by Kris Owyn
Arthur, as directed, gave a silent nod, and Gawain stood, took a step back, bowed again, and then turned before heading back into the crowd. His expression was unmistakable, and directed to the noblemen: thank God that’s over.
One by one the members of Council took their turns reciting the oath, and filed back into the middle of the hall. Guinevere waited patiently, still scanning the room for some sign of Ewen; without him there, things would have to change. But after warning him earlier, maybe he had just moved into a better position. Maybe things were under control, despite appearances.
Someone touched her arm, and she realized it was her turn to swear the oath. She walked up the steps to the dais, curtsying once, head lowered, then again a few steps later, and finally kneeling down in front of the King like all the others before her. Except...
“My neck is killing me,” Arthur whispered. She tried not to smile.
Guinevere spoke in a strong and even voice: “I, Guinevere, daughter of Lyonesse—” It was the only wording she could legally use, and she had to fight down the trembling fury in her voice for the next words: “do solemnly pledge my love, my loyalty, my honour and life, to you, O Right and True King of Camelot. My sword is your sword—” Arthur bit back a laugh, at this. She couldn’t tell if she was offended or amused, herself. “Your voice shall be mine. With all my heart,” she said, and took a long breath... a long, pensive breath. “I am yours.”
“And I, yours,” he whispered back.
She stood, curtsied, and took a step back, as required. But before she could curtsy a second time, she heard the room gasp, shift suddenly, and Arthur said: “You’re up here, remember?”
She saw, out of the corner of her eye, Sir Ector giving a whimpering nod to the King. When she looked up, he was standing, hand out to her, beckoning her back. She lifted herself up, nodding demurely, and let herself be led to the side of the throne, opposite the just-arrived Merlin. He was staring at the floor, like it was the only thing in his world.
“Stand, stand, please!” Arthur called out, and the assembled onlookers lifted themselves from their bows, faces a mix of shock and dismay: Council, who were suddenly trying to remember just how awful they’d been to Guinevere over the last few days; Gawain, though, was more plainly furious. His face was flushed, fists tight at his sides. And the peasants, at the back, wide-eyed and trying not to look like they were gossiping about this woman who had been invited to the King’s side. Who was she? How had they not known about her until now? What did this mean?
Arthur nodded to her, with a smile, and stepped a little closer to the crowd.
“My lo—” he began, but his voice was too small, too creaky. He stopped, hand to his chest, and cleared his throat. When he tried again, the sound carried. Brilliantly. “My lords and ladies,” he said, with a smile over his shoulder to Guinevere. “And loyal subjects near and far. I thank you, all, for such a warm welcome.”
The peasants broke into a riotous cheer, arms in the air; the sound of it startled Council so, some of them ducked like they were under attack. When it was clear the sound was friendly, they eased up a bit, knocking their walking sticks on the floor in a more-polite form of applause.
Arthur waved them all quiet, one hand on the crown to keep it from tipping off.
“If you’re anything like me, you’re looking forward to the feast,” he said, and some of the peasants laughed. “But before that, there is something I want to share with you. Something important to me. And, I hope, in time, important to you, as well.”
He gave Guinevere another smile over his shoulder, hand bracing the crown, and winked. She returned the most subtle of all nods, which seemed to boost his energy even more. He turned back to the crowd, voice booming.
“I want to talk about the future of Camelot. About my vision for Camelot.”
And that’s when it all went wrong.
Twenty-three
It took ten heartbeats for Guinevere to understand it all. Ten long heartbeats.
One: a pitchfork, raised into the air, as the riot erupted. Faces twisted in anger that seemed so comically out of place, it was as if—
Two: the short mercenary, at the eastern pedestal, pulling a crossbow loose and turning it sideways to make sure—
Three: a shout, from the western side, as guards drew weapons and started moving for the peasants—
Four: a shriek, as the noblemen, scrambling to see, cowered and covered their heads, but—
Five: Gawain stayed perfectly still, eyes locked on her. Curiously amused.
