by Kris Owyn
“Crows?”
“It’s a particular fear of the King’s. Seeing crows outside his window will send the whole palace into a frenzy, which is when the third group arrives from the north, carrying buckets of water.”
Eleanor frowned. “To what end?”
“That’s exactly what the King will be wondering. And while he and Lancelot and the guards are trying to sort things out — drawing on every available man to handle the volume and geography and absurdity of the plot — I will meet you by the Cathedral’s east wall, where you’ll be waiting with the kingdom’s fastest horse.”
“Two horses, you mean. I’m coming with you.”
Guinevere shrugged acceptance, with a smile. “I won’t say no to company.”
Eleanor seemed energized by the idea. “Do you really think this will work?”
“It will if we do it right. Now... take that money and — I’m sorry to ask this of you — but I need you to venture into the Lothian slums, at the edge of the Capital. Not too far, mind, but just far enough to find men desperate enough to take the job. They’ll get a tremis apiece.”
“Guin, can you afford—”
“I’ll make it back, tenfold, when I escape.”
Eleanor seemed unsure, but nodded, looking into the purse. “A tremis apiece, and—”
“Don’t hand it over then and there,” Guinevere said, feeling like a tutor in some very particular arts. “Pay a single tremis for them to split, all of them, to start. Another tremis, each, on the day, when they show up.”
“Why not after?” Eleanor asked, and realized. “Right. Sorry.” She finished counting the coins, cocked her head to the side. “That’s two coins left.”
“For the horses.”
“And food on the way? And bribes, if we need them?”
Guinevere sighed. “We’ll have to make do. Listen, Eleanor, this is not ideal, and it’s not even remotely safe, but it’s the only chance I’ve got. I’m counting on you to save me.”
“I won’t let you down. I swear it.”
“Good,” she said with a smile. “Then you’d better leave before it gets too late. Find an assortment, whoever seems eager. Don’t negotiate, don’t explain, just offer work and dangle the promise of payment like it means nothing to you.” Eleanor nodded like she was confident, but Guinevere could see anxiety building up in her. She took her friend by the arms, squeezed gently. “It’s easier than you think. The less you say, the more they assume, and the better off you’ll be.”
“I’ll get it done,” Eleanor said, covering up her worries ably.
“Good. Have them assemble tomorrow, late in the afternoon, when the sun will be in the eyes of anyone looking west, and the shadows from here to the Cathedral will be long and dark. I’ll listen for the guards shouting, and find my way out to you.”
Eleanor gave Guinevere another hug; a tight one, resting her head on her friend’s shoulder and just staying there, enjoying the moment of peace. “I won’t let you down,” she said again, like she was trying to convince herself, too.
Guinevere hoped she would convince herself enough for it to be true. The alternative was ruin.
Twenty-nine
Sleep was a gift for the simple-minded. Guinevere stared at her ceiling from sundown, straight through the gorgeous moonlit night, until first light, when the room was bathed in orange and red. She felt like a statue, cold and unmoving. Physically, anyway. Her mind was alive with plans and strategies: which way down the hall, which stairwell to the ground, which door and which nook and which wagon and which horse. How many steps to the Cathedral? Cloaked or uncloaked? Running or strolling or somewhere in between? She would block her door from the inside, after she left, to make it harder to confirm her disappearance. Would she leave signs of a struggle, to distract them with false theories? Or would that just make them search for her harder?
She spent the morning going about her regular business, as best she could. She and Adwen read together (though she didn’t hear a word; even the ones she spoke herself) and braided each other’s hair and carefully avoided any discussion of business, or London, or Adwen’s brothers. Guinevere felt as if she was barely present in her own routine, but the active part of her mind knew that routines were vital. Breaking routines aroused suspicion. Breaking routines ruined plans.
A little after noon, she heard shouting from outside. Her heart nearly burst through her chest at the sound of it: were they early? She was prepared, of course, but she wasn’t at all ready for them. She rushed to the window, angled as best she could to see the street below, and...
