She still longed to know what childhood looked like, what it felt like, all the different ways it was experienced. She knew the general shape of Arthur’s—spent serving Sir Ector and Sir Kay and learning from Merlin—but Brangien had not spoken much of hers. She seemed to feel warmly toward her parents, at least. Guinevere knew so little of Lancelot’s past. Or Mordred’s. Was he raised by Morgan le Fay, his mother and Arthur’s half sister, the sorceress who had wanted to kill Arthur when he was an infant? How well had he known his own father, the Green Knight, one of the Dark Queen’s offspring and fairy protectors? Had he spent much time with his grandmother?
It seemed like vital information. She wanted to take their pasts and absorb them, make them part of herself, learn all the pieces that went into making the people she knew now. Maybe then she could understand them. Maybe she could even come closer to understanding herself. Fill all her gaps with other people. Push out Merlin and the holes where the Lady of the Lake had been removed.
“And then the queen asked me to be her personal guide to the complexities of Camelot. She found it quite overwhelming.”
Guinevere looked up, lost to the flow of conversation, nodding only half a second too late to Dindrane’s story. Because Dindrane had not been living here, she had not had time to gather the necessary things for a bride to take to her new home. And it was important that she have her own things. That, along with the money being exchanged between Sir Bors and Dindrane’s father that evening, would ensure that even if something happened to Sir Bors, Dindrane and any potential children would not be left destitute.
Guinevere liked this practice in theory. She liked the part where she had to sit, sewing, far less. Still, she tried to smile and act pleased to be there to combat the air of resentment from Blanchefleur and other relatives. Brangien and Isolde had joined them, though they kept to the edges of the room and spoke with no one.
“I wonder what the men are doing,” Guinevere said, trying to keep the longing to be anywhere else out of her voice.
“The men?” Dindrane did not pause from stitching a serviceable tunic. “Oh, I imagine they are drinking or bragging or fighting.”
An ancient aunt looked up with a milky-eyed glare. “Sometimes they have tournaments, but I doubt the boys could really enjoy it with a king present. Everyone would have to be careful not to hurt him.”
Guinevere felt a spike of defensiveness. “King Arthur is more than capable.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Of course.” The woman nodded, her neck skin folding like the cloth in her bony hands. “All men are serviceable with a sword or spear when they want to be.”
“And when you would prefer they not be,” one of Dindrane’s sisters-in-law said, snickering. Her face was pinched around a prominent, bony nose. It gave her a hawkish profile, which was not helped by the way she watched them all with careful, predatory eyes.
“Always wanting to spar in the middle of the night,” the other one agreed.
“Or first thing in the morning. Sheathe your sword, fool. No one wants to be greeted with that upon waking.”
“Sword is generous. I was thinking knife. Or perhaps needle.” The two women cackled. Dindrane blushed furiously red. Guinevere had some idea what they were talking about, but imagined it was much worse for Dindrane to hear, given it was her own brothers they were speaking of.
“Of course,” Blanchefleur said, stabbing her needle into a piece of cloth and smiling with just as much sharp intent, “Sir Bors is so old, it will probably not be an issue for our Dindrane.”
“He is only five years older than Percival,” Dindrane snapped.
“Too bad you could not snag his son instead.”
“His son is fourteen!”
“Still, you are fortunate to have found anyone willing to take you into their house at your age. Though we all know why he is doing it.” Blanchefleur flicked her eyes over Guinevere.
Blanchefleur’s meaning was clear: Dindrane was only valuable because of her connection to the king and queen. The women sparred, too, apparently. But not with weapons. Guinevere knew whose side she was on, and her mouth responded before she had time to think her words through. “Did you know Sir Mordred, the nephew of the king, also sought Dindrane’s hand?”
Everything after this would be a lie, but it was a safe lie. No one in Camelot knew why Mordred had disappeared. Arthur had kept it a secret, only saying that Mordred had left and would not be returning. Why not give them a better story? The truth hurt too much. Better to replace it.