Six: the tall mercenary pulled the whole pedestal over, trying to get his crossbow loose. Flowers and soil and splintered wood rained down as—
Seven: no Ewen. No Ewen. No Ewen!
Eight: one guard, to the east, pointing at the King, shouting something as—
Nine: the Fox, to the west, looking down at his crossbow’s cartridge as the melée boiled up around him, and—
Ten: he looked her right in the eye. Right in the eye.
The rest was a blur.
The short mercenary took aim at the King, squinting to get the shot just right, and pulled the trigger— but nothing happened. Guinevere could see from his expression that something was wrong. He frantically batted at the safety, but it was too late. One, two, three-four-five bolts cut into his chest and neck, as the guards came to life. The mercenary wavered in place, in shock, before falling back in a heap, the crossbow cracking in half on the floor.
Arthur grabbed at Guinevere’s hand, and she let him catch it; he squeezed her tight. He was pointing at the crowd, mouth moving without sound, like he couldn’t fathom what was going on.
The western guards charged toward the peasants like they were taking on a professional army, routing their flanks and pushing them somewhere easier to control. These were soldiers, after all, not proper guards. Without specific instructions to the contrary, they did what they knew. The eastern guards flooded into the space between the peasants and the noblemen, forming a protective line. They started pushing the crowd back toward the eastern doors.
Guinevere looked around, trying to spot Ewen somewhere, but came up empty. She had to find another way. Checking behind her, she caught sight of a guard at the back of the hall, crossbow ready, heading their way. She waved him over, urgently: “Quick! Tend to the King!” Arthur was trembling, he was so upset.
Gawain’s farmers, realizing they were holding weapons, panicked. Some turned to run, but couldn’t get far against the massive oak doors, which were built to swing in, and had no room to move anymore. Others had the good sense to drop their tools and blend in; not that it did them much good.
But then some fool threw his pitchfork to be rid of it... and impaled a guard. A woman screamed, somewhere, and that was the end of calm.
“Oh God,” Guinevere gasped, and pulled Arthur back behind the throne. The crown tumbled off as his head smacked against the wood, and she steadied him, hands against his face, thumbs running across his cheeks over and over until he started to breathe again.
“Sire, you musn’t move,” she said, stern like an order.
“I don’t... I don’t...” he stammered, before a piercing shriek made him flinch, duck into her arms.
The guards had charged into the crowd, and were cutting down all who stood in their way. But since there was nowhere to run anymore, everyone was in their way. The so-called farmers were tearing at each other to pry the doors open, but the sheer volume of bodies pushing into the same spot made it impossible. The lucky ones fell and were trampled; the unlucky ones thought it better to make a dash through openings in the line — only to discover that swords cover such openings with cruel efficiency.
Guinevere looked over her shoulder, searching for the guard who seemed to be taking forever to reach them. “For God’s sake, hurry!” she screamed.
“Where’s Merlin?” Arthur gasped, holding on tight. “He was
just here, and he’s—”
Guinevere’s gaze shot around the room, desperately. For Merlin, to ease the King’s fears, and for Ewen, to ease hers. She finally found Arthur’s friend, huddled behind a pillar, knees tucked under his chin, staring straight into oblivion and muttering something to himself over and over again.
“He’s fine,” she said, rubbing Arthur’s back. “He’s safe and—” Then she saw it. The taller mercenary had made it through the line somehow, and was stalking his way towards the throne. His crossbow was gone; but he had a long, curved dagger at the ready. He was going to get his reward.
Guinevere grabbed Arthur by the shoulders, pulled him to his feet, but kept him low. “We can’t stay here,” she said, trying to spy an exit away from the—
“Let us out!” screamed someone from the crowd, as metal hit flesh and bone and stone and metal. A crossbow bolt careened past her, lodging in the wooden ornaments to her left. Either a guard had terrible aim, or the peasants had armed themselves. Either way, they had to get out, fast.
