“I—” It all felt so much less urgent in the face of what Rhoslyn and her people were going through. It was embarrassing to ask for help with a girl, so Guinevere chose the more obvious danger. “I wanted to ask if you have felt dark magic. The Dark Queen has physical form again.”
Rhoslyn brushed her hair back from her face before she grabbed another mat and rolled it. Guinevere did the same, trying to be useful. “We leave well enough alone when it comes to her. We ask nothing and offer nothing and hope her chaos looks the other way. And it has, so far.”
“But…” Guinevere gestured to the camp.
“This is not the chaos of nature’s violence. This is the chaos of man’s. They are very different things.”
Guinevere nodded. “So, you have not noticed anything?”
“Not here. But if she were to show up right now, I would welcome her. I think she would take our side.” Rhoslyn reached up to undo a hanging ornament made of glass shards tied to a string. It caught the light as it spun, creating flashes of beauty. A single tear traced down Rhoslyn’s face, and she wiped it away determinedly. “We made a home here. We will make another.”
“In the trees!” Lancelot shouted. “Movement!”
“Positions!” Rhoslyn commanded. The women dropped everything they were holding. One took the few children in the camp and ran into the nearest hut with them. The rest spread out along the borders, armed with bows and arrows.
Guinevere stood in the center, helpless and terrified. If she were Merlin, she could wield fire as a weapon, but she did not trust herself to be able to control it. Using it took tremendous focus and these were not ideal circumstances. She was as likely to set herself on fire as she was to set the whole forest ablaze, and neither would help these women. Maybe that was why Merlin had counseled her to fight as a queen, not as a witch. He had seen all this. He had seen what she did to King Mark. He knew she would lose control.
But he was not here.
She yanked several threads from her cloak and tied them into knots of confusion. Her head swam, but she had not done enough to incapacitate herself. She attached the knots to the hut where the children were hiding. If men did make it into the camp, they would bypass this hut, their eyes sliding right past it and finding nothing worth looking at.
“Stay in there,” she whispered to the woman inside. “No matter what happens. You will be safe inside.”
“Thank you,” the woman answered. There was a child-sized sniffle, but otherwise only silence in the dim interior.
Guinevere wished she had a weapon, but it would be useless. She had no skill with any of them. She wished she were the real Guinevere, if Guinevach’s claims about her sister’s bow skills were true. She hurried to where Rhoslyn crouched next to a hut, scanning the trees.
“When you run out of arrows, go to the hut with the children,” Guinevere told her. “It will be hard to find, so you will have to focus, but you will be safe there.”
Rhoslyn looked at her with a question in her eyes, but there was no time. Guinevere ran along the perimeter, passing the message to each woman. There were only a dozen of them. They could fit. Then she placed herself outside the hut to help them find it should the time come.
“Little birdies,” a man called from the trees in a mocking singsong, “we are here for you.”
There was the twang of a bowstring, the pounding of hooves, and a woman’s scream as all hell broke loose. Once the men drew closer, fighting with bows and arrows would not be enough. And if Ailith was any indication, these women were not trained for battle.
Guinevere clenched her fists, ready to call fire if she needed to. If she burned down the forest, or herself, at least she would take some of the men with her.
Gunild staggered past Guinevere, bleeding from one leg. She looked around, confused, unable to see where she was supposed to go. Guinevere shoved her into the hidden hut and then twirled, trying to keep track of where everyone was and what was happening. Lancelot charged into the trees, roaring, trying to draw the attackers to herself and away from the women.
“The hut!” Guinevere shouted. “Get to the hut!”
Eight, then nine women rushed toward her. Guinevere pushed them into the dark space. Her magic was holding. Even knowing where it was, the women could not focus on it.
Rhoslyn staggered into the center of the camp, wielding a knife and an ax.
“Get in,” Guinevere said, reaching for her.
“No. I will stand and defend them until my last breath.”
