The Camelot Betrayal

by Kiersten White

  She kept repeating it to herself as issue after issue was listened to and dealt with as close to what she could imagine Arthur doing. Could be buckets. She could be Ramm’s prisoner, waiting to be ransomed. Could be buckets. She could be married to a monster like King Mark, unable to protect herself or anyone else. Could be buckets. She could be sitting in her room waiting for Arthur to return, nothing to occupy her time or mind except worrying.

  Sir Gawain sat to one side, taking careful notes about the line of curfew breakers currently giving excuses and seeking pardons. Lancelot had confirmed her own suspicions: the young knight was deliriously in love with Guinevach and had made no secret of it. When Guinevach told him that she would rather stay and wait for her sister to return, he had hastily agreed. Her guards had left, stranding her with her two maids. She could not be sent home unaccompanied. It was a clever move.

  Lancelot stood near the door, watching everything. There were a few officials, as well, there to consult should Guinevere need them. As much as Guinevere accomplished, though, the work never ended. As soon as the curfew breakers were pardoned or punished, there was a land contract to be discussed between two farmers. After that, the captain of the guard needed her to approve the rotation of men to protect the roads for the preharvest market, and then she had to look at and agree to funds for the extra forces for the harvest. There would be more goods and money in Camelot then than at any other time, meaning they had to be extra wary.

  After the details were hammered out—fortunately, Arthur had had most of the plan in place already—it was down to the harvest festival. “Would you prefer to discuss it tomorrow?” asked one of the officials, a slight man with wispy hair and skin so pale it was nearly blue.

  Guinevere wanted nothing more than to be done for the day. But Arthur trusted her. She needed to convince these men that his confidence was not misplaced. And to do that, she could give them no excuse to take over, no reason to think her weak. Even if they meant to spare her out of kindness, it was not what Arthur would ask of or accept from them.

  “No, thank you. We are all here. We should use our time well.” She would ask Arthur for a crown similar to his own. Her jeweled circlet was too ornate, decorative. She did not want to project beauty and wealth. She wanted to project confidence, assurance, dependability. Like her king. How often had she tried to absorb those same feelings from his touch?

  Guinevere looked down at the notes for the festival. “What will we do if we have latecomers who want to sell goods at the festival?”

  “We cannot give them the best spots!” One of the merchants from earlier was still lingering at the back of the room. His face was red with resentment at the idea.

  “Of course not.” Guinevere lifted a hand to reassure him. “I thought we could reserve a section on the lakeside of the grounds. It is not the best land—too muddy—but we are not using it for anything else. That way we can accommodate them without inconveniencing any of our own trusted merchants who have applied for their spots and aided the city in invaluable ways.” Guinevere offered the merchant a smile and he accepted it with a relieved sigh and a nod.

  The door opened and Lancelot stood to block it, but a golden flash of hair announced Guinevach’s arrival. “Oh, hello!” She dipped a pretty curtsy, a smile as bright as her hair beaming across the room. Guinevere noticed several men sit straighter in response. Sir Gawain practically fell out of his seat with the physical force of his response.

  “I am sorry, I had hoped to visit my sister, the queen.” Guinevere wondered if perhaps Guinevach had emphasized the words my sister too much, or if it was all in her head.

  Sir Gawain stood in a flurry of paper. He grimaced in horror as all his work fluttered to the floor, but then bowed stiffly. And then just as stiffly tried to bend over while his spine remained perfectly straight as he gathered the notes he had most likely ruined.

  Several of the officials looked at Guinevere expectantly. Guinevach had forced her hand. Guinevere had to introduce her. And by introducing her, claim her and give her power. “This is my sister, Guinevach of Cameliard.”

  Guinevach’s smile became even prettier. It was as though her cheeks could pinken on demand. “At home, they call me the Lily of Cameliard. You may all call me Princess Lily, if you wish.”

  “Princess Lily,” Sir Gawain whispered to himself. His face had gone a shade of red like it had been left too long in the dye vat. He fixed his papers and kept his eyes on them.

