* * *
“Dindrane’s family estate is half a day’s ride to the west.” Lancelot had already mounted. She did not look at Guinevere. “We should speak with Hild’s brothers so we can be on our way and meet up with the king before he arrives.”
Guinevere removed her plain outer tunic. Brangien handed her a pretty blue one, long enough that it would drape nearly to the ground. “I need a collar,” Guinevere said as she fastened a belt made of linked metal squares around her waist. Brangien’s eyes traced the bruises, but she said nothing. She was unusually gentle putting a cloak with a stiff embroidered collar around Guinevere’s shoulders, pinning a jeweled broach in place so the collar would stay shut and hide the marks.
Though they had brought nothing for Isolde, she was wearing something befitting a lady’s maid. Brangien must have spent the ship journey altering her own clothes to fit Isolde.
Sir Tristan helped Guinevere mount her horse. He always treated her formally, but now that she was dressed up, there was an extra distance. She wondered if he noticed. Becoming queen again was almost as isolating as breaking the connection to the dragon.
Hild led them along the riverbank. The trail darted in and out of the trees, rocky and indistinct. Hild rode the extra horse, and Isolde and Brangien once again shared.
“Not far now,” Hild said. Campfire smoke drifted through the air. Someone shouted and Hild answered, a long string of words in a language Guinevere did not know.
A man appeared on the trail in front of them, loping toward them with long strides. “My brother Wilfred.” Hild did not sound excited about the reunion, which surprised Guinevere since Hild was bringing good news. Wilfred looked a lot like Hild, if she were ten years older and twenty years meaner. Sun-bleached hair retreated from his red forehead, and his eyes were almost invisible beneath bushy eyebrows drawn permanently low. A thick beard obscured the lower half of his face. He said something to Hild. Hild answered, and they continued back and forth, unintelligible, with Wilfred increasingly angry and Hild sullen. It was a far cry from her cheerful demeanor before. Finally, Wilfred grunted and gestured for them to follow.
Hild dismounted and led her horse, so they did the same. The village more resembled a camp. The buildings were ramshackle, no order or sense to their placement. Several had already collapsed and been left to rot. If it was a harsh winter, Guinevere did not envy anyone living here. Maybe this encampment was temporary and the villagers went somewhere else for winter. But it made no sense to stay here during harvest; there was no farmland nearby.
Twenty or thirty men lounging around a firepit greeted them with eyes hooded in suspicion. They all had a similar look to Hild and Wilfred. Guinevere had heard of Saxons moving in and taking land, but these men did not strike her as the type motivated to conquer or marry into landownership. No one stood. Another heavily bearded man continued picking at the dead skin between his toes with a dirty knife. If they wanted to be soldiers for Arthur, they were in for a very rude awakening. He would not tolerate this slovenly behavior.
Hild started speaking, but Wilfred interrupted her. He gestured to their group, offering a few curt sentences. One word made all the men look at Guinevere and laugh. It was not a laugh like Hild’s, one that invited merriment even if they could not understand her. It was a dirty cudgel of a laugh, and Guinevere wanted to be invisible.
Lancelot stepped forward, hand on her sword. “We are here on behalf of King Arthur of Camelot. If any of you wish to join his service, you can become soldiers and work for the chance to be a knight. It is not an easy path, but it is—”
The barefoot man belched loudly, scratching his stomach with the tip of his knife. “Sit.” He gestured to logs placed around the firepit. “We eat. Then we talk.”
The scent of whatever was cooking in the large iron pot was as appealing as slop for the market pigs. Guinevere did not want anything that came out of it. She sat on a log, with Brangien and Isolde taking up positions on either side of her. Lancelot remained standing, as did Sir Tristan.
“Ramm,” Hild said, keeping her eyes on the ground. “He leads the camp.”
Guinevere had often been around large groups of soldiers and knights. She had traveled with Arthur and his men on several occasions. But even though none of the men here had moved or even paid them much attention, she felt vulnerable in a way she did not like. The hairs rose on the back of her neck. She was afraid of these men. And she was also afraid of what she would be willing to do to protect herself.