She looked back, ready to shout for that one slow guard, when she saw him... pulling a dagger from the gut of another guard, and letting him crumple to the ground. The man was covered in blood now, horrifying eyes locked on her. All around him was carnage.
An assassin.
She pulled Arthur to the left, but stopped short at the sight of the Fox, sword at the ready, closing the distance. She jerked back, dragging Arthur to the right—
And straight into the path of the tall mercenary.
“Stay back!” she snapped, but he just grinned with his sharpened smile.
He flipped his knife back-handed, drew back, and with a savage swing—
—had his arm cut clean off by the Fox’s sword. The change in circumstance put him off-balance; he stumbled sideways, trying to make sense of what happened. As did Guinevere, eyes wide in shock, as the Fox re-positioned himself ably.
“You’re done,” he said to the taller one. “Stop now.”
“My arm!” shrieked the other man. He seemed to be deciding what he’d do next, and the only thought that connected was: kill the King. He made a mad dash for the kill.
The Fox flipped his sword around and let the fool run straight into it. With a quick pivot, he slid his weapon free, and knelt down beside Arthur. “Your Majesty, are you hurt?”
“N-no...” Arthur said, still holding on to Guinevere for dear life.
“Excellent,” said the Fox. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
He hopped to his feet, spun his sword in an arc as the assassin circled around from the other side. He had a second dagger now, as long as his forearm. He was enjoying himself.
“You won’t get him,” said the Fox. “Not while I’m here.”
The assassin snorted a laugh. “Not him,” he said, voice thick with an accent she couldn’t place. “Her.”
Guinevere gasped, searching the crowd for Gawain. He’d sent an assassin after her? It was so cruel and clever, it might actually succeed in turning Arthur against—
The Fox laughed. “Tempting, but no.”
The assassin cricked his neck. “We fight?”
The Fox prepared his stance. “For a little, anyway.”
It was fast, the way it started: the assassin leapt straight at the Fox’s stomach, swinging one blade out, then the other. The cuts barely missed, and made it impossible to get a good strike in from the sword. But while the Fox tried to get his footing back, the assassin struck again, jab-jab-jabbing at his chest — and meeting air, each time.
Then, a quick smack with the pommel sent one dagger flying, and the assassin skittered back, shaking his hand out, but refusing to show any pain. He laughed, cruelly, then dashed in again.
This time, the Fox was ready. He angled his sword down, parrying a blow, then used the hilt to hit the assassin square in the face. In the moment it took to recover, he swung his sword back around, and jabbed up, cutting straight through the man’s heart, and out the other side.
The assassin’s face kept its smile for another second more, as an amused wheeze burbled out his lips, and he slumped.
The Fox kicked his prey off his sword, turned to Guinevere and the King, and—
—and the guards rolled in like a storm, tackling him in a wave of fists, knees and elbows. Guinevere felt a heavy grip under her arms, and she was ripped away from Arthur, who was being pulled in the opposite direction, back to the inner rooms of the palace. He was reaching for her, desperate, so desperate...
She struggled against the hands that held her, trying in vain to escape... but they had a job to do. No matter what she said or how she pleaded, they had a job to do. She wouldn’t get a chance to frame things for Arthur, to make a case that would shift blame or distract from awful truths.
The guards pulled her outside, set her down on a bench and checked her for wounds. They kept asking her if she’d been hit, if she was okay, if she was hurt.
“No,” she said, voice a whisper. “Not yet.”
Twenty-four
All the way down the hall, she heard the sounds of people talking, but she couldn’t make out the words thanks to the horrible echo she had in her head. If there was a world beyond the two paces in front of her, she had no idea what it was. She tasted blood on her lips, and the strangest thing was, she didn’t know what to do about it. She didn’t know what to do about anything.
