The Camelot Betrayal

by Kiersten White

  “That may very well be it.” That, and her connection to the Lady. It was Guinevere’s own magic, manifesting in an unexpected way. It was both comforting and worrisome. Her memories were a void. Could it be that it was not her dreams that were being filled, but her own mind? Was she absorbing a little of everyone and everything around her and using it unconsciously to rebuild what had been so damaged by Merlin?

  It was yet another unknown, and there was no one she could ask about it. Certainly not the cruel and culpable wizard sealed away by the very Lady she had dreamed of, or the Lady herself. Guinevere would sooner have no answers at all than any delivered by water.

  There was a knock. Lancelot had gone to bathe and change, promising to be back before Guinevere had to go anywhere. Brangien opened the door, angling herself in such a way that she blocked the view of the room. Isolde peeked in from the sitting room to see who it was.

  “Yes?” Brangien said.

  “I wondered if my sister wanted to go on a walk with me this morning before her meeting.” Guinevach sounded as hopeful and bright as a morning after rain.

  Brangien did not glance back to check. She did not have to. “The queen is feeling indisposed this morning. She has to stay in and rest until her duties claim her.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course. What time will she be attending the meeting? Perhaps I could assist her.”

  “Do not trouble yourself. She would rather you go out and enjoy the city. The bakers on Piss—on Castle Street are quite good. I recommend honeyed buns if you can find any.” Brangien closed the door. They waited in silence for a few moments to give Guinevach time to wander away, then Brangien sat next to Guinevere.

  Isolde had joined them and was sorting through Guinevere’s dress options for the day. “Guinevach is very earnest and sweet. She must be so excited to be here.”

  “Yes, I am sure she is.” Brangien gave Guinevere a narrowed-eye look that made it quite obvious she was sure of no such thing.

  “Oh, this is lovely!” Isolde held up one of Guinevere’s prettiest dresses, a flowing gown of pale green that Brangien usually paired with a blue cloak.

  “It is. But I need something that conveys authority.” Guinevere was working on behalf of Arthur and needed to project the same assured strength. She could not carry a sword, which seemed to be the biggest indicator of power.

  “Right. Yes. Of course.” Isolde went back to sorting. She held up a gray tunic dress whose bodice was embellished with red and blue threads that looked almost like chain mail in their pattern.

  “That is perfect.”

  Isolde beamed at the praise, then chose a sleeveless robe of deep blue.

  “The matching gray hood,” Brangien said. “We can attach it. It looks like silver, and we will arrange it so it frames her face like a crown or a halo.”

  “But she is not going outside today.” Isolde held up the hood. It was not connected to a cloak, but would lace on at Guinevere’s shoulders, holding it in place.

  “We are not being practical. We are being purposeful. Guinevere cannot look like the king, but we can make certain no one forgets she is the queen.” Brangien put the hood in place, fussing with it and adjusting it until she was satisfied with how the stiff fabric surrounded Guinevere’s face without shadowing it. Then she took the two blue strips of the robe front and, instead of draping them straight down, crisscrossed them and pinned them in place on Guinevere’s shoulders so the swath of blue elegantly pooled above her chest and then fell behind her arms like a cloak or a cape.

  “She looks like Camelot!” Isolde gasped. “The gray of the city, the blue of the lake, the twin waterfalls.”

  Guinevere did not particularly like imitating the water she hated so, but she could not deny Brangien’s cleverness with the visual. “You are a genius.”

  Brangien made a few more pins and tucks. “I know,” she said, stepping back to consider her work before nodding. “Now, whatever you do, do not push the hood back or pull it forward. It is a halo, not a cave.”

  Caves were almost as bad as water. Guinevere stood straight, afraid to move. “I will do your work the honor it deserves, even if my back never recovers.”

  “Good.”

  There was another knock on the door, but before Brangien could reach it, it opened to reveal Dindrane. “Good morning, I—oh, my queen!” Dindrane paused, her mouth open as she took in the sight. “Brangien, are you certain I cannot lure you from the queen’s service?”

