“Hild does not seem the type, and we are both larger than she is. I told her we would pay half now and half upon landing, delivered to our companions who would be waiting for us. It seemed the wisest lie. She said two days to sail to the southernmost point, and then another day and a half to sail to where we will disembark. She did not ask questions about why we chose our route.”
“That is probably for the best,” Guinevere said. A thrill of excitement spread up her spine. Everything had been theoretical, but now it was real. They were going to do it.
They were going to get on a boat. For two days.
She felt less excited and more ill.
* * *
Hild was younger than Guinevere had expected. She could not have been more than eighteen. They had not seen her until after she had rowed out to her boat and then maneuvered it as close to the shore as she could. A long gangplank was dragged out and placed in the water. The horses would have to wade to it. Lancelot went first, to stay aboard with the horses in case Hild planned to load the horses and then leave.
“Welcome, welcome!” She spoke their language, but with a heavy accent. Her hair was almost yellow, her cheeks ruddy, her bright-blue eyes already hinting at how they would line from years of squinting in the sun. There was something inherently cheerful about her, and if appearances were anything to go by, she was absolutely thrilled to meet them.
She chattered happily as Lancelot guided her horse up the ramp and then returned for the others. “The horse cannot see? That is good! Very good!” She laughed. “Beautiful horses. I hate horses. Too-big teeth.” She gestured at her own teeth and then bit down in an exaggerated manner. “Never trust a beast that can fit your—” She gestured to her shoulder, looking at Sir Tristan.
“Shoulder.”
“Yes! Shoulder. Never trust a beast that can fit your shoulder in its mouth.” She snapped her teeth again for emphasis and then laughed and leaned a little closer to Sir Tristan. “I never bite.”
Sir Tristan’s eyes widened with alarm. Guinevere did not much know what to make of the comment, either. Perhaps it was an issue of language. Or perhaps…
Well, Sir Tristan was very handsome.
Sir Tristan cleared his throat. “That is all the horses. Should we board? Where is your crew?”
Hild gestured at the four of them, then at Lancelot. “Crew! My brothers all hired out for harvest. Last sail of the year. Good time.”
That would explain her eagerness and her willingness to go along with their requests. It gave her a chance to earn money that she was not expecting to have again until the spring.
“How do we get to the ship?” Guinevere asked.
Hild squinted at her. “I do not understand.”
“How do we get to the ship?” Guinevere gestured to herself, Sir Tristan, and Brangien, and then pointed at the boat.
Hild turned to Sir Tristan. “Is she…” She pointed to her forehead and then made her eyes go wide and unfocused while tilting her head vacantly to the side.
Guinevere folded her arms. “No, she is not!”
“We walk to the ship? Like the horses?” Hild laughed. “Boots will dry. Everything dries. Everything gets wet. It is the sea.” She stretched out her arms and spun once, then sloshed toward the ship.
Brangien looked at Guinevere with alarm. There was a loud splashing as Lancelot hurried from the ship toward them. Without a word, she scooped Guinevere up and carried her through the water toward the ship.
“Have to beat Hild back, in case she decides to sail away with our horses,” Lancelot said.
Guinevere put as much weight into her arms around Lancelot’s shoulders as she could to relieve some of the strain on Lancelot’s arms. “Thank you,” she whispered. The gangplank creaked alarmingly when Lancelot set her down, and she rushed up onto the deck.
The movement did not stop there, though. The whole boat bobbed and dipped with the waves. Guinevere had hoped that since it was bigger than the ferries it might be steadier, but her hopes were dashed. The center of the ship was covered with a grate and the horses were whinnying in alarm beneath her. There was a small cabin on one end, a mast in the middle, and entirely too little wood separating her from the sea. She did not know whether it was the wood groaning or herself.
“Bucket,” Hild said, pointing to a battered bucket shoved in a corner between the side of the boat and the cabin.
“What?” Guinevere’s head was swimming, and the thought of anything swimming made her feel even sicker.
Hild pantomimed vomiting violently, then pointed again. “Bucket. Then dump.” She took the imaginary bucket she was holding and pretended to toss the contents overboard. She then began barking out commands, but Guinevere knew she could be of no use.
She fell more than sat, arms around her legs, head resting on her knees. Her breath was too fast, too sharp; her heart pounded. She could hear the water everywhere. Smell it. Feel the damp of it. It was too much. She could not do it. She had told Arthur she could, and she had been wrong, and the whole quest would fail because Merlin had made her afraid of water.
“Guinevere?” Brangien put a light hand on Guinevere’s shoulder.
“Put me to sleep,” Guinevere said through gritted teeth. “Put me to sleep. I cannot do this. Please. Put me to sleep.”
“But—”
“Brangien!” Guinevere’s whole body shook. She could not stand this, could not handle the fear, felt herself falling into a dark hole. Not the one in Camelot from her dream, but another deeper, darker hole, one she walked into of her own free will, only to—
“Drink this. Come on, you have to drink.”
Something pressed to Guinevere’s lips and she did her best to swallow. Half of it dribbled down her front. It was dark. Guinevere did not know where she was. A door opened and shut. The room was moving. Why was it moving?
