Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Tegan smiled and lifted her own cup and sipped from it. Her father was immensely proud of her high position at court, even though Tegan had protested more than once that it had not been skill and diplomacy which had placed her there. “I like Guenivere, father. She likes me. All I did was be a good friend to her.”

  “The gods know she has few enough of those,” her father replied. “It is an honorable thing to be a friend a man can count upon.”

  As Tegan watched, her father leaned and murmured something to Elaine, his wife. Elaine was older than her father, although Tegan was not certain exactly how old the great lady was, for she would not speak of such things. Despite her age, Elaine’s hair was still mostly pitch black, her brows still firmly arched and her chin firm. Only about her eyes did her flesh show any sign of the years she owned, for Elaine laughed often.

  Tegan liked Elaine immensely. It was from studying Elaine—and Guenivere, too—that Tegan had learned the ways of a lady. Elaine had never attempted to become the mother Tegan had lost when she was quite small. Instead, Elaine had been supportive and kind, encouraging Tegan and Cadoc to depend upon her.

  Elaine was laughing now, although Tegan could not hear her musical laugh over the buzz of conversations and the clatter of plates and cups and knives. Cadoc, Tegan’s brother, also began to laugh, while Bricius smiled. A family joke—one they would share with her later, Tegan was certain.

  The meal went on. As bellies filled and cups emptied, people moved from table to table to pour wine and knock cups together and drink to each other’s health. Women, too, moved about the tables to drink with friends, steal morsels from each other’s’ plates and laugh together…and perhaps glance coquettishly at the men.

  Tegan said to Guenivere, “Have you noticed how many ladies are wearing the same style of gown as you, now?”

  “Yes, I saw that, too,” Cara added. “Surely, that is a mark of their respect, my lady?”

  Guenivere gave a small smile. “It is a simple enough style. The younger men, though…my goodness!” She rolled her eyes.

  Both Cara and Tegan laughed softly. Lately, it seemed, the garments and outfits the younger men of the court wore had become more elaborate and embellished, as they tried to out-do each other in brilliant plumage. Cara had dubbed them “bullfinches” for the dazzling arrays of color.

  Tegan privately thought such displays were ridiculous but as the practice was essentially harmless, she said nothing. Instead, she rolled her eyes when she spotted the more excessive outfits.

  Gawain and the older officers, including Cara’s husband, Bedivere, did not bother with the excessive fripperies, which Tegan approved of. Even Arthur, who had the greatest right to excessive display, did nothing more than wear rich fabrics and well-made garments, and for high feasts such as tonight, a golden torc to indicate his rank.

  Excalibur strapped to his hip was embellishment enough, Tegan thought.

  “Is that…Constantine?” Tegan asked, when she spotted a tall young man with a square chin and thick neck, standing by the Cornwall table. “Cador’s heir?”

  “I believe so, yes,” Guenivere said, assessing the youth. “He is sixteen now…old enough to attend court.”

  “He will break hearts,” Cara judged. “A fine pair of shoulders.”

  “He is a strong fighter, Arthur says,” Guenivere replied. “So are Martyn and Trevor.” She glanced at the curly-haired Calleva twins who, as usual, were on opposite sides of the hall from each other. She looked at Cara, amusement showing in her eyes. “We should encourage your two younger sisters to take an interest in them, yes?”

  Cara laughed. “Nareen and Isolde are too interested in themselves yet, my lady, but it would be an interesting match, would it not?”

  The practice of devising suitable matches among those at court was a very private game the three of them enjoyed and that Guenivere encouraged. “We are fostering the longevity of the court,” she had pointed out. “A subtle word here and there does no harm and might bring joy to a pair who overlooked each other previously.”

  As Guenivere had just lost her second unborn child when she had first suggested this, Tegan thought she understood why the Queen was so interested in the pair bonding of others.

  Cara nudged Tegan’s side. “There goes the Maiden’s Champion, again.” She nodded.

  Tegan scowled as she followed the direction of Cara’s gaze. Gawain was just settling at King Bevan’s table. He had not taken the bench directly beside Branwen, which would be too obvious, but was sitting beside Bevan, as the King filled Gawain’s cup.