Guinevere could not argue with that. She picked up a heavy stick and coaxed sparks to the end of it. The torch would burn brighter and hotter than a normal fire, lighting anything it touched. “I will stand with you.”
Lancelot rode back toward them, breathing hard. Her sword was red and glistening. “I do not know how many there are,” she said, eyes searching even as she spoke. “I am afraid—”
Another horse pounded into the village, stopping just short of them. Guinevere stared up at the rider, shocked.
“You!” Lancelot shouted, lifting her sword toward Mordred.
Mordred raised a spear and threw it with all his might.
Mordred’s spear flew past Lancelot, burying itself in the chest of a fur-clad man running toward them with a raised mace.
“Four more!” Mordred shouted, drawing his sword. He rode to Lancelot’s side. Guinevere knew it was more than the cost of the confusion magic making this scene hard to process. Lancelot, too, seemed shaken, but she did not have time to question it. She dismounted and stood shoulder to shoulder with Mordred, their swords up as the attackers shot free of the trees and ran at them.
Lancelot fought with the ferocity of someone who had battled her entire life to get where she was. Every movement was precise and brutal, every blow met and returned with twice the force. Mordred fought like a dancer, a reed bending in the wind, dodging and twisting until his foes showed a weakness and his sword found a home.
A twig cracked behind Guinevere. She whirled, swinging her stick like a club. It connected with the stomach of a man. He looked down in shock as the fire jumped from the stick to his body, licking up him with ravenous speed. He screamed, running and flailing, before falling to the ground and rolling in an ineffectual attempt to smother the flames. Guinevere knew how it would end and looked away. The hut was still safe. This price was worth it.
Mordred stood, a hand on one hip, his sword at his side. He surveyed the village, then turned back to the trees. “How many did you get?”
Lancelot glared. “It is hardly a competition.”
Mordred gave her a witheringly dismissive look. “I am trying to account for all the enemies. There were three I killed before that one”—he pointed to the man with the spear planted in his chest, the shaft listing to one side like a tree whose roots were not deep enough— “then these four.”
Lancelot’s answer was gruff. “Four more in the trees.”
“And one for Guinevere.” Mordred flicked his eyes toward her, but she could not tell whether he was pleased or not.
“Were you following us?” Lancelot demanded.
Mordred ignored her. “Thirteen. Does that sound right, Rhoslyn?”
Guinevere turned to Rhoslyn, surprised that Mordred was on friendly terms with her. After all, he had overseen the courts and had been the one to banish her.
“We got two more with arrows. I think that is the lot of them. You are late, Mordred,” Rhoslyn said, dropping the ax.
“All apologies. Sincerely.” Mordred strode over to them. Lancelot hurried after, putting herself between Guinevere and Mordred, but Mordred paid her no mind. “In my defense, they were also early. Is everyone ready? Where are they?” Mordred looked around the camp, his eyes widening with panic. “The children and the rest of the women. Where are they?”
“Here.” Gunild slipped out of
the hut, followed by a line of women and children.
Mordred squinted, trying to see better. “Nice work,” he said, glancing at Guinevere. “Very clever.” What he had said before when tending her shoulder about being clever sparked in her mind. And then the things she had said, thinking he was a dream, also came back and she fought a humiliated blush.
“What are you doing here?” Guinevere demanded.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Guinevere folded her arms. “You expect me to believe it is a coincidence that you ended up here on the same day we did?”
“You expect me to believe it is a coincidence you ended up here at the very hour I was scheduled to arrive?” Mordred raised an eyebrow in an expression that Guinevere realized, with a sinking stomach, she missed. Terribly. “You did not bring enough help, though.”
“Enough help for what?” Lancelot growled, still holding her sword.
“To bring me to justice. I do not mean to offend, Lancelot, but we have faced each other in combat before, and you were not the one to walk away.”
