The Camelot Betrayal

by Kiersten White

  Arthur nodded, any surprise pushed to the side. “Very well. We will be on our own two days at most until the rest of the attending knights and the traveling party catch up to us.” Arthur reached up and removed his crown. “I think it best to look anonymous until we have our full force.” He was wearing a plain green tunic. Guinevere had changed into a blue dress, unadorned, and a green cloak. For a moment one of her most well-worn imaginings—what it would be like if she were just a girl and Arthur just a boy, together in the countryside—surged to the front of her mind. But if that were the case, they would not need to disguise themselves, or ride with a guard. This was not the same thing.

  But it was close.

  She vowed to leave behind her fears and worries and questions. If Arthur could be satisfied with ending a threat and not worrying about what it all meant, she would be, too. Camelot would be safe in their absence. Guinevach had been met and dismissed with no harm to the kingdom. And whether Guinevere was the Lady of the Lake’s daughter or whether Mordred was still out there somewhere, somehow intending her no harm whatsoever, well, none of that mattered. She was where she was supposed to be. Who she had chosen to be, and whom she had chosen to be with.

  Lancelot pulled her old armor from a bag. “Very wise. Everyone, remove the king’s colors.”

  All the men wore Arthur’s colors on tunics over their chain mail. A golden sun in the middle of deep-blue fabric. Guinevere loved the simplicity of it, the hope. Arthur had always felt like the sun to her. The tunics were removed, and within a few minutes they were on the road, mounted, the extra horses trailing them.

  Beneath the sturdy fabric of her plain cloak, with her horse gently plodding and the tree line growing ever closer, Guinevere felt surprisingly free. She found herself glad for this reprieve from being stuck in Camelot. It was easier not to dwell on things when there was so much to look at and experience out here.

  Though it was night, they kept riding. Guinevere could always feel Camelot and the mountain it occupied, even when they were too far away to see it. It was a constant presence, almost a tug on her. She wondered if that was because she had left behind so many knots tying herself to it, or if Camelot was simply that powerful for all who lived there.

  Guinevere pulled a bunch of leaves off a low-hanging branch. Pressing them to her face, she breathed in the scent of life, already altered by the dry approach of winter. There was no bite in these leaves. There was hardly any sense of them at all.

  But perhaps that was the lingering numbness in her hands. They had dealt the Dark Queen two blows in a short time. She was trying the same old things, but Arthur and Guinevere were not the same old defenses. They were strong and determined and together. Guinevere tried to let go of the shame of what she had done to the wolves and replace it with pride in her king, and in herself. And she tried not to think about Mordred.

  She was glad to be riding without the sullenly aggressive presence of the afternoon sun. She even enjoyed the bite in the air. The roads were well maintained, cleared and not muddy this time of year. The men rode watchfully but did not seem particularly concerned. Travel was safer within Arthur’s kingdom than anywhere else. They kept traveling into the night, finally stopping when they were well into the trees just beyond the borders of Camelot’s lands.

  Guinevere tried to help as they set up camp. “Let me,” Arthur said, taking the flint from her. She had no desire to use fire magic unless she had to, and apparently she was terrible at lighting fires without it. “Go sit. It is late.”

  Guinevere wanted to feel useful, but the men were so busy she did not know where to start. The day had been long—physically and emotionally—and she was sore from all the riding. She found herself missing Brangien, her feminine ally who would have sat with her and chatted as she undid Guinevere’s braids and brushed her hair. Even though Lancelot was also a woman, she had a place here among the men that Guinevere did not and never would.

  Also, sitting on a felled log after a full day riding really, really hurt. How did the men stand it?

  Guinevere reached into her pouch. Brangien would bring most of her jewelry with the next group, but Guinevere had a few small stones that could hold magic, the worn dragon’s tooth she liked to hold in her palm when she was worried, and her sewing supplies. She dug through them, marveling at how Brangien was always so organized, before finally finding her brush.

