The Camelot Betrayal

by Kiersten White

  She did not think so. But she did think she could have understood him. Maybe she could even have convinced him not to pursue that course. It made her sad, thinking that there was a sequence of events, of choices, that would have meant Mordred had stayed here. With her.

  But with the memory of his kiss tingling on her lips whenever she thought of their few moments alone, she wondered if maybe that would have been the most disastrous path of all.

  Rhoslyn had given her no answers to her Guinevach problem, but in a way, Mordred had.

  Guinevere stopped only to speak with a page. She explained her plan to Brangien, who finagled a reason to make Isolde leave for the next two hours, then hid in the sitting room, ready. At last Guinevere had a plan. A knock on the door signaled the beginning of it.

  “Come in,” Guinevere said.

  Guinevach stepped inside. She looked nervous. “You sent for me?”

  “I did. Please, sit.” Guinevere gestured to the chair across from her own. Guinevach settled into it, her pale-pink skirts draping around her like her beloved lilies. Guinevere pulled out the iron dagger that King Arthur had given her. She hated it, the way it seemed to trigger a ringing just outside her hearing. Guinevach’s eyes widened and she stared in horror at the blade.

  Guinevere held it tight. If Mordred had been honest, everything would have been different. Guinevere would be honest, and would drag honesty from Guinevach, too. She held out her free hand. “Give me your hand.” Guinevach complied. “Now. It is time for only truth between us. Tell me: Why did you really come here, and why are you pretending to know me?”

  Guinevach slumped in the chair, her perfect posture wilting like a lily in the summer heat. “Why am I pretending to know you? Because I do not know you.”

  Guinevere gripped the knife, triumphant, until Guinevach continued. “Not anymore. You are like a stranger to me now, and it breaks my heart.” Guinevach dropped her head. Her voice trembled like her shoulders. Guinevere felt it all, the emotions that could not be lied, could not be faked. And she regretted everything.

  “It is like—it is like our childhood never happened. I ran away to find you. I bribed the guards who brought me here with every last piece of my jewelry.” She gestured to her crown of braids, her dress unadorned except for the elaborate lilies she had put there herself. “And when I got here, you left. Again. Just like before, when you got to leave and I had to stay in that castle, with him.” Her voice turned to a snarl and when she looked up, her teary eyes were filled with rage. “You were always sad. You would cry and cry, and sometimes it was like you disappeared inside yourself. I felt so alone when that happened, but it was better than when you left. I begged father to send me to the convent after you, but he refused. I was his spare. I was the one he could keep around for decoration, because you were too precious. Too fragile. Too valuable. One daughter is a commodity. Two are just wasteful excess.”

  Guinevach leaned toward Guinevere, ignoring the knife, her jaw jutting out angrily as she chewed each word. “I hate you. You got away, and you did not take me with you, and you never came back for me. And when I got here, you told me to go home. Back to that place, back to our father. You swore—you swore you would come for me. Why did you break your promise?”

  Guinevere let go of the knife and of Guinevach’s hand. She had not been prepared for this. Not for any of this. There were no lies in this girl. Only incredible pain and hurt and desperate determination. “I—I could not.”

  “You could not? You married a king and still you could not? You left me there. Living in your shadow. Compared constantly with your beauty and your poise. To them, I am nothing but a pale imitation of you. Right down to my name: Guinevach.” She cut the end of it off with a hard, sneering sound. “I thought you would be happy to see me. I thought you would explain why you never came back for me. And instead you treated me like a stranger, told me to leave. So I decided to prove to you that I am better than you, that I belong here, that the little sister you did not think was worth rescuing can be every bit the princess of that shithole Cameliard that you were. I thought if I was useful and clever and smart, if I planned your silly harvest festival, if I made your life better, that you would see I belonged. But you still did not care. So now I have been trying everything possible to get one of these knights to fall in love with me so I can marry and stay here.”

