It was for Arthur, though. She threw the cloak around herself, hastily tying knots of shadow and confusion. She could not risk being recognized. With that in place, she darted back to the main street. Her speed had worked. Just ahead of her at the docks she saw the woman Rhoslyn being loaded onto a ferry alongside several paying passengers. Guinevere took a deep breath and stepped aboard.
And immediately regretted it. The ferry dipped and lurched. Before she could turn around, they had pushed off.
“For Arthur,” she whispered to herself, closing her eyes and hugging herself against the dread and panic. She was here to protect Arthur. This was how she could do it.
The ferry was crowded enough that Guinevere was bumped and jostled in the midst of others. It was oddly comforting. She had nothing to hold on to, but they were packed so tightly that she could not fall. And there were bodies—living, breathing, pungent bodies—between her and the water.
Rhoslyn and her guards were on the far end. Guinevere wanted to study the other woman, but it was all she could do to keep breathing in the midst of the existential dread that filled her with every creak of the ferry.
After an eternity, the ferry met the other side of the lake. She was pushed off in the press of bodies around her. At some point—she genuinely did not know when—she had latched on to the arm of an older man. He kept peering at her, his eyes narrowed in confusion, as he tried to figure out who she was. Her own head ached as her knots struggled to hold back his attempts to see past the magic.
She let go of his arm and walked in the opposite direction. As soon as she was out of his immediate sight, he turned the other way, a mildly baffled look on his face.
The soldiers loaded Rhoslyn, pale-faced and trembling, into a cart pulled by a solitary horse. Guinevere was relieved. She could not have kept up had they all been mounted. Stealing a horse from Arthur’s stable was an option, but a risky one. And she could not very well demand one as the queen. She would not be allowed out on her own. The ruse that kept her close to Arthur also complicated things in such an aggravating manner.
The soldiers kept to a clear road. Guinevere maintained a cautious distance, passing the occasional traveler heading toward Camelot. All their eyes slid away from her. Her head was light, her vision slightly blurred, but she would not abandon her mission.
After two hours, the soldiers turned off the main road and took a less-traveled path through fields toward a looming forest. Arthur had not cut down all the forests in Camelot’s realm. Some were still needed for wood and hunting. But this was the beginning of the end of his land. Guinevere’s feet were sore, her throat parched. If she had known tracking a witch would be part of her day, she would have prepared differently.
At last the soldiers stopped. Rhoslyn was lifted out of the cart and set on the forest floor without ceremony.
“Good luck,” one of the soldiers said. The rest shared a conspiratorial laugh. Guinevere thought it odd that none of them gave the witch a final warning to stay out of Camelot, or instructions, or anything of the sort. She tucked herself against an ancient, gnarled tree as the soldiers passed her.
Their casual attitude made much more sense when, as soon as they were gone, six men on horses melted from the trees.
“Hello, witch,” one of the men said, baring his teeth in a sneer.
Guinevere’s heart seized. Each of the men held a thick wooden club. Was this Arthur’s justice, then?
“You cannot do this,” Rhoslyn said, her voice small and frightened. “I was banished. Not sentenced to death.”
“Ah, but this is not Camelot, is it?” The leader looked around the trees, holding his arms wide. “I see no king here. Which means you are no longer under his protection. And we do not look as kindly on witches as the benevolent king does.”
Guinevere was frozen in the shadows. Violence simmered, ready to boil forth. She had come here to hunt Rhoslyn and find out how she was a threat to Arthur. Would she stand hidden while the woman was beaten to death?
The leader raised his club. Guinevere stepped out onto the path. She did not know what to do—what she should do—but surely this was not right.
An arrow whistled through the air, landing with perfect precision in the center of the leader’s hand, pinning it to the club. He screamed in agony and surprise. Two more arrows found targets, one in a leg and the other squarely in a chest. That man slumped and fell from his horse. Several more arrows flew through the air as the leader shouted and the survivors turned their horses and galloped away into the cover of the trees.
Not defenseless, then. Or at least not undefended. Guinevere slipped back into the embrace of the tree as a man on a brown horse rode up and dismounted.
Rhoslyn let out a sob and threw her arms around his neck. He lifted her onto the horse, revealing a familiar face.
The patchwork knight.
Just as the men had been waiting to ambush Rhoslyn, the patchwork knight had been waiting to save her. He and Rhoslyn were working together. Guinevere had been right. She waited until they had disappeared, then left the shelter of her tree. Even if she could follow the trail, she could not say how long it would take. They were mounted; she was not. And she could not stay away from Camelot any longer. She had lingered too long already.
Her knots did not make her unnoticeable to insects, and she wearily swatted them away. The cloak was too heavy for the sullen summer heat. She was sticky and exhausted and more determined than ever. She would return and face this threat as soon as she could.
It would be a long walk back to Camelot. She would not get there before dark, which was going to make everything a lot more difficult to explain. Particularly to Brangien, who would not miss the fact that her queen had not spent the night in the castle. Would Brangien alert the guards? Guinevere puzzled through possible excuses and solutions.
Her other line of thought concerned what to do about Rhoslyn and the knight. What were they plotting?
