by Kris Owyn
He pointed his sword at her. From a safe distance, true, but the threat was still there. “It cost us more in footwear and food, just getting there. Three each.”
“Travel light and eat less,” she said. “Especially him.” She pointed at the heftier of the two subordinates. The thinner one giggled. “Two tremisses each. And you leave, now.”
His sword was still pointed, but lightly, loosely; it wasn’t in use anymore. He squinted at her, like he was trying to judge a bluff they both knew was irrelevant. Then, before his friends could grow restless, he sheathed his weapon and strode over to Guinevere, gloved hand out.
“Twenty,” he said, and nodded to the pouch she had folded into her skirts. The fact that he knew it was there — that he’d known it was there — without acting on it, that surprised her. And he wasn’t taking it himself, either... he watched as she opened her purse, and counted out twenty shining coins.
“I will die a happy woman if I never see your face again,” she said, closing his fist around the money.
“Oh, it’s mutual, believe me,” he said, with a bow. “Please relay to Lord Cornwall his debt is paid. To us. The other creditors will not be so forgiving, I’m sure.”
Guinevere nodded to Eleanor, and she was released on cue. She ran into Guinevere’s arms, holding back sobs, as the three men crept to the door.
The Fox mock-bowed to her. “A pleasure doing business with you, milady.”
He slipped outside without another word. After a moment, Eleanor looked up at Guinevere, cheeks wet with tears. She seemed dazed; she was trembling, still. “I’m so sorry you had to—” she began, but Guinevere cut her off with another hug.
“It’s fine,” she whispered, “I’m just happy you’re safe now.”
Eleanor squeezed tighter. “Thank you, Guin. I missed you so.” And then, as if struck by lightning or propriety or both, she jerked away, flattening her dress, fixing her hair, wiping her eyes. “I’ll find some wine.”
With a curtsy, she ushered herself into the back.
Guinevere massaged her forearms and wrists, trying to lessen the pain she was just starting to feel from smacking the door open earlier. Her neck, too, was stiff, from tension. She looked a mess, felt a mess, and judging by the Cornwall estate’s trappings, it was only going to get worse.
The door creaked and she swung around, ready to—
—but it was Ewen, brushing hay off his trousers. He caught her expression, and frowned.
“Next time you feed the horses, and I’ll handle the pleasantries.”
Nine
There was bread and there was wine, and after a few hours it was all that really mattered anymore. Guinevere and Eleanor lay on the furs in front of the fire Ewen built, two bottles apiece, sighing their worries away. Well, most of them.
“I’ll put a hex on Gawain,” said Eleanor, as seriously as she could manage. “A curse and a hex and—” She paused, thinking. “Does that make me a witch?”
“I think it might,” said Guinevere.
“I don’t know if I’ve the wherewithal to be a witch,” said Eleanor. “Cavorting with devils and such.”
“The cavorting is optional. You’ve just got to have an opinion and enemies.”
“No!” Eleanor laughed. “It’s that easy?”
“Trust me,” Guinevere said, finishing one of her bottles. “I have lots of experience being called a witch. A witch, and a bitch. And more!”
Her voice echoed back at her, amid the sounds of the crackling fire. The Cornwall estate was grand by most standards, but for whatever reason, Eleanor’s grandfather had built a miserly excuse for a Grand Hall, off to the east of the building, so that by late afternoon, the whole place was a murky kind of twilight, and not much fun. There were two long tables, creaky benches at either side, but no chairs to be found; a telling omission, since the Lord wouldn’t sit anywhere else, which meant the Lord would not be eating in the Grand Hall at all.
They’d pilfered a smaller block-based counter from the servants’ quarters, and stacked it with whatever provisions they could find. It did the job, though it made the room feel even more empty.
If it hadn’t been for Lyonesse being a drafty, dangerous wasteland, they might’ve evacuated there instead. They made the most of what they found, and drank until the rest didn’t matter. Guinevere watched her friend breathing, orange light flickering on her skin, and felt at peace.
