Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Lancelot!” Gawain bellowed.

  “Here!” Lancelot shouted, turning his head so the sound would travel in the direction of Gawain’s shout.

  Morgan’s feet shifted on the rocky ground and Lancelot spun, bringing the sword up instinctively.

  She was gone.

  The footsteps became echoing clatters, then Tegan and Gawain burst through the narrow file into the valley.

  As they stared at the bowl of rock and trees, a raven gave a great caw, flew up from the canopy and wheeled away from the sunlight. It flapped its great wings, passing over the three of them with the wind swishing through its feathers.

  Tegan ducked.

  Gawain pointed to the cauldron simmering over the fire. “What in the gods’ names is all that?”

  “The source of all our troubles,” Lancelot told him. He moved over to the cauldron, put his boot upon the lip and shoved with all his might.

  The tripod groaned, then toppled. The cauldron dropping into the flames and ashes and rolled onto its side.

  The noxious liquid in the cauldron sent flames roaring, blue and red and bright orange, bright enough so that all three of them shielded their faces with their arms.

  Tegan wished she still had her cloak, for it was damp and cold in the vale.

  She wrapped her arms around her middle and tried to concentrate on what Lancelot was saying.

  “…two places, she said. He can hardly keep the Queen in the monastery itself. The brothers would not permit it. He would not bring her anywhere near Morgan’s haunts, for they wreak of pagan power, which would repulse him. There are few places left on Avalon, once you remove the low vales and hidden byways, and all of them are up high, above the trees.”

  They all turned to peer through the trees. From this close angle, the conical top of Avalon soared over them. The square tower at the peak pointed to the heavens.

  “Surely he would not have her in the most visible place in Avalon?” Gawain said, doubt thick in his tone. “He had the sense to not keep her upon Gorre.”

  “The Christians all keep to the west end of the island,” Lancelot said. “You can quarter that end, you and Tegan. Be wary, for Melwaes will have the bulk of his men wait there, while he keeps the Queen to himself. You will meet resistance.”

  “You will search the tower then?” Gawain asked, not sounding unduly troubled by the prospect of a small army waiting to fight him.

  “I will search the place that sits above it all, that is neither Christian nor pagan, but is indifferent to both.” Lancelot hefted Taranis, gazing at the tower. His expression was hard, his black eyes unforgiving.

  Tegan felt sorry for anyone who tried to stand in Lancelot’s way. She gripped Gawain’s arm. “The monastery,” she prompted him. “Let us make certain she is not there, for Lancelot.”

  Gawain’s gaze met hers. He nodded.

  When they climbed out of the trees once more, the sun felt warm on Tegan’s face. Gawain nodded toward the small village that lay around the gates of the monastery, which was a small set of buildings surrounded by an even larger garden. “Peaceful, hmm?” he asked her.

  “Very,” she agreed.

  “Then you failed to notice the armed men sitting outside the inn, drinking,” he said grimly.

  She looked again and rolled her eyes. “They look…well, natural, sitting there.”

  Gawain slid Durandel back into the hilt with a hiss and ring of metal. “We don’t draw until we must.”

  Tegan caught her breath. Had he spoken without thought? He had referred to her as if she was another armed man by his side. He was counting her as a valuable fighter…

  “I doubt Guenivere is here,” Gawain added, peering at the village ahead once more. “They would not be sitting on their rears guzzling wine, if she were.”

  “Lancelot was right.” She glanced up at the tower, which was still directly above them, now they had circled around the east end of the island and climbed high enough to see it once more. “He alone will face whatever men Melwaes has with him.”

  Gawain snorted. “Poor bastards,” he added. “Let’s go. I could do with a cup of wine myself.”

  Guenivere smiled at Melwaes as she refilled his cup with the thin wine he preferred and wondered if her expression seemed genuine to him. The strain it took to pull her face into something as simple as a smile had grown over the days. Now, it felt as though she was pulling upon strings to make everything work as it should, for there was not a single jot of genuine warmth in it.