She could no longer pretend that what she had done to Maleagant’s men had been entirely due to the magic of the Dark Queen infecting her. There had been no Dark Queen in that room with King Mark. That had been Guinevere, and Guinevere alone.
Guinevere adopted her favorite queen posture. It was a way of reminding herself to be what people expected. To control what they saw and how they reacted. She sat straight, lifted her chin so even though she was shorter than the men, she gave the impression of looking down at them. Not in a disrespectful way but in a way that communicated she was not meek. Not afraid.
The posture gave her strength. Queen Guinevere would not wait on someone else’s whim. She stood. “We are extending an offer for work in the fields or with King Arthur’s soldiers. He is also interested in your reputation as excellent sailors. You have much to offer Camelot, and Camelot has much to offer you. You can accept this offer or not. If you accept, you may choose a man to accompany us and meet with the king to discuss terms.”
Ramm’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Then he grunted and stood. He walked to Guinevere and held out one enormous, dirty hand.
“Good,” he said, his hand still extended. Guinevere realized she was meant to clasp it. She put her own palm against his. He smiled. And then he yanked her hand, spinning her so her back was against his chest, his knife held to her throat.
Lancelot’s sword was already drawn, as was Sir Tristan’s. Isolde screamed. Brangien stood in front of her, a dagger drawn from her skirts. The men around them were like cats, one second lounging and the next swollen in size and menace, brandishing weapons and ready for a fight. No one moved to attack, but everyone was ready to. They were a single breath from an eruption of violence.
Hild shouted in their language, gesturing frantically. Her brother tried to shush her, but she shoved him and ran toward Guinevere. A man punched her in the jaw. She sat roughly on the ground, dazed.
“Release the queen,” Lancelot demanded.
Ramm laughed. His breath was rank and foul against Guinevere’s face. He said something and Hild translated, her voice hollow. “Scraps for work, or gold for a queen. Ransom is easier.”
“And making an enemy of a king?” Sir Tristan trembled with rage. “That is not so easy.”
Ramm shrugged, the knifepoint scratching the skin beneath Guinevere’s chin. He spoke.
“Nothing to lose,” Hild translated as she gestured weakly at the camp. Then she spoke for herself. “I am sorry. I did not know. I did not know.”
Lancelot raised her sword, flicking her eyes over the camp. They were outnumbered at least ten to one. She pointed her sword at Ramm. “I will fight you for her.”
Ramm laughed again. Guinevere wanted to flinch from his beard, wiry and terrible, scratching the back of her neck, tangling in her hair. It was almost worse than the knife. “No.”
“Are you afraid to fight a woman?” Lancelot delivered the words like a slap to the face.
Hild translated his answer. She was still sitting on the ground, legs splayed, back curved. “He says they are twenty-five, you are two. He is not stupid. Why fight one-to-one?”
“For honor.”
Hild did not bother passing along Lancelot’s words. She shook her head, expression sorrowful. “What honor?”
“Very well. I will kill you all, then.” Lancelot smiled. Her calm demeanor was more frightening than any posturing or vicious snarli
ng.
“I kill her first.” Ramm jabbed the knife for emphasis.
Guinevere rose onto the tips of her toes, trying to get her throat as far from the blade as possible. “Take Brangien and Isolde.” She kept her voice clear and steady, hoping she could make everyone else feel the same way by sheer force of will. “All of you go. Get the ransom.”
“No.” Lancelot spoke as sharply as the edge of her sword. “I will not leave you.”
Guinevere wanted to strangle Lancelot and her bravery. She looked at Brangien instead. “Get the gold from King Arthur. It will be just like the time we helped Sir Bors free the dragon.”
Brangien frowned, dagger still clutched in defense of Isolde. “What?”
Sir Tristan shook his head. “Sir Bors killed—”
“Remember?” Guinevere interrupted. Her throat felt dry, but she did not want to swallow, not with that horrible blade so close. “When Sir Bors freed the dragon, it felt loyalty to him, and then we all met two leagues to the west and celebrated. I am letting you all go free because I know you are loyal. Like dragons.”
