Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  Galen grinned. “Wise man. I like the way you think. It seems to be that that she has two main intentions. One is to keep the Picts at bay. They have been harassing this area since Camelot fell. I believe they are testing their boundaries. It is Mynyddog’s responsibility to keep them within their ancient bounds. Evina is also focused on overthrowing Alt Clut so she can rule all four tribes. She studied Arthur’s reign closely, and I think she aims to emulate it here.”

  “But the Damnonii of Alt Clut and Votadini she rules are only half of the tribes. What of the others?”

  “I am afraid they are weakening by the day. The Selgovae and Novantae haven’t produced a capable ruler in nearly fifty years and are slowly being absorbed by the two more powerful tribes. I predict that within a generation, they will cease to exist.”

  A somber pall fell over the room. For a long while, no one spoke, each envisioning a future in which whole peoples could disappear in a matter of years. In many ways, it seemed far-fetched, but with battalions of men dying every day in the service of power mongers, it wouldn’t take long for women to outnumber men and birth rates to plummet. With fewer babies born to each tribe and the possibility of conquest, the Votadini and Damnonii might well be the only ones left.

  My thoughts drifted back to my experience at court. Despite her kindness during the ritual of marking, I couldn’t shake Evina’s initial coldness toward me. “Evina seemed suspicious of me when I presented myself to her. Why should she worry about me?”

  “You know as well as anyone that a ruler’s crown is never secure.” Galen gave me a sardonic look. “The rules governing us and our relationships with the other tribes, even the nature of our boundaries, are much more fluid than you are used to. Though we have a Votad and Votadess, they are not High King and High Queen with absolute authority like you enjoyed with Arthur. Evina is our ruler only so long as she can prove herself worthy—a battle she fights every single day. There are many who would hasten her fall. All they need do is expose a single weakness and raise another candidate in her stead.” He looked at me, expression concerned. “But I fear I have overwhelmed you. That was not my intent.”

  “No, not at all. We need to know this. Thank you.” I smiled at him, regretting my suspicions of long ago. “I am sorry for the unkindness I showed you in the past. It’s ironic that I used to mistrust you and now you are the only one in my new household I am certain I can trust.”

  Before Galen could reply, a deep, commanding voice reached us from the back of the room. “I hope I will quickly earn your trust.”

  All heads turned toward the sound. We had been so absorbed in Galen’s tale that none of us had heard the guards admit a guest. I would have to speak to the head of security in the morning about increasing the layers of admittance. From the look of him—thick, fur-lined cloak of royal blue over a well-made burgundy tunic—this man was not an assassin, but then again, I wouldn’t have guessed Sobian to be one either.

  Lancelot must have been thinking the same thing, for he shot to his feet, blocking my body with his own. “Who are you and what is your purpose here?”

  The man bowed, showing a shock of orange-red hair held back by a circlet not dissimilar to the one Mynyddog had worn. “Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you. I am Rohan of Alt Clut, and this is my home. Or it was, until recently.” Despite our guarded reception, his tone held no animosity and his green eyes sparkled with capricious mirth. “Consider it well prepared for you.” He bowed again with the sweep of an arm.

  What type of man thought it appropriate to barge into someone else’s home unannounced? He seemed kind enough, but his presumption grated. His former role as master of the house would explain why no one thought to make a fuss or question his presence, as they were likely used to seeing him come and go, but it was still disconcerting. Best to be wary until we learned more.

  When no one spoke, Rohan continued, looking from face to face as though trying to ascertain who would be his most likely ally. “Please forgive the breech of protocol, but I could not wait to meet you and see how you were settling in.” He stepped toward me, and Lancelot tensed.

  I stepped to the side so I could see around him. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, my lord. I too look forward to getting to know you. I have just called for the midday meal. Would you care to join us?”

  By the time the roasted chicken was but a pile of bones, Rohan had charmed us all with his quick wit and even sharper tongue. He was a pleasure to listen to, partly because of his intelligence, but also because his voice was attractive—smoky and rich, yet smooth as ice. It put me in mind of the spirit they drank in these lands, the one with the spicy tail that had gotten Arthur so spectacularly drunk on our wedding night.

  Rohan insisted on giving us a tour of our new home, taking special pride in the size of the town—which, unlike Camelot, was not clustered around the castle but spread out for miles in every direction—the fact that the blacksmith produced the strongest swords in the area, and that the farrier could shoe a horse with a new set in under an hour, something he assured me would prove useful when the next attack came. He was certain it was only a matter of time.

  When we reached the tiltyard, talk naturally turned to Lancelot’s many victories in the ring, including the one over Aggrivane that had brought him to Arthur’s attention when we were all much younger.

  “I was there that day,” Rohan recalled, a boyish look of wonder spreading across his face. “I was not yet a man, but I’d earned myself a place at court, one I sadly had to give up after a year when my father was wounded defending Alt Clut from the Picts.” His gaze became distant as his mind traveled back in time. “You were spectacular. I have always envied your ability to disarm and subdue a man without harming him. I tend to favor a more… direct approach. I wonder if you could help me refine my technique.”

