The Camelot Betrayal

by Kiersten White

  She entered to find the room efficiently stripped of any evidence of their stay. Brangien and Isolde had worked quickly. Guinevere turned to visit them and see if they needed any help, when the door opened and Arthur walked in. One glance at his face and Guinevere’s happy mood was punctured.

  “What?” she asked.

  He did not bother trying to smile. He waved toward the hallway and Sir Tristan and Sir Bors entered. “You, too, Sir Lancelot,” he said.

  Guinevere moved to the side as the three knights entered and stood awkwardly. There were not enough chairs for everyone, and barely enough space for so many broad shoulders. “What is it?” Guinevere repeated.

  “Sir Percival informed me that other lords of the region have heard I am here and want to speak with me about treaties. There is the issue of King Mark’s successor”—he had the grace not to look at Guinevere as he said it—“and everyone is on edge about the Saxons. I cannot pass up this opportunity to speak with them and leave with our southern neighbors firmly on our side. I have had to focus on the Picts to the north for so long, I have neglected this region. This is my chance to fix that.”

  Guinevere sat down, politeness abandoning her along with her hopes. “Oh. How long will we stay?” She hated Dindrane’s family, hated having to be a foreign queen in an unfamiliar place. At least in Camelot she knew how to play her part, and there was a reason for it. Pretending for these people was a waste of her time. She resented all of it. She should be back in Camelot, protecting her own people. Who knew what the Dark Queen might get up to in their absence?

  “I do not want you to stay.”

  Guinevere looked up sharply; there was an almost physical sting to Arthur’s words. Was he still angry about what she had done to rescue Isolde?

  Arthur paced, hands clasped behind his back. “Sir Bors, I want your counsel. You and Sir Percival have ties to this area, and it will lend Camelot credibility when they see we are connected to these southern families at the highest levels.”

  Sir Bors nodded, bowing. “I will go inform my wife. She will…” He had a moment of fear cross his face.

  “She can return with us,” Guinevere offered, trying not to sound as hurt as she felt. “It will give her time to prepare your home to her liking without interference.”

  Sir Bors smiled, a combination of alarm and affection. “That is a good idea. Thank you, my queen.” He bowed again and left the room.

  Arthur continued to pace. “I do not know how long this will take. I do not like being away during the harvest. When you get back to Camelot, I want you to rule in my absence.”

  “What?” Guinevere stood, surprised. He was not sending her away because she had failed. He was sending her away because she was capable? “But you left Sir Gawain and Sir Caradoc in charge.”

  Arthur took her hands in his. “I want it to be you from now on. When I am gone, Camelot still has a ruler in its queen. You know the city now. You know how it works, what it needs. And it needs you.”

  Guinevere’s emotions churned. Disappointment over Arthur staying, pride and elation over Arthur’s vote of confidence. But also worry. Because if she was left in charge of Camelot, that meant she was left in Camelot, whenever Arthur was away.

  But that was a conversation for another day. Already Arthur and Sir Tristan and Lancelot had moved on to discussing travel logistics. Arthur wanted to know all the details—perhaps partly to make certain Guinevere did not improvise again. Brangien and Isolde appeared and retrieved the trunks waiting by the door. With everything settled here, the timeline for leaving had been moved up.

  Guinevere wanted a few minutes to speak privately with Arthur, but in the bustle of activity there was not a chance for it.

  It was only as she was leaving that he caught up to her and drew her aside. “Be careful,” he said. “No quests this time, please. If there is a new threat from the Dark Queen, wait for me if you can. And if you cannot—”

  She smiled as playfully as she could manage. “I will try not to have too much fun defeating her without you.”

  Arthur laughed. “Leave some heroics for the rest of us.” He drew her close in an embrace. “Please be careful this time.”

  “We know we can handle the Dark Queen,” Guinevere said, placing a hand on the back of Arthur’s neck. “There are no threats in Camelot that we have not thwarted. The biggest risk is that I will be bored waiting for you.”