“What?” Blanchefleur frowned.
“Oh, yes. It was terrible.”
“What was terrible?”
“Why, the fight.” Guinevere set down her sewing, putting on her best confused expression. “You did not hear?”
Blanchefleur shook her head. The other women in the room leaned closer, except Brangien, who knew Guinevere was lying. Her knowledge was betrayed only by a slight narrowing of the eyes.
Guinevere looked at Dindrane, smiling affectionately. “You have always been too modest, my dear friend. Can I tell them? Please?”
Dindrane gave an uninterested lift of her shoulders. “If you wish.” Then she turned her face so only Guinevere could see it, and formed the word What? silently with her mouth.
“Oh, it was thrilling!” Guinevere put one hand over her heart, where Mordred’s flower had pressed before she moved it. “It was the night of the tournament in which Sir Lancelot proved herself. On the field that day, Sir Bors walked out wearing our Dindrane’s handkerchief as his colors. We were not shocked—he had clearly been in love with her for years but was too reserved to say anything. Tournaments make all men braver. But they also make them more reckless. When Sir Mordred—King Arthur’s nephew, and closest heir”—that was hardly true, but they need not know; it made everything sound more romantic—“well, when he saw it, jealousy flared. He, too, had long nurtured a secret affection for lovely Dindrane. That evening, as the wine flowed, so, too, did their passion and anger. Sir Mordred confronted Sir Bors, demanding he be allowed to court Dindrane, being of higher rank within Camelot. A lesser man—one more concerned with his position among King Arthur’s knights—certainly would have ceded pursuit of Dindrane to Sir Mordred. But Sir Bors’s love for her defied the bounds of rational thought. He immediately challenged Sir Mordred to a fight. The winner would be allowed to court Dindrane, and the loser would have to leave Camelot. Forever.”
“What?” Blanchefleur looked aghast. “Percival has told me nothing of this.”
“He did not know. You will recall that immediately after these events I was abducted and everything became very busy and confusing.” Guinevere waved her hand as though those events were far less important than the fictional ones she was spinning. “Sir Bors and Sir Mordred faced off with nothing but their fists and their determination to be the one to win Dindrane’s heart and hand. I was there, as was my maid, Brangien.”
“Mmm, it was very exciting,” Brangien murmured from the corner, not looking up from her sewing.
“Though Sir Bors’s experience on the battlefield is unsurpassed, Sir Mordred had never been defeated in single combat. He was considered the most deadly of all Arthur’s knights.”
“They hated him,” Blanchefleur said, wrinkling her nose.
“With good reason,” Guinevere said, not allowing the other woman to wrest the reins of the story. “Sir Mordred was arrogant and cold, and I was terrified he would win.” Mordred appeared arrogant and cold, but really he was reserved and watchful, constantly in pain from being around iron because of his fairy heritage through his father. But when one got close to him, he was insightful and funny and heartbreakingly duplicitous.
She should never have gotten close to him. She could not let it happen again.
Back to the story. Stories were so much tidier. So much easier. “Sir Mordred loved Dindrane, but I
knew he would not be half the husband to her Sir Bors would. We all watched as they battled. And though Sir Mordred was the younger and faster, Sir Bors’s heart was pure, his every strike made true and powerful by his love for Dindrane. In the end, he stood alone on that dark field, battered but triumphant. He had defeated Sir Mordred and won the fairest maiden.” Guinevere beamed at Dindrane, who had her lips pursed in what looked like modesty but was probably an effort to hold back laughter.
“What happened to Sir Mordred?” one of the aunts asked.
“Oh, he was banished. He had honored the terms of their agreement. And, I think, he could not bear to stay in Camelot and watch Dindrane wed another.” Guinevere bit her lips, pretending to be worried. “I should not have shared this story. Sir Bors will not speak of it. He loves his king and would never exult in a victory that sent the king’s nephew away. Please do not bring it up in front of him.”
