Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Julius Flavinius Metella, as Ambassador to the Emperor of Rome, I welcome you to my kingdom,” Arthur replied.

  The little man clicked his fingers twice, quickly.

  A tall man at the back of the delegation moved through the cluster of Romans and held out a scroll.

  Metella took the scroll, rested it on his palms and offered the scroll to Arthur. He spoke rapidly.

  Tegan recognized the language as Latin, but the words were different from those she had learned, and the accent distorted the few words she did know.

  The tall man beside Metella, who wore a simple tunic and sandals, although even the tunic was embroidered at the edges, said: “I present to you, Arthur, High King of Britain, my credentials, signed by Emperor Anastasius, who appoints me to speak to you on his behalf. Will you accept my credentials?”

  Then Metella had learned the opening greeting by rote, Tegan realized. He did not speak their language at all. The tall man was his interpreter.

  Arthur glanced at Merlin and raised his brow.

  Merlin nodded.

  Arthur reached and plucked the scroll from Metella’s hands. “Thank you, Metella. I welcome you as Ambassador to the Emperor of Rome.” He handed the scroll to Merlin.

  Merlin pushed the scroll into his sleeve.

  “Will you drink with me, Metella?” Arthur said, waving a hand toward the wine which Tegan had directed be laid ready upon Arthur’s table, as the interpreter murmured to Metella.

  Metella looked surprised. Then his face smoothed out. He glanced around the hall, as if he was seeing it for the first time. He spoke and his interpreter said, “Thank you, yes. I will drink with you.”

  Arthur waved toward the table. Metella gave an effortful smile and swept over to the table. His companions remained where they were. So did the rest of the hall.

  Arthur moved over to the table, Excalibur gleaming on his hip, and the great red dragon flashing on his chest, and took the cup that Cai handed him with a nod and waited for Metella to be served.

  Metella examined the horn cup, a brow raised. Perhaps they did not use horn for drinking cups in Constantinople, Tegan thought, as the man lifted the cup up toward Arthur and murmured something.

  He understood the idea of toasts, then.

  “To a successful and productive discussion with the Emperor’s representative,” Arthur intoned.

  Metella repeated the toast in his own strange Latin.

  They drank.

  Metella put his cup back on the table, with a scraping sound, and spoke rapidly.

  “I will remove myself from your presence, with your permission, King Arthur. It has been a hard journey from New Rome, and I wish to rest. You may point my slave in the direction of my accommodations.”

  A ripple of consternation swept over the hall.

  “Cai,” Arthur murmured, ignoring the reaction of the court.

  Cai stepped forward. “Who’s the slave, then?” He tilted his head at the interpreter. “That is you?”

  “I…um, yes,” the interpreter said. He bowed.

  Cai waved his hand in a gesture that dismissed the bow as unnecessary. “What’s your name, then, slave?”

  The man looked at Metella, startled. He began to bow again, then stopped. “I do not have a name.”

  “Then what do I call you?” Cai asked with a reasonable tone.

  Again, the interpreter glanced at Metella, who wore a small polite smile, for he understood nothing of the exchange.

  The interpreter addressed Cai. “You can call me Dacia.”

  “What’s Dacia?” Cai asked, his tone curious.

  “It is where I was born,” the man replied.

  “That works,” Cai decided. He beckoned to Dacia. “Come with me. I’ll show you the room for your master, then we’ll see about finding you a bed, too.”

  “Oh, I require no bed,” Dacia said quickly, looking deeply uncomfortable.

  Cai paused. “What, do you sleep on the damn floor beside him or something?”

  Dacia looked perplexed. “Well…yes.”

  Tegan pressed her lips together. She could see another smaller wave of reaction among the court as they absorbed this. There were still some slaves in Britain, although fewer every year, for slaves had been the Roman way and the Saxon way and Arthur and Merlin had been determined to sever Britain from both influences. Those slaves still in the Kingdom led lives almost identical to those of their masters and were considered helpmeets and co-workers.

