The Camelot Betrayal

by Kiersten White

  “No.” He squeezed her fingers. “No, it is the opposite. You are my best friend, the only person I feel at home with.” He tugged her fingers, pulling her close so she nestled against his side. She put a tentative hand on his chest and there, finally, was the skip and speed of a pulse that indicated he was not as steady as he sounded. “It is not that I do not want you like— Well, I worry. My mother, you know. And Elaine. Every important woman in my life has died in childbirth. And I cannot—I will not—risk you like that.”

  “But—”

  “Not never. We have all the time in the world between us.” He put his fingers beneath her chin, lifting her head and tilting her face up. This time when he pressed his lips to hers, there was a kiss there. It was gentle. Patient. She could feel the sparks of desire, but they were nothing compared with his determination to do the right thing. To protect her.

  The kiss ended as it had begun: Thoughtfully. Softly. Carefully.

  She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that burned there and would betray her. She loved Arthur and treasured what they had and had no desire to lose it, but she also wanted to be in love. Wildly. Deliriously. Recklessly. Love should feel urgent. A rush of emotion, an inescapable need. A spark and passion that consumed everything, that burned away caution and fear and left only desire.

  But Arthur had been hurt in ways she had not. And he did want her. She would try to be patient, for his sake. And for hers.

  * * *

  The next day during wedding festivities, Arthur seemed more aware of her than usual, taking extra time to speak with her or even stand near her in a deliberate way. It somehow made everything hurt worse.

  Dindrane was lovely. She had insisted on Guinevere matching her so that everyone would see them as the same. They were dressed in belted white tunics with blue-and-red cloaks. Guinevere had loaned her best jewelry to Dindrane, though, wanting to be certain Dindrane shone in every way possible on her wedding day. And Brangien had quickly sewed a delicate collar to add to Guinevere’s dress and cover the slowly fading bruises.

  In spite of her awful family, in spite of everything she had been through to get to this point, Dindrane was luminously happy when she and Sir Bors exchanged rings. Sir Bors was flushed red and beaming, and Guinevere could swear there were tears in his eyes as he kissed Dindrane. Guinevere was satisfied. Dindrane was married to a man who would certainly work hard to make her life a happy one. And Guinevere did not question that it would in fact be a tremendous amount of work.

  But after the wedding there was the feasting, and the drinking, and the dancing, all in a crowded, airless hall. The scent of too many bodies and too much wine set Guinevere’s head aching. She found herself looking longingly at the door, as though Mordred really would show up to rescue her.

  It was the worst kind of dream, because every part of it was destructive. The Mordred of her dreams was not the real Mordred, and she did not need rescuing. Not from this.

  Arthur lingered close to her at the table where she sat watching the dancers. But she sensed his tension as he glanced toward a gathering of lords and kings from the region. Allies and information just a few steps away.

  She elbowed him gently in the side. He wore relatively simple clothes. A vest of deep blue over a clean white tunic. The silver crown on his shorn head was his only adornment. He turned toward her with a questioning smile and she felt the familiar pulse of affection. Her handsome, good king. She would work on patience.

  “Go on, talk politics.”

  He grimaced guiltily. “I do not want to leave you alone.”

  “How can I be alone?” Guinevere gestured to the packed room. It was like a battlefield, with combat fought in dance and gossip and drinking contests. She was not skilled in any of it. “Alone would be gloriously preferable at this point.”

  “Can we dance later?”

  “I do not know any of these dances. Merlin never saw fit to push that information into my head.” She flashed a quick smile at Arthur as he left. What would she have lost of her past if Merlin had taught her to dance? Did it even matter? At this point she had so little left of who she had been, it was like she had not even existed before becoming Guinevere.

  She should pretend that was the truth. Forget the fear of what she did not know about herself, her mother, her past. Go back to Camelot with a clean slate. Free from both her own past and the real Guinevere’s. No more Guinevach, no more Lady of the Lake, no more Merlin. Only Guinevere and the family she had chosen.