Eleanor had been a radiant beauty, once. When they were girls, she’d been the one the visiting dignitaries greeted first, even before they knew who she was or what her father commanded. Guinevere never cared much for the doting of old men, so it didn’t bother her... but she developed a keen understanding of the power of a demure smile and a hesitant touch. Eleanor was still a beauty, but her radiance was dulled by something coarse and cruel.
She rolled to her side, so she was facing Guinevere more directly. “Is it hard, being alone?”
Guinevere scratched her nose absentmindedly. “I’m too busy to notice,” she said. “Besides, I have Ewen with me, day and night.” She raised a bottle to Ewen, who was sitting on a stool in the corner, crossbow across his lap. He gave her a bemused salute back.
“You know what I mean,” slurred Eleanor. “Without your father.”
Guinevere cricked her neck, like the tension she felt could be stretched away. “He was gone a long time, before he left,” she said, quietly. “But I have my memories to keep me company, if I need them.”
Eleanor rolled onto her back, holding an empty bottle in her arms. “Your father was a prince,” she sighed. “Those years in Paris were the best of my life.”
They’d been Guinevere’s, too. It was much easier to torment a tutor when you had an accomplice. The days they spent alone in the house with only Ewen to watch them, those were hours of adventure and intrigue that made her grown-up life seem bland by comparison. Monsieur with the walking stick, spied out the window? A dastardly count, angling to steal the Lyonesse riches. Madame with the pointy nose and extravagant dress? Eleanor’s mother, returned to whisk them both away to far-off empires — and to explain, in gory detail, how it came to pass that everyone thought she was dead.
But even a mourning husband recovers eventually. And remembers his family. And wants them back. Guinevere’s clearest memory was riding to Calais, clutching her best friend’s hand tight in hers, swearing never to let go, no matter what they threatened. And then somehow, somehow, they were apart.
Eleanor closed her eyes, closed them tight. “I hated my father for bringing me home. And that was before... well... the troubles.”
Guinevere propped her head up on a hand, to better probe the subject. “Armed men trying to kidnap you aren’t ‘troubles’, Eleanor, they’re catastrophes. What’s behind it all? I’d heard your father had problems with the Essex king, but—”
“Oh, Essex was just the arrow’s tip,” Eleanor sighed. “We’re penniless, Guin. He spends more time selling off heirlooms than he does at Council, anymore. He has a villa up north somewhere, where he hides from the creditors. The mighty Lord Cornwall, hiding from thugs. It’s so much a disgrace, no one can bring themselves to gossip about it.” She shook her head, voice tight: “I’ve seen the Essex King more than my own father, the last two years. He sends me to beg for payment from that madman. All alone, more times than I can bear.”
“Where is your father? Maybe I can talk to him and—”
Eleanor looked at Guinevere, eyes welling. “He won’t tell me where it is, lest they torture it out of me.”
Guinevere took her hand, squeezed gently. “You can always come back to Paris with—” she began, then remembered she might not have Paris to go back to, herself. “You can stay with me.”
Eleanor squeezed her hand back, and half-laughed, half-cried. “When he learned of the sword in the stone, of the new king, you know what his first words were? ‘
Ladies-in-waiting make a good salary.’ A good salary! I’m to be whored out to pay his debts, you see? That’s all I am to him, like a mule.”
“Oh my dear Eleanor,” Guinevere said, pulling her friend in for an embrace. “You’re no mule.” Eleanor sniffled, nuzzled in close. “You’ve no muscle for that kind of business at all.” Eleanor burst into laughter, started squirming as Guinevere held her tight. “Poor flimsy Ellie!” she cackled, as they rolled around the floor together. “Carry my books, Guin! They’re far too heavy for me! Oh dear my arms are like twigs, please help me!”
