The Camelot Betrayal

by Kiersten White

  He wrapped it around himself. “Now?”

  “Very well.” Guinevere stepped from behind Lancelot and put her arms around Arthur’s waist. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

  “We won,” he whispered.

  “We did,” Guinevere agreed.

  “I did not find her there. Or him.”

  Guinevere did not need to ask whom he referred to. The Dark Queen and her grandson, Mordred. “We will find them.”

  “Sir Lancelot is rested,” Sir Percival grumbled, climbing out of the lake. “She can take my place at the aspirant training today.” He walked past Lancelot without a glance and without asking her if that was okay. Guinevere wanted to turn to her knight, to check on her, but Arthur took her hand. He might have squeezed. She wished she could use her touch sense to feel him, to draw some of his strength into herself. But her hands were ruined from last night’s magic, and would be for days.

  They walked toward the castle, Lancelot behind them.

  * * *

  The crowd cheered, startling Guinevere out of her doze. If she was this tired, she could only imagine how tired Lancelot must be.

  Guinevere was sitting in the stands and the knights were on the arena floor, organizing the day’s aspirant matches. The least Guinevere could do was stay alert. Arthur had filled her in on the details when they got back to the castle, but then he had been pulled away by the return of scouts he had sent north. Guinevere had wanted a distraction for poor Brangien. She had dismissed Guinevere’s questions perfunctorily as she shook out clothes, insisting that everything was fine after her last dream with Isolde. But her eyes were red and swollen, and so Guinevere had suggested they attend the training. Really all she wanted was a nap, but even that was an uncomfortable prospect. Would the invasive dream still have access to her mind?

  Guinevere blinked, focusing on the arena’s dirt floor and the various players there. The cheer had not been for Lancelot, who did not have the admirers she had once enjoyed as the patchwork knight. Guinevere knew many in the city did not accept Lancelot and could not fathom why Arthur had agreed to knight a woman.

  Guinevere wondered, sometimes, if Arthur would have knighted Lancelot had things gone differently. Lancelot had won her tournament without question, but during the celebrations afterward Guinevere had been kidnapped by Maleagant’s man, and Lancelot had been revealed as a woman. If there had not been the complication of Guinevere’s abduction, how would Arthur have addressed it all? As it was, in the confusion and scrambling to get information, Lancelot was simply forgotten. Which left her open to join with Brangien and Mordred in a rescue mission that Arthur could not pursue without risking war.

  It had been Lancelot’s bravery in rescuing Guinevere from the island where Maleagant was holding her and then Lancelot’s help in fighting Mordred and the Dark Queen that had given Guinevere the opportunity to demand that Lancelot be her very own knight. Arthur could not put Camelot second to Guinevere, ever. Lancelot could put Guinevere first, always.

  But without the leverage of Lancelot’s real-life heroics, would she have been knighted? If Maleagant had not abducted Guinevere, would Mordred have found a different opening to trick Guinevere into helping him? Or would he still be here, perhaps sitting at Guinevere’s side today, making her laugh?

  It was useless, thinking about how things might have gone differently. Maleagant was dead. Mordred was a traitor. And Lancelot was a knight. Her knight. Guinevere sat, visible in red and blue, wearing a crown of braids and cheering for her so that everyone would see Lancelot was supported. It was her own sort of vigilant protection; the only type she could offer Lancelot. Lancelot was not usually in rotation for this task, so Guinevere was excited to watch.

  Lancelot sparred with Sir Tristan and Sir Gawain as they waited for the aspirants to finish selecting their gear and begin trials. Guinevere waved a handkerchief, beaming, and then sat back into the shade with Brangien. The handkerchief fell to the wood floor beneath them. At least her fumbling fingers had held it while people were watching.

  Brangien did not notice, either. She looked haunted. It hurt Guinevere to be unable to fix it yet. She would, as soon as she could.