  Brangien and Dindrane stood before her, each taking one of her hands and pulling her up.

  “Where are we going?” Guinevere asked.

  “To dance!” Dindrane laughed. “It is my wedding, you cannot tell me no.”

  “You are dancing?” Guinevere turned to Brangien, shocked. Isolde was sitting on a stool near the door, beaming as she watched Brangien.

  Brangien lifted Guinevere’s good hand in the air, then somehow shifted it to force Guinevere to spin in a circle. “I love dancing.”

  “You do not!”

  “I do!” Brangien slipped into the circle of dancing members of the wedding party and mimicked their moves expertly. None of the other maids were dancing yet, but Brangien enjoyed special status as lady’s maid to the queen. She was assured and graceful and happy. Guinevere wondered in that moment if she had ever seen Brangien truly happy before now, dancing in a room where her love was free to watch. Knowing at the end of the night, they could be together. At the end of every night from now on, they could be together.

  Guinevere laughed, Brangien’s happiness infectious.

  “Come on.” Dindrane eased Guinevere into the circle, constantly correcting her movements. But it was not done meanly. It was done as fun between friends. Sir Bors, who was not dancing, watched with the same lovestruck awe that Isolde did. Guinevere could not help but check if she was being watched with love, as well.

  She wished she had not. Arthur was deep in conversation with a circle of men, not watching her dance. But in a way that made it easier. No one cared what she was doing. Guinevere relaxed and let Dindrane instruct and guide and correct her, and before long she was spinning with all the other dancers as musicians filled the room with as much noise as there was drink and talk. Her shoulder was sore, but that did not lessen her enjoyment.

  Laughing and clasping hands with Dindrane and Brangien soothed some of her fears. They had their own loves now, but they were still her friends. She had gained a new friend in Isolde and, if not a friend in Sir Bors, someone she respected. And her role in creating this match assuaged some of the guilt she felt around Sir Bors for what she had done to his mind to protect the dragon. At least one of them had come out on the other side better off.

  As Brangien twirled her out of the group and then back in, Guinevere discovered that someone was watching her. Lancelot never took her eyes off them. Guinevere, giddy with movement, stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes. Lancelot’s watchful gaze cracked and she smiled, shaking her head.

  Guinevere wished she could pull Lancelot into the dance. But she was the queen and Lancelot was her knight, and she had to respect that. The smile shared between them finished sealing away the pain of the past few days.

  She chose this life, and she loved it and was loved in turn by so many people in it.

  Guinevere danced until her feet ached as much as her sides did from laughing. She retired to the table with Brangien and Dindrane, joined by Isolde. They formed an island of sisterhood, sealed away from everyone else as they ate and drank and giggled. There were jellied fruits and nuts in crystalized honey. Even the gossip was sweet, Brangien and Dindrane filling Isolde in on all the wonders that awaited her in Camelot. Guinevere forgot that they were there for a wedding until the men started banging raucously on the tables.

  “To the bed!” they chanted, over and over. Sir Bors looked at the men with such a
ggressive displeasure the chanting faltered.

  He walked to Dindrane, then bowed and held out his hand. “If you are ready to retire?”

  Dindrane, who did not seem nervous so much as excited, stood and took his hand. “I am.”

  A few brave souls shouted encouragement and whistled as they left, but Sir Bors’s glower had managed to defeat any of the more crass sentiments and certainly cut short any ideas about following the couple.

  Guinevere remembered her own wedding, how odd and new everything had felt. How determined she had been. Scared, but certain of who she was and what she was doing there. It made her feel sad, thinking about that girl. That was the night she had given her real name away to a flame, snuffing it out forever to avoid the temptation of revealing it. If she knew then what she knew now—the layers of Merlin’s manipulations, the false premise of her entire role in Camelot, the damage already done to her mind—would she have made the same choice to willingly sacrifice what little she had of herself?