They finally stopped, panting, back near the fireplace, trying to catch their breaths as the wine coursed through their heads like fiendish tendrils. Guinevere brushed the hair from Eleanor’s face, saw the same beauty she remembered from her youth, and—
Eleanor kissed her. Tentative, like she was trying to recreate a memory that might’ve just been a dream. When her eyes opened, she looked scared. Scared of rejection, scared that the world had changed, that they had changed, that—
Guinevere kissed her back. Her lips were soft, and though they were both drunk off the same bottle, the taste was sweeter, somehow. More intoxicating. The part of her brain that questioned motives, built strategies, thought two steps ahead... it went blissfully silent, and she disappeared into the moment, the touch of fingers on skin, the sound of a moan, of a gasp, of laces snapping. Ewen slipped out of the room as Guinevere slipped out of her dress.
Later, tangled in furs and each other by the roaring fire, Eleanor let out a sigh that signalled the real world seeping back into their lives. A mournful sigh.
“You’re my only friend, Guin,” Eleanor said, almost without a voice at all.
Guinevere ran a finger along her arm. “Sometimes, one is all you need.”
“If you hadn’t come by today, if you hadn’t been here when they...” Eleanor sniffled, wiped her eyes. “He never would’ve paid their ransom. He would have let them keep me.”
“Well,” said Guinevere gently, “I was here, and I’m glad to cover any ransom you require.”
“How can I ever repay you?” she asked, and the look in her eyes said she was offering herself again... and she was afraid it wasn’t enough.
Guinevere laid a hand on her cheek, and smiled. “No charge.”
“No,” said Eleanor, frown twisting her perfect face. “No, I insist. You can’t be out of pocket on account of my father. I can’t allow it. I’ll demand the exchequer pay you my salary directly, father be damned. It’s not for him to keep, after all. I’m not his property.”
Guinevere agreed wholeheartedly, but something else had caught her attention: “You work at Court already?”
“Oh, ‘work’ is a strong word for it,” said Eleanor. “They’re only opening the palace to us tomorrow, for the first time. A few of us have been gathering at Ministry House until then. Gossiping, mostly, and fending off married men’s advances. There isn’t much to be done while the artisans refurbish the place.” She frowned, cocked her head slightly. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve an idea how you can pay me back,” Guinevere said with a grin.
Ten
The palace guard’s finger was tucked round his crossbow’s trigger, which made Guinevere incredibly anxious. The man was built like a stone column, his gleaming helmet curved down around his neck so he almost looked like a crossbow bolt himself. The sword hanging from his belt was broader than her arm, the sheath a gorgeous work of violent art, all on its own. Most castles hired disposable sentries with shields, but in these days, with a mythical king in residence, even the elite were begging for a spot in the right orbit.
Guinevere clutched the sides of her skirt as she and Eleanor walked up the grand steps to the royal hall, guards on either side watching them closely. The dress fit badly — one of Eleanor’s simpler ones, altered to not look too foolish — and the braids in her hair felt positively juvenile... but such was the cost of their ploy.
“Don’t look so nervous,” she whispered.
Eleanor straightened her spine, composed her most regal expression again. “Are you certain you know what you’re doing?” she whispered back.
“Mostly. Just follow my lead.”
“What if they don’t let us in? What if they don’t let you in? What if they already have maidservants, and we end up—”
“Eleanor, hush!” Guinevere scolded, as they arrived at the guard, and curtsied before—
“Keep it moving,” said the guard, motioning over his shoulder. “Ladies’ chambers to the left. Keep it moving.”
Guinevere blinked in surprise, and scrambled along behind Eleanor, under the massive, looming arch.
They paused in the royal hall, entirely against their will, but in perfect tandem; legs forced to a halt by the sheer majesty of the place. It was still in the early stages of redecorating, but already grander than anything either of them had ever seen. Gold leaf glimmered on the domed ceiling, melding intricate Celtic designs with Latin phrases — passages from the Gospels intertwined with quotes by Aristotle, Archimedes, Philo of Byzantium — all spiralling inward, like pulled by a whirlpool towards the centre, where a shield-sized crystal let through the morning sun. It poured down, cutting a brilliant streak of light onto the focal point of the room: a statue of Uthyr Pendragon, first King of Camelot.