  Branwen was a beautiful, ethereal woman, with pale, wavy hair that swung about her hips and framed her delicate, pointed face.

  “Branwen is hardly in need of rescue,” Tegan said and reached for her own wine.

  “Or ruin,” Cara added.

  Guenivere smothered her laugh, for when men invoked Gawain’s title as a defender of women, they most often added the qualification that he rescued them in order to ruin them. As Gawain rarely left the hall alone in an evening, the ribald statement was true enough.

  Tegan drank deeply.

  Cara nudged her once more and Tegan looked up. King Melwaes approached the King’s table. His direction said he did not intend to speak to the King as most men did. His gaze was upon Guenivere, as he minced and hedged toward the ladies’ end of the table.

  Cara rolled her eyes.

  Tegan hid her smile and tapped Guenivere’s arm in warning.

  Guenivere looked up with a polite smile as Melwaes stopped before her and washed his hands together nervously. He gave a hesitant smile, as he gazed upon her with adoration in his eyes. “My lady, may I bid you felicitations for the season?”

  “You are too kind, King Melwaes,” Guenivere replied. She did not move to lift the wine jug and offer him wine from her table.

  “It is my fervent hope that you have fully recovered, my lady. I cannot express how overjoyed I am that you have appeared among us tonight.” His smile displayed large teeth.

  “As she is among us, one presumes she has recovered,” Cara said flatly.

  Tegan glanced at her and shook her head. Cara always tended toward direct speech, especially when she was irritated.

  Cara pressed her lips together, holding in any other response she might make.

  It was as if Melwaes could hear no one but Guenivere. He stared at her, his gaze roaming over her, waiting for her response.

  “I am well, thank you,” Guenivere said, her tone still perfectly polite and gentle. “I will not keep you from the company tonight, Melwaes. Please…mingle as you may.”

  Tegan admired Guenivere’s diplomacy. She had clothed a direct order to go away and made it sound magnanimous.

  Melwaes washed his hands some more. “Yes, of course. Thank you, my lady.” He bowed and dithered, before forcing himself to turn and move away.

  Cara blew out her breath. “Really, you should not be so polite, Guenivere.”

  “He is harmless,” Guenivere replied. “And it is nice that someone approves of me, at least.”

  Tegan bumped her shoulder against Guenivere’s. “You know perfectly well that I approve of you and everything you do. So does Cara.”

  “And I, too,” said a voice from behind them, speaking as softly as they.

  Tegan looked over her shoulder. Vivian, Lady of the Lake, stood behind them, clothed in deep, dark green and looked more regal than anyone wearing golden torcs. Her very long straight hair fell in an ebony curtain down one shoulder and gleamed in the lamplight. So did her flesh.

  “Thank you, Lady Vivian,” Guenivere murmured.

  “You are pale, Guenivere,” Vivian said. “You should not strain yourself tonight.”

  “I am not yet challenged,” Guenivere assured her. “You know my reasons for attending, tonight of all nights.”

  Vivian nodded. “And I agree with them or I would not have permitted you to come.”

  No one disputed that Vivian had the power to make a Q
ueen stay in her chamber should she deem it necessary.

  “Oh, and look at that little man…what is his name again?” Cara said.

  “Dilwyn,” Vivian supplied. “He is an odd duck, isn’t he?” She didn’t laugh, but her amusement was plain. “I do believe he stands half-a-head shorter than any woman I know.”

  “What is he doing against the wall, like that?” Cara asked. “He looks as though he is holding the wall up.”

  “Or the wall is holding him up, perhaps?” Guenivere suggested.

  “He looks ill,” Tegan said, studying the working of Dilwyn’s small features. His forehead gleamed with sweat, as he stared into the middle of the room.

  A woman screamed.

  Tegan jumped. So did Guenivere. Cara drew in a startled breath.

  “Merlin! Vivian! Help me!”

  Tegan jumped to her feet, for that was her father’s voice. She could no longer see the family table, for people crowded around it.

