Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Cai bounced to his feet, a fierce look in his eye.

  Everyone but Metella and Arthur now stood.

  Arthur looked up at them. Relief spread through him. His belly relaxed. The illness subsided. He got to his feet, too. “My people have spoken, Metella. We have not worked this hard to hand back control of our lands to the first who beckons with a shiny bauble in hand. We found freedom for ourselves. We need no one now.”

  Metella’s mouth remained in a straight line, which matched the perfectly straight edge of his hair, running across his forehead. He got to his feet, too. The book rolled shut with a soft whisper of parchment. “You cannot refute the Emperor’s authority.”

  “I can,” Arthur said. “I do. As did my father and his brother, before him. Britain is free, Metella, and stands apart from your Empire in thought, deed and spirit.”

  Metella waggled his finger. “Be very careful what you say next, king. One does not lightly turn their back upon the might of the Roman Empire.”

  Arthur smiled. “I have no need to say anything at all. Mark?” He glanced at Mark. The man quivered with anger.

  Mark matched over to the doors to the great hall and shoved one open and stood aside. “You’d best be gone from this place before the sun sets, Metella, for by then, everyone in the city will know your true purpose here. They will not thank you.”

  Metella looked around the table. His gaze came back to Arthur. “You will regret this, king.”

  “No, I don’t think I will,” Arthur replied, as the lightness of relief and absence of pressure spread through him.

  Metella gathered up his book and his writing stick and moved silently over to the doors and out through them.

  Mark shut the door with a great thud.

  “Thank the stars for that,” Cai said and blew out his breath. “Can we get a real drink now, Arthur? I need to rinse my mouth.”

  Merlin laughed, and kept laughing, a long, low chuckle which made him grasp his belly. Mark grinned as he came back to the table. Even Cai joined in.

  Arthur realized he was grinning, too.

  The high, clear horns of the gatekeepers blew, startling everyone and chopping off their merriment.

  “Who, now?” Arthur murmured.

  Bedivere shoved the inner apartment door open and almost staggered through, breathless. “The Queen!” he gasped. “The Queen has returned!”

  Arthur sagged back into his chair and bowed his head, as the last of the blackness he had been carrying lifted from him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Even though Guenivere begged that no fuss be made, Cai insisted that a feast be held in honor of her return and that he would take care of everything. Arthur had agreed. Now she must face the entire court, long before she’d had time to accustom herself to being back in Camelot.

  She had dismissed everyone, even Tegan, from the chamber and painstakingly prepared herself for the feast.

  It was the third bath she taken since they had returned earlier in the day, and found the Ambassador dismissed and Camelot celebrating that startling fact. Guenivere knew she would never be properly clean again.

  When Arthur came into room, Guenivere twisted on her stool and gripped the back of it, her heart thudding. He never usually came into the room until late at night, when he slid into the bed beside her and sometimes turned to take his pleasure with her.

  She swallowed. Why was he here now?

  Arthur’s gaze roamed over her face. “I have put that fear in your eyes, haven’t I?”

  “My lord?” she said, puzzled.

  Arthur pointed to the stool that Tegan sometimes used, when they relaxed together and gossiped. “May I sit with you a moment?”

  Even more puzzled, Guenivere nodded.

  He settled on the stool, which creaked beneath his much heavier weight, but held. He rested his hands upon his knees. “I thought I should speak to you as soon as possible, to relieve your mind.”

  Guenivere held still. Her heart did not.

  “Lancelot has told me what he found at the top of that tower.” Arthur paused. “Six days, yet you still maintained your honor.” He shook his head. “It was well done, Guenivere. Very well done indeed. I do not know what you did to hold Melwaes off. I am only grateful that you managed it. One day, when you are ready, you might tell me.” He paused and his brow lifted a little.

  She nodded. “One day, yes.” Her voice was a strained squeak. Arthur was speaking to her as one might a friend, or someone he respected. No…he was speaking to her as he did his senior officers. As he might speak even to Lancelot.

