in the silence that followed.
Lyonesse circled
her daughter like a wolf. “I put my faith in you, in your virtue, and you bring me a philanderer for a son?” she thundered.
Elaine stared at her mother with red-rimmed, bewildered eyes. Her tears were silent now.
“Will you now have me believe that you still possess any shred of virtue? That you could possibly still be pure?”
Elaine raised her arms against any further physical assault from her mother and answered with a quavering, pleading voice. “I assure you I am. He did me no harm at all. I am as pure as the day you birthed me!”
“A day I will forever regret if your words are lies,” Lyonesse spat.
“Stop it!” Pellinor roared. “We have a bigger problem than the question of our daughter’s virtue.”
Every head in the room turned from Elaine to her father.
“Isolde’s departure violates the treaty. We are no longer safe from the Irish. As soon as she reaches their shores, we become vulnerable. I must speak to the king.”
The possibility of trouble with the Irish compelled Arthur to remain at Corbenic and, with him, a council of his most trusted nobles.
Elaine spoke to no one for days, a ghost amid the feasting and festivities that accompanied the king’s extended visit. When her presence wasn’t required, she remained closeted in her chambers, weeping out her pain and frustration.
Even when she began to come around, Elaine spoke only when she was addressed and kept to herself as much as possible. Judging by her past behavior, this should only be a transitory phase, yet I was concerned. A light had gone out from behind Elaine’s eyes, and I was afraid it signaled some permanent destructive change in her.
One evening when we were alone—Pellinor off in council with Arthur and his men, Lyonesse entertaining the ladies—I convinced Elaine to go for a walk with me. As we wound through the village streets in the cool night air, I tried to get Elaine to talk to me.
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