The Camelot Betrayal

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The Camelot Betrayal Page 25

by Kiersten White


  Arthur leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face wearily. “Even if that is her goal, it would never happen.”

  “Why not? If she revealed that I am not who I say I am, why would they not want a real princess of Cameliard instead?” Guinevere laughed bitterly. “She would probably make a better queen than I do anyway. She has all the education and training and manners for it.”

  Arthur’s answering frown was immediate and worried. “I do not care about that.”

  “You do not care about much of anything as far as your queen is concerned!” Guinevere held up her hand to cut off his protest. “I did not mean to snap. But it is true. I do not know how to be a queen. All this is pretend. I am pretend. And the one thing a queen should do—that everyone in the kingdom is waiting for, whether you notice it or not—is something you do not want.”

  Arthur’s quick, guilty glance toward her midsection—a glance she received from everyone she passed whenever she was out among the people—indicated he knew exactly what she was talking about. But he did not live with the glances and the whispers. She did.

  “Do you really want a baby?” he asked, not meeting her eyes.

  Guinevere sat across from him and slouched. “No, not yet.” Maybe not ever. She had not really considered it. And she had to admit Arthur was right. She was only seventeen. Or was she sixteen? She did not know, not really. Regardless, there was time. And she was not ready. “I am tired, and I need you to understand this is every bit as real a threat as possessed wolves or vengeful forests or even armed, expanding Saxons.”

  “You really feel threatened by her?”

  “Guinevach is so good at all of this. And I am pretending every moment of every day.” Even with those closest to her. Even with herself.

  Arthur took her hands in his and locked eyes with her. “Guinevere. I think you are looking for a threat where there is none because you are afraid. Not of magic or the Dark Queen, but of your place here. There does not have to be danger for you to matter. No one can replace you, because you are who I want at my side. For both the dangerous moments and the dull days.”

  Tears burned behind Guinevere’s eyes and she did not know whether she was angry or hurt or happy, or an impossible mess of all three. Then, to her surprise, Arthur closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers. It was a kiss like a fire on a cold afternoon. Warm and soft. Familiar, even. Longer than their last one. It was both comfort and exploration. When he finally pulled away, they were both smiling.

  There was a knock on the door. Arthur stood and opened it to find a guard with several letters. Arthur had work to do this night, and so did she. Buoyed by the kiss, carrying the feel of his confidence and assurance with her, she used the guard’s distraction with listening to Arthur and slipped out the hall door to the exterior walkway. She wound up and around the outside of the castle, stone on one side and a plunge into darkness on the other.

  Whether or not the Lady of the Lake was malicious, she certainly had little regard for safety when she made Camelot.

  Guinevere did not realize she was heading to the alcove until she was almost there. It was time to check for magic again. It had been too long. Maybe Guinevach would be burning like a torch and Guinevere would have an excuse to banish her. Or maybe the Dark Queen would be tumbling toward them like an avalanche that only Guinevere could protect Camelot from.

  It might not have mattered to Arthur whether Guinevere had something to fight, but it mattered to Guinevere. She needed something to push against, otherwise she was worried she would be…nothing at all.

  She needed work. Something to occupy herself. Maybe this was why Arthur kept himself so busy, why he was always out riding to check on things or to see to a threat. If he was always doing, he did not have to be thinking. Thinking about ladies and queens, or, worse, about Ramm and King Mark.

  As she neared the alcove, Guinevere’s breath caught. There was a flicker of candlelight. Someone was already there. The only person she had ever seen there was Mordred. He had already appeared to her twice. Was it such a stretch to imagine he could find a way into the city?

  And what would she do if it was him?

  The last few steps felt like an eternity. “Hello?” she called, her voice soft and tentative.

  “Oh! My queen.” Anna, Guinevach’s maid, answered. She turned, a hand pressed in surprise against her heart. “I am so sorry. I did not know anyone came here. I will go.”