  “Here is a wish for boredom, then.” Arthur drew back and, with a surge of impulse Guinevere felt like a flush from his skin, kissed her. It was like a patch of sun on a cold day, warm and bright and welcome.

  The memory of his lips lingered on hers as she rode toward home, where she would rule as queen.

  By the time they arrived at the pier at the bottom of Camelot, Guinevere’s head ached and her still-healing shoulder was stiff. They had pushed to make good time back, having no reason to delay. The trip across the lake felt exceptionally cruel after so much travel. She did not even have Arthur to cling to and draw strength from. Lancelot, Brangien, Isolde, and Dindrane formed a barrier around her, blocking both the lake from her view and Guinevere from the view of anyone who might criticize how badly the queen handled water.

  When she stepped off the ferry, Guinevere put her queen face firmly in place. Regal. Responsible. Not a girl who was terrified of water, nor one who did not know her own history, nor one who had left a path of damage and destruction and death in her wake from a simple trip to a wedding.

  Arthur had commanded her to leave it in the past, and she would do her best.

  No one had expected them back this soon, but the citizens who noticed them waved and bowed. Guinevere smiled graciously in acknowledgment. Tonight she could rest, but tomorrow she would have to speak with Sir Caradoc and Sir Gawain about what had been done for the harvest in her absence and what still needed to be accomplished. And she would inquire how Guinevach had acted when Sir Gawain escorted her out of the kingdom. Though that threat was averted, now that Guinevere was back home, she was curious to know what the threat had been. Innocent, or deliberate? Guinevach’s attitude about being kicked out might offer some clues.

  When they reached the castle gate, Guinevere lowered her hood. Isolde craned her neck to stare up at the castle carved straight from the mountain. Guinevere remembered her awe seeing it the first time, too. “Home,” she said, squeezing Isolde’s arm companionably. “Welcome to it.”

  “As soon as you are rested, you must all come visit me,” Dindrane said, pointing to Sir Bors’s house, which was prestigiously located very near the castle. She smiled in satisfaction. “I can host you whenever we wish, in my own rooms. All the rooms are my own.”

  Lancelot was speaking with the guards, giving instructions. The castle’s grand main entrance, a large wooden door reinforced with scrolling swirls of metal—and with a hidden iron knot that undid any magic crossing the threshold—opened. Guinevere blinked in confusion as her tired brain processed what she was seeing. Sir Gawain, as pleasant as ever with a smile on his round, ruddy face as he gazed, besotted, at his companion.

  Guinevach.

  “Oh, Guinevere!” Guinevach smiled blandly, dipping into a curtsy. “How wonderful that you are back.”

  Dindrane, unaware of the tension, embraced the girl. “Guinevach! You stayed. I wish you had been able to come to my wedding. It was wonderful. You must visit me, too, of course.”

  Guinevach returned the hug, staring at Guinevere over Dindrane’s shoulder. “I could not go home, not without spending some time with my beloved sister.” Her hair shone with the last rays of the sun, but her gaze was as cool as the coming evening.

  They had underestimated her.

  “Call on me tomorrow morning, Dindrane,” Guinevere said, then swept inside the castle past Guinevach and Sir Gawain. “Sir Lancelot, please follow.”

  Brangien and Isolde flan
ked her, and Lancelot covered their retreat.

  “She was supposed to be gone. Arthur arranged it,” Guinevere hissed as she hurried up far too many stairs to their level of the castle.

  Brangien huffed, pushing open a heavy door on the second floor and glaring at a guard posted there. “You might want to go ahead of us and open all the doors instead of simply standing there like decoration!” The guard looked terrified as he scurried in front of them. They usually took the exterior staircase, avoiding the narrow interior flights and the unwieldly doors. “Yes, well,” Brangien answered, now speaking to Guinevere, “King Arthur is a king and a man and when he tells people to do things, he assumes they will be done.” The guard was lingering next to Guinevere’s door when they got to the fifth floor. “Yes, thank you, now go fetch food and drinks for us.”

