The Guinevere Deception

by Kiersten White

  Had Guinevere not been on a horse, she would have stopped in shock. As it was, she was grateful for the cloak of evening to hide the horror claiming her. Merlin. Merlin had done that. It was the most violent act possible, the taking of someone’s will. She would never have made knots for it, would never have participated in such a deception. Such depravity. But Merlin—her protector, her teacher, her father—had. “How could he?” she whispered.

  “Merlin saw that the world needed a new kind of king. So he made it happen.” Mordred sighed, patting his horse’s neck. “I do not agree with what he did. It was my grandmother who was violated by a man she thought was her husband. But without it, Arthur would not be here.” He held out his arms to the peaceful, rolling countryside. “We cannot deny the end result. Merlin saw what Camelot demanded, and he created the means for it. He engineered his own banishment, in a way. The wizard is a puzzle. But Camelot is a success.”

  “And all the suffering and loss it took to get here?” Guinevere asked, devastated and heartbroken for herself. For Igraine. For Arthur. For Mordred. For all the lives that had been stained by the darkness of Merlin’s choice.

  “Such is the cost of progress.” Mordred glanced at her. Apparently some of her emotion was evident even in the near-darkness. His voice went soft. “I am sorry. I should not speak of such things to a lady. It was indelicate of me.”

  “No, I am glad. I would rather know the truth. I do not like being behind walls, either in the castle or in Arthur’s life.” Or her own.

  Merlin had done that. He had done that, and not told her.

  What else did he keep from her? How could she trust him? And if she could not trust the wizard who chose her to protect Arthur, how could she trust herself?

  * * *

  It was fully dark when they reached Arthur’s camp. He stood at the edge, waiting. Her anticipation of seeing him had turned tense and sour in light of Mordred’s revelations. They had much to discuss. Too much. Arthur helped Guinevere down from her horse, then surprised her by giving her a quick but fierce embrace.

  “Thank you for coming,” he whispered against her ear.

  “Of course.” She could feel the heat in her cheeks at his nearness. “We need to talk. Alone.”

  He put her hand on his elbow and walked her into the camp. “I am sorry to bring you here. It will be unpleasant. And dangerous.”

  She squeezed his elbow. “I am here to protect you. However that happens.” Some of her anxiety loosened at his words. It was irrational to be relieved at being put in danger, but at least she had not been pulled from her campaign against Rhoslyn and the patchwork knight for nothing.

  The camp was bigger than she had expected. Not only did Arthur have all his knights with him, he also had a hundred fighting men.

  “Do you expect a fight?” she asked.

  “What?” Arthur lifted a tent flap, bringing her into a dim, enclosed space. The ground was covered in furs. Though it was summer, the nights still had teeth.

  “So many men.”

  “Oh. No. The fight did not happen. Gildas and Geoffrey, two lords, were feuding, and it was spilling over my borders. I had to remind them to keep their quarrels to themselves.” He paused, and his smile was weary. “They do not want me to become one of their problems. Showing up on their doorstep with this many men was a good reminder. For the meeting with the Pictish king, most of the men will stay here. I will take only my best knights. Enough to appear powerful without outright challenging King Nechtan. Gildas and Geoffrey will come, too, to show that everything here is stable and there is no room for the Picts to move down. And I had to bring you as a show of trust and friendship. I tried to think of another way, but your absence would have been an insult.”

  “It sounds complicated.”

  He flopped onto the furs and put his forearm over his eyes. “It is. Why do people get bored with peace? Why is a border seen as a challenge rather than a barrier?”

  “But even you fight battles that are not your own.”

  He lowered his arm and peered at her. “What do you mean?”

  She settled next to him, sitting with her skirts tucked under her. “You fought back a forest that did not threaten any of your land.”

  He grinned sheepishly, caught. “Perhaps even I can get bored with peace sometimes.”

  “That is not it.” She poked him in the side. “You see all men as your responsibility. You cannot deny anyone who needs your help.”

  He closed his eyes. Though he had been fighting and working nonstop, he did not look exhausted. He looked…ready. As though at any moment he could leap up and storm a forest, fight back fairy knights, or negotiate peace with human ones.

  She did not feel the same. She was tired and sore after a long day’s riding, not to mention heartsick and confused over Mordred’s revelations about Merlin. Her hands still tingled, but now they ached, as well. She needed to rest. Especially if she had to draw on strength reserves for magic tomorrow. She shook out her hands, for all the good it did in dispelling the remaining pins and needles. “We need a better way to communicate. I was in the middle of something in Camelot.”

  Arthur sat up, alarmed. “What?”

  “There is a woman. Rhoslyn. I have seen her before, talking to the patchwork knight. She was caught practicing magic and banished.”

  Arthur nodded; he looked sad but not surprised. “It is against the law.”

  “I followed her. When your soldiers left her on the southern border, men were waiting to kill her.”

  At this he did look surprised, and angry. “My men?”

  “No. I do not think so. But I am fairly certain your soldiers knew about it and left Rhoslyn to die.”

  Arthur rubbed his face. “I do not want those who are banished to be killed, or even harmed. They cannot be in Camelot, but that does not mean they cannot live freely elsewhere. Thank you for telling me. I will see to it that things change.”