A wagon had lost a wheel. Vegetables on the roadway. Panicked farmers, angry guards.
She settled back in her chair, and tried not to think.
It didn’t work.
The waiting was unbearable, because she knew exactly what she was waiting for, but didn’t know what it would truly sound like, or when it would happen. She lost track of time, but resisted the urge to go to the window and see what she might see. Routine. Routine. Routine.
A knock at the door, and she jerked upright; had she been sleeping? No, she was sure she hadn’t. She cleared her throat, called out: “Yes?”
Lancelot entered, solemn. He had a bowl of something warm, something delicious, and she suddenly realized she hadn’t had food in almost a day. He held it out to her, as an offering.
“You haven’t eaten,” he said.
“I’m conserving funds,” she said, looking away.
“Don’t be a fool.”
“Conserving silence, too,” she said, and waved him away.
He stared, started to set down the bowl, but then picked it back up. He closed the door behind him, and she heard his footsteps echoing down the hall. He was angry.
The sun was lower now. Mid-afternoon, certainly. She strained to hear every noise, but as the sun dropped closer to the rooftops beyond her window, the more tired she became. She wished she’d slept. She wished she could sleep now.
She moved to the window, to be safe. She’d hear the commotion there, even if she dozed off. She reviewed the plans again, for the thousandth time: left down the hallway, the second stairwell to the courtyard, second pillar by the stables, then hood up and a casual stroll to the Cathedral. Ride until they were safely out of the city, then find a safe spot in the forest and sleep until she could see straight ag—
She jerked up, and it was dark. Her eyes fought to adjust, but it was far beyond the afternoon, now. It was night. She looked outside, for some sign that the ruckus had happened, and couldn’t tell if she was hoping it had and she’d missed it, or that it hadn’t and... and...
The street was empty. The road was clear. The moon was out, casting a harsh blue light through the room she hoped she’d never see again.
She pulled her knees up and hugged her legs tight. So tired. So tired, and so tired of being in Arthur’s damned fortress. Someone outside yelled something, and she turned to see, but—
The door opened, quietly, and a guard peeked in; he was squinting, trying to see where she was hiding. When he found her, he disappeared again, without a word. Lancelot again, with another bowl of stew for her to reject on principle? Or maybe Arthur, come to take another round of abuse?
But when the door opened wider, she smelled the familiar aroma of pricey wine, and knew it was neither: Bors strode in, cloak still billowing, despite the heat. He scanned until he found her, put his arms out like he expected an embrace.
“I’ve never been searched for weapons before,” he said, by way of an icebreaker. “Lad found a knife I thought I’d lost years ago.” He glanced over his shoulder at the guard, still there, and added: “And I’ll have it back when I leave. Don’t go pawning it.”
The guard bowed, closed the door and left them be. Guinevere didn’t move, though. She stayed huddled, knees tucked under her chin. It was, she realized, helping her c
ontain her fury.
Bors draped his cloak over her desk, dragged a chair along the stone floor until he was across from her. He sat, heavily, and let out a long, long sigh.
“They’re not coming,” he said.
She growled at the words; she wasn’t surprised that he knew, or even that they weren’t coming. It was more a matter of realizing, suddenly, that her plans had blown away like ash in the wind; she was waiting for an event that would never happen.
She said nothing to him. Couldn’t even look at him.
“Eleanor came to me in tears,” he said. “Begged me to help her, but wouldn’t give specifics. I figured it out — that you were behind it — once we got to Lothian.” He shook his head. “They stole her purse, and wanted more. Smelled the fear in her voice and were blackmailing her, saying they’d tell Gawain everything if she didn’t pay up.”
“Tell him what?” she said, bitterly.