  “But I am not a—”

  “You are not willing to do whatever your queen asks of you?” Brangien’s tone was the verbal equivalent of a swat on a naughty child’s bottom. The guard practically ran. “Honestly,” she said, undoing her cloak and throwing it onto the dresser, then unfastening Guinevere’s cloak and collar and carefully putting them in their place.

  Isolde stood in the center of the room, looking around. She had no idea who Guinevach was, or why it was troubling that she was still there. “It is remarkable,” Isolde breathed, eyes wide. She danced to the window and pressed her face against it. “So high!”

  “Brangien can take you to explore.” Guinevere had anticipated a little bit of pampering—she had gotten spoiled—but now she wanted to be alone so she could quiet her mind, currently buzzing like a disturbed hive of bees. And she needed to speak with Lancelot, who was waiting in the doorway. “Come in,” she said, gesturing.

  Lancelot strode into the room, taking up a position in the center of it.

  “We will not leave until you are settled.” Isolde’s hands fluttered as she glanced around the room, trying to figure out what to do with herself to be useful.

  “Please!” Guinevere paused. She tried to soften the edge her desperation had given the word. “Please. When I first came to Camelot I could not believe it, either. My shoulder is bothering me. All I want to do is rest. Go see your new home.”

  Brangien seemed suspicious as she undid some of the laces of Guinevere’s outer dresses so that Guinevere would be able to undo the rest on her own when she chose to. “I will pick up some things that may help with the stiffness. No magic!” she said, predicting Guinevere’s worry. “Nothing that a good lady’s maid would not know about.”

  Guinevere turned to Isolde. “There is no magic allowed in Camelot.”

  Isolde nodded. “Brangien told me as much. I never had any talent for it anyway, in spite of what they said at my—” She stopped, her expression far away and vacant, doubtless remembering her trial. Her condemnation. Her husband. She blinked rapidly, forcing a smile. “It was always Brangien who was good with those things. She is the special one.”

  “There are many ways to be special.” Brangien squeezed Isolde’s hand as she passed her. The way they moved, always reacting to the other, was almost like a dance. Brangien opened the door at the first knock and took the tray from the guard, then shut the door without thanking him. She placed the food—some fruit and meat—along with a pitcher of watered wine on the table, then steered Guinevere into a chair.

  “Rest. There are no problems that will not keep until tomorrow.” She narrowed her eyes, doubtless wanting to demand Guinevere tell her what the real problem was with Guinevach. But Guinevere could not. Would not.

  Guinevere nodded, smiling. “Show off our city. Impress her.”

  As soon as the door was closed, Guinevere addressed Lancelot. “Find out what happened. Sir Gawain was supposed to make certain Guinevach left. Did she bewitch him? Bribe him?”

  “Smile and bat her eyelashes at him?” Lancelot shrugged at Guinevere’s frown. “He is very young. She is very young. I cannot imagine he took much convincing to disobey his king’s orders. But I will find out the exact course of events.”

  Guinevere nodded. Tomorrow, she would hold a council of war. Perhaps, having failed on two fronts already, the Dark Queen was well into her third. Guinevach had drawn first blood by staying. She would not win.

  * * *

  Guinevere had assembled her fiercest allies: Lancelot, the best knight in Camelot; Brangien, a formidable witch and endlessly clever maid; and Dindrane, the most accomplished gossip Guinevere had ever known.

  “You want us to what?” Dindrane asked, leaning forward intently. They were in Guinevere’s sitting room, which was being converted to a bedroom for Isolde and Brangien so they could have some privacy. Guinevere had promised it to Lancelot, but that was before they had an addition to their ranks. Lancelot could have a cot in her own bedchamber when Arthur was away. That way she could get some rest while protecting Guinevere.

  For now, though, it was still a sitting room. Guinevere sat on a cushion, leaning back against the wall. Dindrane had taken a chair, while Brangien sat on a stool and Lancelot stood near the door.