  “Guinevach, I—”

  “No.” Guinevach looked at Guinevere with a weary resignation that Guinevere knew all too well. This was a girl used to betrayal. Used to disappointment. A girl who had fought her way here, and would fight her way to the next thing, and the next, until finally she found a place where she could be free. “Do not try to make this better. You wanted the truth, there it is. Now tell me the truth. Why did you become a stranger? What did I do to make you hate me so?”

  Guinevere covered her mouth with a trembling hand. The knife lay forgotten in her lap. The absolute cruelty of what she had inflicted on this poor girl took her breath away. Guinevere had stolen her real sister’s place in this world, and, as if that were not enough, she had destroyed the only thing Guinevach had left of her sister: her memories of their bond. The real Guinevere might have gone back for her. Guinevere had no way of knowing. All she knew—all she could know—was that Merlin’s choice for her to become Guinevere continued to ripple outward in waves of violence and pain and suffering. Just like all of Merlin’s magic.

  And Guinevere had done the damage herself, again. She had looked for a threat and lashed out with words and actions. She had watched a hurt, sad, scared girl try her hardest to belong, and had plotted how to destroy her.

  “Oh, Lily,” Guinevere said.

  Guinevach startled at the name and looked up sharply, her eyes wide with pain, or hope. They were so often almost the same.

  “I am so sorry. I am so very, very sorry.” Guinevere stood and wrapped her arms around the sister the queen should have had. The sister the queen should have protected. Guinevere would do the same, forever, whatever it took. She had stolen the real Guinevere’s place in this world, so she would accept her responsibilities, as well.

  “You are never leaving,” Guinevere whispered. “I will never send you back to Cameliard. I cannot excuse my behavior, or explain it other than to say that I was afraid. I was afraid that you coming here meant I would lose what I had. It was selfish and small and I am sorrier than I can say. Do not forgive me, but please trust me. You are safe here. You are home.”

  Guinevach collapsed against her, shaking with sobs, and Guinevere held her. The mystery of Guinevach was solved. Except the most important question: why an innocent girl who obviously loved her sister could look at a stranger and not recognize the deception.

  * * *

  “Do you remember anything special about these?” Guinevere gestured to the rings she had lined up on her table. She brushed and braided Guinevach’s—Lily’s—hair like Brangien had done for her so many times.

  Lily smiled and pointed to a heavy silver ring with a pattern stamped into it. “Mother wore that one. I always tried to pull it off her finger. Sometimes she would let me. It was too big even for my thumb.”

  “Put it on.”

  Lily took the ring and slipped it onto her middle finger. “It finally fits.”

  “Good, because it is yours. Any of them are yours, if you want them.”

  “Why—why do you act like you do not remember things?” Lily asked, toying with the ring and not turning around.

  Guinevere paused the brush midstroke. “Can I tell you something I have not told anyone else?”

  “Of course.” Lily turned at this, an eager expression on her face.

  “You know when a leaf has fallen, dried and brittle? How you can crumble it in your hand and only a few bits are left, clinging to the strongest parts of the leaf?”

  Lily nodded, frowning. “Yes.”

&nb
sp; “That is what my mind is like. I—something happened. At the convent. I lost who I was.” Guinevere tried to feel her way through the words. She wanted to be as truthful as she could. Lily deserved as much. No. Lily deserved the truth. That her sister was dead, and she was speaking to a changeling. But that could never be said. And if Guinevere could not give Lily the truth, she would give her the most fiercely kind sister she could in exchange. “I woke up and it was as if all the pieces of my memory had crumbled and been blown away.” That much was true, as well. When she had come to Camelot, she had not realized how empty her memories were and how odd that was. She had not realized that Merlin had pushed things in and other things out.

  She wanted them back. She wanted them all back. And she wanted Lily to have her sister back, too. None of that would happen.

  “Were you hit on the head?” Guinevach asked. “We had a stable boy who got kicked in the head by a horse and after that he could not speak anymore.”