“But surely King Arthur was angry?” one of the sisters-in-law asked.
“He values Sir Bors too much to let this come between them. Sir Mordred made his choices.” Guinevere smiled dismissively, but saying that cost more than she had anticipated. Mordred had made his choices, and he had made them for love of his family. It felt oddly like a betrayal to spin this story using him, knowing what she did of how fiercely he had also loved her. Had he, though? Twice now he had seemed to prove no ill intent. But she knew the Dark Queen was still trying to overthrow Arthur. Mordred had chosen her side. They were enemies, regardless of feelings.
Guinevere cleared her throat, trying to dislodge some of the pain stuck there. It was not just residual pain from King Mark’s fingers. “And all ended up as it should so that we could be here to celebrate the beautiful Dindrane’s wedding to valiant Sir Bors, the dragonslayer.”
The dragonslayer story, too, was a lie. Were all the stories lies?
“Two suitors,” Blanchefleur said to herself, staring in blank anger at the floor.
Dindrane set down her sewing. She beamed at Guinevere, then put on a prim expression. “Well, I certainly would not have told that story today. Bringing a tale of another man to my wedding celebration hardly seems proper. But I cannot command my queen not to speak when she wishes to. Now. We have another activity to get to before the men.”
Relieved, Guinevere put her work away. At last this punishment would end.
Dindrane stood, straightening her skirts. “We are going to the bathhouse! They have none in Camelot, and I have missed it so!”
Guinevere repented of her haste to be finished with sewing. “A bathhouse. What does…what does that entail?”
“There are four rooms. Each gets hotter, with stoves and heated rocks the servants pour water on to make steam. And in the final room they scrape you clean, then we all sit in the water and soak.” Dindrane clapped her hands. “Come now, we cannot let the men have a turn before us. I will not sit in the same water they soaked in after all their riding and wrestling.”
The women bustled about the room to put away their projects. Guinevere looked with horror toward Brangien.
Brangien stood and took Guinevere’s elbow. “I am afraid the queen cannot accompany you.”
“What? Why?” Dindrane deflated.
“She is not allowed to be undressed in front of anyone but her husband.” Brangien delivered the same lie Guinevere had given the first time Brangien had attempted to help her into a bath. As though Guinevere could not hear or speak for herself, Brangien lowered her voice conspiratorially to the rest of the women. “The rules are very different for kings and queens in Camelot.”
The women nodded as though that made any sense at all. Guinevere was escorted from the room. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Brangien’s smile was satisfied. “You do not always need a knight to protect you. I can do it just as well.”
“Could we go see what the men are doing?” Guinevere wanted to spend time with Arthur. To take more of his strength and confidence into herself however she could. They had been separated too early that morning.
“They are probably haggling. We would not be welcome, and I am glad. I do not want to hear what Dindrane is worth in terms of gold.”
Isolde spoke, her voice soft. “That was an amazing story you told.”
“An amazing lie.” Brangien snorted a laugh. “It never happened.”
Isolde looked alarmed and taken aback. “But why would you say it?”
“Dindrane is my friend. It was the only way I could think to protect her from those horrible women.”
Isolde slowly nodded. “They did seem…unkind.”
“We all protect each other, in whatever ways we can.” Guinevere squeezed Brangien’s hand, and Isolde stepped closer to both of them.
“I am glad for it,” Isolde whispered. Her lovely face had a haunted quality. Brangien noticed, too. She linked her arm with Isolde’s.
That was the other lie of stories. Even when the stories told were true, they never talked about what happened after the quest. About all the wounds—visible and otherwise—that lingered long after the neat close of the tale. They had rescued the damsel. The end. But there was still so much pain there, and perhaps there always would be. Guinevere knew Brangien was unparalleled at taking care of others. She said she had learned it from Isolde; it seemed a gift of grace that Brangien now got to use it to comfort Isolde. Hopefully, with enough time and love and freedom, Isolde would be able to feel safe again. But Brangien needed space to care for her love.