Brangien nodded, her expression still dubious but her eyes understanding. She knew what Guinevere was capable of. Some of it, at least. She might not understand the details, but she got Guinevere’s meaning. Leave. Wait two leagues west. Guinevere should have told them she saved the dragon. But they had to trust that Guinevere could handle this and keep them safe.
Brangien turned to Lancelot. “We should go. The sooner we get the gold, the sooner we can finish this.”
“No.” Lancelot shifted into a fighting stance.
Brangien leaned close to Lancelot, whispering. Lancelot’s eyes roved the camp, doing mental calculations of how many men she would have to kill before getting to Guinevere.
Guinevere wished Lancelot would look at her. She needed Lancelot to understand. “Please. As your queen, I am commanding you. As your friend, I am begging you. Take Brangien and Isolde. Get the ransom. Go now.”
Lancelot finally met Guinevere’s gaze. Guinevere was shocked to see tears in her knight’s eyes. Lancelot did not sheathe her sword, but she backed up, gesturing for Brangien and Isolde to go to the horses. Sir Tristan moved so he was beside Lancelot, a united front, swords still raised.
“I will kill you,” Lancelot said, pointing her blade at Ramm.
“If he harms her?” Hild offered.
“No. I will kill him no matter what. I will kill you all if anyone harms her.” Lancelot clicked her tongue and her horse approached. She mounted, never sheathing her sword as she waited for Brangien and Isolde to get on their horses, Isolde taking Guinevere’s gray mare. Sir Tristan mounted last, grasping the reins of the extra horse.
Guinevere offered a smile as tight as her chest. “I will see you soon.”
Fury and devastation warred for prominence on Lancelot’s face, but she tapped her heels and her horse broke into a gallop. Guinevere watched as her protector and her friends rode away, hoping that they understood her meaning.
And that she would be capable of saving herself.
The door closed behind Guinevere, and she was alone. They had taken her to what could only be called a shack under the most generous of imaginative leaps. The single room was dark and smelled of mildew and wood rot, and the only furnishing was a pile of what might have been clothes, blankets, or even a ship’s sails in one corner. “Well then.” Guinevere sat on the packed-dirt floor. They had not bothered taking away her bag or searching it. After all, she was only a girl, even if she was a queen.
Guinevere pressed one eye to a gap in the wood slats of the shack. Men were trickling into the camp. Some were greeted warmly, others with cautious distance. Word was spreading fast about Ramm’s prize, and these men were taking no chances. They were forming an army. As near as Guinevere could guess, there were close to three dozen, with no telling if that was the lot of them or if more would come. She had to act before they did. Or worse, before Lancelot returned and risked her own life.
Guinevere emptied her bag onto the dirt and considered her options, dragon’s tooth in hand. Sleep knots would have worked if there had been only a handful of people, but she could not manage dozens. Knotting confusion into her own cloak would not let her walk past so many people intent on keeping her. It only worked if someone was not certain what—or whom—they were looking for.
All her knot magic was not enough. It was, by its very nature, limited. Contained. But she would not use her own touch magic as wildly as she had with King Mark. A part of her never wanted to use it again. It was like the rest of her mind: so much unknown that she could not say what would happen.
Besides which, she could not ask three dozen men to line up and wait their turn for her to disable them.
She had lit a fire at the castle to create a distraction. The buildings here were made of wood, too. Could she run fast enough to get free? Once in the woods she could leave confusion knots scattered to disrupt her trail.
She would only have one chance. She could not waste it. And she could not do it alone. The dragon’s tooth was smooth and warm in her hand. Maybe the dragon had always meant for her to use it if she needed it. And she had drawn the dragon all the way here already. Fate had set up this convergence. She pulled out a few hairs, then redid the same knot she had used before. She felt the connection immediately, even stronger than before. The dragon was nearby. She tugged the knot tighter, increasing the pull.
