Brangien laughed. “No. It felt anything but safe. It still felt right, though.” Brangien turned and stole the comb, starting on Guinevere’s hair.
Guinevere wanted to know more. Needed to know more. She had crossed that line with Mordred, but he had never been bound by the same rules she was—or at least, that she was trying to be. He had always been there to disrupt and undermine Arthur. It hurt most of all, that maybe he had never seen her as anything but a means for attacking Arthur. She had felt things when they touched, and they had felt true. But even though he had begged her to come away with him, she could not trust that his motives were anything other than causing further pain to Arthur.
No more thoughts of Mordred. Only thoughts of Arthur. Arthur, her friend. Arthur, her husband in name only. Arthur, who was out fighting their battles alone because they could not fight them side by side. “How did you cross that divide between what you were and what you became? Were you scared?”
“Scared of discovery? No.” Brangien scowled. “Love between women is seen as harmless. Encouraged sometimes, even, as a means for high-born girls to expel excess energy with no threats to lines of succession. As though what we had was a child’s game instead of more real than any of their arranged unions.”
Guinevere had not even thought about being afraid of discovery. That had not been what she meant at all. “Were you scared that once you made it clear you loved her, what you had before would be lost to you forever?”
Brangien’s strokes were distracted. “All I knew was that I wanted Isolde—all of Isolde—in my life, beside me. There was no fear in that first kiss. Only hope. We were both surprised, I think, but there was no fear. Not then.” Brangien stopped. “Have you— Guinevere, this morning when I asked about your night, you were upset. Have you and Arthur not been…together yet?”
Guinevere closed her eyes. If it was known that she and Arthur had only shared a bed as friends, their marriage would not be considered legal. Not to mention the need for heirs to solidify Arthur’s reign and protect him from usurpers. But she trusted Brangien with her life, and with almost all her secrets. “I keep thinking—hoping—maybe one night he will be tired, or perhaps have had too much wine, and that will make it easier for him to kiss me and it will just happen and then we can move forward.”
Brangien put down the comb. She took Guinevere’s chin in her hand and lifted her face so they were looking at one another. In the low candlelight Guinevere could almost see herself reflected in Brangien’s dark, pretty eyes.
“Would you really want a kiss that was not meant?” Brangien asked.
Guinevere felt the misery pooling in her stomach. “But we are already married.”
“Give him time. He loves you.”
“But not like you love Isolde.”
“I should hope not.” Brangien laughed. “I am selfish and vengeful and jealous. The king is…honest. I think he will never offer you anything that he cannot commit to fully. I do not wish to dismiss your worries, but I promise it is better than a husband who treats you as a possession.” Brangien’s face darkened once more.
“Maybe I should kiss him,” Guinevere said.
Brangien smiled, twisting her lips into a teasing shape. “That is the best way, I think. Your first kiss is special. Why should you not be the one to choose when it happens?”
Guinevere cleared her throat and stood hastily. It would not be her first kiss. She had not chosen the first one, but she had not rejected it.
Brangien turned down Guinevere’s bed and then tended to her own. “I will tell no one, of course. You and the king are young. You have time to find your way to each other as husband and wife.” Brangien lay down and Guinevere tucked the blankets around her. “So much time.”
Brushing a kiss against Brangien’s forehead, Guinevere draped a cloth with a sleeping knot across Brangien’s chest, and her friend was gone to say goodbye to her true love.
Guinevere envied her—both the true love and the sleep. Guinevere would not risk another dream invasion, and so had resolved to stay awake. She could not sleep this night anyway, knowing Arthur was out there fighting their battle alone. After wrapping herself in a cloak, she slipped out of her rooms. There was an exterior door next to them. She unlocked it and walked out onto the stairs that encircled the castle, winding and soaring to the very top. Perhaps from the alcove near the top she would be able to see the distant line of fire. Regardless, she could work.
A figure peeled itself from the darkness and she screamed.
“My queen!” Lancelot held her hands up.