  Arthur rose to his feet, as Merlin stood and vaulted over the table with the vigor of a much younger man and flung himself into the crowd about the Dunoding table.

  “Tegan,” Vivian murmured. “Come with me.” She moved around the table, trailing green folds.

  Cold fingers walked up Tegan’s spine. Had Vivian arrived behind Guenivere when she did because she had seen this moment approaching?

  Tegan followed the Lady of the Lake into the middle of the hall. Vivian did not need to push her way through the crowded backs. People parted on either side, as she lifted the front of her dress and sailed between them.

  Cadoc stood between Tegan’s family table and the next one, staring down at the floor, his expression stricken.

  Tegan’s heart thudded as she and Vivian rounded the table, people stepping back to give them room. Then she came to a horrified halt at the corner of the table.

  Her father knelt on the floor, Elaine in his arms. Elaine writhed, her face wracked in pain, her breath squeezing from her in quick, harsh pants.

  Merlin had his hand against her forehead, as if his touch would allow him to see inside her. His expression was grave.

  “She was fine,” Bricius told the druid. “Drinking with everyone…then she gripped her throat and screamed, only no sound came out…” He looked as though he would weep. “Heal her, Merlin.”

  Merlin glanced over his shoulder at Vivian.

  Vivian reached over to the table and picked up Elaine’s jeweled cup, which lay on its side, the contents spilled across the wood. She sniffed at the cup, wrinkled her nose and pulled the cup away from her face quickly. “Poison,” she said softly. “One I have never come across before.”

  Merlin reached into the pouch at his hip and withdrew a small vial and plucked the stopper from it with fast movements. “Help me make her drink this,” he told Bricius.

  Cadoc whirled on his feet and thrust his way through the crowd. “You! Dilwyn!”

  Everyone shifted out of Cadoc’s way as Tegan’s brother leapt at the little man and gripped his tunic and pushed him up against the wall. “What did you give my mother when you sat at our table?” Cadoc growled at the man, his jaw harder than Tegan had ever seen it.

  Gawain moved swiftly around the table. “Give me the cup,” he told Vivian urgently, as Merlin and Tegan’s father fought to bring Merlin’s vial to her lips.

  Vivian raised her brow at Gawain.

  “Remember who my mother is,” Gawain said heavily, and held out his hand. “I understand poisons.”

  Vivian put the cup in his hand. He sniffed carefully. Then a second time. “…gods above!” he breathed and whirled to face Merlin and Bricius. “Don’t give her that!” he cried.

  Merlin looked up, frowning. “Too late,” he said, lifting the empty vial.

  “Merlin!” Tegan’s father cried hoarsely, as Elaine struggled, moaning.

  “Turn her on her side,” Merlin said, dropping the vial and reaching to help.

  A light arm came around Tegan’s shoulders. “It will be all right,” Guenivere whispered.

  Gawain watched Tegan. Pity showed in his expression.

  Tegan shook her head, her eyes stinging. “No, it will not,” she told Guenivere, the truth making her heart hurt.

  Elaine gave a great spasm, every muscle growing taut. Then she wretched hard, over and over. The contents she brought up were noxious with fumes. Not everything was normal food.

  People moaned and shifted away. Tegan could hear sobbing, too. She closed her eyes and turned her head away. Keeping her eyes closed stopped her tears spilling but did not stop her shuddering.

  In a little while, Elaine stopped making the agonized sounds.

  Bricius drew in a hitching breath. “My sweet, sweet Elaine…” He whispered the words, his voice broken, but everyone heard them for the room was still and silent around them.

  Tegan’s tears spilled then. Beside her, Vivian’s breath squeezed, and she sighed.

  “Someone must tell Lancelot,” Merlin said, his voice heavy. “Let him know his mother is dead.”

  Vivian cleared her throat. “I will send word.” Her voice was hoarse. “Although I suspect he already knows.”

  Chapter Two

  The Summer Country. 500 C.E. Three days later.