  “Different ways, Cai,” Merlin murmured, his tone one of warning.

  Cai absorbed the reminder with a short nod. “This way, then,” he said gruffly to Dacia. Then he turned to Metella and bowed with the same grandiloquent flourish that Metella had given it. “You, too, ambassador,” he said, his tone grim.

  Metella smiled approvingly at Cai. He bowed to Arthur, a bow as effusive as Cai’s.

  Arthur’s smile had an edge to it. He nodded at the ambassador.

  Metella swept across the room, following Cai. Dacia went, too.

  The others of Metella’s party remained where they were. With a jolt, Tegan realized that finding them accommodations was something Guenivere would do.

  Her heart aching with fear for her friend, Tegan moved down the aisle to where the Romans stood. “Do any of you speak our language?” she asked them.

  An old, wizened man raised his hand. “I speak well enough to make clear, yes?”

  Tegan nodded at him. “I will show you to rooms you can use while you are here in Camelot. Will you come with me?”

  The man frowned. “You are…the Queen?”

  “A lady and companion to the Queen,” Tegan replied. “The Queen is indisposed.”

  The man nodded and murmured to the others. They smiled at her.

  “The quarters on the west side of the courtyard, Tegan,” Merlin murmured, behind her. “And thank you.”

  Tegan gave him a strained smile, and moved back down the aisle, the Rome contingent behind her.

  Tegan did not reach her narrow bed in her father’s house until very late that night. When she did finally lay upon the mattress, which was not nearly as soft and comfortable as she remembered, sleep would not claim her. Her body throbbed with the exertions of the day and the activities of the evening, which had included chopping wood and setting fires in the kitchen, delivering hot water to the new arrivals, and finding braziers and black stone for their rooms, for all of them were used to warmer climes than Britain offered even at mid-summer.

  She lay upon the covers of her bed. She was too dirty and sweaty to slip beneath the covers and soil the bed. And she ached too much to move.

  There was no promise of surcease upon the morrow, either. The diplomatic delegation would linger in Camelot for as long as Metella and Arthur continued to speak about treaties and terms. While they were here, Camelot must function properly. It would not be the shining jewel Cai had wanted, but at the very least, it must provide food and shelter and demonstrate to Metella that Arthur’s kingdom was well founded and peaceful…and an adequate ally to the Emperor.

  While Tegan burned her fingers upon stoves and berated slovenly staff, Guenivere remained lost, with no one able to desert Camelot in order to look for her.

  This was not the way Tegan had thought her life would go, not even when she agreed to marry Gawain. She had expected changes, but this wildly difficult, strained existence, fraught with worry and uncertainty…no, this was not what she would have chosen for herself.

  She wept a few bitter, self-pitying tears into the covers and berated herself for the weakness…and wished that a warm shoulder was beneath her cheek, instead.

  Her tears came harder.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tegan was moving too quickly, so when she rounded the corner with her arms full of folded, freshly laundered cloths and Gawain turned the same corner from the other side, she could not halt in time. She cannoned into him and the pile of linens fluttered to the floor, as Gawain gripped her elbows to keep h
er on her feet.

  Tegan stared at the pile on the damp, freshly washed floor, dismayed. “It took me nearly all day to chivvy the women into washing those!” she cried. “Now what I am supposed to give the Romans to wipe their hands between bites?”

  The peculiar habit of the diplomats of eating with their hands instead of their daggers, then washing their hands between mouthfuls, had taxed the domestic resources of the palace. Tegan had ordered the women of Camelot to take off any linen or wool from their looms, finish the edges and hand the lengths over to the palace, for the delegation to use. It was a solution that worked for a single evening meal, then she was faced with a grubby pile of soiled and stained linen. She had found washerwomen in the city and brought them to the kitchen, where they and the cooks had battled over who got the first of the hot water…

  Gawain poked at the linens with his boot. “You can wash them again, can’t you?”