  Guinevere refused to call Guinevach Princess Lily. It sounded absurd. And why was she claiming a new name? Guinevere remembered how tempted she had been to tell Arthur her real name. It had been part of why she had given it to the flame and snuffed it out. If she did not know it, she could never reveal it. Was Guinevach not really the other woman’s name, and she wanted to go by her true one? And why was she insisting on that title? Was Guinevach in fact a princess? Guinevere had been. The real Guinevere had been. Guinevere shook her head, trying to keep track of the lies. Trying to remind herself that she was not in fact the real Guinevere. Sometimes even she forgot. She would ask Dindrane whether Guinevach was a princess now that Guinevere was married, or if Guinevach had always been a princess. Guinevere had no idea how it worked in Cameliard, which was a problem, since she was supposed to have grown up there.

  “I am not available right now, Guinevach.” Guinevere saw Guinevach’s eyes tighten with a flicker of displeasure at the use of her name. “We are discussing the upcoming harvest festival.”

  Whatever anger had been on Guinevach’s face was replaced by wide eyes and clasped hands. “Oh, wonderful! Will there be a tournament?”

  “We have not—”

  “Even in Cameliard we have heard of Camelot’s tournaments! I have always wanted to see one! King Arthur’s knights are the best in the whole world.” Guinevach beamed at each of the knights in the room, lingering a few extra seconds on Sir Gawain, whose face had not recovered from the deep-red hue any merchant would pay to capture for their cloth.

  “The festival is not about our knights. It is about our people. It is to celebrate the harvest,” Guinevere said.

  “But what is the harm in a tournament?” Guinevach took an empty space on a bench next to an official, who eagerly shifted to give her room. “The knights are the pride of Camelot, and the people are from Camelot, so celebrating the knights is a way of celebrating the people and their harvest.”

  “Tournaments do lead to higher attendance, which means we sell more,” the eager merchant in the back said.

  Guinevere forced a smile, keeping her voice even. “Yes. But this is the harvest festival. There will be food and drink, minstrels, dancing, and—”

  “Oh, will you have animals?” Guinevach broke in. “Once a man with a bear came to Cameliard. He had raised the bear from when it was a cub. The bear could dance, and balance a plate on its nose! Oh, such a dear, wondrous thing.”

  Guinevere found the entire concept horrifying. But several men were looking at Guinevach raptly, and the wispy-haired man was nodding eagerly as he spoke. “My sister wrote me about a trained bear once! Perhaps she knows where we can find the man, and we could—”

  “Yes, thank you,” Guinevere said firmly. “We will discuss entertainment at more length tomorrow. Right now we are discussing the particular details of how to organize the festival.”

  “But there must be a tournament. Even a small one.” Guinevach locked eyes with Guinevere, her golden ones flashing with intensity and what Guinevere suspected was aggression in spite of her plum-sweet tone. “You cannot very well have a tournament of farmers competing to see who can plow the straightest line or thresh the fastest.”

  “Actually,” Guinevere said, “that is a wonderful idea.” She turned to the official in charge of the festival planning, a calm, meticulous man in his late twenties with tightly curled hair and a brown complexion similar to Sir Tristan’s. �
�Could we create a tournament field with tasks similar to the tournaments, but to celebrate our farmers and field workers? A competition of strength, seeing who can lift the heaviest bales of hay and carry them across the field. A tree-felling contest—we will have to bring in the trees, of course. Oh, and we can have a show of livestock! And a milking race.”

  The men in the room laughed imagining it, but they were also nodding. It was a good idea. Guinevere knew it was. The people would love it, and would love the chance to be in the spotlight in front of their king. The fact that it went against what Guinevach had barged in and demanded was only a small part of Guinevere’s satisfaction.