“Do you two mind if I rest alone?” Guinevere put one hand on her door. “I did not sleep well last night. I would appreciate the solitude.”
Brangien nodded, grateful, and guided Isolde toward the small chamber they had been given. At the other end of the hall, Sir Tristan and Lancelot stood guard. Guinevere longed to go speak with them, to spend the hours in friendly companionship. But they had a job to do, too.
Guinevere entered her room. Arthur had commanded her not to dwell on things. He was right. She would not wallow in guilt over the king she had destroyed, or the dragon she had betrayed, or the man she could not afford to think about or trust ever again.
She took Mordred’s flower out of her pouch and crushed it in her palm until the delicate petals were nothing but smears of color on her skin. And then she sat, alone with only her thoughts and regrets, which felt like the greatest punishment of all.
Guinevere sits at the table, a pleasantly blank look on her face as her mind wanders far from what is being discussed among Arthur and the other men. It does not really involve her and never will, but she is here because she is supposed to be. The walls of the room feel too close, the table too big, herself too small.
A laugh that does not belong in this space tugs her attention; she is caught on it like a fishing line. Mordred leans against the doorframe. His smile is an invitation and a promise.
Alarmed, Guinevere turns toward Arthur. He glances at his nephew, then at Guinevere. “Oh, go on. I can do this without you.” He smiles, then turns back to the business of being king.
Giddy with nerves and excitement, half-certain what she is doing is wrong—but with Arthur’s permission—she stands and takes Mordred’s extended hand. Together they walk out the door into the pouring rain of a forest. Laughing and shrieking in surprise, Guinevere lets Mordred tug her to the shelter of an ancient, gnarled tree. They press against the bark, water streaming down their faces and mixing as their lips find each other’s.
* * *
The bed shifted and Guinevere sat up with a start, her heart racing, the taste of rain and other lips still on her own.
“Sorry,” Arthur said, lying next to her. “I did not mean to wake you.” The room was dark, the air charged, whether in reality or because of the remnants of her dream clinging to her.
Without thinking about it, without giving herself a chance to stop, Guinevere put her hand out, foun
d Arthur’s chest, and lowered her lips to his. She felt him go rigid with surprise, eagerly anticipating feeling his heart begin to race beneath her hand.
But it did not.
And his lips did not move against hers.
He lay there, still and unmoving. Mortified, Guinevere withdrew, scooting away on the bed and pulling her knees up to her chest. Her shoulder ached and she felt like crying. She did not know whether or not to apologize. She did not want to.
“Guinevere,” Arthur said, but it was not with longing or regret. It was with sadness.
“Why not?” It was the question she kept coming back to. Why not? They were married. She loved him, had loved him since the moment they met. Why could they not also love each other this way? She wanted to. It would make everything easier. And beyond that, it would make everything better. She wanted Arthur to look at her the way Mordred had.
No! Not that way. She wanted Arthur to look at her the way Brangien looked at Isolde, like there was no one else in the world. She would even take the way Sir Bors looked at Dindrane, always slightly confused but happy.
Arthur sat up, leaning against the wall behind the bed. “There is…there is no rush.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Arthur sighed. He held out his arms.
Her eyes had adjusted enough so that she could make out his shape in the dark. She did not want to move to him, to be held like a friend or a sister. And she knew he was not inviting her back to try again. She stayed where she was. “What do you mean by that?” she repeated.
“It is—” He stopped, going quiet.
She wished it were not so dark. She longed to see his expression. But she could do better than that. She reached for his hand and took his fingers between her own. Her hands had finally returned to normal. Arthur was as he always felt—steady, warm, strong—but he also felt sad. And…scared. Had she ever felt him scared before? “Please tell me. It cannot be worse than what I imagine. That you regret marrying me, that you do not like me, that you wish—”
The Camelot Betrayal Page 18