  Guinevere was disappointed. No. She refused to be disappointed. She was relieved. Of course Mordred could not get into the city. Not without her knowing. “There is no need to go. What brings you here in the dark?”

  Anna shifted to let Guinevere in. The candle illuminated the small space, which now included a cushion and a bag of supplies. “I love the princess, and her young maid is very…earnest. But they are both energetic in ways I occasionally need some space from. If I have to hear one more ranking of the knights in order of handsomeness and wealth, I will stick my needles through my ears.”

  Guinevere snorted an inelegant laugh. “I can imagine it would be a trial to be paired with two such young women.”

  “You are not so old yourself, my queen. But you seem much…”

  “Wiser?” Guinevere suggested, hopeful.

  “More burdened.” Anna smiled to soften the word. “I get the sense you see much more of the world and its complexities than young Guinevach does.”

  Guinevere sat, refusing the offered cushion. Anna joined her and pulled out a strip of cloth the color of which Guinevere could not make out in the dim light. The older woman sighed as she began embroidering. “I see lilies in my sleep. I wish she had chosen something simpler. Or that she gave out fewer favors.”

  Guinevere barely contained her triumph. Guinevach was not even embroidering the favors herself! She would be certain to tell Brangien and Dindrane. She liked Anna very much, and not just for this information. There was something about Anna that Guinevere trusted. A quiet, experienced intelligence. “You are right about my burdens,” Guinevere said. “I have a lot of problems I cannot find solutions to right now. Or even determine if they are actually problems, or if I am making them into problems to give myself something to do.”

  Anna did not pause her sewing. “Who do you go to for advice?”

  Arthur, but he disagreed with her. Brangien, but she was busy with Isolde and had no more insight into this than Guinevere did. Dindrane, but only when Guinevere needed help navigating the world of ladies and their infinite rules for engagement. Lancelot, but she could offer no solutions, only support, and Guinevere was depending far too much on that—to Lancelot’s detriment. The only person who would know more than she did was someone she would never trust again, and could not speak to even if she wanted to. He was sealed in a cave. Guinevere shrugged, miserable.

  Anna nodded sympathetically. “Camelot is such a young kingdom. There is much value in years well used, just as there is much value in the passion and energy of youth. Do you know anyone who might have advice or have gone through something similar? Someone with experience?”

  The sentiment echoed how Guinevere had felt about Anna just moments before. But she could not ask Anna about the Dark Queen, or what Guinevach was up to. In spite of her inherent trust of Anna, she was still Guinevach’s maid, and therefore suspect. Guinevere did not dare use her own magic on Guinevach after what had happened with King Mark, but she did not agree with Arthur. Something was going on there, and she had to find out what. She needed Merlin, curse him.

  “A woman,” Anna added. “Men are problems unto themselves and rarely solutions.”

  Guinevere laughed, and then she realized exactly whom she could speak with. She had once suspected Rhoslyn of conspiring against Arthur, as she had suspected Lancelot was a fairy back when she only knew her as the patchwork knight. But just as Lancelot had been revealed to be much more, so
had Rhoslyn been revealed to be a woman who loved her chosen family and did what she had to in order to create a safe home for them. One where they could continue to practice the magic Camelot denied them.

  Rhoslyn had saved her once, from the poison of the Dark Queen. She knew what the touch of chaotic magic looked like, how it worked. If the Dark Queen was moving in a new way against Arthur, Rhoslyn might have information. And Rhoslyn’s magic was smaller, subtler, which meant she also might have safe ideas for how to deal with Guinevach.

  “Thank you.” Guinevere stood. “This was helpful. I will leave you to your solitude.”

  Anna smiled and bid her good-night. With Arthur’s kiss on her lips and a plan, Guinevere felt better. Tomorrow, she would go to the woods and visit a witch, and it would be the beginning of the end for whatever Guinevach was plotting.

