She had wanted to explore the market with him. Now it felt pointless. Her mood was dampened further when she and Brangien stepped into the tents…and Mordred was still beside them.
“Did you need something?” Guinevere asked.
“I have been tasked with accompanying you and making certain you have everything you need.” He delivered the news as though they should both be pleased with this arrangement.
“Surely you have something you would rather be doing!”
Mordred’s smile grew. “Not a thing.”
Now she was truly vexed. Away from Arthur and under the ever-watchful gaze of Mordred. But it was hard to hold on to her frustration amidst the sights and smells and sounds of the market. She could not imagine what the big festivals must be like, if this was the smaller market. There were tents and wooden stalls. Shoes, clothing, cloth. Sewing supplies. Fur. How was there this much stuff in the whole world? And this many people to buy it!
“This is the textiles section,” Brangien explained. “Point out anything you like. I can make you any style.”
Brangien did always have a needle in her fingers. Guinevere liked everything, but she needed nothing. She preferred to study. There was so much more here than in any of the paintings she had looked at in the convent. This was real. This was life. And it was vibrant. With no focus directly on her, she was less overwhelmed than she had been at the marriage gathering. She let the chaos wash over her like the warm summer breeze.
Brangien steered her in another direction. “That way was the livestock section. We do not want to go there. We should head to the bakers. There are fines and lost stall space if they weight the bread with stones or sell bad flour, so everything is delicious.”
“Oh, but I want to see the animals!” Guinevere hurried past the butchers and fishmongers. The fish wriggled in barrels of water. Women haggled, arguing and demanding better prices. There was an entire wooden tub writhing with eels. Guinevere looked hastily away, remembering how they had felt when she touched one from the pie.
The animal pens were wonderful, though. Brangien wrinkled her nose, holding a handkerchief there. Guinevere loved the smell, the intense and warm life of it all. Sheep and goats bleated, horses stamped their feet, pigs basked in the sun as their enormous bellies rose and fell with each breath. A young girl, shouting threats, chased a chicken. It ran straight for them; the girl chased it around Guinevere’s skirts.
At last the girl caught it, then looked up in triumph. Her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped when she saw whose skirts she had been trampling around.
“That is a very fine chicken,” Guinevere said. “Does it have a name?”
“My pa calls them all the same thing.”
“And what is that?”
The girl’s eyes grew even wider. “I cannot say in front of a lady.” Then she whispered it, unable to stop herself. “He calls them Shit-for-Brains.”
Brangien coughed. Mordred looked away. Guinevere laughed. “I think that is an excellent name for a chicken. Go and return Shit-for-Brains to where she belongs.”
The girl grinned, gaps where her front teeth should have been. Then she ran away.
“Poor thing,” Guinevere said. “So young to have already lost teeth.”
Brangien frowned. “She is exactly the right age for that.”
“She will go her whole life without teeth!” Was it that common among the poorer classes to have no teeth?
Mordred and Brangien shared a puzzled look. “They grow back,” Brangien said. “You remember losing your baby teeth. The small ones fall out to make room for the big ones.”
Guinevere remembered no such thing. The idea that children were running around with two sets of teeth in their mouths—one lurking beneath the gums, waiting to burst free—was horrifying. She must have lost hers too young to remember. She was glad.
But Brangien and Mordred still watched her. She needed to redirect. She could not explain to them why she had so many gaps in her memories. She shied away from the thought that she could not even explain it to herself.
“Look! Horses.” Guinevere hurried over to them, leaning against the wood planks that had been erected as a pen. “They are lovely.”
She had never ridden a horse before leaving the convent. While the first days had been incredibly painful, she loved the great gentle beasts. A velvet nose appeared, nudging her hand to explore for treats. She rubbed its head, pleased to find that she got a sense of it. It was subtle. Nothing so dramatic and horrible as the eel.
The horse seemed to find her…familiar. There was the slightest hum of kinship. “Hello, friend,” she whispered. The horse neighed in gentle reprimand, fixing one large brown eye on her as if expecting something.