  Arthur hesitated. “I missed you, Guenivere,” he said, his voice low. He held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. “More than I thought I might,” he added.

  “I know Camelot, that the palace became disordered while I was gone—”

  Arthur shook his head. “No, that is not it. Well, it is, but not all of it. The chaos, the disasters…they served only to point out to me what I would not acknowledge on my own. I…” He thumped his knee and strode across the room to peer out the window, his back to her. “You are a part of my life, Guenivere. It is not the same when you are gone.”

  Guenivere wound her fingers together. “I have not served you well, my lord,” she whispered.

  He did turn then. Arthur put his back to the window. He was such a size that the window was all but shuttered, dimming the light in the room. “Yes, about that…”

  Guenivere hung her head.

  “Let us speak of it now and dispense with the matter for all time,” Arthur added. “I cannot address the court tonight, for it is a festive occasion, but tomorrow, Guenivere, when moods are more sober, I will tell anyone who cares to listen that I will not put you aside. Not ever.”

  Guenivere jerked her head up, her throat closing over. “Never?” The word emerged with no strength.

  “Never,” Arthur said. There was warmth in his eyes. Fondness, even. “Tomorrow, when I speak my mind, I will also announce that Constantine, Cador’s son, and my great nephew, will be my official and formal heir, until and if a natural born son of mine replaces him.”

  Guenivere drew in a breath that was a badly suppressed sob.

  Arthur came over to her and crouched, so their eyes were nearly level. He smiled. “That will take this terrible pressure from you, yes?”

  She did weep then, for Arthur, who had found his way to be a husband when it was too late. And she wept for herself, for now she was trapped in this life by Arthur’s kindness…and her guilt.

  Gawain scooped up two tankards in one hand and a wine jar with the other. He did not break stride as he moved from the inner postern door to the table where Lancelot sat alone.

  The other tables in the hall all had many early arrivals waiting for the feast to begin. Most of them were drinking. There was a sense of celebration in the air. A shift to a lighter mood.

  Gawain dropped the two mugs upon the table, stepped over the long bench, shoved it back with his knees and sat.

  Lancelot watched him pour the wine, his eyes narrowed.

  Gawain pushed the tankard toward him, then lifted his own and held it out toward Lancelot. “You look as though you are in need of it,” he added.

  Lancelot picked up the mug and tapped it against Gawain’s. “I am in need of it,” he admitted. “That it is you who noticed and sits there in friendship, well….” He drank. “They do say miracles happen here,” he added.

  “So I’m led to believe,” Gawain said. He leaned forward. “I’m more of a mind that it’s the courage of mere men creating the magic, but you come from that strange forest, so you should believe whatever you want.” He winked and drank deeply.

  “Says the man with a witch for a mother.”

  “Witch in nature, not ability,” Gawain replied. “The one to watch for is my aunt—Morgan. That is a woman with real power.”

  Lancelot drew a breath and let it out. “I am aware of this,” he said evenly.

  They drank again.


  Gawain wiped his mouth. “Are you brooding for the obvious reason, or is there something else on your mind?”

  “Brooding?”

  Gawain grinned. “You brood better than any woman I know. Accept it. So?”

  Lancelot turned the cup around and around on the spot. “Arthur has strongly requested I remain in Camelot. It was very nearly an order.”

  “You asked permission to leave?” Gawain said, startled.

  Lancelot’s hand grew still. “I thought it best,” he said quietly. He lifted his gaze to meet Gawain’s. His expression did not change, but Gawain could feel the misery sliding off the man.

  “How can you sit here with me, knowing…what you know?” Lancelot added softly.

  Gawain picked up the jar and refilled the mugs. “It is a strange thing, that.” He put the jug down and picked up his cup and peered into it. “I saw today that you have tarnish on your soul, just like the rest of us.” He lifted his gaze to Lancelot’s. “You are no different from me, or any man. I will drink with any good man whose loyalty is the same as mine.”

  Lancelot drew in a breath and let it out, as if relief pulled at him. He picked up the renewed cup. “To Britain.”

