Betrothal

by Mande Matthews

  "Impudent beast!" I yelled as his rump disappeared out of view. Now I knew why I didn't ride horses.

  As I stood to dust the dirt from my trousers, I stared at the view before me. The little imp had dumped me no more than fifty paces from Melwas' camp, but within moments of my appearance on the hillside, Melwas' soldiers surrounded me.

  "Halt!" yelled one, as two others appeared from nowhere and grabbed each of my arms.

  Their limed hair and blue painted faces caused their features to flatten, enhancing the menace in their facades. My breath caught in my throat as their hands pressed into the skin and muscles of my upper arms. My cloak sunk down over my head to conceal my identity, and I kept my chin tucked to my chest as the men continued their interrogation.

  "No weapons, sir," answered a fourth soldier as he accosted my cloak and patted me down with an aggressive search. Each nudge of his meaty hands felt like a singe on my skin, and a lump of revilement visited the back of my mouth. When his examination neared my breasts, I tugged away, wrapping my arms around my middle. The soldiers replied by drawing swords and spears; they encircled me, making no room for escape.

  "Who are you?" asked one.

  When I didn't reply, not for want of keeping quiet, but for lack of words, another asked, "What is your purpose here?"

  Unable to form any type of intelligible speech, I thought my plan was indeed ill advised and perhaps I should have listened to Elibel's counsel, when one of the soldiers snatched the hood off my head.

  "A woman!"

  "A fetching woman, at that," said another; his leer turned lecherous, his yellowed teeth in sharp contrast to the smeared blue woad on his face.

  I forced myself to breath to compose the nerves threatening to explode underneath every inch of my skin. I squeaked out my words. "I have business with King Melwas."

  "And what kind of business would that be, lass?"

  "Funny business," said another with a lustful smile. He sniggered and the others joined him, hooting with licentious intent.

  My anxiety gave way to anger at their indecent suggestion. And, true to my nature, my fury always resulted in rash discourse—I either choked up or let loose. I rolled my eyes with exaggerated sarcasm.

  "Not that kind of business you depraved donkeys."

  Then I realized it was almost that type of business and my confidence sunk as if it leaked into the ground beneath my feet.

  Their hoots rose in pitch at the self recognition of my actual "business," when a voice broke from behind, "That is no woman!"

  A beefy man appeared—the ruddiness of his skin shown through his war paint. He was large, though well muscled as if he dined on Midsummer's festival food each night. The emblems of a shield and hart enameled on his shield, his shaven cheeks, a generous moustache, and gold ring on his thumb suggested his identity: King Melwas.

  Elibel had not been right about his good looks—unless one considers a bear good-looking. I assumed he suffered from the same inflated bardic portrayals that I had.

  "This is a Lady," he corrected. "Lady Guinevere, to be exact."

  He ordered his men to stand away; they backed off at his command, but one mumbled, "Lady Guinevere of Camelaird? I thought she'd be more beautiful. Not that she's ugly, but I thought she'd be—"

  King Melwas swatted toward the man as if he was a pesky fly and the soldier scampered backwards without another word.

  Just as I had suspected, my inflated bardic portrayals preceded me. I wagered I was a disappointment to everyone I met—even battle hungry brutes.

  Then Melwas swept down and bowed with consent.

  His response gave way to the hope that my earlier interpretation of King Melwas' honor of the old ways proved true. I pressed forward even though I thought my knees might buckle.

  "Your Lordship, rather than shed blood today, I propose we come to a more peaceful and equally satisfying arrangement."

  An intelligent flicker passed across Melwas' façade. The sides of his lips turned upward under the mound of hair, whether out of amusement or admiration, I did not know.

  "What does your Ladyship have in mind?"

  "That I would speak to my father on your behalf, and you will be considered as one of my suitors. An honorable betrothal will strengthen your Lordship's claim and quell any unrest that my people will possess if you take Camelaird by force. I can assure fair consideration on your behalf."

  "I'm intrigued," Melwas said. "But would one of your other suitors be Arthur Pendragon?"