  Brangien did not even acknowledge the remark. She set about cleaning up with Isolde as Dindrane sat on a bench near where Guinevere stood.

  “Sit,” Brangien commanded Guinevere. “You will have to figure out how to sit at the meeting, so you may as well practice here.”

  Guinevere stepped lightly and gathered her skirts, lowering herself with a straight spine into her seat. Everything stayed where it was supposed to, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “How are you?” she asked Dindrane.

  Dindrane waved the question away. “Your sister is charming and elegant and sweet and graceful. She brought me this belt she sewed herself. I have never seen such tight stitching.”

  Brangien’s voice was sharp. “Can I see it?”

  Dindrane frowned, but undid the cloth belt from her waist and passed it to Brangien. Guinevere knew what Brangien was looking for: knots of magic, evidence that Guinevach was using sewing the same way Brangien did, to anchor spells and to do so under the noses of everyone around her. After a few seconds of examining the belt front and back, Brangien shook her head and returned it to Dindrane. “Beautiful,” she said.

  “Are you jealous?” Dindrane laughed. “The girl can sew better than you.”

  “I am not jealous.” Brangien lifted her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation, then resumed her work alongside Isolde. “Isolde, will you fetch some food for our guest?”

  Isolde nodded, smiling warmly at Dindrane before leaving.

  Brangien sat down, joining them. “How was she really?”

  “Exactly as I said.” Dindrane smoothed the belt back into place. “Honestly, I have never met such a lovely young woman. Were I not happily married and satisfied with my life, I might have hated her for her youth and beauty. As it is, I only found it mildly annoying. But even I caved by the end of the meal. She is endearing. I spoke to a few of the other wives and they have all received similar gifts and visits from her. She knows how to carry a conversation and when to listen. She has clearly been educated in all the ways a princess should be.” Dindrane paused as though she had said something wrong. Guinevere did not realize what it was until Dindrane’s failure to look at her felt deliberate. Dindrane had been comparing Guinevach with Guinevere, and it was obvious which of the two fell short of what a princess should be.

  “We had different tutors.” Guinevere wanted to shift in her seat but was afraid of disturbing her hood. “And I spent years in the convent before coming here. Tell me, what did you speak about?”

  “She wanted to know all about my house, my wedding, Sir Bors, my clothes, the decorations I chose. Her praise was as artful as her stitchwork. And she steered the conversation back to you many times. How long had we known each other, how did we become friends, what were you like when you were not being the queen.”

  “Hmm.” Guinevere frowned.

  “I would not have noticed it if you had not asked me to spy on her. She is subtle. But it was clear the entire visit was aimed at getting as much information about you as she could. I told her nothing useful, of course. Only that you were my dearest friend and everyone remarked on what good friends we were and how wise you were to choose me as your friend.” Dindrane tossed her hair over her shoulders, her smile wicked. “I am afraid I was not helpful. But she never acted frustrated or chagrined. She just pivoted and tried a different path of conversation to find a way to her goal. Very clever. I like her immensely. I hope she
is not here to destroy you and steal your husband, but if she is, you should be flattered at such a skilled foe.”

  Guinevere could not help but laugh. Everything was confusing and dire, but Dindrane managed to make it sound more like a game than anything. Dindrane stayed for another hour, gossiping and telling stories as they ate the food Isolde brought. It was exactly what Guinevere needed after a restless, disturbing night. It made her feel normal, made her feel like she really was who she was pretending to be.

  “We should go,” Brangien said, looking at the sun’s location in the sky. “They will be waiting for you.”

  Guinevere sighed. Back to the business of being the queen. She bade Dindrane a fond farewell. Lancelot entered the room as Dindrane left, then escorted them down to the hall. There was a hum of conversation coming from behind the closed door. Guinevere thought nothing of it until it was punctured by a sparkling stream of laughter.