  Melwaes, though, reached for the cup and beamed at her. “My thanks, my lady.” He drank deeply. The little man’s capacity for the bitter wine was enormous. He had been drinking steadily since he had arrived in the tower room some time ago. The sun was only just edging into the narrow windows on the east side of the room.

  Guenivere had discovered that Melwaes could be distracted by a cup of wine and courtly conversation, if the subject matter flattered him and if Guenivere showed approval.

  The first time he had stepped into the tower after she had woken to find herself locked there, she had braced herself for a struggle, for she was afraid she knew exactly why he had brought her here.

  Only, he had shown an odd, jerky kindness. He had pointed to a basin with water, folded cloth that seemed clean enough, even though it was stained, and a tray with meat and apples. Sitting on a stool was another tray, with a wide-bellied pitcher that held the thin wine that Guenivere found to be too bitter to drink.

  She had ministered to the cut upon her forehead, and dabbed the blood from the neck of her gown, and tried to eat, but had been too afraid to let down her guard and eat properly, for Melwaes remained in the room, his hand on his sword, his gaze not once leaving her.

  Offering him a cup of the wine was a way to avoid drinking it herself and not appear ungrateful. Melwaes had drained the cup quickly and thrust it back at her. She hid her surprise with a smile and poured another.

  Melwaes had not touched her that day, except to pick up her hand and bow over it before he shouted for the guards to unlock the door and let him out. Nor had he reached for her on any of the days that had followed, for the wine seemed to distract him.

  Guenivere realized after the third day, when he had talked in an increasingly slurred voice about his kingdom and the household upon Gorre and other domestic matters, to which she had expressed her admiration, that Melwaes was not interested in a simple rape. He wanted Guenivere to commit herself to him.

  He wanted a queen of his own. He wanted her at his side.

  Only, he could not woo her without the wine to overcome his natural shyness. Enough of the wine would take his manly drives from him, so Guenivere refilled his cup whenever he came near to her, while smiling and listening breathlessly to the bland minutiae of his life.

  The heavy pitcher of wine was refilled as needed by a slave with matted hair and no tongue with which to speak, while a guard stood watch just inside the door. The guard was one of Melwaes’ soldiers, with a squint and a leer that told Guenivere she would be in far greater danger with him than she was with Melwaes, had they been alone.

  While the slave replenished the food and saw to other needs, the guard watched Guenivere’s every move.

  She instead focused her attention upon the book she held open, pretending to read.

  It was a relief when the guard went away, but it was never long before Melwaes returned, forcing her to deflect him while appearing to daily grow more enamored with him.

  She was tired, both physically and in her spirit. She was not sure how much longer she could keep up this pretense. The more days that passed, the greater the danger grew. Melwaes would soon look for physical proof of her growing affection or try to extract them for himself.

  She had only a thin hope of rescue. She had no idea where she was. The view from the windows showed wild lands, a great river tributary, far away, and nothing else. If she did not recognize the lands, there was little chance anyone in Camelot would find her.

&
nbsp; By now, the diplomatic delegation from Rome would have arrived. Arthur would be embroiled in politics. Finding an alliance with the Roman Empire meant everything to him, and he could not abandon his distinguished visitors to hunt for her.

  As the days passed, her conviction solidified: She must find her own way out of this.

  She had been devising ways she might overcome Melwaes, despite his constant grip of the hilt of his sword. There were possibilities, ways it might be done, including striking him on the back of the head with the wine pitcher, which was a heavy thing.

  Yet that would leave her still inside a locked room, with guards outside the door. The room was up high from the rocky ground, so she could not escape through the window, even if she managed to squeeze herself through the narrow aperture.

  As Melwaes walked in the small circle around the room, speaking of the crops he had inspected yesterday and the enormous yields they were expected to produce by summer’s end, Guenivere once more contemplated ways she might escape and found none.

  At first, she paid no attention to the guttural calls far below the window. Melwaes’ men were as free with the wine as he, and by as early as mid-morning, they were often drunk. She suspected they had women with them, for the calls and laughter had a ribald edge to them.