Lancelot took a step forward, but Guinevere put a hand on her shoulder. “Stop.” Mordred had spared Lancelot’s life that terrible night in the meadow. He had even dragged Lancelot out of harm’s way, making sure the Dark Queen would not kill Lancelot out of spite when she rose. “We did not come here for you,” Guinevere continued. “I came to speak with Rhoslyn.”
“Oh.” For a moment, Mordred’s face fell. Then his eyelids half closed, framing his moss-green eyes with night-dark lashes, as his mouth twisted into a lazy smile. “Well then, thank you for the help, and give my regards to my uncle.”
He took his horse’s reins and led it to the cart. Gunild and Ailith began hooking it up.
“Where are we going?” Rhoslyn asked, counting children.
“South and east. My mother has seen an island. Surrounded by rivers of mud, but ancient and beautiful. You will be safe there. There is something special about it.”
Ailith threw her arms around Mordred’s neck. “Thank you.”
He smiled and patted her shoulder. “No need to thank me.” Every woman here looked at Mordred with shining gratitude. It was clear they all knew him, trusted him, and even loved him. He had been the one to banish women, but he had done that instead of having them killed. Maybe he had also helped them form and protect this little village. But why?
“Mordred, can we speak?” Guinevere gestured toward the trees. Lancelot’s brow descended, her eyes flashing like the moment before a storm. “We will stay in sight,” Guinevere told her.
Mordred followed her the few steps to the trees. “How is your shoulder?”
“Nearly healed. Thank you for that. I do not understand it. And I do not understand this.” She gestured toward the camp.
“That is how I noticed your fire before. I was making certain my mother’s vision of the island was true. Her visions are not always accurate. Though I suspect you are following me now. This is three times. Having regrets?”
Guinevere gave him a flat look, and he continued. “These women have always been kind to me. I help out where I can. I am glad you were here today. Lancelot especially, though please do not tell her.” Mordred waggled his fingers mockingly toward where Lancelot stood watching them, her legs braced and her sword half-raised, ready to charge at the slightest provocation.
“But what are you doing out here? You were with the wolves, but not on their side. And then you helped me and just…left. And now you are, what, escorting these women to a new home?”
“I am doing exactly what I told you I would be doing.” Mordred reached up and plucked a golden leaf free from where it dangled above their heads. He twisted it by the stem, watching it flutter and dance in his hand. He sounded less defiant than he did sad. “I am living. I am free. I am doing what I choose, when I choose, how I choose.”
“But your grandmother. I thought—well, I thought you would be plotting with her.”
Mordred shook his head. “Not being on Arthur’s side is not the same as being evil. I wanted my grandmother to be whole. To reclaim some of the magic that was taken from the world. When she was unmade, she went mad. Her spirit and her power were uncontained, uncontainable. I hoped that, by restoring her body, she could be whole again. I could not do it for my father, but I could do it for her.” He paused, a shadow flitting across his face. “She has not forgiven Arthur. I cannot blame her for that. But I do not serve her, or anyone. I am genuinely sorry for using you. For not being honest. I think if I had told you the truth—if I had been open—I think you would have chosen to help me.”
“I would never have.”
Mordred smiled, holding out the leaf. Guinevere did not take it. He let it drop to the ground. “We cannot know now, can we. But using you the way I did is the only thing I regret.”
Mordred had betrayed Arthur. His own blood. His own king. He had helped build Camelot, and then he had defied them all and walked away. “The only thing? Really?”
“Well.” Mordred shifted, leaning closer. “That, and that you did not come with me. I regret that every single moment of every single day. But that was not my choice to make.” His eyes were the greenest thing in the forest, like the shade beneath an ancient tree, cool and secret and inviting. She did not have to wonder if his lips were as soft as they looked. She knew.
“Tell me,” he said, “how did Arthur react when you told him I proved I mean you no harm, and when he found out I helped you in the forest?”
Guinevere flinched and Mordred’s eyes widened, then narrowed slyly. “Ah. Tell me why you did not tell him.”