  As she tried to undo her braids and brush her hair out with hands that now felt like they were being stabbed by needles, Guinevere missed Brangien even more. The bite in the air had moved from invigorating to stinging. And, worst of all, she had no one to complain to. She did not want to appear weak or cross in front of the guards, and she always wanted Arthur to be impressed with her. She shifted as surreptitiously as possible, searching for relief for her bruised bottom.

  After coaxing the fire to life, Arthur sat beside her and soon she forgot her weariness. The guards had not served with Arthur before he became king. He talked differently to them than he did to her, and she liked seeing him like this. Arthur the king, approachable and funny and warm but always in command, even if it was only over conversation around a fire.

  Arthur was midstory, and the guards—and Sir Tristan and Lancelot, though Lancelot hid it best—were listening raptly. “We rode into the woods, weary from the day’s battle. I wanted nothing more than to rest before we had to face King Lot again. Sir Lucan—”

  “Sir Lucan?” Guinevere asked, puzzled.

  “He is on a quest,” Arthur said with a tone of wistful longing that suggested he envied the quest that had taken Sir Lucan from Camelot for at least as long as Guinevere had been there. Sir Tristan cleared his throat, an uncomfortable expression on his face, and turned to watch the perimeter of the camp.

  “As I was saying, Sir Lucan, having come into possession of a magic spear, found he could not stop walking. He did not know that the spear would never rest, demanding fight after fight until the wielder had conquered all or been killed. I was setting up camp before I noticed Sir Lucan was gone. I heard his cries for help and rushed into the trees to find him. After some time, I tracked him to a clearing. He had managed to drop the spear, but was facing one of King Lot’s allies. King Caradoc’s arm was lifted to deliver a fatal blow, when—”

  “King Caradoc? Like your knight? Is Caradoc a common name?”

  Arthur gave Guinevere an exasperated smile. “You will find out.”

  “Yes! Sorry. Continue.”

  “King Caradoc’s arm was lifted to deliver a fatal blow, so I picked up a rock and threw it. It bounced off his forehead, stunning him and giving Sir Lucan enough time to get out of the way. I rushed King Caradoc and we fought a mighty battle. Our blades sparked and sang in the night. I had been fighting all day, but King Caradoc was fresh, and it was an even match. Finally, after an hour, his hands rose in surrender. He sat on the ground, winded, and looked at me in astonishment. ‘Never have I had such a fight. Tell me, what is your name? For your honor in allowing me to surrender, I swear I will serve you for the rest of my days.’ I bowed, accepting his offered sword, and told him that I was Arthur Pendragon. His astonishment was extreme. He had been in the woods hunting to kill me on behalf of King Lot. But now he had sworn allegiance to me! I understood his plight. To fill one holy vow, he would have to betray another. I bowed and offered to let him return to King Lot. We would part as friends but meet again as enemies on the battlefield. King Caradoc was again astonished. King Lot was a hard and vicious ruler, demanding fealty even from other kings. That very moment, King Caradoc removed his crown and became Sir Caradoc, leaving behind his birthright to embrace a higher calling of justice and truth. The next day, side by side, we defeated King Lot, bringing us one step closer to overthrowing Uther Pendragon and winning Camelot.”

  “Is Sir Lucan the brother of Sir Bedivere?” asked one of the guards, a blocky man with an incongruously delicate nose in
the center of a face like a boulder.

  “No, that is Sir Yvain,” another guard answered.

  “Yvain the bastard?” the blocky guard asked.

  “No, Yvain the…not-bastard.”

  “The one Sir Gawain injured?”

  “Which one?”

  “Yvain the not-bastard.”

  “Is he not Morgan le Fay’s son?”

  “No,” a third guard interjected. “She is a sorceress and can only give birth to demons.”

  “She is Mordred’s mother,” Guinevere said, frowning.

  “Exactly,” Lancelot muttered.