  “Come on, to bed,” Brangien said, sensing the shift in mood. Sir Tristan was staying at Arthur’s side, and would until he retired. Brangien and Isolde accompanied Guinevere back to her room, Lancelot padding silently behind them. The knight checked the room to make certain it was empty, then stepped back out as Brangien and Isolde helped Guinevere undress, unlacing and untying her from the layers. Brangien brushed Guinevere’s hair while Isolde carefully repacked the clothing into a trunk.

  From the hallway, a conversation filtered to them with a male voice getting louder. There was a smacking noise, and then the wall shuddered as something slammed into it. Guinevere and Brangien rushed to open the door. Lancelot was standing guard, hands clasped in front of her. An unconscious man was sprawled on the floor next to her.

  Lancelot shrugged. “He had too much to drink. Perhaps it is best if Brangien and Isolde stay in your room tonight. There will be many drunk men.”

  “Thank you.” Guinevere agreed with Lancelot’s assessment. If Arthur was bothered to find his bed filled by two others when he returned sometime in the middle of the night, he did not express it. Guinevere awoke to find him on the cold floor, using one arm for a pillow. She was flushed with affection as she stared down at him. She could not imagine another king who would sleep on the floor while two maids took his place in the bed.

  Brangien and Isolde tiptoed around the still-sleeping Arthur to prepare themselves for the day. When breakfast was delivered by a servant, Guinevere peered into the hall. The unconscious man was gone, but Lancelot still stood in the same position. Sir Tristan was farther down the hall.

  “Did you stand there all night?” Guinevere asked.

  “Yes, my queen.”

  “Come in and have breakfast, then.”

  Lancelot frowned. “Should I?”

  “You should.” Guinevere did not wait for Lancelot to follow. She pulled another cushion to the low table where their breakfast was waiting. Arthur had awoken and was stretching.

  “How was your night?” Guinevere asked, breaking pieces off the large, rough loaf of bread.

  “Interesting.” Arthur joined them. If he thought it odd that Lancelot was there, he did not say. “There was much discussion of the Saxon settlers. They are pushing in everywhere. Where they cannot outright take over, they marry into the families and take over that way. Actually, Dindrane’s father seemed relieved that she was married now, so he could refuse them. I had thought the Picts were our biggest problem, but there has been no movement or conflict from them in weeks. That border seems firm without Maleagant around to stir up trouble.”

  There was a heavy silence as the three of them—the only ones in Camelot who knew the truth of Maleagant’s demise at Guinevere’s hands—remembered what had happened.

  Arthur pushed on as though to prevent them from thinking on it. “The men here warned me to watch out for the Saxons, which we have already learned thanks to your would-be ransomers. These people already crossed the water to get here. Crossing a king is no great challenge after that. Should I range out to get more information, or do I wait for them to come to me?”

  Lancelot sat straighter. “When we sailed along the coast, I took note of every settlement. I will give you locations and numbers. Though we did not go north, it should give us some idea of what the landscape looks like now.”

  Arthur nodded, his strong features thoughtful. He rubbed his jawline where there was a hint of stubble. He did not grow much facial hair, but he kept it shaved clean. “Thank you. That was good thinking.”

  A smile as quick and brilliant as a flash of lightning struck Lancelot’s face and was immediately replaced with her best stoic-knight expression. Guinevere felt a similar surge of pride. Lancelot was clever and smart, and she was glad that Arthur recognized it. Hopefully this fixed some of the damage her quest to rescue Isolde had done. Though Guinevere had claimed all responsibility, she knew Lancelot felt guilt over her injuries, and she wondered if it had strained things between Arthur and her knight.

  Arthur took a bite of an apple. “I would say we should hire the ship again, but I think that is out of the question.”

  “I did burn down their village.” Guinevere tried to say it lightly, tried to make a funny anecdote out of one of her most painful memories. It almost worked. Maybe that was why they told the stories the way they did. Tell them often enough, and they could become the truth.

