by Kris Owyn
There were fish strewn along the ground, covered in the blood that was creeping through the cracks between the stones, seeping ever outward. At the edge of the road was a man with thinning gray hair, face welted and red, staring at the blood in disbelief.
“Who drew first?’ Guinevere asked, no one in particular.
“Not ours,” said Bors’ chief, shadowing the stunned man. “Bandits, likely.”
The woman reached back suddenly, clawing at Guinevere’s skirt, took hold of the soft fabric and squeezed like it could absorb her anguish.
“My son,” she moaned. A deep, guttural sound. “My son...”
“What happened?” Guinevere asked, watching the blood crawl ever closer to her feet.
The man spoke, staring into the stones like he wasn’t awake. His voice was hollow, distant. “They rushed from the treeline,” he said, squeezing his hands together so tight they turned purple. “Didn’t see ‘em coming. Didn’t know until—”
The woman sobbed, pushed her forehead into her son’s neck, hand running down his face.
“I told ‘im, I told ‘im to leave it be. It’s only fish, I says. We can catch new fish, buy new wagons, but Edgar, he...” he looked towards his son for the first time, and the tears tore down his face like they had to escape. “He said we ain’t worked all those weeks for nothin’. Said it wa’n’t right.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve, spread blood across his face. “And now look at ‘im. My boy.”
Guinevere looked to the chief, spoke under her breath. “Are they gone?”
“Gone or hiding, milady. A wagon would be slow-going off the highway.”
Ewen nodded subtly, surveying the area. Guinevere did, too. The darkening sky made anything beyond the treeline impenetrable. It was as if they were standing in a small pocket of existence, surrounded by a dangerous void.
“Alright,” she said, stepping back, just before the blood reached her. “Let’s not chase ghosts tonight. Clear the road.”
Two guards moved quickly, on command. One grabbed the boy under the arms, the other, his feet. They lifted him — while his mother stayed kneeling, stunned and horrified — and carried him closer to the fringe. With a one, and a two, they swung him back and forth until—
“With respect!” Guinevere snapped, and they stopped short of throwing the lad into the bushes. Chastised, they set him down a few steps beyond the paving stones, and crossed his arms over his chest like they would a comrade. One even made the sign of the cross as he knelt.
Guinevere tugged at the chain to her purse, hanging between the folds of her skirts. It slid out of a pocket, up into her hand..
She knelt next to the grieving mother, resting a hand on her shoulder. She pressed a gold coin into her palm until the woman looked up, eyes full of tears, and seemed to realize the world was going on around her, still.
“It won’t fix the wrongs,” Guinevere said gently, “but it can soften the blow.”
She stood, started back to the carriage, when—
“No!” It was the father, suddenly at his feet, long fisherman’s knife in his hand. “You think that’s enough? You think that’s all my son’s worth?”
He moved toward her, and found himself surrounded by swords. Ewen clicked the safety off his crossbow, kept it aimed at the man’s forehead.
Guinevere turned, her expression a cold kind of compassion. “I am not your enemy. Don’t make me one.”
The mother ran through the storm of swords and embraced him, sobbing into his chest until it was all he could do to drop the knife and hold his wife, and cry, too.
They were still there as the carriage passed, its wheels picking up blood and spreading it in evenly-spaced tracks for yards down the road.
“This place is worse than Gaul,” Guinevere said, bitterly, as she settled into her seat. “Where’s the law?”
“The law’s got other concerns than a fisherman’s catch,” said Bors, working on a second bottle. “Outside Camelot, it’s a mix of sheriffs and mercenaries. Or mercenary sheriffs. And when they go unpaid long enough, they become the bandits and the law.”
Guinevere borrowed the bottle, took a swig. “Well I’ll expect my tremis back from the Kentish king, that’s for certain.”
Bors choked, started laughing. “That’s what you gave her? A tremis?”
Guinevere shifted, unhappy with the teasing. “It’s all the coins I have. Why?”