“Doesn’t matter. They knew they had her.” He leaned forward. “I don’t know what you were thinking, Guinevere. You knew damn well she was out of her depth, and you sent her anyway. She might’ve been killed—”
Guinevere still couldn’t bear to make eye contact. “Is she alright?”
“By the grace of God, and me, yes. She’s fine. Ego bruised, but fine. Her would-be troupe is disbanded, and warned off. I don’t think they knew what they were doing, and I gave them enough hints to throw them in every direction but yours.”
“But they’re not coming.”
“No, and you’re lucky they aren’t,” he said. “That was a foolish play, girl. If the King—”
“He won’t let me leave,” she said, anger roiling, but still contained. “I tried to make him see reason, but he—”
“Oh, no amount of pleading will counter-balance what Gawain’s been up to,” he said. “Once he realized you’re as good as neutralized in here, he’s been dreaming up all kinds of things lurking in the shadows. He’s preparing another report, this week. Evidently new technology makes it easier to fire a bolt in through a window.”
Guinevere looked to her side, at the window there. Her only real portal to the outside world, and he’d deny it, too, she knew. No matter how far-fetched.
“I’m never getting out of here,” she said, distant.
“Not like this. Not until Gawain thinks he has you beat. So long as you’re a threat to him, he’ll find ways to bind you here.”
She nodded, understanding, but hating. Hating. She couldn’t imagine how long it would be before Gawain gave up. When could that be? When he had Lyonesse as his own? Would that even be enough?
She wanted to scream.
“Have you ever been a prisoner?” she asked, voice cracking.
Bors sighed. “In a manner of speaking,” he said.
“How did you survive it?” she asked.
He took a hesitant breath, and looked at his palms. “Poorly.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off: “The Battle of Carlaw Cross, up north. You were a wee one, then. I don’t suppose you noticed I was gone.”
“They captured you?”
“No,” he said with a rueful smile. “I captured myself.” She frowned, confused, as he shook his head. “Six months. Six agonizing months.”
She rested her cheek on her knee, watched him, waited for him to tell the story. She knew he wanted to. He always loved his war stories. But this time, there was something in his face that said it was different. Harder.
“Carlaw Cross was nothing. A village built into a crack between two hills. No walls, a ramshackle chapel, and fewer citizens than we had soldiers. By all accounts, the kind of place you’d let burn, just so you could have the tactical advantage once the enemy settled in. Council demanded no less, but I...” He laughed, shook his head. “I figured: what I lacked in elevation, I made up for in range. Galbraith — old King Galbraith, I mean — his forces couldn’t charge without taking a beating, couldn’t position archers without our taking them out. It was a stalemate, but one I was going to win. Except...”
“They starved you out,” she said. It was the obvious move. She was surprised the younger Bors hadn’t seen it coming. Or maybe he had, and just wanted the glory of an improbable victory. That felt more like the man she knew... cocksure, to a fault.
He nodded. “We had a supply chain, along the river. Heavily fortified, and nigh indestructible. The geography of the place made it hard for their archers to hit us, down the craggy paths, but our crossbows could create enough chaos to get us through. Starving us would hurt, but Galbraith decided it was worth the damage. He threw soldiers at every boat that came through. And the awful truth was, what cost him dozens of men in the short term, would cost us hundreds by winter’s end.”
Starving was a horrible way to die. What was worse was knowing the starvation was coming, and not being able to stop it. She could hardly imagine big, boisterous Bors, wasting away. It made her plight seem small, foolish, pointless.
“What about Council?” she asked. “They just left you to rot?”
Bors shrugged, picked at a nail. “They warned me against it. They tried to stop me, too, but I wouldn’t listen. I made the bed, and I knew I would have to lie in it. That’s the trick with being brave, sometimes. You do what’s right, and you suffer anyway. And by God, you don’t whine about it. You grit your teeth and soldier through.”