She turned her back on him.
“If you will not tell me that, then tell me: What were you talking about when I found you before? Something about your dreams?”
Grateful she had already turned so he could not see her furious blush, Guinevere stomped back to the cart and the women. Lancelot was immediately at her side, eyes only on Mordred.
Ailith moved toward Guinevere. “Can you—can you really get me back into Camelot, like you told Rhoslyn? I want—there is a—”
Gunild joined Ailith, pulling her in for a fierce hug. “There is a stupid brother of mine that needs a woman foolish enough to love him. Are you sure?” They had all left lives behind in Camelot. And apparently some of them felt the loss more keenly than others.
Ailith nodded, the tears spilling down her face. “I was a child when I was banished. It was because of my mother, not because of me. I do not think anyone would recognize me or have reason to suspect me.”
“Are you certain?” Rhoslyn said. “You know what you are giving up.”
“I know.” Ailith undid a necklace of smooth rocks knotted lovingly together. She passed it to Rhoslyn, pressing it into the older woman’s hand. “Thank you. For everything.”
Rhoslyn kissed Ailith’s forehead. “Take care of yourself.”
Gunild sniffled. “And take care of my stupid brother, and have lots of fat babies and name one after me. Name them all after me.”
“Time to go,” Mordred said. The camp had a few other horses, and they loaded the children into the cart and onto the horses where they could.
“Good luck,” Guinevere said to Rhoslyn. She had not said goodbye to Mordred. She would not.
Rhoslyn smiled, the lines around her eyes both weary and kind. “And to you, too.” She turned and walked into the trees. Mordred was the last to go. He shared one last, long look with Guinevere. Almost as though he was waiting for something.
And part of her was tempted to run after him.
That was more terrifying than the attack had been. “Come on,” she said, turning abruptly. “We have to go home.”
* * *
Guinevere and Lancelot dropped Ailith off at the dock. The girl hurried into the city to find Gunild’s brother, with a promise to ch
eck in and let Guinevere know when she was settled and safe. Guinevere could find her work in the castle kitchens.
“Perhaps we should leave Mordred out of our accounting of today’s activities,” Guinevere said.
Lancelot slowed, her emotional hesitation mirrored physically. “It seems like something the king should know.”
“That Mordred helped you? Protected a bunch of women who are not citizens of Camelot, outside the boundaries of Camelot? Is leaving to some island far away? We do not even know if he plans on returning.” Guinevere’s heart sank as she said it. She had not considered it before. Had that been goodbye forever? She did not want it to be. She hated that she did not want it to be, but she could not deny it. “And we do not know where the island is, so if Arthur wanted to hunt him down, he would have no more idea of Mordred’s location than he does right now.”
“Are you protecting him?” Lancelot sounded hurt.
“He protected us!”
“I protected us!”
Guinevere stopped. They were near the castle gates. “Mordred is—complicated. It is all complicated. And if we tell Arthur, it will be even more complicated. There is no threat there. Mordred is gone. I do not think Arthur needs to know.”
“How is it complicated?” Lancelot took one of Guinevere’s hands and turned it palm up, then tugged Guinevere’s sleeve, revealing the delicate white tracings of scars the trees had left. “He hurt you.”
Guinevere yanked her hand back and pulled her sleeve down. “He did. And I have not forgotten, and will not forget. But there is more to it than that.”
“There really is not, my queen.” Lancelot motioned for the castle gate to be opened, then bowed stiffly. “Please alert me if you decide to leave the castle again today.” Then she turned away and walked inside.
Frustrated and guilty for upsetting Lancelot, Guinevere slowly made her way up too many flights of stairs to her rooms. She could not stop thinking about what Mordred had told her. He had betrayed them, and hurt her. That much could never be taken back. But he also seemed convinced that if he had been honest with her, she would have chosen to help him.
The Camelot Betrayal Page 26