Lancelot began whistling. It sounded distracted, like she was whistling without realizing it. From her limited vantage point, Guinevere noticed several hands stealing from bedrolls to grip the weapons that were never more than an arm’s length away.
“Now!” Lancelot shouted. Sir Tristan leapt to his feet, bow in hand, arrow nocked. More than half the guards did the same. The rest, not fully awake yet, scrambled to catch up. Arthur stood. Excalibur was still sheathed on the ground.
“Sword!” Arthur shouted, holding out a hand. A guard tossed his own through the air and Arthur caught it neatly by the pommel, twirling it once to test the weight and balance.
“We know you are there.” Lancelot’s voice was clear and strong. Guinevere recognized it as the voice she had used as the patchwork knight. Lancelot had let her voice relax and go higher since then, so it was a surprise to hear her old one. Perhaps she had settled back into it because she once again wore her old armor. Or perhaps it was safer out here to use that voice rather than one that was obviously a woman’s. “However many you are, this is not a fight you want.”
“You sure about that?” a man sneered through the darkness. “Because— Oh.”
The voice cut itself off. All the guards were ready, and faced the trees in a circle. Guinevere’s heart was racing. She should be able to help, but she felt powerless. It reminded her of being in that terrible shack in the middle of the river, held there by Maleagant, unable to do anything as he used her as a pawn against Arthur. She could still feel the sting of his hand against her cheek. The terror at being held above the river, only his grip between her and the water.
“You—you are the patchwork knight.” The man said it as a statement, not a question. Guinevere could not see him, but he sounded close.
“I am,” Lancelot answered.
“We thought you were dead. No one has seen you. Not in months.”
“I assure you I am quite alive.”
“We did not realize this was your camp. We, uh, were just inspecting. Seeing who was nearby. Leaving now, no harm done. You have a nice morning.”
Lancelot did not shift from her ready stance. After what could have been minutes or hours, fear distorting the passage of time, Lancelot finally turned toward the camp.
“They are gone.”
The guards let out a collective sigh of relief. Sir Tristan laughed. “They had no idea the king is here. Your reputation precedes us.”
The blocky guard’s face was alight with awe. “Sir Lancelot’s reputation saved us.”
“I used to patrol this territory. It was good practice.” Lancelot crouched to stoke the fire, effectively cutting off any further discussion about how her prowess alone was enough to frighten off would-be thieves and murderers.
Arthur took a step toward the trees. “We would have won the fight. We should go after them.”
“If the queen were not here, I would agree,” Lancelot answered. “I do not like those men going free to prey on others. But we cannot split our force, and I will not leave her without a full guard.”
“Of course. Yes. Neither would I.” Arthur returned the borrowed sword, then lay back down with his arms behind his head, his relaxed appearance belied by the slight frown pulling at his eyebrows.
Guinevere could see how it nagged at him to let those men go free. And she wondered, too, if his pride was a bit stung. It was Lancelot’s name and reputation that had scared them away. Or at least who Lancelot had been before she became a knight.
“I do not like it, either,” Guinevere said, sitting beside him. “I wish I could chase them down and…” Hurt them? Kill them? She had killed men before, drunk on magic and power. She did not like the way it had felt—because it had not felt like anything, which was terrifying. The men had not mattered at all. She had been channeling the Dark Queen’s power then, which meant she understood some of how the Dark Queen viewed humanity.
Like ants. Ignored until they became pests, and then eliminated without a thought. It was how the fairy queen viewed all life, if the wolves were any indication. She stole their free will and sent them to their deaths.
Guinevere sighed and lay back, shoulder to shoulder with Arthur. “I almost wish it had been the Dark Queen,” she whispered. “Or a magical attack. Dangerous, greedy men are so much more complicated.”
Arthur actually laughed, turning to look at her, his pretense of going back to sleep gone. “And fighting the fairy queen would be simple?”
“We know she has to be eliminated.”
Arthur looked less certain. “I keep imagining facing her again. But every time I picture it, Mordred comes between us. And I do not know what I would do then. If I would kill him. If I could. I know he betrayed us, but…he is family. And I still love him.”
Something in Guinevere loosened. Not a magical knot tying her to one of her spells, but an emotional one of fear and anxiety. She was right not to have tried to kill Mordred. And perhaps she was even right to have hidden his presence from Arthur and Lancelot. If they had known he was nearby, they would have felt duty bound to go after him. She did not want to put Arthur in that position. It had been hard enough for her to kill the wolves. How much harder for Arthur to decide whether or not to kill his own nephew?
Mordred was a traitor. He was made at least in part from fairy magic and had brought the Dark Queen back to physical form. He was also Arthur’s nephew, had fought side by side with him, had laughed and made Guinevere feel welcome, had comforted her when she was injured, had kissed her, had hurt her, had proved he did not want to harm her again. How could one person be so many things? And how could they ever make a decision about him that would take all those things into account?
“If you and I leave right now we can still catch those men,” Guinevere said.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You want to hunt them down and kill them?”
Guinevere shrugged. “I could figure out a knot that would addle their brains so badly they would not remember which end of a sword to pick up. Though I would be very silly and confused for a few days as a result.”