She stood outside the doors to Council, fingers tracing the edge of the handles, and tried to compose herself... and yet every time she took a breath, she had this violent need to weep, and it took every last ounce of her strength to shove that emotion back where it belonged.
She stared straight again, clenched her jaw, and took long, even breaths until the panic was gone, the trembling had stopped, and all that was left was her.
She opened the door, and stepped inside.
Gawain was pacing back and forth, ranting to himself, as the rest of the noblemen looked on. They were unharmed, physically, but some looked even worse-off than Guinevere had felt, moments ago. Even the older veterans, who’d seen true battle, real horrors, they seemed unable to function; they just sat there, staring in Gawain’s general direction, but clearly not really seeing him.
“...and this, this assault cannot go unpunished...” he was saying, running his hand through his hair, yelling at the walls like they’d agree with him. “An assault on the King is an assault on the kingdom!”
He made a fist, shook it at the noblemen closest to him. “The King, attacked; and Lady Guinevere, God rest her—”
“My what?” she asked, and the room jerked to attention, all eyes on her. She had the sense she was covered in blood, given the expressions from the men closest to her. She wanted to look down, to see, but she couldn’t afford it. “The King lives,” she said, louder, for all to hear. “As do I, to your obvious dismay.”
Gawain was flustered: “I would never—”
“The assassins have been stopped,” she said. “They—”
“Killed?” asked Rhos, obviously terrified they might still be in the building.
“Yes, killed,” she said, and hoped it was so.
Rhos pointed a savage finger at Gawain, spitting as he spoke: “This is your fault, Lothian! You brought this upon us!”
“Mine?” Gawain said, like he didn’t understand the accusation. “You think I tried to—”
“Don’t play dumb with us, boy!” Bors bellowed, kicking his chair back as he stood. “Whether you planned it or not — and I have strong doubts as to your innocence — you paid for the riot that gave the bastards cover to operate!”
Gawain was cornered and he knew it. He wasn’t arguing with Council anymore, so much as he was rehearsing his defence at trial. “The protest was a peaceful one, and—”
“They had pitchforks, you fool! How is that peaceful?”
&nb
sp; Gawain shook his head, a pained smile flashing briefly; he could deny it all he wanted, but his history of half-truths and shadowy plotting made it hard to believe a word he said. “In no way did I authorize the use of pitchforks or any such tools at the—”
“And what about the crossbows?” shouted another nobleman.
“At least two, with crossbows!” said another.
“Lady Guinevere,” said Rhos, turning to her and extending his hand. He led her to his seat, and settled her down. “Tell us: do they know who hired the assassins?”
She winced, like she was thinking — and she was thinking. Hard. As tempting as it was to tighten the noose around Gawain’s neck, she had to be smart, and play the innocent. She couldn’t know what she hadn’t directly seen or heard; who sent the assassins? No one had said, so:
“I’m sorry, milord, I don’t know.” She stared at her hands, picking at specks of blood there.
“And the King? Is he—?”
“I protected him as best I could,” she said, trying not to let the terror of those minutes cross into her mind. That’d make for an excellent show, but it wouldn’t do her any good to seem weak. “I’m fairly certain he escaped without harm, but—”
Rhos rested a hand on her back, gentle. “You did more than should have ever been asked of you, girl. You should be proud.”
She wanted to slap him, but smiled instead. “Thank you, milord.”
Gawain was still pacing, still trying to find an angle: “Council must convene an inquiry,” he said. “There’ll be evidence, somewhere, that leads to the culprit. Separate the issues, cut away the distractions, zero in on the matter of most importance: who tried to kill the King?”
“And me,” said Guinevere, and the room looked back to her, all at once. She stared straight at Gawain, cocked her head slightly. “One of the assassins was there for me, not the King.”
Gawain swallowed, slowly. “How could you know that?”
“He told me,” she said, and saw something change in his expression. Fearful menace. “The King heard it, too.”