  “Maybe. I—I remember looking up from a great depth, under water.” Guinevere took a deep breath, trying to shake off the horror of the memory. It was her strongest one, and her most terrible one.

  Lily frowned. “But you can swim. You taught me. You loved the water.” At Guinevere’s worried expression, Lily took her hand and patted it. Though Lily was two years younger, Guinevere could tell that she had been the stronger of the sisters. That came through in her touch. This poor girl, who came here for protection, was still determined to protect the woman she thought was her sister. Even after all of Guinevere’s cruelty. “Never you mind about it. I can remind you who you were, whenever you forget. And if you get sad again, like you used to, I will be next to you until you find your way back to yourself.”

  “Thank you.” Guinevere let Lily hug her. Brangien opened the door from the sitting room. She had peeked in a few times. She lifted an eyebrow in a silent question. Guinevere smiled.

  “Well. If this is settled, I am going to retrieve Isolde.” Brangien left the rooms.

  “I do not think your maid likes me.”

  “She does not like anyone. Not at first. But she will come around.”

  “You know who I do like? Dindrane. She is so funny. A bit wicked, too.”

  “Oh, yes. That she is.”

  Lily’s nose wrinkled. “Her husband is old, though.”

  Guinevere laughed. “Not so old.”

  “Most of the knights are too old.”

  “Too old for what?”

  Lily blushed. She had already confessed her plan to get one of them to fall in love with her. It was mercenary of her, but Guinevere did not hold it against her.

  “There is one knight who is not so old, who seems unable to form a complete sentence around you,” Guinevere teased.

  Lily’s eyes widened as a pretty blush spread across her cheeks, beneath her freckles. What Guinevere had thought was artful before she now saw as sincerity. Lily was not good at hiding her emotions. “He is very sweet, is he not? Not so handsome as King Arthur, of course, or even Sir Tristan, but I like Sir Gawain’s face.”

  “Ah, I did not even have to name Sir Gawain, you knew who I spoke of! Yes, he is very sweet, and good, and King Arthur values him. But you do not need to worry or rush. No one is taking you from Camelot. You can marry tomorrow or in twenty years or never.”

  Lily wiped under her eyes, then lifted her chin and corrected her posture. “Good. Because you need me. Your plans for the harvest festival were very boring before I got here.”

  “They were not!”

  “Oh, they were so. Now turn around and let me do your hair.”

  Guinevere did as she was told. If encouraging Lily to love her was another deception, at least it was a kind one this time. For both of them.

  “Do not say it,” Guinevere growled, radiating menace.

  Arthur pursed his lips, his face a picture of innocence. “Say what? That Guinevach is just a girl determined to force her sister to pay attention to her?”

  Guinevere elbowed him in the side. “Yes, exactly that. And she prefers to be called Lily.”

  He laughed, scooting closer to her and putting his arm behind her. She leaned back to rest against it. They sat beneath a canopy, the rugs and cushions out of place in the middle of a field, but welcome. In front of them Lily was speaking with Sir Gawain, laughing more than Guinevere suspected was justified by whatever the young knight was saying. Everything was gold and blue. The fields midharvest, the cloudless sky, Lily’s hair, Arthur’s tunic. The entire scene was so lovely Guinevere wanted to cry for some reason she could not quite explain.

  “Back to it.” Arthur stood, stretching. He was wearing a simple tunic, no chain mail, no crown. All his knights wore the same. Today, they harvested alongside the people of Camelot.

  Of course, there was a row of guards watching everything, and the canopy and the food and the cushions and the ladies waiting and watching, but that did not stop Arthur from threshing as skillfully as the hired men next to him and the landowner next to them. In the distance Guinevere could make out Lancelot’s dark curls next to Sir Tristan’s nearly shaved head. There had been no question that Lancelot should do the same work as the other knights, as opposed to staying behind with Guinevere.

  It was good. It was better. Lancelot belonged with the knights.