  “That is not the point of my story. She was not killed. The patchwork knight saved her.”

  “He did? You saw him fight?”

  “It was barely a fight.”

  Arthur’s eyes shone brightly. “I wish I had seen it!”

  “Arthur! Please focus.” Guinevere shook her head at his sheepish expression. “The knight obviously knew where she would be left, as well. After he fought off the attackers, they both went deeper into the forest. Together.”

  Arthur frowned. “I do not understand. Where is the problem?”

  “They are your enemies! Camelot’s enemies. I found remnants of her magic in Camelot, and sensed far more of it in the forest on your border. They are plotting something. And I think we cannot wait to find out what it is.”

  Arthur shifted, humming low in his throat. “She was banished. If she is not within my borders, I have no claim. Who am I to tell her she cannot do as she will outside my lands?”

  “This is a threat.”

  “Then when it comes within Camelot’s boundaries, we will face it.”

  “Why wait, when we know where she is? When we know she works with the patchwork knight?”

  Finally, the exhaustion showed in Arthur’s face. His smile lines disappeared, and his eyelids drew lower. “Because I refuse to be a warlord king. Not like my father. I will leave my borders to defend innocents, but never to attack.”

  Guinevere hung her head. She could not argue with him on this. But she did not agree with allowing his enemies the time they needed to build an attack. Arthur was generous and noble.

  She could not afford to be. She would take care of it alone. She would fortify Camelot, and, when she got the opportunity, she would do what Arthur could not and would not.

  Was this how Merlin made his decision? She cringed at the thought.

  “Did you hurt your hands?” Arthur asked.

  “Oh.” She look
ed down where she had been unconsciously kneading them, trying to counterbalance the fierce ache. “No. Well, yes. But for a good cause. Magic always has a price.”

  Arthur took her right hand between his. His hands were big and calloused, but his fingers worked with precision as he began massaging her palm in circles. Guinevere stifled a small gasp.

  Arthur froze. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, it feels—it feels nice.” It felt more than nice.

  Arthur tugged her hand, gently guiding her to his side. She leaned against him and he worked the numbness and pain out of both her hands. His skin on hers was like magic.

  She wondered what the price would be.

  “It is such a relief to be able to touch you,” Arthur said, startling Guinevere from where she had almost dozed off against his shoulder. “I have to be so careful with women. There are a lot of rules. And people are always watching.”

  “Yes, I have noticed that. And I have missed you. Every day is filled with lying about my very self. When I am with you, I do not have to.”

  Arthur’s motions paused, then became softer as he massaged down each of her delicate fingers. “Keeping secrets is like a thorn beneath the skin. You can get used to it, but it is always there, festering.”

  She opened her mouth to ask him about Merlin, about what he had done to Igraine. But she did not want to bring that much darkness and violence into this fragile, safe space they had.

  Besides, it was Merlin who had kept the truth from her. Arthur had no blame in this.

  With the pain in her hands lessened, Guinevere felt heavy and dull with exhaustion. She wanted to curl up right here. “Where should I— Where am I sleeping?”

  Arthur sat up straight, dislodging her from his shoulder. “I am sorry. I have kept you too long. You could—” He paused, and she leaned forward, wanting him to invite her to stay. But something closed off in his face and he cleared his throat. “Tonight there is a tent for you and Brangien.”

  She had half thought—perhaps even half hoped—that she would be sharing Arthur’s tent. But she needed to rest. And so did Arthur, of course. The price of the magic of his touch was revealed: it left her wanting more, craving something she had not known she needed until she had it.

  He stood. “Brangien can help you tonight and tomorrow morning, but she cannot accompany us past this point. I will not risk her.”

  Guinevere smiled that she herself was not considered something to be risked—she was a strength, not a weakness. “I can manage fine on my own. I am not so spoiled that I cannot live without a maid.”

  Arthur laughed. “You may yet get there.” He led her to the tent next to his. Brangien was already inside, bustling about. Guinevere entered and Arthur closed the flap.

  Unfortunately, the tent was not thick enough to block out several low laughs and whistles, and one shout of “How was your reunion with your queen?”

  “Get some sleep,” Arthur shouted back. “That is a command!” But he did not sound angry or upset. He sounded playful. He was not going to discourage them from thinking that he had a normal relationship with his wife. After all, the legality of their union depended on it. She shoved away the dangerous thought that she would have preferred to stay in Arthur’s tent, and not just to bolster their ruse.

  She was curious, was all. Increasingly so.

  Brangien scowled. “They are distasteful and stupid. Obviously nothing happened because Arthur could not have done your laces back up by himself. Idiots.”

  “Oh, that reminds me!” Guinevere rushed to cover up her embarrassment at both the men’s assumption and Brangien’s insight. “Can you teach me how to do it on this dress? You are not coming with us tomorrow.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Arthur is afraid it will be dangerous.”

  Brangien scoffed. “No more dangerous than riding across the entire country with these fools.”

  “I could not live with myself if something happened to you.”

  “But it is my job to serve you.”