  His response startled me. Why would Arthur be a contender for my father's throne? As I puzzled out the meaning behind his statement, a low thrum sounded in the distance.

  King Melwas held my gaze. His smiled slumped into a suspicious glare at the growing noise.

  "A clever decoy for an ambush?" he asked, more to himself than to me.

  I frantically shook my head in response, but he turned away from me at the same moment Arthur's cavalry broke the crest of the hill.

  Melwas' men scrambled in all directions, seeking weapons to face off against their attackers as a battle cry rose from the men barreling down upon us. The screams tore through me like a banshee crying for death as the two forces reached one another with a thunderous clamor.

  Melwas screamed, "Grab her!" before I could turn and run.

  A heavy arm snatched me around the middle, pulling me off my feet.

  In soothe, I do not think I even possessed the will to run. Images of death waylaid me as metal met flesh. Blood bloomed from wounds as men sunk to the earth beneath them. A metallic odor rose from the corpses, saturating the air. My captor ran with me tucked underneath his arm like a sack of grain, dodging oncoming knights with jarring movements as my feet dragged over the ground. We weaved and bobbed, my flesh battering against the man's bones as he followed his king's wake. My circlet slipped from my head and tumbled away to land near a raven.

  The peculiar beast sat motionless in the middle of the tumult with my circlet at its talons. Luminous eyes peered from the shadow-black of its form, watching my captor carry me away. Whether my sight deceived me, or I saw truly, the creature's eyes appeared human-like. Its unnatural green-colored orbs stared as if attempting to pierce my soul. I blinked, but the image persisted. The raven's beak cracked open and a woman's voice filled my head.

  "Women must remember not to leave decisions in the hands of men who are driven by the desire of their spears alone. Alas, what is done is done and what is started cannot be stopped. Remember, Guinevere of Camelaird, the power to see through the guise is the ability to see into the heart of a man."

  I blinked again, as my bones thrummed against my captor; he continued to sprint through the battlefield. When I reopened my eyes, the raven and my circlet were gone, but the visions of slaughtered soldiers remained. Numbness filled me as the blur of casualties continued.

  This was the exact moment I sought to prevent.

  I would have fainted had my senses remained, but they did not. They retreated inside some fortress within me like cowards, fearing the massacre before me.

  Without knowing why, I hit the ground. My captor slumped over me, his slack arm weighed down across my middle as heavily as being buried under a pile of stones. I lay motionless for moments—stunned, unable to move. The visions of death continued to spiral around me. Men groaned, yelled, cried and bled.

  Finally, I summoned the power to heave and arch my back, pushing the fallen man off me. As I scrambled out from under his grip, I realized why he'd come to a halt. The flesh of his neck lay open; blood still spurted from the gaping wound. My hand involuntarily reached out to stop the rush, but when I felt the warmth of his life draining, I pulled back, and stared at the red stains on my hands. A violent tremor started inside me while my eyes stayed hostage to the horror before me.

  I barely distinguished the thunder of hooves prancing behind me—like a drone of drums in the distance. Before I could move, a strong but gentle arm pressed around my middle. Comfort rushed through me at the
touch. Within a breath, my body left the ground, hefted onto a dapple gray steed. My limbs continued to shake of their own accord as I stared at the carnage who had been my captor.

  But my rescuer's strength steadied me as he pulled me toward his lamellar armor in order to snuggle me protectively against his chest. He had hopped back before lifting me and my rump sat sideways on his mount, the saddle steel separating us. But I did not feel separate from him. An all encompassing sensation flooded over me, as if drawn into his being—as if we shared the same physical space of life and limb, and I collapsed into the security he provided, my tremors stilling with his continued touch.

  With me in one arm, and his sword in the other, he kicked his steed into a run, guiding the horse without reins, using the pressure of his legs alone. Unlike riding with Arthur, or on the pony, the motion of his stallion seemed like a wave beneath me as his body guided mine in rhythm with the horse's motion. For once, I didn't fear falling.