Guinevere covered her mouth, her heart racing. “Lancelot!” She leaned against the wall, trying to calm herself. “What are you doing?”
“King Arthur is not in the castle.”
“That does not explain why you are lurking out here.”
Guinevere could not see Lancelot’s face in the night, just an impression of her. But Lancelot’s voice was as clear and purposeful as her gaze would have been, had it been visible. “King Arthur is not in the castle, which means Excalibur is not in the castle. I always watch this door when the king is gone.”
“But you must be exhausted. Do you do this every time? He is away so often.”
“I am never exhausted. I am always ready.”
Guinevere laughed. “Well, that makes one of us. I feel always exhausted and never ready. Come on, then. We are climbing.” Lancelot followed her as they carefully wound their way up the side of the castle to Mordred’s favorite alcove. The night was cloudy and felt even darker than usual. Guinevere was glad for the unexpected company.
Other than Arthur, Lancelot was the only person in Camelot who knew the truth about Guinevere. She also knew the full extent of Guinevere’s magic, having seen her perform the worst of it in the hollow of trees where she revived the Dark Queen. If the story were known, Guinevere wondered, would she have an epic tale like Arthur and the Forest of Blood? Perhaps it would be called Guinevere and the Dread Hollow. But she would not be the hero of that story.
Sighing, she settled into the alcove. Lancelot stood at attention to the side. A thought struck Guinevere. “Did Arthur ask you to keep watch while he was gone?”
“I am the queen’s protector. He does not need to ask me to do my duty.”
Although she would have been delighted to know Arthur had assigned it—that he thought of her when he was not here—Guinevere was happy that Lancelot had chosen this, rather than being commanded. It was no small task, either. Arthur was constantly riding out, tending to borders. He always took knights, but never Lancelot. Lancelot was her knight, specifically, but Guinevere wondered how that made Lancelot feel. She had earned her place among Arthur’s knights, the same as any of them. Better, even. She had gotten further in her tournament than any other knight ever, fighting Arthur himself to a draw. And yet she was always left behind. Just like Guinevere.
They were here, alone in the dark, while the rest of the knights fought actual darkness.
“You should get comfortable,” Guinevere advised, focusing on the task at hand. “This will take some time, and will look like nothing but finger wiggling and intense staring to you.”
“What are you doing?”
“Searching.”
“For what?”
“I might not be able to be there, but I can get a sense for how the fight is going and make certain there are no other areas of the Dark Queen’s magic we have not discovered.” She yanked out two hairs and tied them around her fingers, similar to the knot for seeing. She had always been able to feel more than was readily apparent, and she used this knot to extend that ability—at painful cost.
Sensation left the rest of her body, and she leaned against the alcove’s low stone wall for support. She felt light and disconnected. For a heady moment she wondered whether she had fallen into another dream and would rush along the streets
or, worse, up the side of the castle to the hidden drop into the lake and the waiting Lady. Closing her eyes, Guinevere took a deep breath, trying to anchor herself.
When she was steady, her hand pushed outward. There were few sparks in Camelot. A warm glow from where Brangien slept. A few cold bites from where her iron knots protected the doors in and out of the castle. The warning that her seven anchored stones along the borders of the city would send should something come near. She shuddered as her hands passed over the void of the dead lake. It still bothered her that no magic existed there whatsoever, no hint of life or warmth. The fields had it, the smallest amount suffused throughout, though nothing that was not natural. To the south she felt the sparks of Rhoslyn’s camp, filled with women banished from Camelot for practicing magic. It was almost like visiting a friend, and she was glad nothing had changed there. She had not seen Rhoslyn since the Dark Queen attacked Guinevere in the forest with a possessed boar and then a spider’s infected poison. Lancelot saved her from the boar, and Rhoslyn saved her from the poison. And then Lancelot had taken Guinevere to Merlin and hidden with her as they watched the Lady of the Lake seal Merlin away. That had been the day that cemented Lancelot’s and Guinevere’s fates at each other’s sides.