  “I want you to spy on Guinevach. Gather any information you can about her. Why she is here. Who she is talking to. What she is doing.” Guinevere expected demands for details or a refusal to help without explanation. She braced herself.

  “That is easy,” Dindrane said, her tone pleasant. “I can have her over for a meal this evening. Do you want to be there, too, or would you like me to work on her alone?”

  Guinevere almost questioned why Dindrane was not questioning her request, and then she remembered what it had been like at Dindrane’s wedding. Dindrane knew being related did not necessarily make people family. “Alone. She might open up without me there in ways she would not if I were present. And thank you,” she said.

  “You are very welcome.” Dindrane smiled, then leaned across the space to Brangien, brushing her fingers along Brangien’s pale-blue sleeve. “Do you think this color would look good in my sitting room? How could we incorporate it?”

  Brangien tugged her sleeve from Dindrane’s touch. “A cushion or two will bring in enough of the color without being too expensive. I brought this with me, but a woman on Shi—Market Street”—Brangien corrected herself from using the old name—“sells something in a similar hue.”

  Dindrane stood, excited, and excused herself. “I will let you know how the visit goes!” she called as she left the room.

  “My queen,” Brangien said, settling onto the more comfortable chair Dindrane had vacated, “it would help if I knew why we need to watch Guinevach so carefully. How can I find something if I do not know what I am looking for?” Brangien demanded the information Dindrane did not care about.

  Guinevere toyed with a heavy silver ring on her finger. She was still not used to wearing things like it, though Brangien was more insistent lately that Guinevere wear her jewels and finery. It felt distracting. “I am afraid this has something to do with the Dark Queen.”

  Brangien’s face shifted, horrified. “Your sister?”

  Guinevere could not admit to Brangien that she had no idea whether Guinevach was in fact Guinevach. “Arthur’s own nephew was in league with her. And we do not know the scope of her power and influence. Guinevach could be under her sway without knowing it. Or she could be entirely innocent. I do not know. But the timing of her arrival and her insistence on staying are both suspect. We trusted Mordred. We will not make the same mistake with Guinevach.”

  “There is still something you are not telling me.” Brangien’s gaze was cool.

  Guinevere sighed. “Yes. There are several things I am not telling you. And, just as before, I need you to trust that I would tell you if I could, but what I am not telling you does not put you in any danger.”

  “But does it put you in danger?”

  “Not immediately. You will be the first to know if that changes. For now
, we all watch Guinevach and gather whatever information we can. Look for any attempt to undermine me or the king. Any whispers or rumors that start, whether they can be traced to her or not. And let me know at the slightest hint of magic.”

  “Very well.” Brangien looked determined, if not happy. “Leave Isolde out of it. She is a terrible liar.”

  “That is not a bad quality,” Lancelot said.

  “It is a very good quality,” Guinevere agreed, an ache in her chest making her wish she had the same problem, or that she could even afford to. Her whole life was a lie. She had to be the best at it.

  Even with the Guinevach complication, Guinevere had not forgotten that Arthur put her in charge of Camelot. She would not shirk the tasks that had piled up in Arthur’s absence.

  Guinevere set herself up in the dining hall. It was the best space for meeting with large groups, and there were many people to meet with. Arthur tried to engage his subjects on the same level they existed, and she would do the same. No thrones or daises.

  It was hard to focus as several merchants argued that their stalls in the preharvest market should get better placement. She promised them better spots in the much larger harvest festival, provided they lend their horses and wagons to the harvest effort for reduced cost.

  After that, it was a city engineer with an issue with one of the aqueducts. Guinevere did not understand what he was saying, but she knew that Arthur would only trust the city’s water supply to an expert, so she approved all his requests for funds and man power. If the aqueducts failed it would not be disastrous—they still had the lake—but it would definitely make life harder for the servants. She remembered that long-ago tour of the city at Brangien’s side, and her comment about Camelot’s favorite saying when things went wrong: Could be buckets.