  “And King Arthur.”

  They drank.

  “Again,” Gawain said, filling the cups.

  “Gawain,” Lancelot said softly.

  He looked up.

  Lancelot lifted his chin in a little jerk to draw Gawain’s attention to the hall behind him.

  Gawain swiveled.

  Arthur stood behind the big chair at the king’s table, his hand on the back of it, and his back to the hall. Just over his shoulder and the chair, Gawain glimpsed Tegan. And on her other side, King Mark.

  “I wonder what that is about?” Gawain said.

  “Cai told me King Mark almost single-handedly changed Arthur’s mind about an allegiance with Rome, today,” Lancelot said. “And he tossed the Byzantine from the hall, too.”

  “I wish I had seen that,” Gawain said. “That nasal Latin of his made my ears ache.” He got to his feet. “I’ll find out what is happening. The king doesn’t normally step out here until the feast is to begin.”

  “I suspect he will not be the guest of honor tonight,” Lancelot replied.

  Gawain patted his shoulder. “You stay and brood. I’ll scout.” He winked and headed for the High King’s table.

  Arthur kept his hand on the back of the big chair as he spoke. It gave him a casual air Tegan had rarely seen in the High King. Was it possible that Arthur looked…happy?

  The cares he always seemed to carry were not weighing down his speech and his shoulders tonight.

  “I would have had you be there to see Mark order the ambassador from the hall, Lady Tegan,” Arthur said, finishing his account of the final meeting with Metella, whom Arthur had called the Bookkeeper of Rome, a rare disparagement for Arthur.

  Mark rolled his eyes. “You came to your senses at the end, my lord,” he told Arthur, his gravelly voice deeper than usual. Tegan realized he was embarrassed. She wondered why Arthur was relating this story to her in particular. He had asked her for her time and beckoned Mark here. He must have a purpose in mind.

  Arthur smiled at her. “I am puzzling you, I can see.” His gaze shifted to Mark. “Both of you. Let me get to my point, then. Metella was a grasping man and his intentions self-serving. It offends me that he twisted the meaning of ambassador to his own ends the way he did. He and the Emperor, for Anastasius signed the credentials.” He paused. “But Metella provided me with a lesson which I will heed. It is time for Britain to reach out to our neighbors and build alliances of our own. True alliances, which strengthen both sides equally.”

  “It is a sound idea, my lord,” Mark said. “Although I would suggest you pass by the Saxon lands and speak to their neighbors instead and in that way press the Saxons up against the sea by a ring of alliances.”

  “I will look to the west, to begin,” Arthur said. “Ireland is a strong land and would make a powerful ally.”

  Tegan jumped. Now she knew why Arthur had sought her out. “Is it you wish for me to bring you and my aunt together to discuss these matters, my lord?”

  Mark looked at her, his brow lifting. “Oh, yes, I had forgotten. Your aunt is Queen of Ireland. My apologies.”

  Tegan smiled at him. “Everyone forgets that,” she told him. “Even I do. I am a Briton and my loyalty is to Arthur.”

  Arthur nodded. “You have served Britain well today, Tegan. It has not gone unnoticed. Nor has Mark’s loyalty.” He paused. “I did not mean for you to merely introduce me to your aunt. I want you to travel to Ireland as my ambassador, Tegan.” He paused. “Your aunt has a daughter who is of a marriable age, I believe?”

  “Iseult, my lord, named after the Queen herself. Yes, she would be nineteen by now, I believe. I have never met her,” she added. “I was very small when I was last in Ireland. That was before my mother died.”

  Arthur nodded. “You have the bloodline and you will have my credentials which will allow you to arrange it. And you are a woman, speaking to other women. I know you will more than adequately represent me in this matter.”

  “The matter, my lord?” She frowned.

  Arthur put his hand on Mark’s shoulder. “An alliance between Ireland and Britain, made true and unbreakable by the marriage of Ireland’s princess to one of Britain’s most loyal kings.”