  After the aspirants were finished for the day, they were due back at the castle to finalize preparations for the travel to the estate of Dindrane’s father. As tedious as it was planning caravans and supplies, Guinevere was looking forward to the wedding. The travel would bring them across land she had not yet visited. And it was a week—at least!—with Arthur at her side. Maybe, away from the stresses of Camelot and the duties that pulled him away, they would finally be able to…something. Guinevere could never quite finish the mental image of what she hoped would happen beyond a kiss.

  Had the way Arthur smiled at her at the lakeshore made her think they were getting closer because it had been intimate, or because it had reminded her of Mordred?

  Brangien offered her a strip of cloth to practice knots, but Guinevere shook her head. She could not feel her fingers other than pins and needles, which made her useless at actual needlework. But she would be recovered by the time they left. On the road, outside of Arthur’s lands, they would be vulnerable. She would not be caught unaware or indisposed.

  She remembered Lancelot’s description of her as a waiting adder and smiled, picturing herself coiled up not with knots and tension, but with deadly power.

  A rumble of noise in an unusual tone drew her attention to the ring. One of the aspirants was holding his sword, tip down, his back to the knight who was giving instructions. His back to Lancelot.

  Lancelot did not talk about how the other knights treated her. When she was with Guinevere, she was always on guard, scanning for threats, doing her duty. Guinevere had no idea how things went for Lancelot elsewhere. But Lancelot had been excluded from a fight and a celebration, and then Sir Percival had dumped his own work on her without even asking. And now this insult! Guinevere stood, livid.

  Brangien’s hand on her arm stopped her from speaking. “Let her address it,” she murmured. “A queen commanding them to show respect will only prove to them that Lancelot is not worthy of their respect on her own merits.”

  Lancelot said something and all the knights—and aspirants other than the one with his back turned—laughed. They moved into their various rings, no one else hesitating to follow Lancelot’s instructions. The sulking aspirant was left alone. When he tried to move into a ring where Sir Tristan was instructing, Sir Tristan shifted so that his back was to him. Sir Gawain did the same thing. Guinevere held her breath when the man got to Sir Bors, one of the oldest and by far the surliest of the knights. But Sir Bors shifted and did the same.

  Guinevere let out a breath of relief. “They know Lancelot’s worth.”

  Brangien was more practical in her views. “They will protect their own. King Arthur made Lancelot a knight, and if they disrespected that, they would be disrespecting their king and themselves. Besides, you are the reason Sir Bors is about to enjoy matrimonial bliss. You are Dindrane’s champion. He will not do anything to offend you.”

  Perhaps Brangien was right and it had less to do with the knights’ feelings about Lancelot’s worth and more to do with their pride about their own. But at least in public they were united. Guinevere settled in and watched Lancelot work. It was funny to think of how certain she had been that Lancelot was a threat back when Guinevere only knew her as the patchwork knight. What had seemed supernatural about Lancelot’s talent then filled her with pride now. It was soothing to watch her own knight continually best the men around her, then patiently instruct them. She had seen only two people beat Lancelot. Arthur—who fought her to a draw—and Mordred.

  Who won.

  A shadow loomed at the entrance to their covered booth. Guinevere looked up, half expecting Mordred to be there with his wry smile and his knowing eyes, but it was only a servant page, offering them refresh
ments. The rest of the afternoon dragged. Guinevere was uncomfortable in the late-afternoon heat, exhausted, her hands painful. At last they finished and Guinevere and Brangien could leave. They walked slowly back up to the castle.

  “Buckets,” Guinevere muttered to herself.

  Brangien laughed. “What woe are you comparing to the idea of having to haul buckets up this endless, cursed hill?”

  Guinevere sighed, looking forward to undoing her tight braids, letting her hair down. “I am just tired.”

  “I will guard your sleep tonight.”

  Guinevere patted Brangien’s hand distractedly. They were nearly to the castle gate. Guinevere debated entering through the gate and climbing the narrow, claustrophobic internal stairs, or cutting to the side and taking the exterior stairs that soared and swept along the outside of the castle. Too confining, or not confining enough always seemed to be her options these days.