  “Certainly. I believe mastery of the sword begins with mastery of the mind. Any brute can hack and swing and stab and kill, but a man who can link his brain and his blade has a better chance of escaping a duel unharmed.”

  Rohan gave me an impish look. “I wonder how Guinevere would have fared against you. I hear my lady is quite the swordswoman. Have the two of you ever sparred?”

  “We have, many times.” Lancelot put an arm around me. “I daresay she taught me as much I have taught her.”

  “I had the advantage of my mother’s training,” I demurred, knowing that would win me points in her homeland.

  “Indeed, she was legendary.” Rohan looked away, pressing his hands to his lips as though praying in the Christian manner. “I wonder… would it be impertinent of me to ask you for a demonstration?”

  “You want me to duel with you?” That was not a question I ever expected to hear, much less from someone I hardly knew. Was it meant as a compliment, or was he testing me to find out if the rumors were true? Either way, it was yet another large presumption from a stranger. “Or am I to perform like a tamed wolf?”

  A predatory grin spread across his features. He bared his right forearm, showing off his mark. “They are my clan’s animal, so if anyone should be able to tame a she-wolf, it is I.”

  Lancelot jumped in, pushing Rohan back with a light touch to the chest. “Mind your tongue, else you do battle with me.”

  I pressed my lips together to hide the smile that threatened to betray me. Two powerful, handsome men fighting over me was quite a compliment for an aging queen. “Gentlemen, please. There is no need for a real duel today. Lord Rohan, yes, I will spar with you, but only briefly as I am well out of practice and have no desire to make a spectacle of myself so early in my time here.”

  Once in the ring, Anna picked out two blunted practice swords for us and we faced off across the dusty field.

  “No blood. First contact is the winner,” I stated.

  He nodded. “Lay on.”

  We didn’t circle one another for long. Though he was nearly thre
e hands taller than me, it took only a moment of footwork before I spotted his weakness. He relied on the length of his arm to protect him, so in order to defeat him, I needed to bind up his sword. Instead of advancing on him, I drew him toward me with a series of fake attacks that enabled me to push his sword aside and get past the range of his blade. He, meanwhile, tried to push me back. Finally, I was able to strike his wrist, ending the fight.

  He shook out his arm. “I find myself regretting agreeing to allow you to live here but not rule. You would be a boon to our army, even in training if you no longer wish to fight.”

  I opened my mouth to retort that it was rude to allude to a lady’s age, but then I froze. Something in the way he turned his head, the glint of the sunlight off his reddish-blond hair, forced a memory from the depths of my mind. My blood went cold. This was the man in my vision, the one who would betray us all to Elga.

  He bent over, palms on his knees, catching his breath, oblivious to my dark thoughts.

  I shouldn’t let on that I knew, should I? Or would it be best to confront him, try to stop this disaster before it went any further? He was already in league with Elga, so I had to be careful. It could all go south too quickly if he knew what I suspected. Isolde always told me knowledge was power, so for now, I would do nothing but smile and pretend nothing had changed. As far as he was concerned, nothing had. But as soon as he went back to the fortress, I had to investigate him. Luckily, I knew just the person for the job.

  Chapter Eleven

  The following morning, I woke to find word had spread not only of my presence, but also of my encounter with Rohan. A line of men, women, boys, and girls waited patiently for me in the courtyard, as though I was still queen and it was pleading day.

  The low hum of their conversation reached me through the walls and windows as I went about my morning ablutions. Though they waited with uncommon patience and civility, my palms grew damp and my hands shook as I fumbled with the buttons of my gown.

  “What do they want?” I asked Galen when he seated me at breakfast. I eyed the offerings warily, my queasy stomach urging me to choose something bland.

  “Why, to see you, of course,” he answered with a knowing smile.

  I rolled my eyes at him, tearing off a hunk of bread and passing the remainder to him.

  “Clearly. But why?” I popped a piece into my mouth, savoring the still-warm sweetness of its honey glaze.

  “You’ll have to ask them. But if you want my best guess”—he swallowed a mouthful of spicy ale—“they want to see if it is true that Corinna of the Votadini has returned from the dead.”

  I stopped chewing. “Tell me you jest.”

  He grinned around a hunk of half-chewed bread. “’Tis the story I heard on my way to the kitchens.”

  My shoulders sagged and I muttered to myself, “How do these tales get started? Now I must contend with my mother’s shade as well.” Louder, I said to Galen, “I suppose they will all be disappointed to find me of flesh and blood without a trace of Otherworldly essence.”

  “You have more than a trace, lass, as you proved to Evina,” he said, referring to the prophecy about Rohan, which I’d told him about the night before. “I reckon she’ll nae like the attention you’re attracting.”

  “Best to disperse them quickly then.” I rose, smoothing my skirt. “Are you going to open the door for me, or must I dismiss you for incompetence, slave?”

  Galen chuckled at my lighthearted reminder of his position and rose to do my bidding. “Are you certain you wish to meet them out in the courtyard?”

  “Of course. That way everyone can see I have not called them here in rebellion and have nothing to hide. I’m sure there are at least one or two of her spies among them.”