  With Sir Gawain following Arthur’s lead back to the fields, Lily retired to the next canopied area and sat beside Dindrane. Their laughter was as bright as the day and just as golden. Guinevere tipped her head back and closed her eyes.

  “Where is your maid?” Anna settled in next to her.

  “She stayed at the castle with Isolde, my other maid.” Brangien had no desire to sit outside and watch men work. Increasingly whenever possible, Brangien was staying at the castle or going on errands with Isolde. Guinevere respected their space and encouraged them to find a rhythm to their own lives. If she missed her friend, well, she was also happy for her. For both of them.

  “Let me know if you need anything.” Anna had a way of being present without demanding anything. It was soothing.

  Snatches of conversation drifted over from Dindrane and Lily where they sat with the other knights’ wives and a couple of their older daughters. Guinevere knew all of them, but the thought of walking over and making conversation was exhausting. She much preferred sitting here, feeling the breeze, enjoying being outside. The only thing that could improve it would be to be surrounded by trees instead of fields, but fields had their own sort of tempered beauty.

  Eventually the section of field was cleared. Arthur, wholesomely sweaty and flushed with happiness, rejoined Guinevere to eat and drink, until, as all outings eventually did, it turned into a wrestling and sparring match between the knights. Lily laughed and shouted encouragement to Sir Gawain, who was facing off against Lancelot and therefore had not a prayer of success. Arthur and Sir Tristan were dueling with long stalks of wheat. Dindrane had Sir Bors at her side, leaning close to him and whispering something that was turning Sir Bors a deep red beneath his bushy mustache.

  “Sometimes I wonder,” Anna said, staring into the distance, “if I walked until I hit the forest and then kept walking and never looked back, would anything change?”

  “What?” Guinevere turned toward her.

  Anna sat deep in the shade, beneath the canopy’s center. She kept her eyes focused on the horizon. “If I left. If I decided the trappings of this life were not for me. What would change if I removed myself from being Anna, lady’s maid?”

  Guinevere was confused and a little unnerved by this topic. It did not seem to fit the general mood of the day. “Do you wish to go back to Cameliard?”

  “Oh, no. Wretched city. No, I would not go back to anywhere. I would just walk until I found a place that felt true to me.”

  “But if you left, people would miss you. Lily would miss you.”

/>   “I am replaceable. Your sister, dear thing, will love anyone who is kind to her, and is loving enough she should be able to find kindness here.”

  “But would you not miss her? Or your friends?” Surely Anna had friends in the castle by now. She was warm and friendly, easy to talk to. Usually. Guinevere felt this conversation like an itch between her shoulder blades that she could not reach.

  Anna frowned, tilting her head in consideration. “For a while, perhaps. But when I think through the consequences, there are not many. At most, it would inconvenience a few people. At least, they would barely notice. And if I can remove myself from my life here with the merest ripple, do I truly belong? Do I have a reason for being here? Is Anna of Camelot really who I want to be for the rest of my life?”

  Guinevere wanted to argue with her. Needed to, almost desperately, and she could not understand why the idea of Anna getting up and walking away from her entire life here made Guinevere feel panic, until she realized it was because everything Anna was saying, everything she had described…Guinevere realized it could apply to her, as well.

  If she had followed Mordred into the trees, what would have happened?

  She felt the pieces settling in her mind, the path that Arthur and Lily and Lancelot and Brangien and Camelot as a whole would have taken, and she yanked her mind from that brink before she could follow the lines of thought to their conclusion.

  She stood, feeling like she did not quite fit in her own skin, like she needed to move or she would come apart at the seams.

  Anna looked up at her with concern. “Can I get you something, my queen?”

  Arthur was with his men. Lancelot, too. Guinevere could not interrupt Arthur, or pull Lancelot away from belonging. Dindrane and Sir Bors were slipping away, hand in hand. Lily and Sir Gawain were standing scandalously close in conversation. She did not know or love the other women and was not loved by any of them. There was nowhere for her to go, no one for her to seek refuge in.