  “Excellent. See to it. Now, back to the planning. How far in advance should we send the guards out, and how many miles of road should we cover?” Guinevere did not look at Guinevach again, expecting her to slink out of the room. But Guinevach stayed seated until the end of the meeting, a full two hours longer, every minute of which Guinevere could feel two angry golden eyes on her.

  Finally, it was time for evening meals. Guinevere was pleased. She had accomplished as much as any king. Probably more than Arthur, if she was being honest. He had a shorter attention span than she did. “Thank you, good sirs. Until tomorrow.”

  They all bowed and filed out. Guinevach stood, too. Guinevere turned toward Sir Gawain to ask about some detail from earlier in the meeting. She knew Guinevach had plans to dine with Dindrane that evening and would not want to be late. Guinevach hovered for a few moments before turning and swishing out of the room.

  “Will you be eating in here?” Lancelot asked. Already servants were shifting the benches and moving tables back into place. Several of the knights ate every meal here. Guinevere occasionally joined them, but after that many hours sitting as queen, she had no desire for more time spent in the company of expectations.

  “In my rooms.” Guinevere stood, her injured shoulder creaking in protest at movement after so long being still. Lancelot offered her arm and Guinevere accepted it. Once they were alone in the hall, Guinevere steered them in the opposite direction from her chambers.

  “Where are we going?” Lancelot asked.

  “Guinevach is not here, and knowing Dindrane, she will not be released until it is almost curfew. We are going to search her room.”

  The castle was carved out of the mountain, so it was shallow and soaring, many stories tall. Guinevere’s rooms next to Arthur’s were on the fifth story. The first floor was an entrance hall and several small rooms held by the knights without families. The second was the great hall—also used as the dining hall—and the kitchens. The third and fourth were servant quarters and storage rooms. The fifth was the royal bedrooms, along with more storerooms and small chambers used by the pages. The sixth was where Uther Pendragon, Arthur’s father and the previous king until Arthur defeated him, had kept his favorite companions. Guinevere had never had much reason to come to the sixth floor. Most of the stairs from one floor to the next were outside the castle, narrow stone flights that crisscrossed its exterior, winding around it, sometimes leading nowhere, sometimes leading to things like Mordred’s favorite alcove and nothing else. Fortunately, the sixth floor could also be accessed by an interior passageway, which meant Guinevere and Lancelot could go from the fifth floor to the sixth floor, where Guinevach’s room was, without being observed from outside the castle.

  Without any windows, the passageway was pitch-dark. As they reached the top, Guinevere felt a swell of pity for the women Uther had favored. Lancelot had to use all her significant strength to push the heavy door open. Arthur had mentioned that the exterior door and stairway had been blocked. The only way in and out when Uther was king was through this black tunnel. The women had been prisoners.

  Arthur had, of course, unsealed the exterior door. Guinevach and anyone who visited and stayed here could come and go as they pleased. But the door remained an uncomfortable reminder of who had been here before Arthur. Of what this castle—wondrous and strong—could be in the wrong hands. Protection turned to prison.

  Guinevere followed Lancelot up the last few steps to the hallway. It had been a prison, but a beautiful one. The windows had colored pieces of glass, and nicer rugs than Arthur had in his own room lined the stone floor to make it softer, warmer, and less echoey.

  “I do not know which room she is in,” Guinevere said. There were three doors, one on either end and one in front of them. That room would have no exterior windows; Guinevere could not imagine anyone putting Guinevach in it. The windowless rooms were used for storage or as servants’ quarters.

  “On the right.” Lancelot pointed.

  Guinevere looked at her, surprised. “Did you already find out?”

  “I assigned her room strategically.” Lancelot looked almost offended. “She has no guards anymore. Only her two maids are left. One is a girl of twelve, the other an older woman. I do not know if you—if Guinevere—would have known either of them in Cameliard. The page I spoke to was unsure how long they had been in Guinevach’s service.”