  Guinevere turned, interrupting Brangien’s progress and forcing her to meet her gaze. “But you are also my friend. If Arthur thinks it is too dangerous to bring you, I trust him. He takes care of his people. I will be fine. Better than fine, because I will know you are safe.”

  Brangien’s eyes lowered. A flash of some emotion Guinevere could not place went over her maid’s face. Then Brangien got back to work, unlacing Guinevere’s sleeves and helping her remove her outer clothes. “Very well. But if you mess up your plaits by riding too fast, I will not be there to fix them, and all the Picts will blame me for your state. My reputation will be ruined.”

  Guinevere dutifully turned around so Brangien could undo her braids and comb out the decidedly unmagical knots. “I promise I will do right by you.”

  “And stay safe,” Brangien whispered.

  “And stay safe,” Guinevere agreed. She hoped it was a promise she could keep.

  There is nothing to hold on to in Camelot. Wings flutter, legs skitter, but the little bodies have nothing to pull them, no source of light to be drawn toward.

  Magic has left Camelot.

  She will have to wait until it returns. But she is hungry. And more than hungry, she is bored. A child has wandered from her parents. The dark queen winks with insects, flashes butterfly wings. Lures the child deeper and deeper into the woods.

  Devours.

  Never sated but not starving, she moves on. She ripples through the earth, nudging against the borders of Camelot. Trying to find a weak spot. Trying to find a place that will allow her, make room for her, feed her.

  A river stops her. It is not any normal river, eternal, rushing, uncaring.

  This river is livid.

  She forgets her hunger. She forgets her boredom. A hundred bats flap into the sky, a colony of darkness against the blue, and if anyone were looking, it would look like a smile. With very sharp teeth.

  Arthur rode with his knights. At the front, at the back, ranging to the outer reaches of their company. He was everywhere except at Guinevere’s side. Even Mordred did not talk to her. No one did. Not as a rejection of her, but as a response to their new situation.

  They were not in Camelot anymore.

  Guinevere had not expected the change to be so sudden and stark, but she could feel when they crossed the border. The fields fell apart, becoming patchy and disorganized. A few shabby villages clung to the borders, but there were no children playing there. The people who watched them pass did so with narrowed eyes and hands on weapons.

  They also skirted around great stretches of forest. Part of Guinevere longed to go through them—she missed the cool green spaces more fiercely than she knew was possible—but the white-knuckled grips the knights kept on their swords reminded Guinevere that these were not Merlin’s trees.

  Their company was twenty-five men strong. All of Arthur’s best knights, plus five servants with packhorses carrying their supplies. They were meeting on the edges of Pict land. Guinevere drew deeper into the shade of her hood as they passed the burned-out shells of an old settlement. The sooner they met the Picts, the sooner they could leave.

  Glad as she was that they had left Brangien behind, she missed her maid and friend. It would have been comforting to share this with someone. Though she was in the center of the men, constantly surrounded, she felt very alone.

  “Not long now,” Mordred murmured, once again at her side. Guinevere had not noticed him. Her hands were busy beneath a shawl she had draped over them. She finally had enough feeling in her fingers to work with the strands of thread she had stolen from Brangien’s things. Her knots were all about confusion, blindness, disguise. If things got bad, she could throw the knots at their enemies and buy some time. But it cost her her own vision. Everything was blurry and indistinct.

  She did not mind a veil bein
g drawn over her eyes to hide the state of the world they rode through. If her journey from the convent had been punctuated by the one strike of terror in the new forest, this one was drawn low with an undercurrent of bleak dread, constantly tugging at them. How did people live out here? How could anything survive this unending stress and fear?

  Arthur called something out and his men stopped as one. Mordred took Guinevere’s horse’s reins. The horses snorted and stamped, impatient.

  “A party is coming to meet us,” Mordred whispered.

  “What should I do?”

  “Exactly what you are.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Look beautiful.”

  Guinevere snorted like her horse. Mordred’s laugh was low and pleased. “No one expects you to speak or understand Pictish. Stay by Arthur’s side or by mine. Do not ever step out anywhere alone, and never let one of their servants or men lead you anywhere. This should be painless.”

  Guinevere relaxed and let her features settle into pleasant, cool detachment. They thought her a decoration. That was good. If she had to attack, no one would expect it.

  She watched as Arthur greeted the man-and-horse-shaped blur that rode up to them. Arthur gestured toward her. Mordred urged their horses forward and she was delivered to her husband’s side.

  Arthur said something in a musical language. She heard her name and inclined her head. The Pictish king, Nechtan, was a bulk of beard and fur and menace as he leaned toward her. He reached out a hand, so she lifted her own. His engulfed hers. He lowered his forehead to the back of her hand, then released her.

  The impression she got from his touch was far sharper than her vision. He was like a falcon. Circling. Watchful. Predatory. But not immediately threatening.

  They were led into camp. Arthur lifted her down from her horse and tucked her hand against his elbow. She was grateful. He did not know how poorly she saw right then. He guided her to a large table set up in the middle of a field. Beneath it they had laid bright rugs. Who had brought it all out here or who would be responsible for taking it back, she could not say. The table gleamed with candles in the fading afternoon light. Bonfires burned in orange blurs around them.