  “Wash them again?” She spoke the words on an indrawn breath of dismay. “Oh yes, that’s easy enough to say. It’s a lot bloody harder to do, when no one listens to you.” She bent and swept up the mass of fabric in her arms. “I’ll have to wash them myself—” She turned away, her throat and eyes aching.

  “Hey, hey,” Gawain said, gripping her arm. “I spoke in jest. Tegan, stop. Just stop.” His grip anchored her. He turned her, put his finger beneath her chin and peered at her. There was only one lamp lighting the back corridor, for all the other torches and lamps were in use in the public rooms.

  His eyes narrowed. “The kingdom won’t collapse if the linens are damp,” he said gently.

  “It might!” she railed at him. “Metella judges everything. He measures. I can see it in his face. He thinks we’re backward, uncivilized…and I’m starting to believe him. I cannot get a single servant to do what I ask without repeating myself. I can’t seem to organize a single simple meal without something being burnt!” She threw out a hand, taking in the doors along the corridor. “Half the staff fail to arrive each morning. Yesterday, the privies would not…not clear away. I’ve had to separate washerwomen from cooks, who fight each other for hot water. Hot water!” She rolled her head back in a great sigh. “I had not thought that something as simple as hot water could be so difficult to arrange. There is never enough of it. The pot boy is sick and his little sister is even sicker, and I think…I am worried that the sickness will spread. And while I order around servants who pay me no attention at all, Guenivere is still out there, somewhere and no one seems to care but me. My hands are burned, my back aches, and I am so tired that if I stand still for a moment, my eyes start to close…” Tegan swallowed and just managed to hold back the welling despair. She had been pummeling her self-pity for three days, ignoring it when she could and railing at herself whenever the internal wail built in her head.

  Gawain rubbed his chin. “Tired and burned, hmm?” he murmured. “Well…at least you’re clean, now.”

  The laugh rose inside her, surprising her. It escaped, a weak sound…but it was laughter. Then it changed. It clutched at her throat and transformed into weak, pathetic sobs. Her eyes ached as they filled with hot tears. Worse, the tears spilled, revealing themselves to Gawain.

  She turned away, her chest hitching. The linens spilled from her arms once more, and this time she didn’t care. She pressed her hand against the wall, keeping herself upright. Then she leaned against it and slid down until she was sitting against it, her gown folding around her feet. She pulled her knees up against her chest and pressed her forehead against her knees, hiding her wet cheeks.

  Gawain gave a soft groan and she lifted her head just enough to see him slide down the opposite wall just as she had done. He rested his head back against it and gave another gusty sigh. “I have chopped more wood in the last three days than I have in all the days before them. I thought my hand had callouses enough from Durandel, but I have new blisters upon old ones. I have listened to Metella’s nasal Latin for longer than a body should, I have laughed at jokes I don’t even understand. And all the while, I feel as though the Romans are laughing at us. They rarely smile, yet I can feel it, and I grow angrier with each passing day. I do not think Arthur sees it. I do not think he sees the chaos that is only just held at bay outside the door of his chamber where they meet. It is as if he is driven to make this agreement work, that he is determined to align Britain with Rome and in my heart I begin to think that such an alliance is the very worst fate than can befall us—worse than the curse of the Saxons.”

  His gaze met Tegan’s. In the dim light, all she could properly see was the glitter in his eyes, which she recognized with a jolt. Gawain was holding even stronger emotions tightly inside him, and the glitter was the hint of their existence.

  “Oh, Gawain…” she breathed.

  He rested his hands on his knees. She saw the wounds and scrapes on them, and the tired hang of them.

  Tegan sat up and wiped her face on a fold of her gown. “What are you doing back here, anyway?”

  Gawain lifted his head from the wall. “Lancelot sent word. He wants to speak to me urgently.” He shrugged. “That is all I know.”

  “Lancelot is not meeting with the delegation, alongside Arthur?”

  “He was. This morning, he did not arrive. I doubt Metella noticed. He only speaks to Arthur. Not even Merlin is worthy of his attention, even though Merlin can speak the man’s mangled Latin—and without that nasty intonation, too.”

