Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  As I tried to think, the rain increased, sending streams of green paint into my eyes. So that was how he had slipped me past the tower guards. I was just a woman in a painted mask, a passed out reveler like so many others.

  Inwardly, I cursed. How was this possible? Arthur had his best men, including an assassin, on Malegant’s tracks, yet he’d walked out the main gate with me unconscious in his arms. It was a testament to the power of distraction. Chances were good no one was expecting him to hide in plain sight. What were the chances they were following us now?

  I twisted around, straining to look past Malegant’s broad shoulders for any sign we were being followed.

  “No one is there. We’re all alone, you and I, and my men will be of no aid to you,” Malegant purred into my hair, his lips brushing my temple as he pulled me even tighter against him. I wriggled and turned my face away, trying to avoid his advances. His grip on my shoulders increased, fingertips digging bruises deep into my tense muscles. “Fighting only makes me want you more.”

  As if to prove his point, Malegant reined his horse to a stop and dropped the reins. His left arm slid to my waist, and he tipped me backward, pinning my arms between his body and mine as he leaned over me. I sucked in air and tried to squirm away, but he held me fast.

  His lips came down on mine with surprising force, his voracious hunger forcing my lips apart until I gagged on his tongue. Summoning all my strength, I pitched forward against the solid wall of his chest and bit down hard on his tongue. He cried out and recoiled but not before I tore at his lower lip, drawing more blood.

  He dragged the side of his hand across his gushing lip, yelling a string of epithets that would have made even Arthur blush. Before I could blink, the back of his hand hit me squarely in the jaw, sending me reeling, vision suddenly alight with stars and lightning. I was falling, the muddy ground quickly approaching my head, when his fingers wrapped around my calf, stopping my descent. Stinging pain spread across my scalp as he wrenched me back onto the horse by my hair. One of the gold combs that had held it in an intricate twist was lost in the mire. The strand of hair it had been responsible for fell over my face, sticking fast in the blood streaming from my nose and mouth.

  His men had surrounded us, frantic to ensure I didn’t escape. Their torchlight illuminated Malegant’s face and his swollen lower lip. I saw myself reflected in his eyes—bloodied but far from broken.

  Over his shoulder, the Tor was visible through a clearing. Its bonfires winking through the mists were an odd reminder of the feast we were supposed to be celebrating. But it also reminded me of the one weapon I possessed, one I doubted he would ever suspect.

  Malegant yanked the black strands from my face, scrutinizing my eyes. He wanted me to cower and collapse, that much was clear. But he was dealing with a woman used to physical pain, trained to endure it. I would never give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly he had hurt me.

  Instead, I laughed, a primal sound that stunned us both. Maybe it was the aftereffect of whatever floral essences he had used to render me unconscious or a side effect of his blow, but it was genuine. I had an idea of how I could escape.

  “Bloody woman is crazy,” one of Malegant’s men said.

  Malegant said nothing, just signaled for us to continue. His arms around me—certainly not weak before—became strong as two iron chains. There was no way I’d be able to budge until he wanted me to. But I didn’t need to.

  I waited until we had gone some distance and were out on the open road leading away from Cadbury before I relaxed against him. Let him think the fight had gone out of me or, better yet, that I had passed out from my wounds. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, shutting out all sound, all sense of what was going on around me. I was aware of the energy of the night, of the feast, but as I searched deeper, I felt the familiar pulse of the Tor deep within the earth below us. I concentrated on matching my heartbeat to it, becoming one with it. As I inhaled, I drew it in, allowing the energy to pool in my fingers. Then I began to move them, slowly, subtly, drawing the mists toward me.

  Once I was certain I had control, I opened my eyes. A short time later, we entered the forest. It had stopped raining but only recently. On either side, trees hugged the road so closely their dripping leaves still sent rills of freezing water down my back and between my breasts.