  Only the sharp, urgent note in these shouts pulled her attention away from her thoughts. She turned her head to listen closely, frowning.

  Melwaes halted his striding. “Your attention has wandered, my lady.”

  “Something is happening, outside,” she told him. “Listen.”

  He moved toward the closest window and bent his head to listen.

  Then she heard it. The high note of a good, sharp blade slicing through air. The grunt of a man taking a blow.

  Her heart nearly burst from her chest, it leapt so hard.

  Melwaes drew his own sword, taking two pulls to extract it properly and untangle his cloak. He moved over to the door and hammered on it. “You must not let them through!” he shouted.

  Indistinct acknowledgement came back.

  The sounds of fighting were clearer, now. They seemed to be coming through the stone beneath her feet. The attacker was in the building itself, now.

  Melwaes stepped back from the door, watching it as one would watch a wolf.

  Guenivere drew a shaking breath. It was not her imagination. Someone was coming for her…

  She rose to her feet.

  “Never fear, my lady,” Melwaes said. His voice shook. “I will protect you.”

  Guenivere pressed her hands to her chest to hold in her hysterical laughter. Melwaes was a pitiable man, blind to the truth. He thought her so charmed by him that she would stay with him even when rescue arrived.

  They both listened to the sound of combat, drawing closer with each passing minute. Just how many men did Melwaes have surrounding her? Enough to overcome his own timidity and prop up his confidence, she guessed. That would take dozens of men, at least.

  Finally, the fighting was right outside the stout oak door. The guards gave a muffled cry and iron clashed.

  Just once.

  Grunts sounded. The thud of heavy bodies falling.

  Silence.

  In that taut silence, Guenivere heard Melwaes draw a shuddering breath. His face was white as he stared at the door.

  The bar over the door was lifted and thrown away, and the latch lifted. The door was thrust aside.

  Guenivere drew in her own heated breath.

  Lancelot did not step through the door. He raced through at the speed of the wind, his sword raised, blood dripping from it. His expression was implacable, almost devoid of emotion, for he was focused upon the enemy before him.

  Melwaes had no chance at all. Lancelot did not spare him, not even for a moment. He brought the great sword up, slid past Melwaes’ pathetic guard and hewed the little man from the shoulder down to the other hip…and he used his left hand to do so.

  Melwaes remained standing only because of the sword lodged through him. His own blade clattered to the floor.

  Lancelot yanked Taranis free and pushed at Melwaes with his boot. What was left of the man dropped beside his sword.

  Guenivere did not wait for Lancelot to turn to her. She threw herself at him, weak tears already sliding down her cheeks. She heard his sword drop as she clung to him.

  Lancelot’s arm came around her, holding her.

  Guenivere looked up at him.

  “You are shaking,” he whispered.

  “I did not know it would be you who would come…but I should have,” she breathed. “Oh, Lancelot, I have been so afraid!”

  He raised his hand to her face and winced. For the first time she noticed the rag wound about his arm, thick with dried blood. He brushed her cheeks clear of tears. “Of course I came for you. I would slay an army of enemies to reach you.”

  Her breath stopped. Her heart, too.

  Lancelot’s gaze was steady. Unflinching.

  Fear touched her. She understood what he was not saying. “Lancelot, no…” she whispered.

  “I do not care,” he ground out. “Not anymore. You were lost to me. Now I have you back, I will not go on in silence.” His gaze was heated. “The same truth is in you. I know it.”

  Say no. Deny it. The sensible voice spoke forcefully. She had listened to that voice for many years, but she had run out of the strength needed to follow the narrow path it dictated.

  She nodded. Fresh tears fell.

  Lancelot closed his eyes as if her acknowledgement had momentarily weakened him. Then he opened them once more. His gaze seared her. “I love you, Guenivere. The gods must forgive me, but I do.”

  Guenivere trembled anew. “Then we must both be forgiven,” she whispered.