  Mark drew in a breath. “There are younger men…”

  “None who deserve acknowledgement as you do, Mark,” Arthur said, his tone gentle. “Do not refuse me in this. You have a lineage that the royal family of Ireland would be proud to join in marriage.”

  Mark let out his breath. “To be joined with the royal family of Ireland is an honor for any man in Britain. Thank you, Arthur.” He bowed his head.

  Arthur’s gaze shifted to the postern door, where Cai stood waiting to catch his eye.

  “Ah, the feast is to begin,” Arthur said. “And I have a simple service to perform. Excuse me.” He moved around the pair of them and over to the slightly smaller chair at the other end of the table, drew it out and waited for the Queen to arrive.

  The horns rang out and everyone got to their feet. Guenivere moved into the hall, her cheeks pink, for she was not used to such attention.

  Tegan cast about, suddenly uncertain about the appropriate table for her to use. She could not sit at Arthur’s table without direct invitation from Guenivere. Her father sat at the Lothian table, and she could not sit there, either.

  Lancelot sat at the so-called bastards’ table—the group of tables where those with no family tables of their own sat. Others called it the mongrel’s table. She could not sit there, either, for it was a table of men.

  Her arm was caught and she was drawn back away from the High King’s table, as Guenivere moved over to the chair Arthur held for her.

  Gawain turned her and drew her around the edges of the hall. He caught her hand in his and strode toward the big doors at the end. As they reached the doors, thunderous applause broke out.

  Tegan looked back, startled.

  Guenivere stood before her chair, Arthur behind her. The court clapped and cheered for her.

  Tegan smiled, delighted that her friend had at last received the recognition she deserved.

  Then Gawain’s grip on her hand tugged her through the door. He shut it behind him. “I would speak with you, if you care to listen.”

  “Of course I will listen,” she said. “Here?” She waved toward the center of the courtyard.

  “That place was not conducive.” He scowled. Then his scowl cleared. “I know.” He strode to the edge of the verandah and plucked the torch from its bracket and handed it to her. He took down a second and took her other hand in his once more. “Come with me.”

  When Gawain led her into the training arena, Tegan nearly pointed out that they had used this place once before, too. It had not been conducive for her, either.

  Yet instead of movi
ng along the front tier and leaning against the rail around the arena itself, Gawain climbed the stone steps to the very top, then moved around the high tier to the middle, where the King sat for public games. A great chair was carved out of stone, there. Normally, the chair was covered in cloth and cushions, but it sat unadorned, now.

  Gawain dropped his torch into the bracket at the back of the chair, then took hers and inserted it into the matching bracket on the other side.

  Then he picked her up by the waist and put her on the high stone seat. “No, no, stay there,” he said, as she tried to jump down, alarmed by the impropriety. He put his hands on the arms of the chair, blocking her way. “You run counter to me at every turn, don’t you?”

  Tegan shrank back. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I heard what Arthur told you,” he said. “About Ireland and being his ambassador.”

  She swallowed. “Do you…mind?”

  “Is there a reason I should?” His tone was merely curious.

  Her eyes ached. Clearly, in his mind, there was no connection left between them. “I hoped that…that there might be. I will be away from Camelot for…well, I do not know how long.”

  “What does it matter? I will be away with you.” He shrugged.

  Her breath caught in her throat. “With me?” It was a struggle to speak the words.

  Gawain considered her. “Aye, I’ve given you no reason to consider that a sensible arrangement, have I?” His voice was soft.

  “And now you are confusing me,” she complained. The ache in her chest made her add, “And scaring me.”

  He straightened up from his lean upon the chair. “That is what I kept overlooking,” he said, almost to himself. “I have been less than a husband to you, yet you still hope.”

  Tegan put her feet upon the edge of the chair and her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her. She felt cold. “Is now when you call me a fool?”

  “I believe that is what you should call me,” Gawain replied.

  As she froze, all except her heart, which tried to leap out of her chest, Gawain blew out a great, gusty sigh. “I do not know why you have so much faith in me. I’ve done naught to deserve it.”