  When we were sufficiently deep within their gnarled embrace, I let the force flow from my fingers. At first, only a ribbon of mist was visible here and there among the trees, not an unusual sight so near to dawn. But as we advanced, speeding toward our unknown destination, the fog grew subtly denser, obscuring the trees then crawling and whirling over the road like a sinister snake. It slithered upward, reaching from root to treetop until we could no longer see the coming dawn. Finally Malegant and his men slowed their horses, proceeding as though they feared the spirits hidden within the mists would accost them at any moment.

  All the while, I worked the ropes binding my hands, ignoring the burn as they bit into my flesh. I nearly had enough slack when one of Malegant’s men spoke up.

  “My lord, there is evil magic here. Should we continue or take another route?”

  Malegant tensed behind me. He stopped his horse, and the others followed suit. With one last burst of will, I brought the mists in so they surrounded us in a wall of white on all sides. I was just about to jump when Malegant seized my shoulder, forcing me to twist to face him.

  He growled, low and menacing like a dog taunted past endurance. “What was your plan, priestess? To baffle us? Make us lose our way? Or did you simply hope we would turn tail and run in fright?” He clenched my fists, squeezing my fingers until I cried out. “You forget, woman, that I was married to two priestesses. I know all of your tricks. And I also know what you require to perform them.”

  Malegant’s smile was cruel. He nodded to the guard nearest us. “Break her fingers—each one of them.”

  Pain shot through my hands as though shards of glass were flowing in my veins. I wanted to scream, but my sore, swollen jaw would not let me speak, much less cry out. Waves of nausea ebbed and flowed, but I sensed we weren’t moving anymore. That must have meant I was wherever Malegant had intended to take me.

  When I opened my eyes, I expected to be chained in a dark, dank cellar. But I was lying in a soft bed in a square room with a high timbered ceiling that met at a point in the center. Above me, candles flickered in a round iron chandelier. Slowly, mindful not to exacerbate the throbbing in my temples, I turned my head. A tall wooden chest swam into view, followed by a table and chair on one side of the bed and a small fireplace on the other. A breeze swayed the shutters on either side of the small window, carrying in the earthy, cave-like scent of moist rock and flowing water.

  I tried to sit up, forgetting my injuries, and yelped as I unwisely pressed my weight onto my hands. I collapsed back onto the sheets, panting, blanketed in cold sweat, and fighting my rebelling stomach. My head began to ring.

  “Now, that was not wise.” Malegant clucked his tongue chidingly.

  I jumped, unaware I wasn’t alone. He must have been sitting somewhere outside my view.

  He came toward me, his eyes reproachful. “Imogen worked so hard to set and bandage your fingers, and here you go trying to undo all her efforts.”

  Imogen? I recalled a flash of graying auburn hair and kind brown eyes amid the darkness. Perhaps I did have some memory of her.

  Malegant grasped my upper arms and helped me to a sitting position, seating himself on the bed so his hip touched my leg. As I had on the horse, I tried to scrabble away, but every movement brought increased pain that threatened to hurl me back into the void of unconsciousness.

  Once the dizziness passed, I looked at my hands. No wonder they felt five times their normal size. They were bound in reams of thick, strong cloth so bulky they resembled the heavy protective gloves worn by blacksmiths and bakers. Fascinated, I h
eld up one hand and tried to move my fingers. The effort sent a jolt of pain through my hand, but my fingers remained immobile.

  “Harming you was never in my plans; you made me do this when you tried to escape.” Malegant carefully guided my hand back down to the bed. “Do not try to use them. Imogen is here to help you as you heal.” He leaned toward me, weight forcing me onto my back once again. “Besides”—a spark of lust lit his eyes—“this way you can’t fight back.”

  In a flash, he was kissing me just as hungrily as before. With a sickening chill, I knew what he intended to do. My lips went dry, my limbs began to shake, and my stomach, already unsteady, audibly voiced its willingness to void itself in any way it could. As he worked his belt loose, I tensed my muscles and prepared to fend him off, suddenly wishing I had paid more attention to my mother’s lessons on hand-to-hand combat.