Brangien held out an apple, but the horse paid it no mind. It stared at Guinevere for a few more seconds, then huffed and turned away.
“My queen likes animals,” Mordred said. He was leaning against the fence turned outward, watching the crowds. Anyone noticing him would think he looked bored. But Guinevere saw the way his eyes never stopped moving, never stopped taking in information. He was protecting her. She did not need a guard. Her annoyance at the charade of queendom resurged. She was here as a protector, not someone needing protection.
“I like them very much,” she snapped.
“Me, too.” The horse had begun nudging Mordred’s shoulder. Mordred leaned his face in and whispered something. The horse nuzzled him, pushing gently so that Mordred would wrap his arms around the horse’s neck. Mordred rubbed the horse’s neck, then patted it and whispered something else.
Mordred straightened. “Shall we find something to eat? There is a spice merchant here who sells roasted nuts the likes of which you have never experienced.”
“Very well.” Guinevere let Mordred lead them back through the crowds. Brangien did not trust him, and Guinevere herself felt him a threat. But he had been genuinely loving with the horse, and the horse had seemed to trust him. Animals could sense things where people could not. Perhaps she had been wrong about Mordred. Arthur, too, trusted him. And she could not resent him for protecting his queen. Allowing herself to be guarded was a necessary part of her deception.
Mordred procured the nuts for them. The first one burst on Guinevere’s tongue like sparks of flame. “Oh!” She put a hand to her mouth. She did not want to spit out the nut, but the sensation was so surprising.
Mordred laughed. “I should have warned you. It is not to everyone’s taste.”
“No, I—” Guinevere could not manage to get the words out. Her tongue was burning. Mordred handed her his own leather canteen, and she drank far faster than was feminine.
He reached into her packet of nuts and took several. She passed the entire thing to him. It was an acquired taste, apparently, and one she had no interest in acquiring.
After that, things were different. Easier. Mordred was very good at pretending to be at ease instead of guarding her, so she resolved to pretend, too. Mordred pointed out various merchants he knew. They all seemed to like him, or at least to like how free he was with his purse. Everyone around them haggled and bickered over prices, but Mordred always paid the first price they asked.
“You are being taken advantage of,” Brangien complained as he handed her a length of pretty yellow cloth he had noticed her eyeing. Two women standing in the shadows of a stall were having a furtive conversation. One held something clutched in her hand. Guinevere narrowed her eyes, trying to see what it was.
It looked like…a rock. The woman who had taken it hurried away. Guinevere took a step to follow. There was something familiar about her.
Mordred shifted, blocking her view. By the time she glanced around him, the woman was lost to the crowed.
“Am I being taken advantage of?” Mordred asked. “If I can afford to pay it, and they can use the extra coin, why should I not agree
to their prices?” He waved to a hat merchant, who returned the gesture with affection.
“Brangien,” Guinevere asked, keeping her voice low, “is there something special about…rocks? Some value?”
“Rocks?” Brangien frowned. “What kind of rocks?”
“Just…rocks. Any reason to sell or trade them?”
“Cobblestones, perhaps. A farmer might trade them as wall material, I suppose. I cannot think of any other value.”
“Mordred!” a voice shouted through the din. Mordred closed his eyes, his face twisting in disdain. Then his smile slipped back into place, but it was no longer a genuine smile. It was an eel, twisting and sliding and straining.
“Sir Ector. Sir Kay.” Mordred bowed to two men. The first was older, in his forties. He was shaped like a gourd, with four twigs stuck in for arms and legs and a head balanced on top. He blew a gust of air through a tremendous mustache. Guinevere could smell the ale from this distance.
The second was a younger man, probably in his twenties. He had a long face and a long nose, thin lips, small and squinting eyes. He was a younger version of the first man. His belly had only just begun to expand and his arms and legs still seemed in proportion, but Guinevere could see his future. Father and son.
