But she could not argue this with Arthur. He worked so hard. And he was good. He deserved to be king. In spite of everything else, she believed that. Camelot was better than anything else she had seen out in the world. Whatever consequences Arthur’s choices caused, he considered them all. He weighed them all. And he did what he could, wherever he could, to make every life better. If Arthur needed to believe in Merlin to continue as king, Guinevere would not take that from him. But she could not do the same.
Guinevere gently pushed his hands away and stood. “I am tired. You should return to the festival. Keep Excalibur with you, but Morgana is gone. I will know if she gets near again.”
“I can stay.”
“No.” Guinevere put a hand on his cheek. Who would he have been if Morgana had gotten to him first? What would have happened to Uther Pendragon? To Camelot? Would Lancelot have been allowed to kill that tyrant, setting Camelot free? Or would another tyrant have come in, someone like Maleagant? What had she done in King Mark’s land when she removed him from power? Would they get their own Arthur now, or someone just as bad as King Mark?
If Arthur could go back and make every choice for himself, without interference, what would he do differently? She could not imagine him as anything other than what he was.
“Go,” she said. “Be with your people. Celebrate, and let them see you celebrating. Be where you are supposed to be and who you are supposed to be.”
“I do not want to leave you alone.”
Guinevere turned to Lancelot. She had been so unfair to her knight. Lancelot would never be like the other knights, not truly. Guinevere had taken the choice from her, had determined what their relationship should be. She would not do that again. “I have Lancelot.”
“Always,” Lancelot said, her dark eyes intent, as powerful as any of her strikes, as determined as any of her fighting.
Guinevere looked back up at Arthur and caught a flicker of something—anger, or concern, she could not say which—before he bent over and retrieved his sword.
“Very well. We will speak more, once you have rested.” Holding his sword out to the side so it would not brush against Guinevere even in its sheath, Arthur bent down. The kiss he pressed against her lips felt deliberate in a way she could not quite explain. Then he left.
Lancelot and Guinevere went back to her room. Brangien had already prepared it for sleep. Guinevere wished Brangien and Isolde were still here to help her undress. It was difficult to unlace the sleeves from her dress, and she could not undo the ties in the back on her own. She did not want to sleep in the dress and risk ruining it after all Isolde’s work.
“Can you—can you help me?” Guinevere had unlaced the sleeves but could not reach the back of her dress.
Lancelot nodded.
Guinevere turned her back and Lancelot began tugging on the strings. “I am sorry,” Guinevere whispered. “I wanted to protect you. I wanted you to be a real knight. No different from the rest of them.”
“I want to be different from the rest of them,” Lancelot said, her voice as soft as the callused fingers pulling the laces free one by one.
“But you wanted to be King Arthur’s knight.”
“No. I want to be Queen Guinevere’s knight. But also—” She cut herself off, then continued, hesitant. “But also your friend.”
She had finished with the laces. Guinevere turned around. “You are my friend.” Lancelot knew the truth about her. Had known for longer than anyone but Arthur. And in so many ways, Lancelot knew her better than Arthur did. They spent more time together. Lancelot trusted her and treated her as a queen but also did not hesitate to disagree when she thought Guinevere was wrong. Which made her support all the more valuable. Guinevere realized with a start that what she missed most about Mordred was the sense that he saw her. In every room, in every situation, he had seen her first and foremost.
But she had not lost that when he left. She still had it in Lancelot. And perhaps it was even better, because Lancelot did not look at her with any ulterior motives or any deception. Lancelot was always herself, and she was always true. Much the way Arthur was, the difference being Lancelot was always there.
Lancelot smiled, something shy in her expression as she stared at the stone floor. “It is harder to find a good friend than a queen, I think.”
Guinevere laughed. “It is hard to be either one. But I will try to be both the friend and the queen you deserve.” She pulled off her dress, then removed her stockings and boots. Lancelot sat in a chair near the door as Guinevere climbed into bed.
Guinevere closed her eyes. But she kept seeing the sword point appearing in the stomach of Hild’s brother. Watching him fall. Hearing Morgana tell a different story and rewrite the past. And, most of all, she kept seeing the terrible promise of that hole and the water beneath. Wondering what would have happened if she had jumped. Tempted in a despairing way to climb up and do just that.
“Lancelot,” she whispered, keeping her eyes closed.
“Yes?”
“Please do not leave.”
“I never will.”
Guinevere had awoken to find Lancelot standing next to the door. But instead of being formal and reserved, Lancelot had smiled at her, and they had chatted easily through breakfast. One thing repaired, at least.
Lily invited Guinevere to return to the festival grounds with her, but Guinevere declined. She was in no mood to be seen. Sir Gawain was more than happy to be permanently assigned to guard Lily when she was away from the castle, and Brangien was more than happy to return to Guinevere’s rooms.
“I like Lily,” Brangien said with a tone of voice at odds with her words, “but I will not be filling in anymore. We can find her another maid, and she has the young, daft one in the meantime.”
