The Guinevere Deception

by Kiersten White

  But it could also lead them astray. Water shaped to whatever container held it. Not all containers were benign. The Lady of the Lake had long ago claimed water magic as her own, and it all flowed back to her in time. The Lady of the Lake had been Merlin’s ally against the Dark Queen, but she was ancient and unknowable, and Guinevere could not risk invoking any of her power within Camelot. Better to be small. Contained. Knotted.

  She could justify it all she wanted to, but magic aside, the bath was water. Guinevere would not climb into it.

  “I think the temperature is pleasant, but if it is not to your liking, I can change it. Shall I help you undress?”

  “No!”

  Brangien flinched, wounded at the vehemence of Guinevere’s response. Her face turned scarlet and she stared at the floor.

  “It is perfectly customary, my lady. I have bathed many women before you. And you need not put your face under if it frightens you.”

  “It is not that.” Guinevere scrambled, grasping for a reason why this ordinary task for a lady’s maid would not—could not—ever happen. “At the convent they taught me that my body is only for my husband. Even I am not to look at myself while naked.” It sounded reasonable for a society that forbade her from showing her wrists. “I could not bear if anyone else saw me. You are a fine lady’s maid—the best I could hope for. But I must bathe myself.”

  Brangien frowned, but at least she no longer looked wounded. “I have only recently become Christian. I have not heard this.”

  “I think it is particular to the convent where I was instructed on how to be a wife. There are so many more ways for a queen to sin.” She tried not to grimace at all the falsehoods coming out of her mouth. Certainly in her three days at the convent, she had learned a great deal about sin and guilt, which seemed a powerful type of magic in its own right. A magic of controlling and shaping others. The nuns wielded it deftly, experts in their craft. They were also kind and loving and generous. Guinevere would not have minded more time among them, trying to understand this new religion that was pushing back the old in much the same way men were pushing back the forests.

  Arthur had embraced Christianity, too. She would have to learn it. If only Merlin were here to place it all inside her head like he had the knot magic.

  “So,” Guinevere said, “I would like to bathe myself. When I am finished, I will call you and you can dress me—and care for my hair? You are much better with it than I am!”

  This seemed to placate Brangien, or at least make her less afraid for her position. She nodded. “I will retrieve your undergarments. If you need any help getting into them, please call for me.” She hurried to the bedroom, then brought the linen undergarments in and set them gently on the table beside the other supplies.

  Guinevere smiled until Brangien left again. Then she dropped the smile with a shudder as she dropped her nightclothes. She did not look at the bath. She could feel the water there, steaming, promising magic she did not ask for and would not explore.

  She stepped out of the ring of her nightclothes. Her feet were bare against the stone floor and she curled her toes, missing the soft give of soil. Luckily, Brangien had left a candle on the table. Guinevere breathed it into life. It was a dangerous trick, but the wick contained the fire before it could escape.

  Fire magic was Merlin’s specialty. Not hers. She needed the limits of knot magic, the security of the loops and ties. But she had to get clean, and she could not bring herself to sit in water.

  She put her finger to the flame, whispering. It jumped from wick to flesh, stinging just shy of burning. She spun in a circle. The flame followed the path of the circle to form a shimmering ring, encompassing her. It took all her concentration to hold it, to forbid it from the chaos that was its nature. Unlike water, fire had no master. No lady or queen who could rule it.

  It rushed over her hot and hungry and dry, devouring anything unclean. When she could no longer stand it, she pushed away the air so the fire had nothing to feed on. It reluctantly faded and died.

  It left her skin itching and her whole body tired. But she was clean and the water left undisturbed. As difficult as it was, fire magic was relatively safe. It devoured whatever it touched, leaving no evidence of itself or its user. And when it was extinguished, it was gone. It could not carry news of her magic to anyone who knew where to look.

  The first time she had tried a cleansing, Merlin had to extinguish her. She had been seconds away from being devoured. She frowned, as stung by the memory as by the fire itself. Merlin had found it hilarious. She wished he could see how well she had handled it now. But at least he had given her the tools she needed to avoid water. It was uncharacteristically thoughtful of him.

  She pulled on her underclothes and surveyed the room. The table of bath supplies was undisturbed. Chagrined, she broke off a piece of the petal-pressed soap and tossed it into the water behind her. She took the brush and backed closer to the bath, carefully dipping it in without looking at what she was doing. Then she hastily replaced it on the table. The other supplies she rearranged messily, assuming a princess would never worry about neatness with so many people to be neat on her behalf.

  Her hair was dry, but hair was washed infrequently. She would figure out how to trick Brangien when the time came.

  Now all she had to do was wait a reasonable bath period. She sat on the floor so the surface of the water was above her eye level and she could not see it and the lies it told. When the steam finally stopped drifting, she called for Brangien.

  Brangien did not notice anything amiss about the unused bath. She undid Guinevere’s hair, redoing the braids and carefully removing the jewels Guinevere had not remembered to take out the night before. Brangien placed them into a gilded box, which was then closed and locked.