“So you must be our Art’s new bride.” Sir Ector looked her up and down as though she were in a stall and he were debating whether she was worth the price asked. “Small, you are. Nice hair. Nice teeth. From the south?”
Guinevere did not know how to respond. She nodded dumbly, not wanting to talk and show him more of her teeth lest he find something he did not approve of. The rocks worried at her, but she could not very well go chasing after a woman in the crowd. Besides, it could have been something else. An apple. A hard, gray apple. That seemed likely. What threat was a woman with a rock, though? Guinevere was here to protect Arthur from magic. Not from stones.
“Queen Guinevere,” Mordred said, annoyance making his voice thin and tight. “May I present you to Sir Ector and Sir Kay, knights of Camelot.”
“And father of the king!” Sir Ector said, puffing his chest out so it almost matched his belly.
She knew who they were, of course. Merlin had taken Arthur when he was a baby. And, when he realized he could not raise a king, he had given the young boy Arthur to a knight to be trained in the things he would need to know.
But…this knight? Merlin was a mystery, certainly, but nothing he had ever done had made less sense to her than the man he had delivered the future king to.
“Sorry we were not at the wedding,” Sir Kay said, smiling. He was missing several teeth. She did not think they would grow back, but she refused to ask. “We were crusading. And the marriage was such a hasty affair! We got word too late.”
“Crusading,” Mordred repeated, his tone dry.
“Yes, crusading. We heard of a lord to the southeast, holding maidens captive. So we went to investigate.”
“And?”
Sir Ector shrugged, his leather armor creaking. It was cracked and worn. Several stains looked less like blood and more like wine. “It turned out he has a lot of daughters. Many, many daughters. He tried to convince us to take a few with us. But who has time for women?”
“Who indeed,” Brangien muttered.
“Do you live in Camelot?” Guinevere asked, knowing as queen she should be able to make conversation with Arthur’s adoptive father and brother, but at a loss for topics.
“No, not for us.” Sir Kay eyed a stand of ale appraisingly. “We are traveling knights. Always have been.”
“Mercenaries,” Mordred said.
“Mercenaries hire themselves to kings and tyrants. We provide our services to the lowly. To the needy.”
Mordred leaned close so only Guinevere heard his words. “To those so desperate they cannot afford better.”
“Come.” Sir Ector clapped her on the shoulder. Though his arms were spindly, his hands were huge and the blow was unintentionally jarring. “Sit with us. I want to get to know Art’s wife.”
“I thought she would be taller.” Sir Kay signaled to the ale merchant that they would be purchasing.
“Pretty enough, though, if you like them small.”
Guinevere’s face burned. Did everyone talk about her this way, but they were too polite to let her hear it? Brangien glared at the knights’ backs. Mordred looked longingly toward the center of the market.
“We could lose them in the crowd,” he whispered.
“They are my husband’s family.”
“I am your husband’s family. They are an embarrassment.”
Sir Ector waved for them to join him and Sir Kay. “I found us a tent! We can have a nice drink in the shade.”
Guinevere really did want to continue exploring with Mordred and Brangien. But it would be rude. And while she was fine with being rude, the queen could not be. With an apologetic grimace for Mordred, she followed Sir Ector and Sir Kay into a cramped tent. The men sat on the floor, leaving the two chairs for her and Brangien. Brangien immediately pulled sewing out of her bag, cutting herself off from the conversation. Mordred lingered at the entrance to the tent.
“I will be right outside,” he said, apparently deciding he preferred the glare of the sun to the company of Sir Ector and Sir Kay.
Guinevere did not find either of them appealing. But she was intrigued. What had Merlin seen that made him think Arthur would best be served by being raised by them? It took nearly thirty minutes for them to get drunk enough that their stories became interesting. Then Guinevere’s patience was rewarded and she understood Merlin’s decision.
“Back, what, ten years ago?” Sir Ector asked.
“Ten years.” Sir Kay nodded, staring into his empty tankard.