  Guinevach. Guinevere pushed open the door to find the girl sitting in the queen’s seat, midsentence, as the entire room of men leaned forward intently, hanging on every word.

  “Oh, hello!” Guinevach waved. “Your maid said you were indisposed, so Sir Gawain helped me call the meeting early. We have just finished! Everything is settled.” She smiled, a row of pearly teeth daring Guinevere to demand her seat back.

  “How wonderful.” Guinevere stood there in her carefully strategic outfit, as Guinevach, her golden hair braided like a crown around her head, dismissed the men, and ended the meeting.

  Guinevere had been waiting for three hours, sitting on the ground plucking plants and stripping them to pieces. Lancelot had finally given up standing and was sitting beside her. They were waiting for Arthur outside the city, across the lake. He was due back today, though they had no idea what time.

  Guinevere could not stand to stay in the city, or the castle. She felt hunted. The past two days everywhere she had gone Guinevach was either there or had already been, her presence lingering like the embroidered lilies she left in her wake. On pillows. On sashes. On belts. Wherever Guinevere went, the ladies wore evidence of Guinevach’s popularity. The knights were no better. Sir Gawain wore a kerchief embroidered with one of Guinevach’s lilies, either unaware or uncaring that several of the other knights hated him for it. They had all received them, but only he acted like it was a badge of honor to be displayed.

  Guinevach had taken over plans for the harvest festival. Guinevere did not even know how it had happened. Somehow between one day and the next, the festival became Guinevach’s. She took Guinevere’s idea and made it bigger, better. Now they would have milking contests for the maids, a display of sewing where women could show off their skills, a pig-wrestling contest. Even the knights were in on it. They were no longer competing as knights, but competing alongside the farmers. They knew the farmers would win most of the contests, but that was part of the celebration. A chance for the regular men to best Arthur’s knights in fun and jest.

  “Chicken-catching contest. I could have thought of that.” Guinevere tore another blade of grass from root to tip.

  “My queen?” Lancelot leaned her head toward Guinevere.

  “There he is!” Guinevere stood. Arthur and his men were visible in the distance, a cloud of dust in their wake. She was sure he would be exhausted and ready to go back to the castle, but she needed to speak here where they were not observed. Where they would not be haunted by the specter of Guinevach hovering somewhere nearby, smiling and pink and lovely.

  It felt like it took forever for Arthur to reach them. When he did, he smiled wearily, dismounting and pulling Guinevere in for a hug. “I did not expect you to meet us.”

  “I wanted to speak with you. In private.”

  Arthur waved his men on. “Go ahead without me. My queen and I will take the long way home.” The knights all went ahead, toward the city, save Lancelot. She gave Arthur and Guinevere a respectful distance, moving out of earshot. Arthur sat on Guinevere’s blanket.

  Guinevere sat, too. “How did it go?”

  “As well as can be expected. It was useful information, and I am glad to have more connections in that region. You were right that the Pict peace gives us an opportunity to focus elsewhere. How have things been here? Have you accomplished all my duties so I am not required for anything at all?” Arthur smiled, then lay back, his arms behind his head. He was dusty and road-worn but did not seem eager to return to the city. Guinevere lay next to him, closing her eyes against the glare of the sun.

  “I have not accomplished them. Someone else has. Guinevach is still here.”

  “No!” Arthur shifted to his side, propping himself up on an elbow. He blocked the sun so Guinevere could see again. “What happened?”

  “She sent her guards home without her. And now the whole city adores her. Which makes her much more difficult to shuffle out quietly. I have found no evidence of magic, but I was not able to search her rooms very well. Her lady’s maid has only been with her a few months. Allegedly. They could all be lying.” Guinevere shook her head. “I do not know. I cannot know. And that is what is so terrible. I have no idea what Guinevach is up to because I do not know her, but I cannot admit I do not know her!”

  “What has she done? She did not reveal your identity, did she?”

  “No. But she is everywhere. Talking to everyone. Taking over the harvest planning. Making friends, flirting with knights, giving presents.”

  “Is that…bad?”