“Keep drinking. Did you need something?” Brangien was talking.
Sir Tristan answered. Why was he in her room? And why was her room moving? “Hild is very…friendly.”
“Are you interested in that type of friendship?”
“All I want to do is serve King Arthur. Go on quests. Fight for goodness and take care of my friends.”
“I will do a better job of intercepting Hild,” Brangien said. “I am sorry. I should have helped more. Just tell her you are faithful to your unconscious wife.” Sir Tristan was not married. When did he get a wife? Why was she unconscious? Why was the room moving?
“I did not want to embarrass her and risk her stranding us. But she seems good-natured.”
A boat. They were on a boat. She was in the middle of the sea. There was water around her, beneath her, everywhere. Guinevere’s heart picked up. She could not breathe, could not—
“Finish drinking this if you want to go back to sleep.” Brangien’s tone was firm. Guinevere drank as quickly as she could.
The door opened again, bringing with it the scent of the ocean. Guinevere wanted to die. But not here. Not where the water would claim her body.
Lancelot spoke. “Hild said we will weigh anchor in a few hours. She will bring us ashore an hour’s walk from King Mark’s castle. How is she?”
“Her heart is racing so fast she may as well be a rabbit. Finish, Guinevere.”
Guinevere choked down the rest of the drink and felt the strip of cloth settle back into place, her relief outweighing her shame over being so useless.
* * *
“Come on. I need you awake.” Brangien’s tone was brusque. Guinevere reached up to pull the blanket over her head and block out the light, but there was no blanket. She sat up, startled to find herself on dry ground. She had been set on a patch of earth covered with pine needles. The light was weak, dappled and broken up by the branches overhead, but it still dazzled her to the point of tears. She could hear the ocean but she was on land.
“And you will stay here.” Lancelot sounded firm. Guinevere could not make her eyes focus enough to see individuals. She felt shaky and wrung out, like a tree whose leaves were about to fall, trembling with the smallest of breezes.
“I will!” It took Guinevere several seconds to place Hild’s voice. “She is alive! That is good. I thought maybe she died, and then I would get no money.”
Someone held a canteen to her lips and Guinevere drained the whole thing. She tried to orient herself. She was on land. They were on their way to rescue Isolde. She had been asleep for two days.
“Thank you, Hild,” Lancelot said. “We will be back by nightfall.”
“I will wait until tomorrow.”
Guinevere accepted the bread put in her hand and ate it ravenously. Her stomach was uncertain, but now that she had her wits about her, she refused to take longer than needed to recover. Even though she was on dry land, the dregs of panic were still draining from her. She could swear the solid earth beneath her had the slightest pitch and roll. Reaching into her pouch, she clutched the dragon’s tooth, rubbing her thumb along it. It grew warm to the touch.
A sense of an intelligence somewhere nearby tickled the edge of her consciousness. Was it her touch magic, or something from the dragon? She dropped the tooth and it disappeared. Then she picked it up again and the sense returned. The dragon was nearby. It must have ventured south, following the sun before winter fell.
It did not matter. She needed to focus.
Sir Tristan crouched nearby while Lancelot got the horses ready. He spoke quickly, filling her in on the plans she had missed. “King Mark is not a sentimental man. When his previous three wives died, they were entombed within hours. No ceremony. Brangien will sneak into the castle and deliver the potion, and then we will wait near the cliff tombs for Isolde to be placed there.”
“Is the potion ready?” Lancelot asked.
Brangien crumpled something to dust between her fingers and sprinkled it into a leather canteen. “It will be by the time we get there.”
“No.” Guinevere shook her aching head. “Brangien might be recognized. King Mark has seen her, and many of his men have, as well.”
“I could—” Lancelot’s voice was strained. She cleared her throat and continued more purposefully. “I could dress as a woman.” They had spoken of it before. Lancelot was herself in armor; wearing women’s clothing felt like lying.
“You stand out.” Guinevere gestured. “You are tall and strong and you do not carry yourself like a servant. I do not know if you could convince anyone. I will do it.”
“No,” all three said at once, but Guinevere stood. It took everything in her not to sway or tremble, but she managed.
“I am best suited to the task, and you all know it. I can imitate a maid and draw no attention, and even if I do, I have plenty of tricks that will give me enough time to escape. But those will not be necessary because I will do such a good job of walking with exasperated purpose through the castle that no one will dare stop me. And when I find Isolde and explain who I am—”
Brangien interrupted. “She will know who you are. We have spoken of you.”
Guinevere was touched that Brangien took her into the dreamspace and shared that part of her life with Isolde. “Good. Then she will know she can trust me when I give her poison and tell her to drink it and die.”
“But what if she is in a cell?” Lancelot asked. “What if you cannot find her?”
“Then I will improvise. I am good at it.” Guinevere gave Lancelot a meaningful look. She had been improvising since the day Arthur’s men retrieved her from the convent. She mounted her horse, accepting Lancelot’s help as though it were appreciated but not necessary, though she doubted she could have gotten up on her own. Hopefully she would be fully recovered by the time they arrived at the city.