“Oh my dear, you’ve just given that woman a half-year’s earnings. The Kentish exchequer will spasm to death if you demand it back. I don’t think they have a tremis.”
She made sure her purse was back in its pocket, and felt full enough. “I spend more on dinner, some days.”
“And I, on wine, twice over,” laughed Bors. “But gold’s a rare find beyond Camelot’s borders. What little they do have, tends to end up in our coffers anyway, to pay for weapons. It’s why our serfs can buy their serfs, and why their kings end up pleading poverty, at our expense. And then begging for protection.”
Bors drank another few mouthfuls, licked his lips to catch the leftovers. “The worst of it is the damage it does to us, when they default. Your friend, Lord Cornwall, is nearly bankrupt on account of the mad king of Essex. Four wars’ worth of weapons made, and each time misplaced on the way to London.”
“Misplaced?”
“No one knows,” he shrugged. “If it were me, I’d have cut my losses on the first round. But Cornwall is too much a legend to hear sense from us lesser folk, and too proud to doubt himself. He sees profits in swampland. Sinks everything he’s got into Essex, hoping for a better result.”
Guinevere leaned her head against the side of the carriage, and discovered a handy pillow mounted there. “Essex must have some assets to seize.”
“Aye, but without money for soldiers, Cornwall’s not in a position to seize anything.” He pointed a warning finger at her. “You watch yourself, girl. He’ll come looking for a loan the second he sets eye on you. Don’t let him play on your sentiments, or you’ll get sucked down with him.”
Guinevere took the bottle with a wink. “Sentiments don’t accrue interest, uncle,” she said. “He’ll have to make his case like any other soft-pot duke I deal with, and suffer the penalties if he falters. Incidentally, I’ve a gorgeous mansion in Aquitaine for sale, if you fancy a vacation sometime.”
Bors burst out laughing, and dropped the bottle. A flailing reach later, he gave up on it, and just let it roll back and forth along the floor as they moved.
“I’ll be glad to have your wit around, my dear. The old house could use it.”
Guinevere raised an eyebrow. “Whose house?”
“Mine, of course. I’ve prepared a room for you, and—”
“Thank you, uncle, but no. I have a home at Lyonesse, and I intend to stay there.”
Bors thought a moment, let out a small belch, then offered: “It’s a bad idea.”
“And yet I insist,” she said, snatching the bottle off the ground and plugging it back up.
Bors rested his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and settled in for a nap.
“You won’t like it,” he muttered, and fell asleep.
Four
The great doors were askew, leaving a shard of darkness straight into the foyer. A mangy wild dog snuck through as Guinevere approached; it growled at her in passing, and disappeared into the overgrown hedges. The whole place felt as if the forest was trying to reclaim what was, not too long ago, its domain.
She ran her hand across the crest of Lyonesse, etched into the stone. Faded almost to oblivion.
“I tried to tell you,” said Bors, from the carriage.
“There aren’t words for this,” she whispered back.
Ewen set the last of their luggage on the mossy courtyard steps, surveyed the second-storey windows with obvious suspicion. His fingers danced across
his crossbow hilt. Bors met his eyes, let out a deep sigh.
“Get back in the carriage,” he called to Guinevere. “This place is a ruin.”
“This place is my home, uncle,” she said over her shoulder.
“Don’t be stubborn, girl.”
“I’m not,” she said, turning back, face serene civility. “I promise you. I’m fine. Aren’t I, Ewen?”
Ewen’s immediate expression did not suggest his approval, but he bowed to her all the same.
Bors shook his head at them both. “I’ll send my driver back in the morning, to bring you into town. The Council meets at noon. I’d warn you not to bring too many attendants with you, but I don’t suppose that will be a problem.”
She cocked a smile. “I travel light.”
He closed the door to the carriage with a bang, and she heard the wood creak as he settled into place. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, and the driver nudged the horses into service.