  “Yes! She is very good at all of it!” Guinevere sat up, unable to contain her frustration. “I have had to keep my distance from everyone as I learned what my role was, how to behave, how to do the things that a princess would know. And she already knows it all. She is better than I am at everything, and everyone loves her, and if she is plotting against me, I cannot see how, which means I cannot fight her!”

  Arthur took Guinevere’s hand and tugged her back down. She acquiesced with a huff of breath. “I am here now,” Arthur said, keeping her twitching hand in his warm, comforting one. “We will see if there is a threat. But the biggest threat—that she would reveal the truth of your deception—did not happen. And that is a relief,” he said, as if the matter was concluded. “Tell me, how did you like ruling Camelot in my absence?”

  Guinevere was not as reassured as Arthur. He had been wrong about how easily Guinevach could be dealt with. In Guinevere’s mind, this meant something more sinister and complex was at work. But Arthur was back, and they would face it all together.

  But to his question. How did she like ruling Camelot? “It is a lot of details. Land and crops and storage and market stall space. Who knew what an outrage a single shift in market stalls could ignite?”

  Arthur laughed. Guinevere could not help but laugh, too, happy to have this shared moment.

  “I will admit,” he said, “it was perhaps not a kindness giving you my tasks. I did not miss those meetings.”

  “Let me tell you my ideas for the harvest festival, though!” Guinevere rushed to fill him in before he returned to the castle and Guinevach took credit for everything. Dindrane’s joke about Guinevach stealing her husband had made more of a mark than Guinevere expected. But Guinevach could not lure Arthur to her side. He was Guinevere’s. Arthur listened, commenting and praising, and for that bright hour they were king and queen and Arthur and Guinevere, and everything was going to work out.

  It was a relief, having Arthur back. Guinevere had relished the idea of authority, but the reality of it was more of a grinding monotony. Though she vowed to make an effort to be more involved in the actual ruling of Camelot, she was not sorry to pass back the bulk of duties to Arthur.

  The next day she made her slow way to the combat arena with Brangien. Isolde did not like crowds and had volunteered to stay behind and see to the day’s work.

  “How is Isolde adjusting?” Guinevere asked, leaning on Brangien’s arm. A guard, a
cheerful fellow named George whom Guinevere was fond of, walked at a respectful distance, Lancelot having gone early to the arena. Because it was harvest season, there were likely to be few aspirants; it was more of a training day for younger boys who hoped to become soldiers and whose families were merchants, allowing them the freedom to train instead of work fields.

  “It is good to be back together. But she has a lot of healing to do. Some things I think will be different forever. King Mark was— Well. I am not sorry about what you did to him.”

  “I am,” Guinevere whispered. “It was wrong.”

  “He would have done worse to you. But if it takes the rest of our lives for Isolde to feel safe, then I am committed to that task. She will never be threatened again.”

  “Does she like Camelot? Or do you think she would do better somewhere secluded?”

  Brangien shook her head, which was a relief. Guinevere wanted what was best for Isolde and hoped to support Brangien in whatever the two women needed, but she did not want to lose her friend. “No, part of what was so horrible for her was that he kept her isolated, allowed her no friends, nothing to do. She was not what he wanted, so he refused to let her be anything at all. Helping others is part of her. This castle, bustling but open, makes her feel safe. And she loves Sir Tristan and Lancelot and you, and is finding a good rhythm with her new work. I think the routine, the busy tasks, they are all helpful. She is sleeping better.”

  “I am glad. Let me know anything I can do to help, or to make her life easier.”

  Brangien squeezed Guinevere’s hand where it rested on her arm. “I will. Thank you. And how are you? Any more dreams?”

  “Nothing to report.” Guinevere and Arthur had returned to the city together, then stayed up late into the night discussing in detail what Arthur had learned and what it all meant for Camelot now and in the future. If Guinevere had dreamed after falling asleep in Arthur’s bed while he wrote letters, she remembered nothing, which suited her fine.