  As we galloped away from the fray, I turned to him, seeking my rescuer's face. The mysterious knight from Arthur's arrival returned my gaze with deep, dark eyes peering from either side of his helmet's nose guard. Though his mouth and jaw remained hidden by a chain mail covering, I could tell his features were strong, tan and angular, yet it was his eyes I felt lost in, like I could swim in their depths without end. Then the knight disengaged from my gaze, and scanned our perimeter for danger.

  A pang of rejection filled my insides as his eyes left mine. I must have stiffened at his refusal, because he spoke—with the same paradox that pervaded his touch, a mix of strength and gentleness. "I've got you now. You're safe," he said.

  Chapter 6

  We thundered across the battlefield, yet I galloped within a haven of protection. I could have ridden there, with him, forever. The craw of a raven turned into the retreat cries of Melwas' men, resounding as if I sank underneath the sea. A blur of soldiers scrambled by, but all the chaos seemed so far away, muffled by the pound of the gray's hooves, and our breaths—the knight's and mine—huffing in unison. His chest swelled against my shoulder as I collapsed into him. And then suddenly, it all ceased.

  The knight lowered me to the ground, and I realized I stood in the center of Camelaird's courtyard. My father's guards rushed toward me, grabbed me, and took me. I swiveled within their grip, spinning around to seek my savior, but he had already turned. His backside and the gray's flaying tail disappeared out of the gates of my father's fortress. A chill spread inside me and I started to shake, all his borrowed stillness retreating with him.

  * * * * *

  As evening drew into night, I found myself cleaned, dressed, and peering around the corner of the great hall—alone. Elibel had not returned with Aethelwine, nor had my father come to speak with me in the long hours after the battle had left me sobbing in my chamber. My thoughts remained muddled as I tried to make sense of what had happened earlier in the day. Surely, I could have avoided the massacre had Arthur's army not descended upon Melwas. Yet Arthur had slaughtered no less than a hundred men, whether to protect me, defend my father, or for some other motivation, I did not know. All I knew was that my insides choked at the memories of death and I could not shake the inevitable conclusion that I was responsible.

  Torches, set in iron holders, cast off light that accentuated the shadows looming in the corners. For a moment, I spotted black feathers rustling in the darkness, but upon further inspection, only shadows lurked.

  A crowd gathered, laughing and dining as my father welcomed the "protector" of Camelaird in a celebratory reception. Smells of burning pine, roasted duck, and the salt of sweaty bodies wafted through the air. The quick rhythm of a tambour and fiddle, punctuated by the cheerful melody of the flute, added to the merriment. My harp had been removed from my chamber and stood near the wall, set behind the musicians. I feared the gesture meant Father would require I play for our guest. That notion, mixing with all the rest, wound my nerves into knots. They bunched up beneath my skin, causing me to freeze where I stood until Father caught me in his gaze and waved me to obedience.

  "Come Daughter, our guest has been awaiting your arrival. Give Camelaird's protector fair welcome."

  I forced my feet into action in order to cross the distance to the head table. My father, King Leodegrance, sat beside Arthur, patting his protector's shoulder as if old comrades, while gesturing me forward. My father provided a curious contrast to Arthur; while Arthur towered a head above Father with youth and vibrancy, my father slumped next to him, sunken and gray with age. Father's wiry hair had been slicked down for the occasion and he wore his jeweled crown, encrusted robe and diamond cross as if in full dress for a procession, yet he looked like an ancient memory next to the younger king.

  Arthur stared, watching me approach. His knights sat to both sides of him and my father, while the hall spilled over with his remaining retinue mixing with the residents of Camelaird. Most of Arthur's army had been dispatched back to Camelot once the victory over Melwas had been assured.

  I ignored his gaze and scanned the room as I neared them, searching for the mysterious knight who had rescued me. My heart quailed at the thought of spotting him. Even though I had not seen his entire face, I was sure I would be able to recognize him by presence alone. But he was no where to be seen, which caused an unexpected twinge in my chest.

  Movement from the corner caught my eye. A raven perched on a chair at the back of the chamber, cocking its head back and forth, yet no one else seemed to notice the creature. I blinked, and the bird vanished. Reasoning the day long, and my senses weary, I sloughed off the vision and proceeded toward the head table.