* * *
Brangien finished her potion as they rode, then passed the leather canteen to Guinevere. Lancelot eyed the exchange warily. Guinevere was careful not to make eye contact or look anything other than ready and confident. She was certain Lancelot would change her mind about this plan at the slightest indication of danger or hesitation, and Guinevere would not let that happen.
“Right, left, through the hallway, up the back stairs, second door, right, last door.” Guinevere repeated the instructions to herself. Sir Tristan had explained the castle’s layout to her and given her directions to the royal chambers. And Lancelot had made her swear that if Isolde was not there, she would come right back out.
Sir Tristan led them along the shoreline, avoiding the city. But even from this distance Guinevere could smell it. Woodsmoke, animals, a tannery. It was wretched. So bad that Guinevere would have preferred even the smell of the sea over it. She was awash with gratitude to Arthur for having so much foresight in how he took care of Camelot. It was not enough to have a city that functioned. Arthur made certain his city was pleasant for everyone who lived there.
This castle, too, was less than impressive. Guinevere could not see details from this far, but it was a squat, inelegant building with only two stories. The foundation was stone, but the rest was wood and vulnerable to fire. It was built along a cliff overlooking the water, so at least it had a natural defense on one side.
Sir Tristan led them to a rocky outcropping. They dismounted, tied up the horses, and climbed until they reached a good vantage point. Sir Tristan pointed to a cove where there was a cave halfway up the cliff. “Those are the tombs. When you have done your part, meet us here.”
Brangien tucked a small purple thistle behind Guinevere’s ear. “I have told Isolde about you in our dreams, of course, but this will prove who you are and that you come on my behalf.”
“Guinevere,” Lancelot said, her voice low but commanding.
“I will come back at the slightest hint of danger,” Guinevere said, quickly clambering down the rocks before Lancelot could say anything else.
Squaring her shoulders and lowering her cloak’s hood—no one working inside a castle would wear a hood—Guinevere walked with purpose, keeping well away from the edge of the cliff, her eyes on the ground. She entered the castle through a side door and then followed Sir Tristan’s directions like she knew exactly where she was going.
And she did. She was going to rescue a damsel in distress. Arthur was not the only hero in Camelot.
Guinevere had not accounted for the fact that she was really only used to one castle, and was rarely alone in it. The castle at Camelot was shallow but with many stories, so no single one was that complex. Some had only a handful of rooms, and she did not even know what many of the areas held because she never had reason to visit them.
Not ten minutes inside King Mark’s castle and she was lost. It was a squat labyrinth, a lifeless, breathless forest. And it all felt so fragile. So temporary. Half the floors she walked across were rushes, crunching beneath her feet. A few sparks and the entire castle—and with it, King Mark’s authority—would be gone.
No wonder Arthur was succeeding. Camelot itself lent him credit and status. The permanence, the order, the beauty. Arthur was young, yes, but how could anyone not be inspired by his city? Of course everyone who came to him wanted to be part of it. Between that and the sword that had waited for him in the heart of Camelot, it was as though someone had lovingly prepared it all for him.
The sword had been prepared for him, but no one knew where the city came from. It had always been there. The Romans had used it, as had Uther Pendragon. Guinevere wondered whether Merlin knew who first built it, but Camelot was far more ancient than he was.
She suppressed a shudder, remembering her dream about the city when it was new, which triggered thoughts of the Lady of the Lake. She did not have time to dwell on those questions. Arthur would not fail his quest because he was thinking about impermanent castles and ancient cities. She tried remembering Sir Tristan’
s instructions, but without being able to retrace her steps to her starting point, they were worthless. She had no idea where she was or how to get to where she was supposed to go. No wonder Arthur always opted for the straightforward method of battles and sword fights.
“Excuse me?” A young man in King Mark’s livery—black, with what was either a red spear or an odd tree in the center—put out an arm to stop her. She was in a long, dim hall. There were no windows to help orient herself. Her eyes watered from the smoke of something cooking nearby, the smell hanging heavy all around them. “What are you doing here?”
Guinevere had sworn to Lancelot that no one would notice her or question what she was doing. Panic served no purpose, so she set it aside. She could not control having been seen, but she could control how she was seen. If she could convince an entire city that she was a queen, she could certainly convince one round-faced young man she was a lady’s maid.
She immediately burst into tears.
The young man’s eyes widened in alarm. They were muddy brown with thick eyelashes. His teeth were crooked where he bit his lip before speaking. “What—what is wrong?”
“I only arrived last night, and my father had to trade ever so many favors to get me a spot in the castle, and he was so proud and he told everyone, including my aunt, and she hates me, she is always telling me I am a useless, stupid thing, and how my father would have been better off having no children at all than only having a daughter like me, and she is right because I was supposed to fetch some wine from the kitchen but I got lost on the way and my father will be so disappointed in me when I am sent home.” She stopped, sniffling, letting her lower lip tremble. “Do you think they will even send me home, or will they lock me up for failing?”
The Camelot Betrayal Page 12