“Uther Pendragon was still in charge. And I am not saying I am unhappy with Art being king. Makes a great king.”
“A pretty good king,” Sir Kay said with a shrug.
“But our lives were much easier under Uther Pendragon.”
Guinevere frowned. “I thought he was a terrible, violent tyrant.”
“Oh, he was! Absolutely. Meant there was a lot of work for knights-for-hire such as ourselves. When the king thinks nothing of using a sorcerer to help him, ah, conquer another man’s wife—meanwhile having that man killed—well, you can imagine what was going on in the countryside.”
“Not to mention the fairies,” Sir Kay added.
Sir Ector blew a noisy, wet blast of air between his lips. “Fairies. Bah.” He patted his sword affectionately.
Sir Kay raised his glass. “Poor Igraine, though. I hear she was beautiful.”
“Had to have been, for Uther to go to all that trouble.”
Brangien stabbed her needle into the cloth. Guinevere did not blame her for her silent rage at the way these men were speaking of Arthur’s mother. Merlin had told her the story. Uther Pendragon, warlord king, had seen the Lady Igraine during a treaty negotiation. He had tried to get her to his bed, but she refused him. She loved her husband deeply. And Uther wanted that more than he wanted her. He wanted to feel what it was to be so loved by a woman. Uther lured Lady Igraine’s husband into a battle, trapping him there. Using dark magic, he disguised himself as her husband and entered her chambers in the middle of the night, declaring the battle won. And then he took what she willingly gave to the husband she loved. But it meant nothing, changed nothing, because she did not love him. Who could?
He left her husband dead and Arthur in her womb.
Igraine had older children. Mordred’s mother was among them. Morgan le Fay, Mordred’s mother and Arthur’s half sister, wanted vengeance. When Arthur was born, Lady Igraine died of a fever. Morgan le Fay planned to kill the child and deliver the body to Uther. That was when Merlin found him and whisked him away.
“Art was too young to fight back then, so we brough
t him along as our page. Oh, he cried when we found that slaughtered village, you remember?”
Sir Kay nodded, wiping his nose. “Cried all night. No use in crying. They were already dead. He was always soft.”
“If you stopped to cry over everyone who died because of Uther Pendragon, you would have your own lake.”
“Might be where Camelot’s lake came from!” Sir Kay slapped his leg as though he had made a funny remark.
“Maybe the Lady of the Lake was dribbled out of his snotty nose!” Sir Ector laughed so hard he turned purple. Finally he caught his breath and took another drink. “Anyway. I was saying. We showed Art what the world was like. Village to village. Even fought a few fairy knights.”
Brangien made a doubtful noise in the back of her throat.
“No one was more surprised than us when he pulled the sword from the stone,” Sir Kay said. “You know about that, right? A great hulking stone with a sword in the middle used to be in the center of Camelot. Old as time. No one knew where or when it was from. But the sword never dimmed or rusted. And on the stone, it was written that only the true king could have the sword. Made old Uther Pendragon furious. He could budge neither the sword nor the stone that held it. No one could. The great mystery of Camelot. And to think! All that time we had the true king with us. Polishing our boots and feeding our horses and cooking our meals!” Sir Kay grinned proudly. “Not many can say they used to whip the king for burning their breakfast. Do you remember that time—”
Guinevere let their storytelling meander. They were lost in their own reminiscing, each filling in details about a time they had been hired by a village to kill a dragon and had tricked the villagers into thinking it was done.
As she heard about what they had seen and done in the years under Uther Pendragon, Merlin’s choice to leave Arthur with them re-formed itself with crystal clarity in her mind. If Arthur had been raised in seclusion in the forest, under the tutelage of a kind wizard, how would he have known the work there was to be done?
He had seen the suffering under his father. He had seen what a tyrant inflicted on the land. He had seen how little use men like Sir Ector and Sir Kay were. And rather than letting that break him, rather than letting the tragedy and violence of his very existence turn him bitter and angry, he had decided to do something about it.
The Guinevere Deception Page 9