  Tegan felt the flutter of another weak smile.

  Gawain’s mouth lifted at one corner. He reached for one of the linens and shook it out. “This one is not touched.” He attempted to fold it.

  “Here, let me fold it,” Tegan replied. “You’ve never folded cloth in your life. Not even your own tunics.”

  Gawain handed the cloth over without protest, then pried among the pile for another acceptable cloth, which he held out to her when she placed the first folded cloth upon her knee.

  Between them, they sorted out the worst soiled cloths, which they left in a small pile, and folded the rest. There was more salvageable than Tegan had first assumed.

  Gawain got back onto his feet and held out his hand and hoisted Tegan to hers, as she held the pile of linen to her chest. She scooped up the soiled cloths with her other hand, while Gawain brushed down his rear, then peered over his shoulder. “Now I am just as wet,” he said, with a note of disgust.

  Tegan could feel the damp area of her gown against her, and the sodden hems above her slippers. “Trews and a tunic would be far more convenient for the work I am doing,” she admitted. “But I don’t know how Metella would react to a woman not wearing a gown.”

  “If he paid attention at all, he would probably be offended,” Gawain replied. “He never shows it, but everything seems to offend him. He gives off…you know how the air shimmers above a pot, when the stew boils inside it?”

  As Tegan had watched more than a few kettles in the last three days, she nodded. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean. He simmers.”

  “Simmers. Yes.” Gawain hesitated. “The gods know how long these talks will continue.”

  It was a warning. Tegan nodded. “It was simply a moment,” she said. “No one saw me. I have recovered, now.”

  “I, too.” Gawain’s voice was low. “Lancelot waits…”

  She stepped aside. “So do my kettles.”

  Gawain cleared his throat. Then he nodded and moved down the corridor to the other wing where Arthur’s senior officers who did not have houses in the city were accommodated.

  Tegan watched him walk, the swing of his shoulders. The slap of Durandel against his thigh.

  Then she made herself turn and go back to work. Oddly, she did feel better, which bothered her almost as much as the irksome chores she tackled.

  Gawain had never stepped inside Lancelot’s private quarters. He looked around curiously as Lancelot closed the door behind him.

  The room was one of the larger ones, which was natural. But it was surprisingly Spartan in its
appointments. Although, Gawain realized, that should not be a surprise, either. Lancelot was the most disciplined fighter Gawain had ever met. He was even more austere and dedicated than Bedivere.

  Even Lancelot’s clothes and appointments were simple. As the man moved over to the desk where wine stood steaming gently, to pour two cups, Gawain studied him. He was wearing black as usual, but the cloth was good quality and properly arranged, with a small gold pin. He was an elegant man, Gawain realized.

  Lancelot held out the second cup to Gawain. “I thought you might appreciate a moment of unheeding speech. Your frustration with the discussions grows clearer every day.”

  Gawain took the cup. He had already had a moment of carefree speech but did not say so. “I must learn how to school my face to stillness, the way Merlin does.”

  Lancelot sipped. “That is not why I asked to speak to you, though. Arthur has ordered…requested that I ride out and find Guenivere.”

  Gawain lowered his cup and exhaled gustily. “Thank the stars for that.”

  Lancelot raised a brow.

  “It’s about time something was done,” Gawain explained. “Tegan is beside herself. She is trying to run a palace—a city—that refuses to work properly with the Queen gone. Guenivere is her friend, besides.”

  “Then you do not believe that Guenivere ran away, either?” Lancelot asked. His tone was cool.

  Gawain shook his head. “No. Although I only realize that now as I speak. I’ve heard what they’ve been saying. That she’s terrified of Arthur and being put aside. Only, how did she deal with six guards?”

  “There are people in the Summer Country who count their loyalty to Guenivere, the daughter of their lands, higher than their allegiance to the king. If she beckoned, they would do anything she asked of them,” Lancelot replied.