  “I have the key, unless my lady would like to hold it herself.” There was a challenge in Brangien’s voice, as though daring Guinevere not to trust her. The bath rejection had done damage. Guinevere needed to repair it. She could not have someone in such constant contact suspect or dislike her.

  “I would lose it, I am certain! Thank you for taking care of it. What is expected of me today?” Guinevere asked.

  Brangien shook her head, deftly twisting and braiding Guinevere’s long, thick hair. “It is assumed the queen will be tired after her wedding night, so none of the other ladies will call on you.”

  Guinevere did not comment on the basis of that assumption. At least it gave her some peace. “And Arthur?”

  “I expect he will be busy all day.”

  “Good!” Guinevere turned, smiling in unfeigned excitement. “Will you take me into the city? Show me Camelot as you live it?”

  Brangien looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  “This is my city now. I want to walk the streets with you. See how it works, how the people live. Please take me on an adventure?”

  Brangien’s face softened with friendliness. She finished pinning a twisted braid to frame Guinevere’s face. “I forget sometimes what a wonder it is. When Sir Tristan and I arrived, it felt like the journey across the lake had transported me into a dreamland. It was the first time in months I could feel something like hope again.” She leaned back, admiring her work before nodding to herself. “But do you think it is appropriate for us to explore today?”

  “I have not been given any instructions on what I am to do. And if no one has told me no, they cannot be angry with us!”

  Brangien laughed. “If we are leaving the castle, we will need different clothing than I picked.”

  Guinevere followed Brangien into the bedroom and waited patiently as Brangien cinched and tied her into her clothing. Today’s dress was a cheerful yellow. The hood draped over her shoulders was deep blue. After checking to make certain that Guinevere’s sleeves went all the way to her fingers, Brangien knelt and helped Guinevere get into her shoes.


  “Would you like to wear a veil?” Brangien asked.

  “Must I?”

  “It is not unusual for ladies, but it is not so common that it will cause gossip if you do not.”

  “I would much rather they get used to my face than expect a veil.”

  Brangien nodded and stood. Her maid’s clothes were nicer than any Guinevere had ever owned before now, but the cloth was not so finely woven, and she had no fur trimming her hood. The dyes were duller as well. Brangien’s clothes said that she was important, but not royal.

  There was an entire language to this city that Guinevere had to learn. She was grateful she had Brangien to navigate it for her, and even more grateful for Merlin’s wisdom in choosing a princess from so far away for her to impersonate, so that any errors could be excused by her foreignness.

  Brangien hurried her through the hallway. Guinevere suspected her maid was half-worried they would be caught and not permitted to leave. They both sighed with relief as they exited the castle through one of the side doors; then they turned to each other and laughed.

  Guinevere followed Brangien down an unnervingly narrow flight of stairs that wound from the midsection of the castle all the way down to the city below. Having so many doors into the castle initially seemed like a safety flaw, but only one person at a time could navigate these stairs. And they were so twisty and treacherous, no one in armor and wielding a weapon could climb them with any haste.

  The base of the castle featured the only door wide enough to accommodate more than one person. It was open, but guarded ten men deep. They passed alongside it. Guinevere half expected the men to call out to them to stop, but they paid the two women no mind.

  Feeling freer than she had since she entered the convent, Guinevere linked her arm through Brangien’s, and together they walked down the steep path into Arthur’s city. The streets were not what she had expected. They were not cobbled or made of dirt, but were channels in the rock itself. The centers were flat, but the sides sloped gently upward. Almost like the aqueducts above their heads, but on a far larger scale.

  They passed the homes closest to the castle, which were also the nicest. Brangien chattered happily about them. Sir Percival’s, Sir Bors’s, Sir Mordred’s. Mordred’s was by far the largest and finest of them.

  “Where does Sir Tristan live?” Guinevere asked.

  “Most of the knights who flocked to Arthur left behind everything they had to fight at his side. He claimed them as brothers and gave them rooms in the castle.” She turned and pointed to the lowest level. “They all live there, in their own chambers. Arthur says they are the foundation of his strength.”

  “He values them very much.”

  “He does. And his love is reciprocated.” She returned her attention to the city. “Doubtless you will be forced to sit through many meals at these manors. No reason to linger here. I want to show you my Camelot. Pull your hood a little closer. If no one recognizes you, we will move easier.”

  Brangien’s happiness was contagious. Guinevere’s own feet moved faster, nearly dancing down the path. “Do you spend a lot of time in the city?”

  “I do! Or, I did. There was not much for me to do before the castle finally got her lady.” Brangien turned to Guinevere. “But do not take that to mean I am not glad you are here! It is a relief to be useful again. It has been so long since I lost Isolde.”

  “You were Isolde’s maid? I thought you were with Sir Tristan.”

  “I was hers first.” She cut off the conversation with another determined smile. Brangien offered smiles in place of explanations. “The aqueducts are back to water today.” She pointed upward. Guinevere followed the lines of them, twin tubes going alongside the road and then veering to either side down through the city.

  “It is a clever system. I have never seen its like.” Guinevere had never seen a city, period, but Brangien did not know that.