Arthur’s laws and rules were better for the kingdom, but that did not mean they were better for everyone. Rhoslyn could be angry and powerful enough to pose a threat. Especially when conspiring with the patchwork knight. Guinevere cracked her knuckles, anticipating the knots she would tie to meet that threat.
A snapping twig to her right startled her. She drew the dagger Arthur had bought her and raised it against—
The horse of the man who had died. It took a hesitant step toward her. Closing her eyes and releasing a breath of gratitude and relief, Guinevere sheathed her knife and mounted the horse.
“Good girl,” she said, then raced the horse back to Camelot.
Arthur was still away when Guinevere slipped into the castle just before curfew. If Brangien had noted her absence, she said nothing while preparing her queen for bed.
Brangien’s preparations were for naught. Guinevere lay awake all night, plotting. Thinking. What was her best course of attack? Confront the patchwork knight directly, or try to find any other of Rhoslyn’s allies within the city? Alert Arthur so he and his men could hunt her down?
The whispers of Drown her haunted Guinevere. The callous abandonment of the soldiers, knowing what awaited the woman, whose only punishment was supposed to be banishment.
But this was the threat. These were the stakes. Arthur made difficult decisions every day as king; she would do the same. Besides, this was her fight. Her duty. Not the soldiers’. So she would deal with it herself rather than send armed men against something they might not be able to face. She sat up the next morning, eager to get started.
It was a mistake. Brangien noticed her vigor and seized upon it.
“It is time to begin your visits.”
“My what?”
“Your visits. To the other ladies.”
Guinevere slumped. “Must we?”
“It is a duty of the queen.”
Once again Gui
nevere cursed Merlin and Arthur’s idea to have her be queen. She should have come here as a maid! The business of being queen demanded so much, and took her away from her duties of protecting Arthur.
As Guinevere and Brangien stood outside the castle gates, gazing down at the manors, Guinevere felt nearly as much fear as she had going on the ferry. She was not ready. “I do not want to do this,” she whispered.
Brangien shrugged. “Could be buckets. Sir Bors has no wife, so we are in luck there. We never have to visit him. I would recommend visiting Sir Percival’s wife and Sir Caradoc’s wife on the same day. They will of course be offended no matter what the order, but at least that will keep them in close enough proximity that we can maintain the illusion of neutrality. Then—”
“Can we start with Dindrane?”
“Dindrane?” Brangien, aghast, looked at Guinevere. “Dindrane is the spinster sister of Sir Percival. She can be included in our visit to Blanchefleur. You will have to take a meal with her eventually, but next month. Or the month after. Dindrane does not matter at all.”
“Exactly. No one can be offended if we visit her first. The ladies will be too surprised and confused. And it will be nice to cut my teeth on visits by starting with someone who ‘does not matter at all.’ ”
Brangien’s frown shifted as she considered it. Finally, she nodded. “It might be a brilliant opening gambit. Or it is the worst decision you have made so far as queen.”
“Thank you for your vote of confidence.”
Brangien grinned mischievously. “I just want to cover all possible outcomes so no matter how this plays out, I can say I did warn you.”
“What would I do without you?” Guinevere linked her arm through Brangien’s and they headed down the street to Sir Percival’s manor. Brangien knocked on the front door, but was informed by a servant that Dindrane entertained in her own room. She promised she would let Dindrane know they were there, then directed them around the side of the house to an alley so narrow it only received light a handful of hours every day.
They entered through a side door. The room was tiny and dim. The main light came through a door left open to the rest of the house. From the looks of it, the next room was her sister-in-law’s bedroom. Which meant Dindrane’s only options for coming in and out were to go around outside or to go through Blanchefleur’s room.
The manor was large enough to accommodate giving Dindrane her own set of rooms. Even Guinevere, uneducated in the subtle arts at play here, understood the power Blanchefleur was wielding. She used her social status as a spell to keep Dindrane in place.
Dindrane burst in from the outside door. Her face was flushed and her hands red and raw. It looked as though she had been cleaning. But she held her head high and greeted Guinevere with a polished curtsy—that doubled as cover as she kicked the door to Blanchefleur’s bedroom shut. “Apologies, my queen. I did not expect you. Usually when I have callers, they send word ahead of time to make certain I am available. You are fortunate. My schedule is quite full.”
“Thank you for making time to see us.” Guinevere sat in one of the two worn chairs that Dindrane gestured toward. Brangien stood against the wall as Dindrane took the other chair. Dindrane’s clothing was nice—it would have reflected poorly on Sir Percival if it were not. But her hair held no jewels and something about the way her sleeves strained made it clear they had been sewn for another body. Her eyes were clever and sharp, a pleasant warm brown, and her hair shone chestnut, well cared-for.
“I am afraid I have no refreshment to offer. I have just finished entertaining.”
Guinevere allowed her the lie. “Oh, we have already eaten. But it is kind of you to worry about us. I did not get a chance to speak with you at the wedding celebration and wanted to get to know you.”