  I forced my face to the side. “Please, no,” I mumbled through my swollen jaw.

  He pinioned my chin between his thumb and fingers, forcing my face back to his. He continued kissing me, smothering my breath with his lips. I knew better than to bite him again, even if my jaw would have let me, so I twisted my hips, hoping to gain some leverage to push him back. Wrenching an arm free, I aimed an elbow at the base of his neck and tried to bring my knee up between his legs while he was distracted.

  But he was too strong, too quick. He caught my elbow and pinned both forearms behind my head, the weight of his body holding me down. I writhed beneath him, still seeking escape, but when his naked flesh touched mine, I quickly learned all I was doing was arousing him more.

  I screamed silently as he thrust into me. Tears sprang from my eyes as he ripped me apart from the inside. I clenched my eyes shut as if that act alone could make him stop. I found myself fading away, no longer able to feel the pain or hear Malegant’s grunts of pleasure. It was strangely like manipulating the elements, falling into the void between worlds. Only this time, instead of gaining power, it was being taken from me.

  Something inside my mind shattered. The physical violation was one level of horror, but the truth of what he was doing did not lie solely in the act. He had taken my sovereignty, the right of every woman, every priestess—and especially the queen—to choose her lovers as she willed. Had he killed Arthur, taken my crown, and left me for dead, he couldn’t have rendered me any more powerless. It was that thought, so much more damaging than my physical exhaustion, that made me stop struggling and simply endure what was being done.

  Eventually I felt the sweet relief of his weight releasing me as he rolled off to one side.

  Still panting, he kissed my cheek softly. “Thank you, wife. Let us see how quickly you can bear me a son.”

  I froze. Wife. I suddenly remembered the story of Malegant taking Fiona from her homestead to make her his wife. He seeks to invoke ancient laws by which I am now his legal spouse. But what about Fiona? Was he going to take two wives? And did he not know I was barren? Perhaps he didn’t believe it. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. This was nothing like the attack I suffered as a child. Then I was a valuable commodity to be traded and bargained. Now I am owned. I am his property to do with as he pleases regardless of my will or commitment to the man who is his king.

  That was when I knew this nightmare was far from over.

  Chapter Nine

  Winter 501

  As the days passed and Malegant’s abuse continued, I began to dread the dark because I knew he would come. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be out of his mind with drink, which only served to hamper his performance and prolong my torment. Sometimes when he couldn’t satisfy himself sexually, he would beat me until my eyes were bloody and my body shredded by his fingernails and teeth.

  Imogen helped me visit the latrine and conduct my business—a humbling experience to be unable to perform such basics without aid—then lifted me back into bed, stroking my hair and holding me as I sobbed and shook. She never spoke, only communicated with her eyes and a few simple gestures. I assumed she had been born mute, but I did not have the heart to ask, nor did I know how she would explain. Somehow, her silence comforted me.

  Each morning, Imogen would help me wash, brush my hair, and feed me spoonfuls of pottage as though I were a child. We spent the interminably long days in each other’s company, she knitting or spinning, me sleeping or staring out the window at the lake far below or the mountains towering above.

  Each night, Imogen would again help with my ablutions and see me settled into bed before retiring to her own mat. Only when Malegant came, which he inevitably did, did she leave the room.

  In time, as my wounds began to heal and I regained my strength, I grew restless and paced the length of the chamber, for there was little I could do without the use of my hands. One morning, Imogen surprised me by removing the bandages from my hands.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, only to feel foolish because she could not reply.

  Imogen fixed me with a determined stare. It is time, her eyes seemed to say. Trust me. Slowly, carefully, she moved the smallest finger of my right hand.

  I sucked in air in anticipation of the pain, but it did not come. Only when she applied a slight pressure to my knuckle to make my finger bend did I want to scream. Still holding my gaze, she repeated her tortuous routine on each of my fingers. By the time we were finished, my brow was slick with sweat, and I was lightheaded.