  “We do not have wells. The rivers provide our water. It would be such a chore going down to the lake and then hiking to the heights of the city or the castle. There is a saying among servants when things go wrong. ‘Could be buckets.’ Their way of reminding each other to look on the bright side of things. At least they are not breaking their backs hauling endless buckets of water up these streets!”

  Guinevere understood. She had to step carefully to avoid breaking into a run, pulled as they were by the slope of the streets. The homes and shops were all built at an angle. Most doors were on the lake side of the hill. She peered into an open one to see a tiny entry, the floor sloping sharply upward toward the castle. Shelves had been put there, a clever use of the space. The streets seemed unplanned, like tributaries branching out from the castle. Houses and buildings had been put in wherever they could be.

  As she and Brangien got lower, the buildings grew closer together, jostling and nudging each other for space. Barrels of water were placed at regular intervals.

  “What are the barrels for, if you have the aqueducts?”

  “Fire,” Brangien said. “There are bells on every street. If they ring, everyone runs out and commands their assigned barrels.”

  A fire would eat up this hill with terrifying speed. Many of the buildings were stone, but they were mingled with enough wooden structures that it would be devastating and deadly.

  “Mind the little shit,” Brangien said.

  Guinevere looked at her, shocked. Brangien laughed, covering her mouth in embarrassment. “Oh, I am sorry, my lady. That is his title.” She pointed to a scrappy boy pulling a cart straight up the hill. “He collects the night’s chamber pot offerings and disposes of them out beyond the lake. In Uther’s day, these streets ran with piss and offal. Actually, they called this Pissway. Arthur imposed fines for dumping into the streets. He uses the money to pay the little shits. Now the streets are clean, but the old names are harder to wash away. Some have started calling Pissway the Castle Way, which is nicer. And the merchants on Shitstreet have been campaigning vigorously for people to call it Market Street. But it is so much less satisfying to say.”

  Guinevere laughed. She could not help it. Perhaps a princess would not have found this funny, but she certainly did. She had never thought through the sheer logistics of this many people in a small space. Nor had she ever considered that a king would have to figure out how to deal with the chamber pots of a thousand citizens. In her head, it had been all swords and battles and glory and magic.

  A city was its own kind of magic, though. Complicated and filled with ever-moving parts. Arthur was responsible for all of them. Guinevere was already overwhelmed with the city, and they had barely come across any people. It was wonderful and terrible and new.

  Perhaps Merlin should have spent more time taking her into cities than giving her knot magic.

  Brangien pointed out various shops. Most of the buildings had residences on the upper floors and a shop on the bottom. Smithies were all on the plain beyond the lake, along with slaughterhouses and anything else that either could not fit in the limited space of Camelot’s slopes or was too offensively scented to intermingle with homes.

  “Every third day, one of which is tomorrow,” Brangien said, “we have a market beyond the lake. People come from all the hamlets and villages to trade and buy. Special markets happen every new moon. That is when you can find more unusual things. Spices. Silk, sometimes! My father and uncle were silk traders. They walked across the world to get here, hiding their wares the whole way by taking turns in the cart pretending to have the plague.” She looked both sad and fond. “My father bought a better life for himself. My family was well-to-do and respected thanks to him. That is how I got a position as Isolde’s lady’s maid.” Forcibly breaking free from the past—though Guinevere wanted to hear more—Brangien continued. “Special markets also have horses and weapons and food and shoes and anything you can imagine. Traders come from all over. King Arthur’s fees are fair,
and everyone knows they will be safe in his borders. Last time, there was a juggler, and acrobats. I cannot wait to show you.”

  “It sounds wonderful.” It sounded chaotic. And like the perfect place for a magical attack against Arthur. The more she walked through Camelot, the more she saw how inhospitable it would be to the Dark Queen’s fairies and minions. All these people, this ancient, sleeping stone, the metal on doors and windows. What threat had Merlin seen coming? Why could he not have been more specific? The Dark Queen was dead and defeated, but her type of magic—wild and devouring—lived on. Guinevere had seen it herself on the way here.

  “Is there anything you need today?” Brangien asked. “Most things we will have to get at the markets, but some of the shops might have a ready supply.”

  “No, thank you. I cannot think of anything I lack.” Nothing that any of the shops would sell, anyhow. Though she would have to go through her box of jewels. Certain stones held magic in special ways. And no one would look askance at a king wearing jewels.

  It would be her next task. For now, they were midway through the city. The shape of the slope evened out here before dropping again dramatically closer to the lake. It was the flattest ground they had been on. Guinevere heard shouting and whirled, alarmed.

  “Oh!” Brangien said. “I can show you something truly exciting.” Brangien turned down a side street and they came to a round building. It was the largest Guinevere had seen besides the castle.

  “This is newer than the castle, but still old. Before Uther Pendragon. He built nothing.” Brangien led her through a dark stone arch and into the brilliant sunlight.

  It was not a building, exactly. There was no roof. The walls encompassed a flat, dirt-packed circle. Several levels of seats were built into the walls. Those seats were nearly all filled, and they held the source of the roaring shouts. Around the circle, various rings had been set up, marked by chalk in the dirt. Weapons lined the walls. And within the rings, men battled.