  Father had instructed my dress to be my finest this evening, and, with Elibel still missing, a kitchen maid had helped me into my attire replete with ruby-red silk fabric and so much metallic thread that the gold outweighed the red in visual impact. My outer sleeves dangled to my thighs in a v-shape while my inner sleeves squeezed all the way down to my wrists like ropes binding me. My cross hung from my neck while a belt completed the ensemble, crafted of gold, rubies and sapphires. I was missing my circlet, which remained lost somewhere in the day's carnage (or at the end of a raven's beak if my mind had not betrayed me), and my father noted this omission with a disturbed glance toward my head.

  Arthur attempted to capture my notice with a smile. When I finally conceded to return his look, the charm of his grin caused a rush of blood to my cheeks. My skin burned under his intense inspection, as his eyes flitted up and down my form. My breath came up short, causing the quick rise and fall of my chest. I reminded myself, regardless of his charisma, he was the enemy—the one who slaughtered an army whose numbers were dismal compared to his own, an army I had intended to sway.

  Suddenly, Arthur's stare broke as he took note of something behind me. His look switched from appreciative to lustful, but within a moment, his façade morphed back to his suave smile; I wondered if I had imagined the change in his demeanor.

  Then Elibel glided up behind me and I realized that Arthur's eyes had been set on her. An unladylike snort of disgust—or jealousy, I do not know which—escaped me before I could contain it.

  "Oh, Guinevere!" Elibel declared. "I am so relieved you are safe!"

  "Where's Aethelwine?" I asked, turning toward her, but her gaze remained occupied with Camelaird's protector.

  "Safe and sound in your chamber, My Lady," she replied. "All thanks to the valor of King Arthur. You should have seen how he leapt into action when he discovered your intentions. Just as the bards proclaim—an unmatched hero."

  I plucked her sleeve and whispered accusingly, for her ear alone, "You told him of my intention to negotiate with Melwas?"

  Elibel beamed at Arthur while returning her answer in a hush, "I could not bear it if harm came to you, cousin. What was I to do?"

  She pulled away from my grip. Holding a container of wine—my father's preferred refreshment proclaiming ale the beverage of barbarians—she swept around the table, filling our guests' g
oblets, starting with Arthur's.

  A tremor of rage threatened to implode inside of me at the facts: my cousin had betrayed me, men had been needlessly slain, and Arthur sat next to my father with his smug smile as if all had been righted by his hand.

  "Who rescued me after your men advanced without notice?" I directed my question to Arthur.

  He glanced up from his flirtation with Elibel to focus on me.

  "It was not you that came to my aid after your men attacked and my position was compromised, but another knight. I would like to know his name so I may thank him."

  Fury caused my limbs to tremor. I fought back the quakes by squeezing my hand in to and out of a fist.

  A look of warning crossed over my father's face, while Elibel readied to interrupt when Arthur broke with laughter.

  "My sweet lady," said Arthur, his tone as smooth as cream, "I can assure you that I sent my bravest and most able knight to secure your safety. Sir Lancelot's sworn fealty to his king is unmatched by any and I entrusted him as if my own life lay in his capable hands. Your security was never in question."

  "And where is this brave knight?" I demanded.

  I admit my line of questioning veered off course, over-taken by my curiosity in the knight rather than my anger toward Arthur's flippant behavior toward me, and the lives of those he had slain.

  Arthur performed a quick scan of the room, searching for the knight, as I restated the knight's name over and over in my head—Sir Lancelot—reveling how sweet his name would sound spoken from my tongue.

  Before anyone else could respond, my father commanded, "Daughter, play for King Arthur. We must make tribute to the savior of Camelaird."

  Father waved toward my harp. His eyelids drooped. He looked frail and exhausted; I knew I could not disobey him.

  Though performing for others sent me into shivers, I grabbed my harp and seated myself upon the small dais the musicians had vacated, intent on rebutting Arthur with a performance of the Song of the Fallen, a lament for dead soldiers.