  Imogen patted my thigh, as if to tell me I had done well.

  Every day for a week, we repeated this exercise once at dawn and once at dusk. After a few days, the pain was tolerable, though I didn’t yet dare try to move my fingers on my own.

  One week after starting to exercise my fingers, she gestured for me to try. Hesitantly, like a child attempting her first steps, I bent my right index finger. When it didn’t hurt, I nearly whooped with joy. I tried my other fingers. They all worked. I couldn’t help but laugh. Soon I was wiggling my fingers in front of me, a child discovering her hands once again.

  The following day, Imogen produced a collection of small objects from a pouch at her waist: a small wooden block, a stylus, a rock, and a ball of yarn. She indicated each in turn, grasping it in her hand then handing it to me. After a few minutes, I understood. She wished me to get used to holding objects of various sizes and weights again.

  Everything went smoothly until I tried to shift the rock from my right hand to my left. It hit the floor with a thud, a chip skittering across the wooden planks and under the bed.

  Embarrassed, I bent to pick it up.

  So did Imogen.

  We knocked heads as we straightened.

  I laughed, rubbing my forehead. She made a gargling sound that I could only assume was laughter and massaged her brow.

  It was then I saw it, light as a shadow, delicate as a whisper. In the center of her forehead was the ghost of a waxing crescent moon, long ago faded into nothingness.

  Tenderly, I traced its shape, a soft smile forming on my lips. “You are a priestess,” I said softly. “Just like me.”

  In response, Imogen touched her thumb to my forehead, lips, and heart.

  I embraced her, feeling at once the bond of sisterhood that joined all priestesses of Avalon. My mind raced. No wonder she had taken such good care of me. Her expertise was the only reason I was slowly regaining use of my hands.

  “Thank you.” It was not the first time I had spoken my gratitude since waking in this accursed place, but I felt it stronger now than ever before. “How—” I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to ask. “How did you come to be here?”

  A moment after the words escaped my lips, we heard approaching footsteps.

  Imogen placed a finger to her lips as if to say, Keep this between us. We will discuss it later.

  I shivered, knowing what would be expected of me. Malegant had his own ideas of how I should practice using my hands.

  The weather grew colder as each
day passed until one melted into another like the ceaseless snow that covered the fortress with a thick white veil. One morning, when the snow was falling gently, I gathered up my courage and stuck my head out of the window. Looking up, I was pelted with thousands of icy feathers, but I saw enough to know we were on the uppermost floor of a castle made from a single wooden tower. In some ways, it resembled a granary more than a fortress. I twisted back around and braved a look down. Far below, the lake was churning with icy waves.

  In the distance, I could just make out the edge of a thin bridge connecting the tower to some anchor on the far shore. The snow and ice made its rope railing look more like a giant cobweb. A fierce gust of wind rocked the castle, and I pulled my head in a little. The bridge was swaying. I couldn’t help but imagine that anyone caught on it would feel much like an insect in a spider’s snare.

  Shivering, I climbed down off the ledge and tacked the fur lining tightly over the window. I sat in front of the fire and combed my hair with my fingers, relishing the heat. I had been here—I counted the full moons—three months, and this was the first time I’d dared think of escape. Why hadn’t it occurred to me sooner? You were in no condition, my mind answered. Only now are you strong enough. Yes. I was finally strong enough to fight back. But how? There had to be a way out beyond the locked door. If Imogen could come and go, so could I.

  I was still contemplating the possibilities when Imogen entered with our midday meal: freshly baked bread and bowls of hardy, dark stew. I ate my portion hungrily, especially grateful for the heat that made its way leisurely down my throat and into my stomach. My tongue tingled with hints of sage, rosemary, and wild onions mixed with the sweetness of parsnips, turnips, and something gamey—not venison, something wilder. “Imogen, this is wonderful. Did you cook it yourself?”