by Kris Owyn
“It was far away, and I was paying attention to the speech, at that point.”
He smiled, kindly; the worst kind of lie. “And then?”
“I can’t say. I think he was killed by the guards, but I don’t—”
“Did he fire a shot?” asked Lancelot. “Aim the crossbow? Or did he just have one at hand? I assume he aimed, or it would have been hard to see.”
“Yes. He aimed,” she said, carefully. “I’m not sure if he tried to shoot, or if—”
“Or if it didn’t work,” he said, face dark and accusing. That was to be his fate, as well, and he knew it. A man aiming a crossbow that didn’t fire, at the King, while surrounded by guards with crossbows that worked perfectly. That was what he had realized, in those first moments, when he’d caught her eye. He knew it was a trap, that he was expendable.
And now he was coming for revenge.
She swallowed, said nothing.
Lancelot pointed to the cartridge in Arthur’s hands. “We got this from his crossbow. A counterfeit cartridge. He could have pulled that trigger all day, and it wouldn’t have shot a thing.”
“The seal has a dimple,” said Merlin, setting down his book and shuffling forward. He took the cartridge out of Arthur’s hand without pausing for permission, and turned it around so they could see the thin layer of copper, without the seal of Camelot. “The dimple allows the cartridge to sit flush against the intake ch-chamber. If the cartridge is not flush, if it is not flush, the bolts become stuck and the crossbow cannot fire. The dimple is the key. It is not the seal, it is the dimple that matters.”
Lancelot seemed both irritated and amused by Merlin. He patted him on the shoulder, and Merlin nearly yelped. “So the question is, why couldn’t the assassin fire?” he asked.
“The dimple prevented the—”
“Yes, First Minister,” Lancelot said, on the thin edge of patience, “but why would the assassin be using counterfeit cartridges? Any soldier worth his salt knows they won’t work. Never buy black market ammunition. Never.”
He glared at Guinevere again, this time with menace.
Arthur was trying to follow along, looking between Lancelot and Guinevere like he could intercept the theories they were obviously sharing. “So they weren’t soldiers?” he asked, suddenly imagining what that might mean. “What, then? S-some kind of rebellion? Angry citizens, or—”
“The one that came from behind us was no civilian, sire,” Guinevere said, shuddering at the thought of him. “He bested several guards.”
“Nine,” said Lancelot, grim. “Nine guards dead.”
Arthur seemed like he was going to faint. He reached back for the table, bracing himself. Merlin had grown bored with the conversation; he set the cartridge down and went back to his book.
Lancelot counted on his fingers, to make the point: “One with the faulty crossbow, killed at the start. A second, I followed up from the crowd. And the third, come from behind. Three assassins. Lady Guinevere? What do you reckon?”
She stared, took a breath. “That sounds correct.”
He nodded. “They found two crossbows with counterfeit cartridges. One, you saw. A second was broken before it could be used.”
Guinevere bit back a gasp. Where was the third? Where was his? Was he—
“Two crossbows, and three assassins?” asked Arthur.
“No, sire,” said Lancelot. “One assassin, and two distractions. Meant to draw the fire of the guards while the real assassin did his job. They were disposable.” He said this to Guinevere directly. A sharp accusation. And deserved, too. The overall picture was wrong, but the individual pieces were exactly right. The picture he painted was intended to focus attention where it belonged...
He was tying up loose ends. He wasn’t trapping her, he was saving himself.
“S-so they’re all dead?” asked Arthur, watching the doors like he only just realized he might be in danger. He reached out a hand for Guinevere, and she took it. Lancelot noticed.
“Aye, sire, it would seem so. But we will keep close watch over you all the same.”
Arthur looked over to Guinevere, and in a flash his smile turned to dismay: “But they weren’t after me, at all. H-he said he was after Lady Guinevere!” He suddenly had urgency, focus: “She needs protection. We need to protect her.”