  The lands around Camelot were as difficult to navigate in early spring as they were in the depths of winter. It required concentration and a careful placement of one’s boots to keep them dry, a task which suited Tegan’s mood. It stopped her from thinking about Elaine. About anything.

  She was in search of red raspberry leaves, even though it was too early in the season. Guenivere had wondered aloud that morning if there were any fresh leaves to be had in all of Camelot. Although she had not stated why she was in need of them, Tegan suspected Guenivere had learned of yet another potion which would help her conceive and bear a child to full term and was anxious to acquire it.

  Cara had raised her scarred brow and said nothing, which was unusually diplomatic of her. She instead let her hand rest on her swollen belly.

  “I will see what can be found,” Tegan told Guenivere, instead. As soon as Guenivere was called away to attend Arthur, Tegan hurried back to her father’s house and changed into trews and a short tunic, donned a heavy cloak and set out to find red raspberry leaves.

  That had been four hours ago. As she had expected, Tegan had not found anything, even though she roamed far along the tracks and traces she knew in search of the little plant. The very first of the new grasses were just thrusting through the muddy earth and would not unfurl for days yet. Herbs and flowers worth plucking would not appear until at least the next moon cycle.

  As the sun rose higher, Tegan turned more to the south than the north, bringing herself around in a great circle, back toward Camelot. Even from here, among the fens and bogs and low bushes, the gleaming walls and towers of Camelot were visible, standing high above the horizon. They were a beacon for any well-intentioned and honest traveler.

  And to the north lay the spiked summit of Avalon, another perfectly good beacon to keep one oriented. It was a wonder to Tegan how anyone could get lost here, yet people went astray daily. Local guides were paid to find them, haul them out of whatever water they’d stepped into and bring them back to Camelot.

  Ahead, and on the other side of the man-high bushes which grew thick and well in this watery land, came soft cursing and a great splashing. It told her yet another traveler had got himself lost.

  Guiding another fool with no sense of direction would be as good a distraction from her thoughts as the search for red raspberry leaves had been. Tegan wore her dagger on her belt and was armed in more ways than that. Although these days, even women could travel alone and be assured of reaching their destination—such was the power of Arthur’s peace.

  She moved along the trace of a path, a narrow highway of firm earth between fens covered in the same weeds as the path so that they appeared to be just as firm a ground as the path itself.

  It was good country in whi
ch to locate a fort. No army could creep up on Camelot through these treacherous lands.

  Tegan rounded the curve in the path and came to a halt, for Gawain stood among the weeds, knee deep in cold fen water, trying to extract his boots from the thick mud beneath. A hunting bow and quiver were slung over his back.

  Her heart sank.

  Gawain looked up. He didn’t smile when he saw her. “Of course it is you who must find me in such straits.”

  “You are lucky anyone at all found you,” Tegan replied. “Do you even know where you are?”

  Gawain looked around. The bushes grew close to the water, here. “I…ah…Camelot is that way, yes?” He waved in the general direction of Camelot.

  “At least your sense of direction is not waterlogged.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Help me out, will you? This mud grips tighter than a noose.”

  Tegan looked around for a stick or branch to use to haul him out. There were few trees in the Summer Country, though. “Give me Durandel,” she told him and held out her hand.

  “Durand…” Gawain looked down at the great sword at his hip. “Why?” he demanded suspiciously.

  “If you want me to pull you from the bog, you must give me something to haul upon. There are no trees nearby and no rope. Your sword must do the work, instead.”

  Gawain considered, as he curled his bare fingers around the hilt. “It has not seen much work of late. I suppose it must take what is offered, no matter how belittling.” He pulled the blade, which sang prettily. Then he unfurled his cloak and wrapped it around the end of the blade, turned the sword and offered her the hilt.

  Tegan gripped the hilt. She wrapped her left hand around the pommel for a better grip, dug in the heels of her boots and pulled. She knew well the suction power of the mud, especially as this time of year, when it had been undisturbed all winter.

  “Nearly,” Gawain said breathlessly, peering down at his feet beneath the water. “One heel lifted for a moment. Again.”