  Guinevere noticed Arthur’s easy smile had become a stiff mask. He did not like this topic. Morgan le Fay was Arthur’s half sister. She had tried to kill him when he was a baby, as revenge for the rape of her mother, Igraine. The rape committed by Arthur’s father, Uther Pendragon, and magically orchestrated by Merlin. Arthur and Guinevere had never spoken of Morgan le Fay.

  “Yvain and Yvain the bastard have different mothers,” Arthur said, obviously wishing to steer the subject from murderous half-sister sorceresses and other traitorous relatives. “Thus the bastard. Though he quite dislikes being called that, so if you meet him in person, I would recommend addressing him as simply Yvain, or Yvain the younger. Unless you wish to find out how much a bastard he is with the blade. And Sir Bedivere is the brother of Sir Lucan, not Sir Yvain.”

  The blocky guard scratched his head. “I am still confused about who is the brother of who and who is the son of who.”

  Arthur clapped him on the shoulder. “We would need a diagram to work it all out. Tell me, have you heard the story of the Black Knight?”

  Guinevere leaned back and half listened to the new tale. She would rather hear about Morgan le Fay and Arthur’s feelings about her, but he seemed determined to change that topic. It was astonishing how much life Arthur had lived before she ever met him. She often felt that her own life began the day they met. And while it was true she had few memories before that, it was also because there was something about Arthur that made him instantly the center of any life. Sir Caradoc had given up a crown after one meeting. Lancelot had trained her whole life to serve at his side. And Guinevere had chosen Camelot over all else to help him.

  She stood, needing to stretch, and found Sir Tristan at the edge of the camp, standing guard. “Are you well?” she asked, puzzled by his tense silence.

  “Sir Lucan,” he said, his voice soft.

  “What about him?”

  “He is not on a quest. During my tournament, I faced him. He was hurt so badly he retired to an abbey to heal. We have not heard from him since. He must have lied to the king to save face. But I am the reason he is not here.”

  Guinevere put a hand on Sir Tristan’s arm. “You all know the risks.”

  “We do. But it is easier to risk yourself in pursuit of glory than to accept that you have hurt someone else beyond repair. And not even an enemy. A friend. Sir Bedivere has not forgiven me, and I think he never will.”

  “I thought all the knights got along?”

  “All the knights love our king, and that unites us. But it is a complex hierarchy with much history, a lot of it soaked in blood.” Sir Tristan sighed. “Sometimes I envy Sir Lancelot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she is not—” He gestured vaguely. “She is removed from the politics and the drama. You know.”

  Guinevere did. She had seen as much at the dockside celebration. She looked back at her knight, standing just out of reach of the firelight, watching and listening as Arthur told his stories. When she rejoined the fireside, Guinevere sat nearer to her knight than to her king.

  As the fire died down, bedrolls were unfurled. Lancelot, who had volunteered for the first watch, frowned. “We should have brought you a tent.”

  Guinevere gestured up at the stars. “I like this much better.” In the absence of a moon, the constellations were so thick and bright that they almost felt like a ceiling; a brilliant, glittering dome holding them all safely in the dark.

  Arthur unrolled his bed next to hers and was asleep almost as soon as he was horizontal. From the soft snores, nearly all the men were. Guinevere supposed it was a necessity. If they could not sleep in unusual circumstances, they would never be fit for their tasks on the road.

  She tried not to fret about what they had left behind. Arthur clearly was not worried. Camelot was protected. Guinevach would be escorted out in the morning, averting whatever intentional or accidental damage she might have done. Mordred was out there, somewhere, but the Dark Queen was more than matched by Guinevere and Arthur, and Mordred had to know it now. Had he been there leading the wolves in attack, or had he really been trying to release them from their magical bonds, as he claimed?

  And how did he genuinely mean her no harm, after all the pain he had caused her?

  No. She did not want to think about him anymore. She was ready for this infinite day to be over.

  Guinevere turned on her side to face Arthur, who was barely visible even this close. He always felt so far away when he was asleep. She rolled onto her other side. Lancelot moved like a shadow in the darkness, pacing the perimeter of the camp.