Guinevere watched them go round the bend at the far end of the lake, and then turned back to her erstwhile home. Ewen was pulling at the door, trying to make it swing, but the hinges were too old and corroded to obey. The best he could do was make the triangular portal a little bigger.
Guinevere didn’t wait for his next attempt: she ducked low, sneaking through cobwebs, into the grand foyer.
By the time Ewen caught up to her, there were already tears in her eyes.
If the outside of the estate had been bruised by nature, the inside had been ruined by Man. The centre of the room had once held an intricate mosaic-laden fountain and stone benches. Guinevere had spent countless days perched there, feet splashing in the water, studying her Latin. They were all gone, replaced by heaps of broken stone, the remnants of burnt wood, and animal bones. The ceiling was black with soot, the side effect of using an enclosed chamber for a fire pit. At the periphery, she could see the hints of the painting that they’d ruined; God bestowing the light of knowledge to humankind.
She fought to catch her breath.
“Lady Guinevere?” came a voice from the far end of the room. Ewen’s crossbow was aimed before Guinevere even processed the sound. He stepped in front of her, quick but careful, eyes racing to size up the opposition.
“Who’s there?” she called, hastily wiping the tears from her face.
The man who stepped into the dim light, he was no threat. He was noble-born, tall and broad-shouldered, with a clean face and gentle eyes that seemed to shimmer as he smiled. Older than her, but not by much, he had the physique of a hunter and a statesman, and the composure of a priest. His clothes weren’t gaudy, like Bors’, but still elegant. His hands were out at his sides, making it clear to Ewen he was no threat. As he approached, Guinevere felt a surge of memory wash over her.
“By God you’re more beautiful than they said,” he said, bowing deeply before her. “I don’t expect you’ll remember me, but I’m—”
“Gawain,” she said, and he looked up, surprised. Surprised and pleased.
“At your service,” he said, and reached for her hand—
—but faced Ewen instead. He wasn’t moving.
With a tap on the arm, Guinevere dismissed her bodyguard, and let Gawain take her hand in his. He kissed it lightly, then gracefully pulled himself back up to his full height.
“I’m sorry about your grandfather,” she said, searching her memory for gossip about the House of Lothian. She recalled sending condolences in the last year or so, but the details escaped her. Ewen would know, but now was not exactly the best time to ask. Instead, she played it safe: “He was a great man, and a wise leader.”
Gawain kissed her hand again, in thanks, and nodded gently. “He always liked you,” he said. “He missed you, when you went away. We all did.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Feels like a lifetime,” he said.
She couldn’t help but stare a little. The men in Paris came in two varieties: those who seemed to have just crawled out of a cave, and those who had been carefully crafted by artisans out of glass. It made it hard to engage with anyone socially — though it did give her a distinct advantage in negotiations.
But Gawain was... he was something else. Regal but tough, steeped in convention, but with a politician’s eye. An equal, and easy on the eyes, too. She briefly considered dismissing Ewen, to see where things might lead... but years of cautious experience warned her off that.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what his smile looked like when he let his guard down.
He turned to face the ruined room. “Do you remember, we used to play here, at Lyonesse, when we were young?”
Guinevere gave him a smile, and he bloomed at it. She nodded to the west windows, out where the gardens were. “The place is littered with dragon bones, I recall. You were quite the knight, with your wooden sword.”
“I had a beautiful prize to fight for,” he said with a smile, a real smile, and she saw Ewen lower his gaze, as he did when he was about to take his leave. So the attraction was that obvious, was it?
“You know,” said Gawain, “I had no brothers or sisters, growing up. Never had anyone my own age to engage with. But I never felt alone, thanks to you.”
Guinevere curtsied to him, and he laughed.
“Guinevere, would you—” he began, at the same time she said: “Do you know who—”
They both stopped, caught their breaths, and Gawain bowed, motioned to her. “Ladies first.”