Lancelot was about to object when Guinevere beat him to it: “Sire, I’ve my own security that is more than capable of—”
“Nonsense,” said Arthur. “They weren’t there to defend you when it counted. No, Lancelot will see to your safety. And... and you’ll move into the palace, immediately.”
Both Guinevere and Lancelot staggered at this.
“Sire, it wouldn’t be proper for me to—”
“Not to mention the logistics of—”
Arthur waved them both quiet, like a seasoned monarch. “No, it must be done. Until the threat is over, I see no other choice. Lancelot, you work out the details, and as for what’s proper or not... well, I’m afraid I don’t care. Let people talk. I’d rather that, than attend your funeral.”
Guinevere opened her mouth to argue, but could see it was pointless. At least with a direct assault. She curtsied, and put on her most affectionate smile.
“Thank you, sire. You are far too kind.”
She excused herself, then, and exited into the antechamber, where four guards were standing, crossbows unlocked, watching her every breath. If Arthur had been too accessible before, he would be virtually untouchable now. The closer of the guards was looking her up and down like he was sizing her up; for what, she didn’t know. And didn’t want to.
She was halfway to the exit when a hand caught her arm and pulled her aside. She half-expected Ewen — it was his signature move, of late — but instead discovered Lancelot staring into her soul. He ushered her around a corner, into a dimly-lit corridor, and pinned her against the wall.
“You were going to have me killed,” he seethed, face so close to hers.
She rolled her eyes. “I was going to have someone killed. I didn’t seek you out specifically.”
“To what end? What’s your endgame?”
She laughed. “You think I’d tell you?”
He nodded, looked like he was going to back away, but then pushed in closer, whispering directly into her ear. Her hands pressed against his chest, but she didn’t push him away. Not yet.
“If you hurt him, I will kill you myself. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” she whispered back, and he shifted, looked into her eyes, breath on her face, nose brushing her cheek.
“I don’t understand you,” he said.
“Not many do. But...” she took a long breath, pulled herself a bit higher, so her lips touched his face, lightly, briefly, “now that we’re partners...”
He flinched back at this, took a step away. “How do you figure that?”
She smiled, bemused. “We stand together, or fall together. If I go down, I’ll take you with me. And I’ve no doubt you’ll do the same.”
He stepped even further back, seemed agitated beyond reason. “It’s not enough that I spared you, back there? You need to blackmail me, too?”
“You’re not what worries me,” she said. “Council has their own inquiry in the making, and their primary goal is to absolve Lothian of culpability. If they get a whiff of my involvement, I’ll be the perfect scapegoat. So no, this isn’t blackmail, it’s instruction: you need to obstruct that investigation, for both our sakes.”
“Why not do it yourself, then?”
“It’ll just draw suspicion,” she grumbled. “As laughable as it is, if I interfere, it will set off more alarms than if you, a complete newcomer with a shady background—” He laughed. “—start causing them problems. They’ve an irrational hatred of me.”
“Irrational,” he snickered, and she poked hi
m in the chest, hard.
“Do as I say, and we’ll make it out of this alive.”
He laughed, so she poked again; this time he caught her hand, took a menacing step towards her until they were pressed against the wall again. “What makes you think I’d ever take orders from the likes of you?”
She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Because you’re smarter than you look.”
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath in, and— he opened his mouth, leaning close, so close, and her eyes closed without warning, and he—
He pushed away, running his hands through his hair in frustration. She had frustration of her own, but buried it in clenched fists.
“This is madness,” he said. “Madness and I...” He nodded to her, resigned. “I’ll play along. For now. But if I get any sense you’re up to something, I will tell the King—”
“Yes, yes, tell the King,” she said, mockingly. “Just keep Council at bay. Maybe drop them hints you’ve found evidence tying Lothian to the assassins. That should have them running in circles.”
He shook his head. “You’re everything they said you were, and worse.”
She curtsied. “At your service.”