  The chatter ceased as the door opened. Every eye turned to me. I smiled self-consciously, at a loss for where to begin, how to address these curious onlookers who were within my new realm but not my subjects. I was saved by a rugged man with dark hair and dark eyes, who detached himself from the crowd and approached me. His face was familiar, yet I could not call up his name or how I knew him.

  “Lady Guinevere.” He inclined his head to me. “I am Nachton the Huntsman. You may remember me from my visits to your husband’s court.”

  I took his hands and squeezed them fondly. “Of course I do. You were close friends with Lord Tristan. I still maintain we would not have survived Caledon Wood without the two of you.”

  Nachton’s cheeks reddened. “It was my honor to serve you and the Lord of Lothian. Now it is also my honor to welcome you to Stirling. We”—he swept his arm wide, taking in the whole of the crowd—“mean you no disrespect by gathering here and will leave if you wish.”

  I took in the assembly, counting no more than two dozen souls—far too few to be suspected of a riot. “No, please stay. I know no one in these parts, save for those who traveled with me and my new steward. If I am to live here, I would like to get to know my neighbors.”

  For the next several hours, as the sun rose higher, I talked with them about all manner of things. Many inquired about my scars and asked if Arthur’s death had been confirmed. Still more—some of them relatives both distant and near in relation—wished to hear of my mother and father and why I had returned.

  A few of the young women asked me to use my sight to tell them the name of their one true love, which my gifts did not allow, but I was able to confirm to one that her love was planning to ask for her hand, while I assured another that her beloved sought to make his true feelings known.

  A gaggle of young men had heard of my tussle with Rohan and wished me to show them the sequence that had brought him down.

  “No one has ever seen his face in the mud before,” one noted.

  “We want to learn how to make it happen again,” another said with vehemence unusual for one of his age. What had Rohan done to carve such a groove in a young heart?

  I eyed them, taking in skinny limbs and fledgling muscles attempting to make the transition from boy to man. They were clearly used to hard labor and exercise, but it was unwise to instruct them in such an advanced maneuver when I hadn’t assessed their skill level. Best to begin by demonstrating the two moves that were the basis of the complex string of footwork and blade skills.

  “It is easier if I show you first. Then I will explain it as we go.” Picking up two fallen sticks, I handed one to the most inquisitive of the boys. I motioned him toward me. “Come at me with great force.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he lunged. I sidestepped his branch, pivoting on the balls of my feet and bringing my own fake weapon under his with a crack. To his credit, the boy kept his hold, spinning away from my grip then pushing me back, forcing me into defense position.

  “Very good, Cinon,” a husky female voice called from over his left shoulder.

  I looked up, surprised to see a tall blond woman approaching.

  “Well met, Master Kiara,” my opponent greeted her with interlaced fingers touched to his bowed forehead in a gesture of deep respect.

  One by one, the boys fell into a straight line. Each made the same gesture.

  “Master Kiara?” I asked when she reached me.

  “I am one of the weapons masters for the Votad and Votadess, recently appointed to Stirling to help Rohan with the new students.”

  I took her measure, from the soles of her thick hide boots to the deep brown braccae tucked in at the knee, and her gray tunic hung loose and unbelted, as though in readiness for movement. She exuded confidence but not a single trace of malice. “I am sorry if my instruction gave you offense.”

  She waved away my concern. “On the contrary, I was hoping to see you in action. Please, continue.”

  Now that I had an audience, especially one who would note every misstep in my teaching, I second-guessed everything I had known for years. My plan for instructing the boys completely fled m
y mind. “Let’s do it again.”

  As we moved through the familiar—at least to me—motions, I relaxed, losing my concern over Kiara. Who was she to me? My mother had taught me, and there was no way she would have let me persist if my technique was weak.

  When we reached the end of the first movement, I showed them the second and then demonstrated the connecting footwork, which I in no way expected them to learn yet. “Now split off into pairs and practice what I have shown you. Your master and I will be here if you have questions.”

  The boys did as instructed, the sharp cracks of their practice blows punctuating my conversation with Kiara. I twisted to one side then the other, seeking to relieve aching muscles as I watched her. I wasn’t as young as I used to be, so fighting was no longer as easy as breathing.

  “I must admit that when I first heard Corinna’s daughter was in Votadini lands, I did not believe it,” she said. “But even if you did not so strongly resemble your mother, your skill proves it, just as Evina says.”

  Kiara’s implied knowledge of my mother was suspicious. She was likely half my age, so she couldn’t have known her. “Did you know my mother?”

  Kiara shook her head. “I am Selgovae by birth, Votadini only through marriage. But my family knew yours. In fact, we are pledged to your service for the next three generations.” She paused, observing the boys’ progress. “Kian, you’re dropping your right shoulder. Hold it steady and you’ll be less vulnerable.” Turning back to me, she resumed her line of thought. “But that is not why I came to see you.”

  “No?”

  “No. I wanted to see your skills for myself. I could use some help training our wee ones.” She held up a finger, staving off my objection. “Before you plead old age, know you don’t fool me. Anyone who can execute a dancing dragon with no preparation is more than capable of taking anything these lads and lasses can toss at you. Besides, I only ask you to help the youngest, those still learning to hold their weapons.”