  “Guinevere!”

  Guinevere turned. A girl was running toward them from the gate. She had long golden hair that streamed behind her with all the luster of a field ripe for harvest. Her wide-set eyes were almost the same honey color, and she had a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her dress and cloak were lovely, all in pinks. Guinevere had never seen her before.

  She looked at Brangien in confusion, but Brangien seemed equally puzzled.

  The girl stopped before them. “Sister!”

  “Sister?” Guinevere nearly laughed in confusion. She did not have a sister. And then her stomach dropped in horror. She did not have a sister. But Guinevere—the real Guinevere, dead Guinevere—did. Her name was Guinevach, if memory served. Was this…Guinevach? Here to visit a sister she no longer had?

  Guinevere could barely think through her panic. This would be the end of everything. All they had fought for, all she had chosen, ruined because of a girl deciding to visit her sister. The deception had worked because no one in Camelot or the surrounding regions had ever met the southern princess Guinevere. No one had known what she looked like. But no amount of jewelry or fine cloaks would convince Guinevach she was seeing her own sister.

  Guinevere braced herself. But it did not matter. Nothing could have prepared her for what Guinevach did next.

  Guinevere stood perfectly still, arms pinned to her sides by Guinevach’s hug. “I am so happy to see you again!” Guinevach laughed, then drew back a few inches. “And look! We are the same height now. When you left I only came up to your freckled nose.” She wrinkled her own freckled nose in delight. “Do you remember how our nurse would make us sit side by side in front of the fire as she brushed our hair and lectured us for letting the sun ruin our complexions?”

  “I—” Guinevere did not remember. Of course she did not remember. And she could not wrap her head around this development. Guinevach was fourteen, perhaps fifteen now, which meant she had been eleven when her sister—the real, dead Guinevere—had left for the convent. But surely even a child could tell the difference between her own flesh and blood and an imposter. Though Guinevach’s embrace was loose, Guinevere could not breathe. She did not know what to say. What expression to put on her face. What to think of any of this. She stepped away. “I am so sorry, I am not well. Brangien?” Guinevere turned toward her maid.

  Brangien, who knew nothing of Guinevere’s false identity, swooped in to the rescue regardless. “The queen needs rest. We will schedule some time with you when she is well.” Brangien stepped between Guinevach and Guinevere, took Guinevere’s arm, and led her into the castle. Guinevere risked one glance over her shoulder. Two women were hurrying to catch up to Guinevach, whose face was carefully set in a neutral expression with only the slightest narrowing of her eyes.

  * * *

  “Get me Lancelot, or King Arthur. Both. Whoever you can find first.” Guinevere paced the length of her room, hands over her stomach. She had not lied: indeed, she felt quite sick. Brangien did not ask for more details and hurried out of the room. Guinevere longed to tell Brangien the truth of her identity, but this was a secret too dangerous to inflict on anyone who did not already know.

  Guinevere leaned out the door and called after Brangien. “And if you see my sister, do not speak to her. If she speaks to you, tell her I am ill!”

  She felt like she was trampling through her own mind, trying to dig around for crucial details. What did she know of the real Guinevere’s sister? She was two years younger. Her name was Guinevach. Their father, King Leodegrance, ruled over a small kingdom named Cameliard. And…that was all. The extent of her preparation on that front.

  “Thank you, Merlin,” she muttered through gritted teeth. Yet another way in which the wizard who saw all of time had failed spectacularly to prepare her for any of it. For many reasons, she hated him for allowing himself to be sealed in that cave by the Lady of the Lake. Being unable to shout at him for this was added to the very long list.

  It made her sad to think about Merlin, though, and everything he had not—and had—done. But she had other things to worry about now. She touched her nose, the freckles undetectable to her fingers. She had never let herself wonder what the real Guinevere had looked like. What she had been like. It was too sad, too uncomfortable.