“As fun as that sounds, Sir Lancelot is right. We have no reason to risk it.” But Arthur sounded more cheerful. Just the idea that they could go after the men if they wanted to seemed to make him feel better about letting the men escape. If Guinevere felt occasionally trapped by Camelot and its stone and its rules, perhaps Arthur did, too. His stories from last night had been all adventures and travel, making friends and defeating enemies.
Maybe that was why he spent so much time patrolling his own lands, doing things that most kings would assign to their knights or soldiers. He had after all grown up a parentless servant and page, not a prince. Being king was not a natural role for him.
It was another thing that bonded them. She had not grown up a princess, and still felt more at home out here than she did in Camelot.
Guinevere was hit with a sudden longing for what her treacherous dream had presented: a moment in a meadow in the sunshine. She wanted a blissfully free, giddy escape with someone. But she was determined that it should be Arthur.
They started traveling late that morning. Guinevere half suspected Arthur had delayed in hopes the thieves would come back and he would get his fight, but the brigands wisely stayed away.
“Tell me about your sister,” Guinevere said as they waited for the men to finish packing camp. She kept thinking about his stories from the night before, how simple they were. How straightforward. Surely there had been more to Sir Caradoc’s willingness to give up his crown. And she knew there was more to Mordred and Morgan le Fay than any of the stories told.
“My sister?”
“Morgan le Fay.”
“My half sister,” Arthur corrected her. “There is nothing to tell. She hates me. She has wanted me dead since I was born, and she tried to kill me several times when I was a child.”
“How?” Guinevere had never heard about that. She had heard only bits and pieces of Arthur’s childhood, most from Sir Ector and Sir Kay, his foster family. His terrible foster family.
Arthur shrugged. “I do not know the details. Merlin told me about it when I was older.”
“But you let Mordred fight at your side, knowing he was her son?”
Arthur rubbed his face. He stared toward the trees as though looking for a threat, or for an escape. “We are not our parents. I wanted him to be more than what he came from. He disappointed me.”
Arthur had always fought against what his tyrant father stood for. Of course he would have generously extended that same opportunity to Mordred and hoped for the best. “You never met Morgan le Fay, though? Even now, when surely she could not hurt you?” Guinevere was curious what a sorceress was like. She had known a wizard, and she had known witches, but a sorceress seemed special.
“Merlin told me I should never let her speak to me. I should put a sword in her heart before listening to a word from her mouth.”
Guinevere was mildly horrified. It seemed extreme. She knew Arthur had to kill enemies, but to strike without question or hesitation the moment he saw someone? “Does she have some sort of power? Could she enchant you just by speaking?”
Arthur shrugged. “I do not know.”
“But why else would Merlin tell you to kill her rather than letting her speak?”
Arthur shrugged. “If Merlin tells me something, I do it. He has only ever protected me.”
Guinevere had no response to that. She did not agree with his trust in Merlin, but she did not want to quarrel or to keep digging at painful parts of Arthur’s family tree. She let the conversation drop as they began to ride.
After only an hour on the road, though, they were interrupted by the sound of pounding hooves. The company stopped, swords drawn to greet whoever was coming, but the rider was revealed to be none other than Brangien. She rode white-faced and clinging to the reins. None of the swords were put away, all the men staring down the road beyond Brangien to see who was chasing her.
“My queen,” she gasped, stopping her horse.
“What happened? Is it Guinevach?” They never should have left! If anything had happened in the city in their absence, it was Guinevere’s fault. She had shown too much compassion. To Guinevach. To Mordred. If her compassion cost a single life, she would never forgive herself. Those lives would be on her head.
“No, it is—I am—I did not want you to be alone.” She glanced at the guards around them. Guinevere intuited her meaning and dismounted, helping Brangien down and drawing her far enough away that they could not be overheard.
“What is it?”
Brangien’s voice came out a whisper. “News arrived for Dindrane. King Mark will not be attending her wedding because there is to be a trial for his wife.”
Guinevere frowned. Why this necessitated Brangien flinging herself through the countryside in a panic, she could not understand. Until she did. King Mark was the king Brangien and Sir Tristan had fled from. The king who had married Brangien’s beloved Isolde.
Guinevere took Brangien’s hands, feeling them tremble in her own. “A trial for what?”
“Witchcraft. I think—I think she was trying to find a way to connect to me without your help. Guinevere, he will kill her.” She collapsed into tears and Guinevere drew her close.
Arthur, Sir Tristan, and Lancelot joined them. “What happened?” Arthur asked, alarmed.
“King Mark. He is going to try his wife for witchcraft.”
Sir Tristan’s kind brown eyes widened with horror. “Isolde,” he whispered.
“Isolde? Your Isolde?” Arthur asked.
Guinevere shook her head. “Brangien’s Isolde.”
Arthur frowned, puzzled. “I do not understand.”
“We have never told the truth,” Brangien said, pulling back from Guinevere. “But it is time to. I will tell you the real story of Tristan and Isolde.”