She said nothing. It felt like a condemnation, with far greater insight than he could possibly have. She hadn’t listened, she hadn’t stopped when cooler heads had warned her off, and now she was, what, meant to grit her teeth and soldier through? Bors had charged into that town in a fit of bravado and self-righteous posturing — he had no business being there, no stake in its survival. He was trying to prove himself, and he got burned. The comparison was making her angrier. It took all her energy not to explode at him. She took a sharp breath, eyes narrow, and—
“I had a daughter, once,” he said, voice somehow distant, empty.
Guinevere paused. She never knew Bors was married, let alone had children. He—
“You never met her, but she... she would’ve liked you.” He sucked in a tight breath, continued: “It was a political marriage, made for the good of the kingdom. Other lords had done their part, and I was supposed to do mine. A transaction, really. Balancing a ledger. Why spend money on weapons and men, waste time and life and treasure, when one girl’s hand will do the trick? I won’t pretend she liked it, but she knew the score. Knew how it had to go.”
He scratched his forehead, like a thought was on the verge of bursting loose, and needed help. “A year later, her husband’s dead in a drunken brawl, and her with child, and...” He laughed, shook his head. “I knew Galbraith would make a play for the babe. It was his heir as much as mine. Our families were to be bound together, but whoever raised the boy would claim victory. He sued to have her moved, set up in his estate, but your father tied that up in court on my behalf.”
He pressed his palms together, like he was bracing himself. “The city, here, was swarming with Galbraith’s agents. My servants were being bribed, my housemaids followed... we caught a mercenary trying to break in through the cellar one night, and knew it would never end. As awful as it was, the child had to be hidden, until he was born. Until he was old enough to fend for himself. So my daughter... I...” His voice was wavering. “We said our goodbyes, and I... hid her where no one would ever think to look. A small nothing in the middle of nowhere.”
“Carlaw Cross,” she said, feeling a horrible guilt at what she’d almost said, earlier. At what she’d almost condemned.
He nodded, took a long breath.”No one knew where she was, but Galbraith kept looking, kept probing. My Chief of Security was found dead, and I... when I heard Galbraith’s troops were moving, I lost my mind. I pulled together all the men I could muster, and I raced to protect her.” He shook his head, staring at the floor. “Turns
out, I led him straight there.”
Guinevere sat forward, reached a hand out to him, but he just looked at it, silent. She wanted to say something, to do something, but she realized this was a wound still festering for him. She had to let him finish, however awful it might be.
“All he wanted was one girl, and it would be over. Just one life, and he’d leave. But I couldn’t back down. I couldn’t give in, no matter what. We had better weapons, better men, and better odds. I dug in for six long months, until...”
He exhaled, clasped his hands tight. “My daughter came to me one night. She was wasting away. She told me she was wasting away. Those words. I... I remember her belly was far too small to... far too small...” He swallowed, like it hurt. “She begged to be handed over. To be let free. She swore she’d resist him, swore she’d stay true... but I refused, because I knew what was waiting for her out there. I knew what he’d do. Once the baby was out, she’d be nothing to him. Once the baby was out, the game was done. Whoever held that child, held the balance of power.”
He swallowed again. Again, pained. Held a breath. “She was dead the next morning. No one knows why. It’s...” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Galbraith demanded to see the body. Needed proof it was over. So I left my sword and my crossbow and I carried my daughter and my unborn grandson up that cursed hill, and I laid them down in front of the monster who’d hounded me, chased me and hounded me and ruined me those last months, and he...”
He looked at Guinevere, eyes glistening. “He said: ‘We did this to her.’ And then he left, and I never saw him again.”
He wiped at his eyes, sniffled, fought to regain his composure. “We do foolish things to protect the ones we love,” he said. “But never doubt, he does love you. His methods are sloppy and wrong, but he’s trying to protect you, here.”
She smiled, and he finally took her hand, and they stayed there in silence for a moment, until he got back some of his swagger, and she got back some of the composure she’d lost in Merlin’s workshop.
“Now,” he said, sitting taller, “wine.”