“I was going to ask if you knew who ended up in charge of Lyonesse, in my absence? I’d like to have a word with those responsible for this... calamity. The place has been looted and left to ruin. And where are the staff? Someone must know. Lord Tilean was steward at one point, but after his death, I’m not sure whose job it was to—”
“Mine,” said Gawain, and Guinevere paused.
“Yours,” she said.
She was having a hard time reconciling a pair of conflicting realities: one, with a handsome, personable Gawain who seemed as interested in her as she was in him; the other, with a man whose every move was a calculation, every smile was a means to an end, every tic choreographed to achieve his goals. A masculine her.
It unsettled her.
Gawain winced as he took stock of the room, kicking some blackened wood across the floor. The tiles to the mosaic had been pried out in places; probably the spots that looked like gold, or glass.
“No one thought you were coming back,” he said, with a touch of regret in his voice that might’ve been sincere. Might’ve. “To be honest, I had no idea the extent of the neglect until I heard you were coming, and came to check in.”
Guinevere tried to ignore her instincts, to take him at face value. “A steward’s job is to—”
“No, no, I understand, believe me,” he said. “And I plan to make it up to you, believe me. I’ve set aside the garden house at Lothian, for your exclusive use.”
The garden house at Lothian was legendary; less a cottage, and more a miniature palace, with its own permanent staff and more luxuries than most kings could even dream of. Indeed, the tales dignitaries who’d been wined and dined at the garden house was the stuff of legend; a list of the great leaders and up-and-comers of the modern world. Staying there was like a badge of honour.
And yet... the badge said “Lothian.” Heard in whispers, it was “Lothian’s King Graeme,” or “Lord Cortello has Lothian’s ear,” or “he’s Lothian’s pick for the crown.” The garden house bestowed legitimacy, but also subservience.
Guinevere tried not to see it that way. Tried not to assume he meant it that way. But suddenly her ruined home looked like a calculation, and not an oversight.
He seemed to recognize her discomfort, and increased the brightness of his smile. “If there’s anything you want or need — anything at all — my man Rinwell will make it happen.” He nodd
ed off to the far side of the room, where Guinevere was shocked to see a man lurking in the darkness, black hair half-covering his sullen face. How had she not seen him? Even Ewen shifted his stance to meet the new threat in the room. Rinwell’s right eye narrowed as he watched them.
“What I want,” Guinevere said, careful not to let her building irritation seep into her voice, “is to stay in my own house. The house my family built.”
Gawain seemed to have trouble understanding the words. She was rejecting him on so many fronts at once — and in a way that very few had ever done before — that she might’ve been speaking an alien tongue. What he did next would determine their relationship going forward, she knew. She hoped, despite herself, that he would pivot and adapt. Whether sincerely or strategically, it would make him an ally.
He laughed, cut himself off, then paced in a circle as he thought aloud. “Lothian has all the most modern amenities that you might—”
“And yet,” Guinevere persisted, “it’s not my house.” Things were no looking good for him.
Gawain shrugged, shot a glance to Rinwell, who tilted his head in response. “I would be honoured if you would allow me to—”
“No,” Guinevere said. “Thank you.”
Gawain’s face flushed red. He tugged at his collar, and his stance went from stately to imposing. He flung his cloak off his left shoulder, and Guinevere couldn’t help but notice the sword hilt at his waist.
“I’ve prepared a feast in your honour,” he said, voice vibrating with frustration.
“Another time, perhaps,” she replied, not breaking eye contact. Lesser men blinked and shrank away from her stare, but Gawain seemed to use it as fuel; he inhaled deeply, muscles in his jaw tensing until she swore she could hear his teeth creaking.
“Lady Guinevere,” he said, bowing again, but not lowering his gaze one inch, “let us start again. I feel we wandered off our friendly path.”
This was not a concession, or a sincere attempt to start fresh. It was him offering her the chance to reconsider her position and not offend him further. She raised an eyebrow. “The path leading to the ruins of my childhood home? I don’t think that was destined to be friendly for long.”