  Guinevere nodded. It was important information. The servant girl, being only twelve, would doubtless question her own memory before she would question Guinevere’s identity, assuming she had ever met the real Guinevere. It was unlikely she had been working in the castle at Cameliard before the real Guinevere left for the convent. The older woman was far more likely to be an issue. Guinevere would have Brangien interview her first to ascertain how well she had known the real Guinevere.

  “Can we not just banish her?” Guinevere stared at the door uneasily.

  “Not without answering questions about why. Especially now that she has established herself here and forced you to introduce her as your sister.” That detail had not escaped Lancelot, either. “Did she seem threatening today at the meeting?”

  “No. Just…annoying. She undermined me and tried to take control of the discussion.”

  “You were right to decide on something other than a tournament. The harvest festival is not about knights or soldiers. It is about what we all do, together. But she seemed less confrontational to me and more…” Lancelot paused so long that Guinevere prodded her.

  “More what?”

  Lancelot shrugged. “Young. Very young.”

  Young or not, Guinevach was still the biggest potential threat to Guinevere’s safety. Guinevere strode forward and opened the door to Guinevach’s rooms. They were set up much like her own. The main bedroom had a bed, several chests, and two chairs. Everything was in shades of blue, elegant and feminine. The bed was neatly made, nothing out of place.

  “We know any magic would be undone coming in, but she could do magic once she was inside,” Guinevere said, “provided she did not cross the thresholds of the doors again.” It was a flaw in her protection system. She had only anticipated magical threats coming from the outside in. It had been a failure of imagination on her part that allowed Mordred to fool them all.

  Her hand drifted toward her heart, where she had pressed his flower. The flower was gone now. Trusting Mordred had been a mistake she would not make again. Guinevere certainly would not trust this girl, whoever she was. She stepped toward the trunks to look for evidence of magic or evil intent, when the door to the dressing room opened.

  The woman was middle-aged, her dark curls kissed with silver framing a square jawline. Her eyes were rich brown, accented by high arched eyebrows and lines from both worry and laughter. She was beautiful in the way a stately evergreen is: efficient and strong and towering. Her dress and cloak were gray, simple and serviceable but with excellent stitching and a few graceful details.

  “Oh, hello, I—” She paused, taking in the sight of Guinevere and Lancelot. Guinevere silently cursed herself. She had assumed that Guinevach would take both her lady’s maids to the meal with Dindrane. But Guinevere probably depended on Brangien more than most ladies depended on their maids, because most ladies were a
ctually ladies and therefore understood what was expected of them in various social situations.

  The woman frowned. “Please forgive me, but…are you the queen?”

  Guinevere nodded, unsure what to say. This did not look like a woman who would question her own memory. If she had met the real Guinevere, they were in trouble. Guinevere’s fingers twitched. She could fix it, if she had to. But she did not want to.

  Fortunately, the woman bowed. “Queen Guinevere. My name is Anna. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I have heard your praises sung since I joined your father’s household.”

  “And when was that?” Guinevere tried to keep her tone pleasant and light, as though she were making conversation and not interrogating the woman. Anna not knowing her was a benefit, certainly, but it was also suspicious. Guinevere could leave for another kingdom today with Brangien and Isolde and introduce herself as anyone she wished, with two lady’s maids to support her claims.

  “Three months past. Before that, I served in Lady Darii’s house. You may know her? Her family ruled a day south of Cameliard, near the black beaches of the western shore.”

  “I am familiar with the name,” Guinevere lied. “What brought you to Cameliard?”

  “With your marriage, Princess Guinevach was ready to prepare for marriage, as well. Your father wanted a maid with more experience than any in his household.”

  “Did he not wish to send her to the convent to be prepared, as I was?”

  At this, Anna’s mouth twisted. It was subtle, but Guinevere wondered what Anna was holding back with the expression. “She is older than you were. And with you married, she is eligible to be wed now.”

  Guinevere wanted to ask about Guinevach’s father, King Leodegrance, but not knowing him herself—and with no one in the castle familiar with the man—she had no way to check whether Anna’s information was correct. “And how was your journey from Cameliard?”