With a burst of affection for the knight still at her side, Guinevere pushed north and west, sweeping farther and farther out, but other than the tiny pinpricks of wildlife moving through the night, she felt nothing alarming. Nothing new. Nothing threatening.
Finally, reaching the edge of her endurance, Guinevere threw her sense of magic toward Arthur. There was the line of fire. It was not magic, not in the same way the knots were, but fire was its own sort of energy. Hungry and chaotic and quite close to what the Dark Queen was. Life that could turn to death with a shift of the wind. Unpredictable and brilliant and beautiful and terrible.
She could almost feel it singeing her hands, could feel the dying trees and vines, those lives snuffed out. A retreat of energy, almost like smoke being drawn back into lungs. This was a fight Arthur was winning. And Arthur was—
She had found Excalibur. And Excalibur had found her.
The hairs wrapping her fingers snapped and blood rushed back in spikes. She was staring up into Lancelot’s face, held in Lancelot’s arms.
“My queen? Guinevere!”
“I am—I am fine.” Guinevere was not fine. This was even worse than when Arthur had unsheathed Excalibur beside her just last night. For one brief, horrifying moment, she had felt the cold, empty expanse of Excalibur. It was nothing like the fire or the Dark Queen. Those were hungry, active, bursting with life and destruction.
Excalibur was a void. It was not hungry, and therefore could never be filled.
And there had been a moment—a single heartbeat—when Guinevere had been certain she would be the one to snap out of existence, instead of just her magic. Her silly little knots.
Lancelot did not release her, and Guinevere did not ask to be released. She did not think she could stand on her own. Not yet. Lancelot’s steady presence was the foundation she needed right now. The rock seemed to sway beneath her as if she was on a wretched ferry. She could not tell how tightly she clung to Lancelot’s arm. There was no sensation in her hands, and would not be for several days.
After a few minutes, Guinevere felt capable of sitting. She moved gingerly, resting against the rock, shoulder to shoulder with Lancelot. “They are winning the fight.”
“That is good.”
“But this cannot be it. The Dark Queen is still out there. I would have sensed if she were in the trees. And Mordred, too.” Guinevere was certain she would know him simply by feeling his presence. “They are out there, and with this failure, doubtless they will hatch a new plot, and I do not know how I can prevent it.”
“Do you need to prevent it?”
“Of course!”
Lancelot was quiet for a moment. “Some things you cannot prevent. Not every foe can be predicted, not every move can be anticipated. You can only face them when they appear, as we did today. Successfully. So we do everything we can to be ready. We watch, and we wait.”
“I hate waiting.”
Lancelot laughed at Guinevere’s petulant tone. “Do not imagine us whiling away our days in foolishness. Imagine us as the adder, curled and coiled in anticipation of the strike.”
Guinevere laid her head on Lancelot’s shoulder. “I cannot sleep tonight.” Her hands were somehow both numb and in agonizing pain. It hardly seemed fair, but such was the cost of magic. She shuddered, unbearably cold as she remembered that brief brush against Excalibur.
“We will keep watch together, then.”
“Next time Arthur is away, you can sleep in my sitting room. That way you will be close enough to hear if anything is wrong. And you will not be standing outside in the dark, alone.”
Lancelot shifted so that Guinevere’s head was at a more comfortable angle against her shoulder. Her low voice was softer than normal when she answered, “I am never in the dark when I am protecting you.”
They passed the night secreted away in the alcove in companionable silence. For once, Guinevere did not fret over everything that was out of her control. Arthur had won this fight and Brangien would help her figure out what had taken over her dreams.
Lancelot was right. They would be ready for whatever came. Together.
At dawn, Guinevere and Lancelot saw a ferry approaching and rushed down from the castle. They arrived at the dock just as it drew near. Guinevere’s chest felt tight and painful—as though she had been breathing in smoke instead of waiting safely—as she searched the soot-stained faces. Then she found what she was looking for.
Arthur.