Isolde clucked her tongue in reproach, but seemed relieved to be back in their own rooms. As though Brangien felt sorry she had not been there to help protect Guinevere—and shocked at the revelation of Anna’s true identity—she fussed over Guinevere far more than normal. By early afternoon Guinevere’s rooms, which normally felt large, were beginning to feel downright crowded. When there was another knock on the door she told Lancelot to tell them to leave, afraid it was Lily or Dindrane or someone else who would need to be invited in and chatted with.
Instead, Arthur stood there. He barely acknowledged Lancelot, holding his hand out to Guinevere. “Will you join me?”
“Of course.” She took his hand, expecting him to tuck hers into the crook of his elbow. Instead, he laced their fingers together. They left through the outer door and climbed up and up the exterior stairs. Guinevere clung to his arm, terrified. She knew they were going to the hidden chamber above the drop to the black depths of the lake lurking beneath the city. She did not want to look into that circle again. Did not want to contemplate what about it called to her.
Instead, Arthur took another route. They climbed to where the top of the castle met the unformed rock of the mountain behind them. There, Arthur smiled as he stepped aside. An opening revealed a room without a roof, open to the air and filled with plants. Someone had grown a garden there. And while little was blooming this late in the season, there was a joyful amount of green life to find this high in the middle of so much gray rock.
In the center of the garden were two cushions, with a pitcher and goblets between them. Guinevere looked up at Arthur. There was something tentative and hopeful in his smile. Not the usual confidence he wore as easily as his crown.
“I did not know this was here!”
Arthur led her inside the space. “I confess, I did not, either. But I was speaking with one of the cooks and asked where she got her herbs. She brought me up here. I knew as soon as I saw it that you would love it.”
“I do.” Guinevere sat and Arthur did the same.
“I wanted to— We need to talk. You are right.”
&nb
sp; “About?”
“About everything. This has all been unfair to you, from the beginning. You came here under false guidance. You were lied to, or at least misled, and I supported that lie.”
“You had your reasons.”
“I was selfish. I was so glad when you came, because it meant I finally had a friend, a confidante. Someone I could be merely Arthur to, instead of the king. But bringing you here that way meant you always had to pretend. I did not—I hated the thought of you pretending to love me. Pretending to be my wife in more than just name only. It felt like I was tricking you, or taking advantage. I only wanted you to want to be with me in that way if it was what you wanted. I am saying the word want too much.” He rubbed his jaw, blushing. “I am sorry. I had this better in my head. I know it has hurt you, my caution.”
Guinevere was having a hard time looking at him. She stared out at the shining lake and the cleared fields beyond it. “It has been…difficult. Trying to navigate my feelings. Worrying that I am not what you need.”
“That is just it. It is not about what I need. You did not choose to marry me. I want you to— I need you to— It has to be your choice. To love me. For us to love each other. You do not owe it to me. You do not have to choose me. We can continue like this forever, and I promise I will be happy to have you as my friend and companion, to help me rule. I wanted to prove that to you. It was not always easy. But I do not expect anything more from you and will never ask it.”
He took her hands and she turned from the fields to look at him. Truly look at him. His face was beloved. She could not deny that. She would not give Merlin credit for the sense that she had always known him; that was her. There was something about Arthur that, from the moment they met, had been familiar and right. She also could not deny that she had wanted him. At least in snatches of time, breathless moments of surprise.
“I am ready,” he said. “I am ready to be husband and wife. King and queen. Rule together and be together. I do not care who you were, or why Merlin sent you here. I am not saying it does not matter, because I know it matters to you. But whatever circumstances brought you into my life, I am glad they did and I would not change them. All I care about is that you are here, we are together, and I do not ever want that to be different. So. That is—those are my feelings. I am ready to be whatever you want us to be.”
Guinevere searched his face, his warm brown eyes, his strong jaw, the assurance there. He was not terrified. He was ready. For whatever she said.
She opened her mouth, but he squeezed her hands. “Do not answer me now. Take your time to think about it. Maybe all this pain has been because you have been trying to be so many things to so many people. Queen and protector and witch and wife and sister. So many secrets, so many identities. It is too much for anyone. When you chose me before, in the meadow, you chose Camelot. And I love you for that, because I will always choose Camelot, as well. But now I want you to choose me.”
Arthur was not right. She had not chosen Camelot. She had chosen Arthur. But she had chosen Arthur the king. What he was asking her now was far more intimate, and in a way far more dangerous. She believed him when he said he would continue as they had been. He would not lie. And when she was with him, she was happy. It was a joy to be in his company, at his side.
But she knew he was also telling the truth when he said he would always choose Camelot. Camelot would come first, before everything, every time. She would love him and he would leave, again and again and again. His love for her would not be a duty exactly. But it would be one of many things that Arthur felt and did, and on any given day, it would not be the most important.
If he had kissed her then, she would have said yes. But he was Arthur, not Mordred. He would take nothing that was not already his. Instead, he pressed his lips to her hand. “I have to go.”
Her face must have fallen because he laughed. “Just to the great hall. We are having a feast tonight to celebrate being done celebrating the harvest. And I am leaving on purpose, because I want you to have time and space to make this decision. I will wait as long as you need.” But his step was light as he walked away. He knew what she would choose.