  The door burst open and Lancelot strode in. Her sword was already half-drawn, as though she expected a battle. “Brangien said you needed me.” Though Lancelot no longer wore her familiar patchwork leather and metal armor, her hair remained wild, dark curls, worn plain without any of the braids or ornamentation that were the style for women.

  Guinevere sat, then stood. The flock of birds always living in her chest these days had been startled. They flung themselves against the confines of her ribs, beating and flapping in a frenzy inside of her.

  “What is the threat?” Lancelot stood in a fighter’s stance, feet apart, perfectly balanced.

  “Not one you can fight with a sword. Guinevere’s sister is here.”

  Lancelot frowned and then looked appropriately alarmed. “Wait. Guinevere—the princess you are supposed to be—was a real person?” Lancelot had never asked for more details about where Guinevere had come from. She had guessed that Merlin was her father, but beyond that, had merely accepted Guinevere as Guinevere had accepted her.

  Guinevere nodded and resumed pacing. Where was Arthur? “She died, and I took her place. She really was from Cameliard, and she had—has—a younger sister. Who is here now.” It was hard, speaking and thinking about the real Guinevere, having gotten so used to being Guinevere herself. The confusion was more than verbal.

  “That is…not good.”

  Guinevere answered with a high-pitched laugh. “No. It is not good. I just met her.”

  “Did she—”

  They were interrupted by the door opening. Arthur strode in.

  “Guinevere! What is wrong?” He took her by the shoulders, peering into her face as though looking for some hurt there.

  “My sister is here.”

  Arthur’s face wrinkled in confusion, then smoothed out with deliberate understanding. “Oh. Your sister. I was not aware she was coming for a visit.”

  “Neither was I.”

  “Lancelot, will you wait outside?”

  “She knows everything,” Guinevere said. Arthur did not revise his statement, though, so Lancelot bowed her head to her king, then closed the door behind her.

  Guinevere started babbling. “She saw me. She saw me!”

  “What did she do?”

  “Embraced me.”

  “She—wait. She saw you as Guinevere?”

  Guinevere sat on the edge of her bed, throwing her hands up. “Yes! No. I do not know. It would have been three years since she had seen her sister, and of course no one is aware that the real Guinevere is…”

  She trailed off. She hated the cruelty of letting the family think their daughter and sister was alive and well when in real
ity the girl had died in the spring. It was demanding a price of people who never agreed to pay it, all to keep the false Guinevere safe and at Arthur’s side.

  But as she had learned, much of Merlin’s magic had a breathtakingly cruel edge. So much smashed and broken and discarded on the way to an end only he could see. An end only he chose.

  Arthur reached for her hands and she let him take them, wishing again she could feel what he felt. She would give anything to siphon some of his calm assurance into herself right now. “Did Merlin do something to change your appearance?” he asked. “To make you more like Guinevere?”

  “Not that I remember, but you could fill a thimble with what I remember and still have room to spare. Curse that faithless wizard!”

  Arthur flinched and let go of her hands. Whatever Guinevere’s own complicated feelings toward Merlin, Arthur revered him as his oldest friend and protector. Guinevere rubbed her face, then stopped, her numb hands making everything feel off. Strange. Was it her face? What secrets did it hold?

  She shook her head. “As far as I know, he only changed the memories of the nuns so they would think I was their own Guinevere.” The information was just there, in her head, much the same as the knot magic and her few memories of growing up in the forest. There was no lead-up to it. No planning with Merlin, no discussions, no memory of it actually happening. “He could have done something to my appearance. I do not think he did, but he could have.”

  “So either Guinevach truly recognized you, or…”

  Guinevere leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “There are two options. The first, that Guinevach is only pretending to recognize me. Either because she was young enough when the real Guinevere left—” Arthur flinched again. He did not like it when Guinevere referred to the other one as the real one. But was it not the truth? She was the imposter. “Because she was so young that there is enough room for Guinevach to convince herself she misremembers what her own sister had looked like.”