The Camelot Betrayal

by Kiersten White

  The evening was blessedly dim and cool once they escaped the reach of the flames, but it was difficult to navigate the rocky cliffside terrain in the growing dark. Guinevere had a moment of terror that she would not be able to find the meeting place. That she would be stuck here forever, her guilt a beacon as smoke billowed into the sky. But after a few strained minutes, she recognized the particular jutting rocks.

  “It is us!” she tried to call, but her throat was too damaged from King Mark’s violence, the shouting, and the smoke. It came out a tortured croak.

  A figure emerged from behind the rocks. Isolde let out a cry like a wounded animal, racing past Guinevere and throwing herself into Brangien’s arms. They collapsed onto the ground, cocooned in quiet cries and murmured words that belonged only to the two of them.

  Lancelot and Sir Tristan stepped out, as well. Guinevere was grateful it was dark, that they could not see her expression. She felt removed from herself, as though the whole nightmare was something she had heard about instead of seen and done. A story told by someone else. Guinevere and the Wicked King.

  She did not like the story.

  “What happened?” Lancelot demanded, staring at Isolde, who should have been sleeping as though dead at this point in their plan.

  Guinevere was freezing. She shivered, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “Complications.”

  “Why are you talking like that?” Lancelot leaned close.

  The night was a shield, protecting Guinevere from revealing the truth. “Smoke. Had to set the castle on fire.”

  “You had to set the castle on fire?”

  “They think she is dead. We are finished here.” Guinevere brushed past Lancelot and began walking toward where they had hidden the horses. She forced herself not to look back. Part of her wanted to return to the castle, to make sure everyone got out alive. She honestly could not decide which would haunt her more: knowing people had died because of her, or spending the rest of her days afraid they had.

  She suspected she deserved to be haunted.

  As they rode away from the fire, Guinevere tore out several strands of hair and knotted them around the dragon’s tooth in a spell for connection. She could not go back to make certain no other people were hurt, but she could at least protect this one creature. As soon as the magic was in place, a sense of awareness of another mind settled around her. For once the cost of the magic was a comfort. She was not alone.

  If all went according to plan—which was not a given, especially not this night—the dragon would feel the pull of her knot and trail their ship up the coast. She would undo the knot when they were in an uninhabited place. Though those were harder and harder to come by.

  It made her think again of the wolves she had faced behind Camelot. The dragon had felt the call of the Dark Queen and had resisted. Would the wolves have rejected her if they had the safety of a dark wooded retreat with free range to pursue their natural prey? With no refuge, was it any wonder they had succumbed to her magic?

  Guinevere rubbed her eyes. They were red and raw from the smoke; closing them offered little relief. There were too many other images she did not wish to see, clamoring for her mind when it was unfocused. So she would focus. Once they were back at the ship, she could sleep. Oblivion had never been so tantalizing.

  Though they had brought an extra horse for Isolde, she and Brangien rode together, Brangien in front and Isolde’s arms around her waist, head resting against her back. If they spoke, Guinevere could not hear it, and she was glad. This reunion belonged to them. Lancelot rode close to Guinevere and several times looked as though she would ask for more details, so several times Guinevere hurried her horse forward to leave Lancelot behind.

  Finally, as they were drawing near to the ship—a merry campfire burning in the darkness like a beacon from Hild—Lancelot maneuvered in front of Guinevere, forcing her to stop.

  “Before we get back to Hild, we need to decide how we will explain Isolde. Both to Hild and to Camelot. And you need to tell us what happened.”

  “She will be my cousin,” Brangien said. “A new maid, brought on through my recommendation.” Isolde peered at their party over Brangien’s shoulder. Sir Tristan had ridden near them, close enough for companionship but far enough to give them privacy. Guinevere could see his smile in the darkness, could feel the happiness radiating off him. He had completed a quest. He had saved the woman he could not before and reunited his best friends. His joy seemed the simplest. Brangien’s and Isolde’s would doubtless be tempered by the pain Isolde had endured to get to this point. And Guinevere could feel no joy at all, happy as she was for her friend.

  “Is that what you want, Isolde?” Guinevere had gone from a forest witch to a queen. She had enough struggles with that. She did not assume going from a queen to a lady’s maid would be any easier. The first night of this trip without Brangien had taught her how easy it was to become accustomed to having others help her with the most basic things.

  “It is more than all right. It is so generous.” Isolde sounded sincere. And Brangien’s stories had made it clear Isolde was not opposed to work. She had often done it to ease the loads of those in her own home. At least in this new home, she would have something she had never had before: true freedom.

  Sir Tristan was as cheery as the night was dark. “We can say Brangien wrote ahead and Isolde met us on the road. It is normal for a queen to have more than one lady’s maid. No one will question it.”

  “Isolde is a common name where I am from,” Isolde offered. “Though we can change it, if you think that will be safer.”

  Sir Tristan answered. “Some people know your name, but they think you were, uh, my lover.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “I could not wrestle the story from them. But you will obviously not be with me. I do not think anyone will assume you are the same Isolde.”

  “I am certain the story of her death will spread quickly,” Guinevere said. It hurt to speak.