“And Brangien,” Sir Tristan added, his voice soft with sadness.
Tristan and Isolde and Brangien
The tale was not as polished as that of Arthur and the Forest of Blood, or as funny as Sir Mordred and the Green Knight. It was not a tale that had been traded between bards, or even shared beyond Brangien and Sir Tristan, now clasping hands, united in the telling. It was a secret tale of love, betrayal, and failure.
King Mark desired a bride. He had been through three others, all disappointments. He charged his nephew, Sir Tristan, with riding the land and finding the fairest maiden for him.
Sir Tristan took his calling with all the earnest devotion a young knight could. He knew his uncle to be a jealous man, quick to rage, feared in his household and kingdom. And so when Sir Tristan heard of a woman noted not only for her beauty but also her kindness, he sought her out. Isolde was exactly what his king needed. Sir Tristan saw her and hoped that she would temper King Mark and bring much needed light and compassion to the kingdom.
Isolde’s father saw King Mark’s offered price and knew his daughter would bring much needed gold to his own household.
The deal was done before Isolde and Brangien knew about it. The entire household went into mourning when they discovered they were losing their Isolde. Sir Tristan saw how they loved her and had even more hope that he had made the right choice. He loved his uncle’s people, if not his uncle, and he wanted to do right by them.
His uncle had requested only youth and beauty, and Isolde was youthful enough. She was beautiful, too, according to everyone, which mattered nothing to Tristan. But she was kind. Even though she was sad about leaving her home, Isolde had only gentle words for him. Her maid, less so.
Brangien had known this day would come. But somehow she thought it would be later. So much later that she did not have to think about it. Then this stupid, lovely boy showed up with his king’s gold and Isolde—her Isolde—was sold like a breeding mare. Brangien became a creature of wrath and spite. She considered poisoning Isolde’s father, but the deal had already been made and Isolde had a brother who would honor it, so that would solve nothing. She considered poisoning him anyway, but knew it would hurt Isolde.
So she packed her true love’s belongings, and in her rage almost did not notice Isolde crying herself to sleep.
If Brangien was hurting, how much more must tender Isolde be hurting? Brangien would have to be at Isolde’s side and watch as she married another, but Isolde would have to do the marrying. For once in her life, Brangien realized she could not bear to see someone else suffer. She would do whatever it took to make certain Isolde was happy. Even if it meant losing her.
Brangien packed, and Brangien prepared. Her mother had taught her many things. She was a practical witch who had a solution to any problem, including love. Brangien slipped the love potion—a magic that would make Isolde, her Isolde, be happy with another—into her pouch and set out on the journey to the end of her own happiness forever.
But as they crossed land, forded rivers, and camped day in and day out, Brangien saw that the young knight at their side matched Isolde for kindness. He was gentle and respectful and good. And she did not doubt he was skilled as a fighter, having been entrusted with such a task.
Isolde asked about King Mark, and Sir Tristan answered as diplomatically as he could. But Brangien could feel the shape of the man in the things that were left out, and she began to fear. Even if she could make Isolde and King Mark love each other, she could not change a cruel man into a good one. There was no potion capable of that.
An idea occurred to Brangien.
A terrible idea.
If this valiant knight fell in love with her precious Isolde, would he not do whatever it took to protect her? To keep her?
They boarded a ship that would take them along the coast and deliver them to the
king. Brangien had two potions. One to make two people fall in love, and one to make a person appear dead.
Her plan was simple: Give Sir Tristan and Isolde each other. And then remove herself from Isolde’s life to make certain Isolde could be happy. As long as Brangien knew Isolde was out there somewhere, she could never truly love another. Potion or no, she suspected Isolde would feel the same way. But Isolde had only ever seen minor potions; she had no idea the power Brangien could brew and would never suspect such a devastating act was deliberate. Isolde would have love, and Brangien would be “dead.”
It was not fair to any of them. But Isolde always took care of those around her, and this was the only way Brangien could see to take care of her.
It would have worked. But as Brangien poured the cups of wine and readied the love potion, she wept for all she was losing. And Sir Tristan, hearing the weeping, came into the cabin too soon. She was caught. She expected violence, rage, or cold judgment.
What she got was worse. Sir Tristan listened with compassion and understanding, but forced Brangien to face the violence of her intentions. Isolde had already had her choices stripped away, and Brangien had decided to take away even her ability to love who she chose.
Brangien was ready to throw herself overboard, but Sir Tristan held her. He swore he would do whatever it took to protect Isolde, and Brangien, as well. He would help them find a way to be happy. And, in an act of supreme generosity, he promised not to tell Isolde what Brangien had intended to do.
They were bonded by secrecy and united in determination to protect Isolde. They stayed up late into the night, making plans to sneak Isolde to freedom as soon as they landed.
Unbeknownst to them, someone else stayed up late into the night, listening. When they landed, King Mark was there with a contingent of men. He condemned Brangien and Sir Tristan to death for conspiring against him. Isolde threw herself at his feet, weeping, begging for their lives as her wedding gift. King Mark granted it, banishing Sir Tristan and Brangien.
The Camelot Betrayal Page 10