Guinevere closed her eyes, half tempted to pray as she had been taught in Arthur’s church. But why should she send this gratitude elsewhere, to an invisible god? She liked it right where it was: in the center of her heart, warm and hopeful.
She opened her eyes and waved, but there was commotion in the middle of the knights. Arthur had begun stripping off his chain mail and leather, right down to his underclothes. He climbed onto the railing of the ferry, stood silhouetted against the brilliant morning sun just now defeating the horizon, and then did a flip into the water.
Guinevere shuddered, imagining how it would feel to submerge herself in that cold, dead thing. Like sinking into a grave. But Arthur emerged with a joyful whoop and lay back, floating, face turned up toward the sky.
With shouts and jostling, several of the younger knights did the same. Sir Bors, thick and dour, shook his head. Sir Tristan laughed, grabbing Sir Bors’s good arm and pretending to tug him toward the edge. Sir Bors threw Sir Tristan over the side to uproarious laughter. Then, blowing out a sigh from beneath his ponderous mustache, Sir Bors peeled off his layers and joined them.
Soon all Arthur’s knights were in the water, splashing each other and washing off the soot and smoke of their victory. Even young Sir Gawain, who had ridden to the fight after filling his duties yesterday evening, swam alongside them.
No. Not all Arthur’s knights. Lancelot stood perfectly still beside Guinevere, at attention, hand on the pommel of her sword. Separate from both the fight and the celebration.
Guinevere did not know how long it would take the knights to finish bathing. She should get back to Brangien to comfort her and to discuss the dream and what they should do about it. And it could not be fun for Lancelot to stand here, observing. Apart.
“Come, we should—”
“Guinevere!” Arthur shouted, and Guinevere could hear the smile in his tone. She turned toward the lake. He was walking toward her, the water up to his waist.
“My king.” The water clung to him as though it would claim him, drag him back under. It rolled off him like a lover’s caress. She wondered briefly, sharply, what his relationship with the Lady of the Lake had been. He never spoke of her
without tones of wonder, but he also rarely spoke about her. Because there was nothing to say, or because it was personal?
“Three cheers for my queen, who found the threat and warned us of it!” Arthur raised a fist in the air and led his men in a disorganized cheer. Guinevere shook her head demurely, smiling. But it was a performance. She did not feel this was her victory. Even if she had discovered the threat, she had done little to fight it except leave.
And the threat was her fault. Every incursion of the Dark Queen, every time they found and fought her—anyone who was hurt or lost in the battles—would be Guinevere’s fault for trusting Mordred. For trying to fight as a witch, not as a queen.
Arthur splashed free from the lake. His underclothes clung in interesting ways that were they not surrounded by knights and ferry workers and the men who guarded the dock, might have required further observation. As it was, Guinevere felt her cheeks warming.
Arthur chose this moment to be observant. He took in Guinevere’s blush and smiled with a playful, nearly wicked edge that took Guinevere’s breath away. For the first time she saw the resemblance between Arthur and his nephew, Mordred.
Arthur held out his arms. He was dripping with lake water. “Can I get an embrace from my queen?”
Guinevere stepped back, raising her hands defensively. “Not covered in that water, you cannot.”
“Just a quick hug!” Arthur lunged, and Guinevere shrieked, dodging him. She knew they were playacting—that he was as aware of their audience as she was—but her laughter and her horror were not feigned. She loved seeing Arthur like this: relaxed, happy, young. And she loved that he had figured out a way to involve her in this celebration even though she had not been able to fight. And she absolutely was not going to let him touch her while he was covered in that fetid, wretched, seeping water.
Guinevere ducked behind Lancelot, keeping her knight between them. “Save me, Sir Lancelot!” she said, laughing.
Lancelot stayed perfectly still. Guinevere had placed Lancelot between her king and her queen. It was an impossible situation. But then Lancelot reached up and undid her cloak—blue, with a simple golden sun emblem in the center. She bowed and held it out to Arthur.
The Camelot Betrayal Page 4