He turned to go, but she snapped her fingers, summoning him back — much to his chagrin. “Oh, and one other thing: you must convince the King to let me stay at Lyonesse.”
He laughed. “I don’t think that’s negotiable, to him.”
“I don’t understand it,” she grumbled. “Why do men keep trying to imprison me? I’ve my own house, tend to my own affairs, have my own life to live. I’m not some pet to be kept and coddled.”
“Yes, and this pet bites, too.”
She smirked. “You’ve no idea.” She waved him off, dismissing him once more — again, much to his chagrin. “It’s fine. Never mind. I’ll do it myself. After all that’s gone on lately, it should be an easy win, for a change.”
Twenty-six
Three months later.
There was a knock at the door, and Sir Ector peeked in.
“I’m sorry to intrude, milady, but Lady Eleanor is—”
“Show her in,” Guinevere said, looking up from her letter. She set the quill down and leaned back in her chair as the door opened wider, and Eleanor was shuttled in. Ector bowed deeply and backed out, leaving them be.
“Any news?” Guinevere asked.
Eleanor sighed. “There’s no trace of him anywhere.”
“You’ve asked Marcel, in Paris? He hasn’t seen him?”
“No, and Guinevere...” She closed the distance, taking the seat beside Guinevere’s desk. “I don’t want to sound defeatist, but if he were going to turn up, we’d have found him by now. He would have made contact, somehow. Ewen’s no fool.”
She was right, of course; Ewen had rarely left her side since they’d moved to Paris, and when he did leave, it was always with great hesitation. For him to be silent for so long meant something dramatic had happened... had Gawain’s men attacked Ewen first, to clear the way for Guinevere’s assassin? Would he have been so easily caught off-guard? But if not killed, maybe badly wounded? Or kidnapped? But if kidnapped, why no ransom? There were so many questions — with one awful answer ever-present — that she couldn’t ignore.
Guinevere wiped the sweat from her brow, frustration growing. “I need to know,” she said. “I need to know.” Maybe it was just the oppressive August heat, or maybe being trapped in a palace she despised, but she had very little patience for mysteries anymore.
“There’s no way to get a hold of the inquiry’s report?” Eleanor asked, quietly. “If there are clues anywhere, I’m sure they’ve dug them up by now.”
“You assume there is a report,” Guinevere said, bitterly. “If I know Gawain, the inquiry’s just a means to settle scores and neutralize opponents. Even if there were an actual report, and I could find my way to it, it would be full of so much nonsense that I’d... I’d never...”
Eleanor rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezed gently. “I’ll keep looking. We’ll find him.”
“Thank you,” Guinevere said, sniffling without crying.
“But, Guin... Marcel did have other news, from Paris.”
Guinevere looked up, and could see it wasn’t good news. She swallowed, waiting for the worst. Eleanor took a letter from her pocket, unfolded it for her to see.
“Gawain’s men are continuing to press for access to the books, and to the treasury, and it’s not certain your men can keep them at bay for much longer. Especially since...” She pointed at a part of the letter. “Robert d’Anjou escaped his father’s dungeon, and revived his rebellion. His army’s marching on the capital. They’ve decimated Craon, and the Duke—”
“The Duke needs weapons,” Guinevere growled. “If Marcel answers, he tips my hand to Gawain, but if he ignores the Duke, I lose more credibility than I can spare. And here I am, evidently a better prisoner than Robert ever was, and for no crime at all!” She threw a candlestick across the room; it cracked against the wall... but did nothing to solve her problems. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for snapping. I’m losing my mind in here. I’m not used to... to sitting still. It’s maddening.”
Eleanor peeked around the room before leaning in and giving Guinevere a kiss. “I know what you mean,” she whispered. “We’ve no time to ourselves anymore.”
Guinevere kissed her back, but her heart wasn’t in it. It might’ve been the hunger, or just the sheer frustration at life in general. She’d lost her freedom, and all Eleanor worried about was how it disrupted their lovemaking. Before she knew it, her kisses were becoming terse, and Eleanor had noticed it.