“Mmm.” Dindrane smiled tightly. The silence was as close and confining as the room. Finally, she leaned forward. “Your hair is lovely. Is that the style in the south? It certainly is not the style here. But it suits you. I could never be so brave as to wear my hair like that.” Dindrane’s smile stayed firmly in place. Guinevere was positive she was being insulted. It was delightful. Everyone else was so careful with her, but Dindrane came prepared for battle.
“Have you always been so pale?” Dindrane asked, tilting her head to the side. “It does make your freckles stick out so. But the only solution is to spend more time in the sun, which will cause more freckles.”
Guinevere laughed. She could not help it. She had no desire for an enemy, and no need to feel insulted. She suspected Dindrane could use a friend even more than she herself could. At least she had Arthur. What must it be like, owing everything to your brother and the sister-in-law who obviously hated you? If Guinevere was out of place and struggling, Dindrane was, too. “I like you very much, Dindrane. I hope you will let me visit you often. And I would love to have you visit me, as well.”
Dindrane wilted, disarmed. “You would?”
“I have had no company but nuns for several years. I should very much like to consider you a friend. Or a sister, even.”
Dindrane’s smile was hesitant but genuine. “I have always wanted a sister.”
“You have a sister,” Brangien muttered, eyes on her ever-present sewing.
“My brother has a wife. That woman is not my sister.”
Guinevere reached out and took her hand. Dindrane gave no strong impression. It was reassuring. If she were a threat, Guinevere would feel it. Dindrane felt as Dindrane looked: tired and stubborn and the tiniest bit hopeful. “Allow me to be your sister, then. Would you accompany us to the chapel today? I need someone to sit by, since the king is away.”
Dindrane pretended to consider it, as though it were not a tremendous honor that could not be passed up. Guinevere knew whoever she sat by would be remarked on and noticed. Guinevere had wanted to sit by Mordred, but this was a better option. It would cause gossip, but no damage. Finally, Dindrane nodded. “I would be happy to assist you.” She smiled as though she were doing Guinevere a favor. “Your maid can help me dress before we go.”
Brangien’s expression indicated this was not an option. Guinevere stood. “Oh, I am very sorry, but we needed to pick up…a…”
“New thread,” Brangien finished, tucking away her sewing. “We will meet you in front of the manor when you are ready.”
It was a relief to escape Dindrane’s cramped room. They walked a fair distance in silence. Guinevere wondered if they really were going to get thread to complete the charade. Finally, Brangien spoke.
“Dindrane? Really? You choose Dindrane?”
“She is harmless.”
“I would not have been harmless had I been forced to dress her.”
Guinevere laughed, tugging Brangien to a stop in a glorious shaft of sunlight. “I promise you will never have to help her.”
“You are helping her enough for both of us.” But Brangien softened, tipping her face up to the light and closing her eyes. “You are like the king.”
“How so?”
“He sees value in everyone. You are a good match.”
The warmth in Guinevere came from more than the sun. She wanted to be like Arthur. But the warmth was pierced with a nagging worry. Rhoslyn was still out there. Even now, she could have agents within the city. Guinevere was not here to be a good match for Arthur. She was here to save him.
But first, church. Being queen was absurd. The last thing she should be worried about was making an appearance to support a religion she neither understood nor cared about. But it was Arthur’s religion, and thus had to be hers. She rubbed unconsciously at her wrists, tracing the lines where Rhoslyn had been bound. Appearances had to be kept. She had to be above suspicion.
They wandered back to Sir Percival’s manor just as Dindrane hurried out to meet them.
Arthur had built the church in the center of Camelot. It was the on
e new thing he had constructed in his three years as king. They walked there together, Brangien on one side of Guinevere, Dindrane on the other. “You know,” the older woman said, “he was in love with me for a while. The king. Such advances he made! But I thought it best for the kingdom that he find a young wife. One who could bear him many children.”
“You are as noble as you are kind.” Guinevere smiled, grateful for the distraction from her far more real worries. “I am grateful you did not snatch him up when you had the chance.”
Dindrane sniffed dismissively. “He is not really my type. Awful hair. You should make him grow it.” She sat next to Guinevere on the bench nearest the altar. It did not go unnoticed by those already gathered. Dindrane glowed with pleasure at the whispers.
Guinevere had never actually attended a Christian church service before. Merlin had no use for the Romans’ castoffs. But Arthur had taken to it, and Guinevere could see why. Everyone was gathered in the same large wooden building. The ceiling soared overhead. It was simple but elegant. Clean. They all sat on the same level. Everyone listened to the same prayers, performed the same actions. It was an equalizer. And it gave the people something in common with each other. Something to unify them.
Once the service was done—a relief, as Guinevere had had to pretend to understand Latin, which she most certainly did not—she sat through a meal with another knight’s wife. And then called on another. And another. She saved Blanchefleur for last, and made certain that Dindrane was invited. Blanchefleur positively seethed with resentment.
By the end of the day, Guinevere’s head ached as much as her feet did. Performing queenly duties was almost as exhausting as performing magic. Women truly were the stronger gender. All the subtle games they had to play, the ways they teased power from those around them! She had much to learn there.
The Guinevere Deception Page 13