  “And what is that story?” Lancelot nudged her horse even closer.

  “They were going to burn her alive. It was too late to carry out our plan. So I improvised.”

  “I am not sorry to see that castle burn,” Isolde said. Brangien shifted, reaching a hand back to rest against Isolde’s cheek. “Though I hope no one got hurt. Guinevere was so brave!”

  Lancelot did not comment on that. Doubtless she would have preferred more caution and less bravery. “And their king? He will be convinced?”

  “King Mark will not be a problem. I am tired. Let me pass.” Guinevere clicked her tongue and used her horse to force Lancelot aside.

  She arrived at the camp first. Hild was sitting near the fire. She looked up, surprised. “You are early. We cannot set sail until morning.”

  “We are happy to camp here for the night.” Guinevere dismounted and let Sir Tristan take her horse along with the others to be fed and watered.

  Lancelot orbited her, close enough to hear everything she said, but with an extra, deliberate distance. Guinevere had hurt her. But Guinevere could not imagine how much worse it would be if Lancelot knew the truth of what she had done.

  She sat near Hild. The ocean raked its fingers along the coast, trying to drag the land into its depths. A cloak was draped over her shoulders, and Isolde patted her once, softly, before sitting across the fire from them.

  “New one.” Hild gestured at Isolde.

  “My cousin,” Brangien said.

  Hild frowned dubiously. In the firelight Isolde’s hair was revealed to be a burnished copper red. Her skin was fair, and her curving shape nothing like Brangien’s angular one. A rose to a thistle.

  “On her mother’s side,” Isolde offered, as though that cleared everything up.

  Hild grunted, uninterested now. “In the morning, we sail. I know a river. I can get you closer. No extra money. But”—she looked at Lancelot,
a shrewd expression on her sunburned face—“my brothers are there. They need work. They all do. Good men. Strong. They can do farming. Fishing. War. Good men for your King Arthur.”

  Lancelot’s eyes widened. She coughed to cover her surprise.

  Sir Tristan took a few seconds too long to respond. “I am afraid we cannot help there. We do not know King Arthur.”

  Hild shook her head, impatient with the deception. “Lady knight.” She jabbed her finger toward Lancelot. “We hear things. A lady knight is a good story. No one else has one.”

  Lancelot did not move or react, frozen. Guinevere knew how mortified Lancelot would be that she was the reason their disguises had failed. But then Hild turned to Guinevere.

  “And you are queen.”

  “What?” Guinevere sputtered.

  Hild nodded, confident. “You sleep. For days! Everyone else works. Only a queen could do that.”

  It was Guinevere’s turn to be embarrassed. She wanted to defend herself and explain, but being too terrified to function was hardly a better excuse than being a lazy queen.

  “We can help King Arthur. Transport things. Transport men.” Hild pointed at Sir Tristan. “Like this one! I want more like him. But who want—” She paused, frowning thoughtfully, then made several gestures Guinevere did not quite understand and definitely did not want to think about long enough to understand. And now Sir Tristan was as embarrassed as Guinevere and Lancelot.

  There was no point in denying who they were. Better to have Hild on their side than angry that they still insisted on lying to her. Guinevere sat up straight, lifting her chin, adopting the posture she used during dinners with the knights and their wives. “You can tell no one where we have been. It is extremely important.”

  Hild nodded eagerly. “I keep secrets, you help my brothers.”

  “Having men who know the coast and how to sail it would not be a bad thing,” Lancelot said, her tone grudging.

  “How do we explain our arrival at their village?” Sir Tristan asked.

  Guinevere would resume her role as queen earlier than expected. It was disappointing to lose the freedom of being someone else, but at least it gave her something to train her mind on. An excuse to look forward instead of back. “We do exactly what Hild wants. We say we were nearby, met Hild, and are visiting to extend an invitation from King Arthur. Your people can meet with him and discuss ways to work together in the future. We can even take one of your brothers with us. We are going to a wedding.”

  Hild nodded eagerly, then squinched up her face in thought. “Maybe we get close to the village and then walk. I am not supposed to take the ship.”

  Guinevere laughed. “But you are so good at it!”

  Hild frowned. “How do you know? You sleep the whole time.” Hild set down her cloak, lay on top of it, and closed her eyes. “We leave at dawn.”

  Brangien and Isolde had their arms around each other. Brangien’s head was on Isolde’s shoulder, and Isolde rested her cheek against the top of Brangien’s head. Their lips were moving, but they spoke so softly that Guinevere could not hear. Sir Tristan faced out toward the night, taking first watch.

  Lancelot sat down next to Guinevere. “You have bruises on your neck.”

  Guinevere traced her neck with her fingers. Hopefully Brangien had something they could use to cover the evidence of King Mark’s violence for the wedding. And for the meeting with Hild’s brothers. She did not want any rumors starting.

  Her fingers stayed on her throat. She wondered if she could get her hands around a neck tightly enough to do what King Mark had done. His hands were so much bigger than hers. He was so much stronger. Just like Maleagant had been. If Guinevere had not been able to draw on something wild and violent, if it had been only her, just a girl, how could she have fought either of them?