  Guinevere watched her knight pacing as she kept watch, and forgot to worry about nightmares.

  * * *

  He is just ahead of her on the pathway. She can hear him laughing, low teasing notes in contrast to the brilliant summer sun winking through the foliage. She runs to close the distance, but when she breaks into the clearing, it is empty.

  An arm circles her waist from behind, lifting her into the air and spinning her. She screams, but it quickly turns to laughter as the meadow whirls around them. They fall into a heap, face to face, his moss-green eyes fixed on hers with an intensity she can never ignore.

  There is something she should be doing. Someone she should be with. But it is summer and the clover beneath them is soft and his hair is softer and his lips are softest of all.

  “You made the wrong choice,” he murmurs, his lips against her neck, and she cannot remember the choice or why she made it. She can only feel this fire, this giddy, dangerous release of wanting and being wanted, and she does not care about anything else.

  * * *

  Guinevere awoke with a gasp. “Mordred,” she whispered, blinking against the expected sunlight and finding only the cold blanket of an autumn night. The fire had burned low, and next to her Arthur slept, oblivious. The dream had not been like the dream of Camelot, where it had belonged to someone else. This was her own dream. Which worried her even more.

  Guinevere stood, wrapping her blanket around her shoulders like a cloak. It was not simply the feeling of Mordred’s lips and hands she needed to clear from her mind. The sunlight, the meadow, the freedom. It was all a lie. And she hated her sleeping brain for telling it to her.

  A dark figure paused nearby.

  “My queen?” Lancelot whispered.

  Guinevere stepped to her knight. “Is it still your watch?” So much more of the night stretched in front of her. Guinevere eyed her bedroll with trepidation. She did not want to wander in any more dreams tonight. Somehow the dream of Mordred upset her even more than the dream of the Lady of the Lake. Perhaps because she had memories of Mordred, and none of her mother. Or perhaps because the plunge into darkness held no allure in her real life, but the touch of Mordred…

  “Third watch,” Lancelot answered. “It will be dawn soon.”

  “But you had first watch!” That hardly seemed fair.

  “I slept some.”

  Guinevere did not think the number of men present required Lancelot to take two watches. Sir Tristan had not. He was sleeping nearby. Guinevere tightened the blanket around her shoulders. “Can I keep watch with you? I do not want to sleep again.”

  Lancelot did not ask why. She nodd
ed, turning outward toward the forest and sweeping her eyes back and forth. “My queen, there is something I need to talk to you about.” Lancelot sounded hesitant, almost worried. “It has to do with our conversation about the Lady of the Lake.”

  “I have been thinking about it, as well.” Guinevere braced herself. Lancelot was going to suggest she tell Arthur. And she would. Eventually. But she was not ready to discuss it, to share the information and therefore make it feel even more real than it already did.

  “I—” Lancelot froze.

  “I heard it, too,” Guinevere whispered.

  There was someone—or something—in the trees.

  “Go to Arthur as though you are going back to sleep,” Lancelot whispered. “Get some rest,” she added in a louder voice, pitching it lower than normal so her naturally husky voice sounded like a young man’s. “It will be morning soon.”

  Guinevere returned to her bedroll, certain that her stiff, nervous walk would give the charade away. She knelt, loath to lie down. That felt too vulnerable. What could she do to help? Fire magic? But fire was hard to control, and she worried about hurting the guards. The memory of those smoldering remains of what had once been wolves made her sick. And she had to keep her magic a secret. If it were revealed, getting rid of Guinevach would have been for nothing. Guinevere herself would be kicked out of Camelot.

  Guinevere lay down and sidled up to Arthur. She put a hand on his shoulder and nuzzled his cheek. “Arthur, wake up,” she said softly. “Do not react, but there is someone in the woods and we may be under attack soon.”

  The way every muscle Guinevere was pressed against became taut and ready was the only indication Guinevere had that Arthur was no longer asleep.