“You’re not here, are you?” she asked Guinevere, softly, hand drifting away.
Guinevere sighed. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I just need to be out there. I can’t be myself like this. I can’t run my business from a cage.”
“It can’t be for much longer,” said Eleanor, settling back at a respectful distance, but looking hurt by the shift in mood. “Can it?”
“Oh, it can last forever. So long as the King thinks I’m in danger, he’ll keep me locked away. They’ll never find who sent that assassin after me, so the danger will never go away to his satisfaction. And in the meantime, Gawain has free reign to do as he pleases.”
Eleanor leaned in closer, spoke even quieter: “On that front...” She checked the room, just in case someone was hiding somewhere, somehow. “It may only be a matter of time before he discovers our arrangement. Rinwell seems to be on the prowl again.”
Guinevere grumbled to herself, slid a tremis out of her purse and handed it over, subtly. “Well as long as it lasts, do your best,” she said. “I can’t be cut off from everything.” She slid her newest letter closer, folded it loosely. “This one’s for Rufus. Tell the courier not to return without a reply. That’s three letters in a row he’s ignored. Make it clear I have finite patience. I need that income.”
Eleanor nodded, accepting the unsealed letter — it would draw less attention, without a seal — and tucking it into her pocket. Guinevere was unhappily preoccupied with the weight of her purse; money was running out, fast.
“Is everything alright?” asked Eleanor.
“It’s funny, I never imagined I could live so long on a single lot of coins. It’s a very different lifestyle, seeing each tremis as a week of food, or a month of firewood, rather than just a fee to a courier on a personal matter.”
“But you do have other funds...” Eleanor said, more as a question than a re-assurance.
Guinevere sighed. “How can I tell anymore? If Gawain has his way, all my resources will be frozen, and I’ll be left starving and frozen. Well, at least it’s the summer, yet.”
Eleanor laughed. “Maybe you should consider accepting the King’s offer, Guin.”
Guinevere rolled her eyes. “No, I don’t need his charity, I need the money t
hat’s owed to me, and the money that’s mine.”
“But surely you can’t afford—”
“That’s how they trap you, Ellie. They put you in a bind, offer you a way out, but it costs you your soul.”
“There’s a difference between selling your soul and letting the King pay for your food and firewood, Guin. Don’t you think you’re being a bit... dramatic?”
Guinevere stood suddenly, shoving her chair back into the wall. She paced the room, squeezing her hands together tightly; she looked like a madwoman, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. So many months locked away in this room for protection she didn’t need, and affection she didn’t want. Maybe it was driving her mad.
“I’ve got Lancelot reading my letters on the one end, so I can’t correspond with Paris, lest he uncover my arms deals and tell Arthur I’m not a true convert. Money frozen and money lost, every second I’m cut off. And then I’ve got Gawain reading my letters on the other side of things, putting Rufus out of reach, and with him all my tax revenues from the stewardship.To say nothing of the money I’m losing, postponing my plans for the new factories there. I can’t bear to think of those losses. What money I have left — that I think I have left — I can’t ask for, and the only person willing to help me is the one man I refuse to accept it from.”
“Because you fear it will make you his property.”
“If they pay for you, you’re a whore,” Guinevere said bitterly.
Eleanor looked at the tremis in her hand, said nothing.
The side door to her chambers slid open, then closed again, and — without so much as a shuffle of feet — Adwen came around the corner with a letter clutched in her hands. Adwen was quickly becoming Eleanor’s least-favourite person; more than a few intimate moments had been interrupted by her bustling. Worse, on the odd occasion Guinevere had relented and allowed Adwen to braid her hair, Eleanor had taken on the unmistakable tension of a jilted lover. It made it tiresome to have them both around at once... but since they both believed they were her only true companion, they overlapped more often than not.
Adwen stopped short, seeing the tension in the room, and half-stepped back. ”Oh, pardon, I’ll just—”