  His mouth was heated and sweet upon hers. Guenivere clung to him, joy and pleasure battling with guilt. But swiftly, the joy rose above it all, for to be cherished for herself was ambrosial.

  Lancelot released her mouth and rested his head against hers. “Can you walk? We must leave here before reinforcements arrive…if Gawain let any of them through.”

  “Where do we go?” she breathed.

  He drew in a breath. Let it out. “Camelot,” he said heavily. “I must return you to Arthur.”

  She drew in a sharp, hard breath and tore herself away from him. “No, Lancelot! No! I cannot! He does not want me…I am a useless wife to him. I have no place there….”

  Lancelot shook his head. “You have not seen what I have seen of Camelot since you were gone. It is crumbling, without you there. Arthur needs you. More than even he knows. The alliance with Rome is falling apart a little more each day, just as Camelot does.” He shook his head. “It will be the hardest battle I have ever fought, but I will take you back there, because Britain needs you, and I swore to serve Arthur and Britain. If I forsake that oath, then…” He swallowed. “Then my love for you becomes an evil thing. Do you see? Tell me you understand this.”

  Guenivere wrapped her arms around herself. She was cold—colder than she had ever been. “Camelot…suffers?” she whispered, guilt and horror building in her.

  “It is as if a curse fell the moment you left,” Lancelot replied, his voice strained. “Meals are burned, clothes soiled, lamps smoke. Hens fail to lay. A sickness has taken hold of the city, a fever that leaves a body limp and useless. You must return, Guenivere, and put things to right. You must return for Arthur’s sake…and so I may remain true to my word.”

  Guenivere straightened. Her arms dropped. “Yes, I see,” she whispered, even as more tears fell. She drew in a shuddering breath. “I will go back, then.”

  Lancelot held out his hand.

  Guenivere took his hand. She covered his with the other. “I will have the strength to return, only if you are with me.”

  His hand tightened about hers. “Always,” he breathed.

  Chapter Twenty

  The village beyond the walls of the monastery held no allegiance to any king or man. Therefore, when T
egan and Gawain strolled into the square in the center of the dozen huts and cottages and the stout walls of the inn, the men drinking at the table did not leap to their feet and draw their swords, even though Tegan was braced for them to do so.

  Gawain nodded at them. “Gentlemen.”

  The men at the table stiffened, their cups lowering. One of the older, grizzled soldiers nodded. “My lord. You’d be Prince Gawain, by the look of you.”

  “I am,” Gawain replied. He waved to the innkeeper through the wide door of the inn, which stood open. The man nodded and turned to pour a mug from the barrel behind him. “It is a fine day, is it not?” Gawain looked up at the cloudless sky.

  Tegan spotted a worn path leading out of the tiny village, around the corner of the monastery walls, to wind its way up the steep sides of the hill behind. It led to the tower.

  Her heart thudded and she tore her gaze away from the path, lest it warn the men at the table where her interest truly laid.

  “What is a lord of Camelot doing here on Avalon, if you don’t mind my asking?” the same senior soldier asked.

  “I heard the ale here is of superior quality,” Gawain said, as the innkeeper hurried out with the frothy mug and bowed to Gawain. “And one for my wife,” Gawain told the innkeeper.

  The man looked at Tegan, startled.

  She smiled brightly at him.

  He hurried back inside.

  Gawain raised his mug toward the soldiers. “Your good health.”

  They exchanged glances. Their expressions were puzzled, but not yet suspicious. One of the men glanced at her, his gaze falling upon her sword. She fought not to reach for the hilt.

  The innkeeper brought a second, equally as large, mug of ale to Tegan and murmured his apologies for the slight. She thanked him as pleasantly as she could and made a show of sipping the liquid, although ale was not to her taste.

  Gawain had no trouble pretending he was a man of leisure. He didn’t sit, but he did move over to the table where the last four soldiers sat, for they could not fit around the table where the majority of the men sat. He rested his boot on a stool and his arm on his knee and drank, while chatting with the men. Tegan barely heard what he said. It was not intended for her ears, anyway.