Eleanor touched the base of his marble cloak, the fading paint flaking off at even the gentlest of contact. He was tall and regal, dressed in the armour he invented himself, with his mighty sword Excalibur perched at the edge of a boulder before him.
“I’ve never seen him before,” Eleanor said, in awe. “He’s so... lifelike.”
Guinevere smiled at memories of her father’s lessons, when she was a girl: “He sent a dozen men to Rome to learn this style of sculpting, before they got it right,” she said. “He thought in years, not days or months. A young man’s dream, realized by an old man’s body.”
“It’s beautiful,” Eleanor said, with a respectful bow.
They found a broad doorway off to the left, down a short hallway and into another chamber where a gaggle of women were bustling about, trying to look calm and dignified under such extraordinary circumstances. One woman, an older lady with a stern face and trembling hands, caught hold of them at the threshold. Her gowns were elaborate and richly-appointed, unlike anyone else in sight; the look on her face said she was terrified she’d made a fatal gaffe, right out of the gate.
“My dears,” she said, eyes darting between them like she was trying to size them up under incredible duress, “please say you’re from Lothian. One of you must be from Lothian.”
Guinevere tried not to grimace, while Eleanor spoke: “Alas, no, milady. We are Eleanor and—” she winked at Guinevere, “Amice, of Cornwall House.”
“Aye, Cornwall, of course. I am Enid, mistress of Mercia West,” she said, wringing her hands. “Though I fear not much longer, if I don’t get this maelstrom in order.”
Guinevere interjected, glancing around the room: “Lady Enid, I don’t suppose you know where we go to receive our assignments, do you?”
Enid threw her hands over her head, let out an exasperated sigh. “No one knows if there are assignments, my dear. Sir Ector’s only just been appointed Master of Court, but no one seems to know where he is, or where he should be. Any time I ask for guidance, his men just run away. We were all hoping Lady Lothian would know, but hers seems to be the only house not here today.”
In the corner, three women began tussling over — from all appearances — who would sit closest to the fireplace. Noble-born curses flew from sharp tongues in a dizzying assortment of accents; every woman there was accustomed to getting her own way at all times, so the close quarters were only going to make things worse as the day went on. They needed structure, before they devolved into fanciful barbarians.
Guinevere gave Eleanor a shrug and hopped up o
nto a low stool, put her fingers to her lips, and whistled so everyone in the room stopped mid-sentence, slowly pivoting toward her, mouths hanging open in shock.
“Ladies, welcome!” she called, putting on the faintest hint of a French accent to keep them intrigued. “A show of hands, please: house servants? How many house servants here?”
The crowd shuffled awkwardly, everyone checking to see who their neighbour really was. But none volunteered. Guinevere raised an eyebrow. “Executive staff? Anyone?”
Again, nothing. Lady Enid looked on the verge of a meltdown; Eleanor was amused.
“Alright,” Guinevere said, hands on her hips now. “In-laws and cousins, then. Who’s not landed here? There must be someone who— aha! Yes!”
A young woman at the back with raven-black hair curtsied, shyly. “Mistress Adwen of Gwynedd,” she said, voice barely a whisper. The room quieted even more. “At your service, milady.”
Everyone looked to Guinevere for guidance, for while it was true that the Gwynedd family had lost their lands to fractious infighting, Adwen’s brothers had cannily installed themselves as Production Masters at every major factory in Camelot. You’d do better to spit in the King’s face, than risk offending a Gwynedd.
Guinevere spread her arms in a welcoming gesture: “So we’ve our first member of the Queen’s personal staff! Welcome, Lady Adwen!”
The collected women started chittering again, angling to get into Guinevere’s direct line of sight. No one knew who she was, or why she had authority to appoint them to glamorous positions, but they didn’t much care. They had to be seen!
“Is there a Queen?” called someone from the right of the crowd.
Guinevere was at a loss, there. She opened her mouth to speak, but another voice answered for her: “I heard he was married at twelve!”
“I heard he used the sword to save her life!” said another. “That true love loosed it from the stone!”
“Well I’ve heard he hates her and won’t bring her to Court.”
“It’s because they’re not married!”