For a few minutes nothing happened. Guinevere strategized what she could do on her own, trying not to give in to despair. Perhaps her magic had not worked, or the dragon simply did not understand.
But then she felt the dragon. It shifted and stirred in the morning sun. This was its last autumn, and it had been luxuriating before winter came. After winter, Guinevere knew it would burrow deep into the earth and never come back out. She had made the deal with the dragon when she saved it from Sir Bors, granting it one last visit of the seasons.
She gripped the tooth. It warmed and so did she, with something like a fire kindling in her chest and getting hotter.
The door opened and Guinevere dropped the tooth into her bag.
Hild’s eyes were focused on the ground. “Too many men.” She gestured behind herself, her hand limp. “Too many ideas. Money! Fights! Make your king hire us! Kill your king and take Camelot!” She saw Guinevere’s alarm and held up her hands. “Stupid. No ports there. Bad fighters without ships. Ramm wants money.” Hild sagged against the doorframe, which made the whole shack lean slightly, as well.
“Do they really think King Arthur will simply hand over gold and leave them be?” Guinevere felt the tooth against her side, warm through the bag.
Hild shrugged. “Good ships. Good sailors. They can get away. King Arthur might still want them, too.” She gestured vaguely around herself to communicate expansion. “Faster moving, more wars won, more land.”
“But we could never trust you.”
Hild slid along the wall to the floor. Guinevere was still worried about how to get away, and more than a little scared of Ramm, but Hild seemed so sad about everything. Guinevere wanted to comfort her. Hild shook her head. “You can never trust anyone. Only trust yourself.”
“I trust a lot of people.”
“Yes. And you are here. Trust is bad.”
“You did not violate our trust. This is not your fault.”
“I knew Ramm is bad. I thought he was gone. Wilfred would listen alone. Maybe. But not with Ramm here.”
Guinevere saw the opening. “Then go speak with Wilfred. Convince him to help us get out. I will take you both to Camelot with me. You can have your own ship.”
“No.” Hild looked over her shoulder with a wistful expression. “It is all broken now.”
Guinevere slipped her hand into her bag. The tooth was growing steadily warmer. Guinevere was half-afraid it would sing
e a hole through her pouch. She had used a similar knot to what Rhoslyn, the woman banished from Camelot, had performed on her stones so women could locate each other in secret. The closer the dragon got, the hotter the tooth would become.
“Can we go outside, at least?” Guinevere asked. “I am hungry.”
Hild shrugged, then stepped aside so Guinevere could leave the shack. The men were gathered around the fire, talking and laughing and arguing in that same rough language that Guinevere did not understand. Ramm passed around a jug of something and they took turns drinking from it. They barely glanced at her, which was a relief. No one seemed worried that she would run, or that they would be unable to catch her if she tried.
Hild led her to a table and handed Guinevere a hunk of rough, hard bread. Trees pushed in all around. The river curved away from them, winking in the sunlight. On the other side of it, portions of the forest had been felled. Eventually it might be good farmland, but it would take time. Much easier to ransom a queen than to invest in the future through backbreaking labor. Arthur’s way was better. He always put in the time to create a future worth striving toward.
Guinevere turned to Hild. “Run away with me. Please.”
Hild shook her head. “This is my family.”
“They are a bad family. Choose a new one. I did.” That was a lie. Guinevere had not chosen to forget the Lady of the Lake. Merlin had chosen it for her. But she had chosen Arthur. Brangien. Lancelot. Sir Tristan. Dindrane. Camelot.
Hild stared at Wilfred, who was taking the jug from Ramm, drinking so much that it ran down his throat and soaked into his shirt.
Guinevere slipped her hand into her bag. The tooth was scalding; she could only brush her fingers against it. She heard a rustle somewhere in the woods behind them.
“Ramm!” Guinevere shouted. “Let me go now or you will regret it.”
Ramm wiped his mouth and pulled out his knife. His smile was obscured by his beard, but the hair hid none of his malice. He said something and pointed to Hild to translate.
The Camelot Betrayal Page 15