  “Horses it is, then. We will leave tomorrow for home.”

  Guinevere was surprised at the sudden, sharp longing she felt at the word. This trip had been exhausting mentally and emotionally. As eager as she had been to leave Camelot, she now found herself equally anxious to return to where things were, if not ideal, at least easier. To embrace and explore who she was as Guinevere the Queen.

  Guinevere had taken breakfast in her own room, but on the last morning there, she went to the great hall for one final sociable appearance. Arthur had left before sunrise to speak with local rulers. Brangien and Isolde were busy packing and preparing everything for travel. Lancelot stood guard by the door. Guinevere wished she could have Lancelot dine with her, but she had resolved herself to being beset by Dindrane’s awful relations.

  Dindrane saved her before any others arrived. “Come on, we can eat breakfast in the gardens. Much nicer than here.” Dindrane glanced dismissively at the smoke-stained hall. She gestured for the servant to attend them and led Guinevere outside. Lancelot followed, then took up a post near the door where she had a full view of the gardens. The sparse green space clung to the back of the estate, more an afterthought than something lovingly tended. But there was a nice view of the rolling fields spreading out in front of them like a blanket of gold and green. Guinevere and Dindrane sat on a stone bench and waited as the servant set out the dishes.

  Breakfast was a simple affair of bread and cured meats, a chore more than a celebration. Guinevere picked over the food, wishing for more of the honey-crystalized nuts. “How are you?” she asked Dindrane. They had not seen each other the day before. It had been the most muted day of the trip, with most of the wedding party suffering from too much drink.

  “Wonderful. I am— Oh, I am so happy.” Dindrane laughed brighter than any of the surrounding blossoms. “I am finally free.”

  Guinevere could not quite understand the sentiment. After all, Dindrane was married now. Legally tied to Sir Bors forever. And husbands had far more rights than wives did.

  Dindrane ticked the facts off on her fingers, one by one. “I have a husband, so no one can look down on me. I never have to endure Blanchefleur again, or live in her home. My father was not generous, but between what he was forced to contribute and what Sir Bors gave, I have a chest big enough that I will never have to wed again should something happen to Sir Bors. Which I hope it never does! He was—he is— Guinevere, he…appreciates me.” A blush crept across her cheeks. She looked bashful, an expression
Guinevere had never before seen on her face. “I know I can be off-putting. I have been told as much my whole life. But Sir Bors likes me. I make him laugh. And not because he is mocking me, but because he is—”

  “Delighted by you?”

  “Yes! That is it exactly.”

  Guinevere plucked a scarlet blossom and tucked it into Dindrane’s chestnut hair. “I am glad you found someone who knows he is lucky to have you at his side. And I am glad I was able to be here to celebrate it with you.”

  “Thank you. I could not have faced this alone.” Dindrane’s shoulders tightened; she did not look back at the house, but she did not have to. Guinevere could tell she felt attacked by it, even outside.

  “I am sorry to say we are leaving this afternoon. Camelot needs us. I know the celebrations will continue for—”

  “I will come!” Dindrane stood immediately.

  “But you—”

  “I came here to force my father to pay, and to show them that I do not need them and never will again. I cannot wait to leave. I will go tell Sir—my husband. I will go tell my husband.” She laughed, spinning in a happy circle, then pulled Guinevere up and made her twirl, as well.

  “Time to go home,” Guinevere said, laughing with her friend.

  “Home!” Dindrane shouted. She kicked the foundation of her old home for good measure as they walked back inside.

  Feeling no duty toward these people to offer them gratitude or whatever she should as queen, Guinevere hurried back to her rooms. “Do you need to pack?” she asked Lancelot as she resumed her post outside the door.

  “No, my queen. I am ready.”

  “Of course you are.” Guinevere felt a surge of affection. Lancelot had made this whole trip possible. She had sacrificed and risked and protected. Guinevere could not imagine life without her. How had it been only a few months since Guinevere suspected Lancelot was a fairy threat?