Guinevere sat in the garden for a long time, wishing he had kissed her, given her an excuse to jump without looking. That was not Arthur’s way, though. It never had been.
When the sun grew low, she returned to her rooms. Brangien complained at her being late and rushed to get her ready. “Do you want to wear the crown?” she asked. It was an offhand question, but it felt as though it carried all the weight in the world.
Did Guinevere want to wear the crown?
“Yes,” she said.
Brangien pinned it in place, and together with Isolde and the guard who had taken Lancelot’s place, they left for the great hall. When she entered, Arthur stood and smiled at her. It warmed her through. There might not be the dangerous sparks she had with Mordred, but this was a strong love. A true love, built on friendship and admiration and trust. She could not trust Merlin, or her own mind, or her past, or even her future. But she could trust Arthur.
This time she had a place at his side. Arthur had changed the seating arrangement so that the women and men were not separated. Dindrane was nearby, laughing at something Sir Bors had said. Brangien and Isolde stood ready in the corner, leaning close and sharing a whispered conversation. Brangien tucked some of Isolde’s shining auburn hair into place, a simple tenderness in the movement. Lily was on Arthur’s other side, Sir Gawain next to her. He had a look on his face like he could not quite believe his luck, and Lily, sweet girl, beamed and chattered, but with an ease that made Guinevere realize how desperate and scared Lily had been before. Arthur laughed at something Sir Tristan said. The sound rang through the room. Everyone had a place here, and everyone was happy with that place.
Guinevere glanced at the opposite end of the table. Even though the other unmarried knights were around Lancelot, she seemed separate. She was not speaking with anyone, or laughing. Her eyes met Guinevere’s, and there was a loneliness in them that Guinevere felt and understood instinctively. She and Lancelot managed to be both a part of Camelot and apart from it.
Arthur’s hand found hers beneath the table. He slipped his fingers between hers and she stared down at them. Her fingers, pale and slender. His, tanned and rough. Guinevere and Arthur. Queen and king.
“I have an answer,” she whispered.
He squeezed her fingers.
The door opened and a page hurried to Arthur’s side with a scroll sealed with wax. Arthur reverted to being king. He pulled his fingers free from Guinevere’s and opened the scroll, glancing at it without curiosity. But then he froze, his eyes widening. It was almost the same expression Hild’s brother had made when the sword went through his stomach.
“What is it?” Guinevere asked, suddenly afraid. The room continued chattering around them, the noise covering their conversation.
“My son. He is alive. He has been alive this whole time.”
“Elaine’s baby?” Guinevere leaned close to read the letter. It was from a lady’s maid in a southern lord’s house. She had heard of Arthur from his visit, heard that he was a good man. Now that Maleagant was dead, she felt safe enough to write.
Elaine had died in childbirth. Arthur had not been there, and Guinevere knew it was one of his deepest regrets. Even though Elaine had been Maleagant’s sister, working with the evil man to manipulate and overthrow Arthur, Arthur had loved her. And he had sent her away, and then she had died giving birth to their son.
A son Arthur had been told also died at birth. A son this woman was writing to tell him was alive and well and his.
Arthur stood, his face frantic. “I have to get him. Right now.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Guinevere did not know what to do. Should she go with him? She could help. She knew she could.
“Brothers,” Arthur said
, his voice instantly quieting the room. “I have news and require men to help me on a quest. Perhaps the greatest quest I have ever—” His voice cut off. He was holding the letter so tightly, the edges were wrinkling. “It is a personal quest. I do not know what we will find on the other end, whether we will meet with a fight or not. But I want my most trusted men at my side.”
Sir Tristan stood without hesitation. Sir Bors, Sir Percival, Sir Caradoc, Sir Gawain. Every knight stood.
Lancelot did not. Arthur had asked for his brothers. For his men.
“Sir Lancelot,” Arthur said.
Lancelot’s face went pale as she stood.
“I entrust Camelot and the queen to you in my absence. Guinevere will rule, and you will protect her and the city.”
Lancelot bowed, a hand over her heart. But there was a moment of hesitation where Guinevere saw the pain of being left behind. She knew it all too well.
Arthur turned toward Guinevere. He did not ask why there were tears in her eyes, if he saw them at all. Arthur kissed her forehead and then strode from the room, followed by all his most favored knights.
Only the women were left.
Guinevere rushed out of the great hall, almost running, back to Arthur’s room. She could help. And even if Arthur would not take her, she did not want to him to leave on a question. She wanted him to leave with an answer.
She burst through his door and was hit by a wall of nausea, spinning blurry terror as she felt the essence of herself being pulled apart, burning away like mist in the sun.
“Guinevere!” Arthur sheathed Excalibur and Guinevere collapsed against the wall, trying to catch her breath and unable to stand on her own. The stones held her up. It was an answer, of sorts, at least to her demand to go with him to help. She could not. She would be a problem, not an asset. And with the sickness of Excalibur still clinging to her, she could not formulate an answer, or even move to kiss Arthur, if that was what she wanted.
The Camelot Betrayal Page 31