  Guinevere desperately missed the secret passage. It had been her decision to stop using the tunnel that led from the shore behind one of the waterfalls directly to the castle—Maleagant, that evil man, had figured out she had another way in and out of the city. If he noticed, others would, as well. She would not put Arthur or Camelot at risk that way. Besides which, Mordred knew about the passage, so Arthur had blocked the door and she had placed magical wards that would warn her if anyone was in the passage.

  It had all been necessary. A responsible decision. But oh, she hated this wretched ferry.

  Lancelot gave her a few moments to collect herself after the interminable ride. It was always easier with Arthur. She could cling to him and try to absorb some of his confidence and strength. And in the past she had done something similar with Lancelot. But awful Guinevach’s words had needled their way under Guinevere’s skin. No matter their past, no matter what brought them together, Lancelot was a knight. Guinevere would protect that. She had to treat Lancelot the same way she treated the other knights, because otherwise she was signaling to everyone that Lancelot was different. And she could not let them think Lancelot was anything other than a full knight of King Arthur.

  Even this trip, though, was evidence that Lancelot had different rules from the other knights. Guinevere could not imagine going into the forest with just Sir Tristan, or Sir Gawain, or Sir Bors. There would be gossip. Scandal, even. It was both convenient and unfair that the same rules did not apply to Lancelot simply because she was a woman.

  Their story today was that they were checking on the harvest. And Guinevere’s story for Arthur was that she was making certain there were no tendrils of the Dark Queen’s magic growing closer. Which she would do. But she did not think he would approve of her visit to Rhoslyn, so she had left that out.

  Lancelot retrieved their horses from the stables on the grassy shore of the lake. She rode her own trusted blind mare, and Guinevere rode the gray mare she favored whenever she could. The horse was calm and soothing, and Guinevere rode with one hand placed on its neck, enjoying the sense of an animal that could exist in this moment of movement without desiring anything else.

  It would take a few hours to reach the border of Camelot’s lands and the deep woods where Rhoslyn lived. Fortunately, with Arthur back, no one would miss Guinevere. If Guinevach had her way, no one would ever miss her.

  They rode in silence for the first hour before Lancelot spoke. “Have I done something wrong, my queen?”

  “What?” Guinevere removed her hand from the horse’s neck, breaking the calming reverie she had let wash over her. They were still in farmland, the gold dotted with brown as men and women moved among the stalks, harvesting. The day was pleasant, but there was an increasing hint of bite to the air, a cool note on the wind promising the winter to come.

  “Last night you seemed distant. And on the ferry you stood apart, too. Is it because of what I told you? Because you have to know—you must know—my loyalty is to you. My time with the Lady of the Lake is history.”

  “I trust you.” Guinevere stared at the horizon, where a dark smudge indicated the start of the forest on this border. “It is not you who have done something wrong. It is me. I demand that the other knights treat you as an equal, and that the people see you as no different from any of King Arthur’s other knights. But I treat you differently. And people notice, and they talk. I will not allow anyone to question your place, or your honor, or your right to wear King Arthur’s colors.”

  “Who has been talking?” Lancelot sounded ready for a fight, and it made Guinevere smile.

  “I do not know, and it does not matter. You protect me. If this is how I can protect you in return, then I will be more careful.”

  “Is King Arthur unhappy with me?” Lancelot frowned, her dark curls falling over her face. “I have failed you. You were hurt under my watch.”

  “No! No. Arthur knows you do more than any knight could be asked to, and that my…adventures were either my own fault or out of our control.”

  Guinevere thought the conversation was over, but after a few minutes Lancelot spoke again. “But you still trust me. Even knowing my past.”

  “At least we know your past. That is more than I have. And I come from as much magic as you, if not more. You are my friend, Lancelot, one of the only people in the whole world I trust completely. In private, we will continue as we always have. But we will be more careful with appearances.”

  Lancelot nodded, tightening her grasp on the reins and urging her mare to go a bit faster so that Guinevere could no longer see her face.