  But if she were just a normal girl, Maleagant would never have known she existed. She would never have gone to King Mark’s to rescue Isolde. He would never have attacked her. And he would still be a person, instead of an empty shell.

  Maleagant would still be alive to destabilize Arthur’s kingdom, and King Mark would still have Isolde. Guinevere watched through the sparks and flames as Brangien said something and Isolde let out a single short laugh. It was a small moment, but knowing what Guinevere did about the pain Isolde had been through, it was everything.

  “I am fine,” Guinevere said to Lancelot. She stood and strode a few steps into the trees. The wind had shifted, blowing the smoke toward her face, and it made her want to cry.

  Lancelot followed. Her face was like a book that had been shut, revealing nothing.

  “Are you angry with me?” Guinevere asked.

  “I am angry with myself. And with that man.”

  “But it worked. We won.”

  “We did not win. You survived. That is not the same thing. How will I explain this to King Arthur? How can he allow me to continue as your knight when he sees this? My failure is written across your neck.”

  “This was my choice. All of it.”

  “It should never have been you who went. I was a fool to agree.”

  “Why should anyone else have gone?”

  “Because you are the queen!”

  “You know perfectly well that title is a lie. It means nothing.” Guinevere was startled by her vehemence. But it was true. Not only because Guinevere was not really Guinevere, but because she was only one person regardless. Why should she matter more than anyone else? Why should someone like King Mark be in charge of an entire city? Because of who he was born to? Because of gold, or a sword, or—

  Guinevere stopped her thoughts. Arthur was king because of a sword. And because of who he was born to. But he was so much better than that vile man.

  Lancelot shook her head. “You may not have been born to be queen, but that does not change the fact that you are the queen. It means something to me. And it means something to King Arthur. I was wrong to agree. He will take away my knighthood.”

  “Nonsense. You did what I asked of you. If King Arthur wants to be cross, he can be cross with me.”

  “I am the one who will answer for this! Did you never think of that?” Lancelot’s expression was stricken. “He will make me leave, and I have to—I need to protect you. From the moment we met in the forest, I have known it was my life’s duty to defend you.”

  Guinevere could not take this guilt on top of the rest. Lancelot needed to realize that Guinevere was not really the queen, and never would be. “But before that was it not your life’s duty to kill Uther Pendragon? And then was it not your life’s duty to become a knight to serve Arthur?” Guinevere did not want to be cruel, but she was so tired and everything hurt and she did not deserve to be protected. “You would do better to return to your previous sworn duty. Arthur is more deserving than I.”

  Lancelot looked as though Guinevere had delivered a physical blow. She stalked back to camp, leaving Guinevere alone in the dark.

  Mordred laces his fingers through hers, lying next to her. Flowers bloom around them as they stare up, the clouds writing unintelligible stories across the sky.

  “Did I do the wrong thing?” Guinevere does not quite know why she asked. There is something hazy lingering on the borders of the meadow, a sense of unease. It smells like smoke. But when she looks to see it, there is nothing there.

  “Define wrong.” Mordred turns on his side to stare at her, tracing a finger down her profile, lingering on her lips. “Better yet, tell me who gets to define wrong, and why.”

  She turns to face him. “Arthur.”

  Mordred laughs. “But why?”

  “Because I chose him.”

  “But why?”

  Guinevere wants to argue the point, but she does not remember what the point was, or why they were arguing it. And Mordred’s lips are so very close to her own.

  * *
*

  Guinevere peeled her eyes open. There was no ship’s deck beneath her, only solid, safe ground. Though being awake meant having to feel things again. Guinevere resolved not to. She sat up, accepting the canteen Isolde handed her. Isolde rubbed small circles on Guinevere’s lower back, a simple, comforting touch that was both unexpected and devastatingly tender.

  “Your knots are wonderful,” Brangien said, examining the rope Hild was tying to secure the ship. They were not beside the ocean anymore but on a riverbank. It did not make Guinevere feel any better. “Did your brothers teach you?”

  Hild laughed. “No. They want me to—” She gestured at her belly, then moved both hands outward like it was expanding. “But there are only men who smell bad and are bad.” She looked regretfully at Sir Tristan, who was preparing the horses. “No good men. But a good ship. A very good ship.”

  “Come on.” Brangien held out a hand to help Guinevere stand. “Time to make you look like a queen.”

  Guinevere accepted the help. She was shaky and needed to eat, but she had not been asleep as long this time. She reached into her pouch to get her brush. Her fingers bumped against the dragon’s tooth.

  “Oh! Is this area very populated?” Guinevere turned to Hild, worried. She had been asleep, so she had not been watching for a good area to sever the connection to the dragon. Now that she was awake she could sense her old friend. Not specifically how near it was, but that it was aware of her and their connection. And she could feel an extra warmth diffusing downward from the crown of her head where she had taken the hairs for the knot.

  Hild gestured at the trees around them. “No farmland. Too rocky. My brothers stay in a village there”—she pointed vaguely upriver—“but only a few men.”

  Guinevere pulled out the tooth and bit the knot free. She let out a small, sad exhalation as the connection to the dragon disappeared. It was suddenly much colder. She felt alone in a sharp, painful way.