  * * *

  An arrow whistled past Guinevere and lodged in a tree behind her.

  “Down!” Lancelot shouted, drawing her sword and maneuvering her horse between Guinevere and where the arrow had come from.

  “The patchwork knight?” a woman shouted. “Is that you?”

  “Yes!”

  “Sorry! Sorry! No more arrows.”

  Lancelot rode forward warily, sword raised, keeping Guinevere behind her. A girl materialized from behind a tree. Guinevere recognized her from her last trip to the village. She was the one who had helped draw the Dark Queen’s poison from Guinevere’s veins. Guinevere did not remember her name.

  “What was that about?” Lancelot demanded, scowling.

  “I missed! On purpose,” the girl added, slinging her bow over her shoulder. “I could have hit either of you.”

  “Ailith could only hit a target if she was trying not to,” a young woman said, stepping out from behind a gnarled oak. “Come on, both of you. Your timing is terrible.” She stalked through the trees and Guinevere and Lancelot followed, exchanging a worried glance.

  The tiny village, once neat and orderly and clean, was in chaos. Women were shouting as they tossed things to one another, packing a cart. The fires had burned down to ashes. No one was cooking or talking or even sitting. Rhoslyn, her dark hair streaked with gray, seemed to have aged several years since she and Guinevere had last seen each other, during the summer. She ripped down a woven mat from where it served as a door to a hut and rolled it up.

  “Rhoslyn?” Guinevere called, dismounting.

  Rhoslyn frowned as she tried to place Guinevere’s face. “The spider-bite girl?” she asked. “And our patchwork knight. Not our knight any longer.” She nodded toward King Arthur’s crest on Lancelot’s tunic. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need your advice,” Guinevere said.

  “I am afraid this is a bad time. Gunild, pack it tighter or it will bounce loose!” Rhoslyn gestured to a bundle in the back of the cart.

  “Are you leaving?” Guinevere asked, following Rhoslyn’s gaze. The young woman who had escorted them, her sturdy build contradicted by gentle eyes, did as Rhoslyn instructed, pushing a bundle down and wrapping a rope around it.

  “We are.”

  “Not because of the king!” Guinevere could not imagine Arthur had told them to leave. He banished them out of necessity, but wanted no harm to come to them. Surely he would have told
her if he had decided to push them out even farther.

  “No, he does not care about us. But there are men in the forest who do. We made the mistake of refusing their offer to let us buy our place here with our bodies.” The fire in Rhoslyn’s eyes burned bright with hatred and anger.

  “But they do not own this land! You are doing nothing wrong.”

  “We are existing independent of them, and that is enough reason for some men to hate us.” Rhoslyn’s narrow shoulders fell slightly, but she recovered. “So we will exist somewhere else.”

  Lancelot scanned the trees. “Are they coming soon?”

  “They said they would be back tonight. We are not going to wait and see if they keep their promise.”

  “Come to Camelot,” Guinevere said. “I can speak to the king.”

  “Why would he listen to you?”

  Guinevere grimaced. “Because I am the queen.”

  Rhoslyn stared at her, openmouthed with shock, before recovering. “Well. That is interesting. And I appreciate your generosity, but I have been driven from Camelot once and managed to do so with my life only because of Mordred’s kindness and your knight’s intervention. I do not want to see what Camelot would do if I returned.”

  “This is my fault,” Guinevere said. “If I had not taken Lancelot from you, then—”

  “Then Lancelot would not be a knight, and that would be unfortunate.” Rhoslyn smiled fondly at Lancelot, who had taken up a position at the edge of the huts where she could see into the trees better. “In the end, if we cannot keep ourselves safe, we will not be safe. And we cannot keep ourselves safe here any longer, so we will leave.” She glanced up at the position of the sun. “Where is he?”

  Ailith shouted a question and Rhoslyn turned away to answer her. Then she turned back to Guinevere. “You must have come here for a reason. What is it?”

 

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