Chapter 9
"What matter do you speak of?" I asked Sir Lancelot as we hurried through the annexed rooms of the bathhouse.
The chambers grew dimmer as we rushed. Lancelot grabbed for a torch set within a wall sconce to brighten our path, wrapping his hand around the stump of the handle. I noted that hand—remembering the strength and gentleness it provided.
"It is my duty to deliver you, My Lady. No more and no less," he replied.
My insides wobbled at the formality of his statement; I sought to keep the conversation going, if only to hear the low resonance of his voice.
"I wanted to offer my gratitude for today. You risked much to see me returned unharmed."
"Your safekeeping is my duty, My Lady."
His duty? Is that what I am to him? Does he not experience the same passions I do? Or had he indeed overheard our conversation and sought to set me back on a righteous path toward Arthur? I mentally scrambled to recall the words Elibel and I exchanged and if they informed on my true feelings for the knight while my mouth, unattended by my mind, ran off on its own accord.
"Just your duty?" I blurted.
Elibel nudged me with her elbow. I shot her a warning look, but she returned my glance with a cautionary glare of her own.
"Yes, My Lady." Lancelot's expression remained unreadable.
Even though I spoke out of turn, my heart sunk at the implication his cold response provided. Had our encounter been one-sided? Had I been a fool to believe he felt anything at all? I remembered Elibel's warning and resolved to let it go as she advised, but my attempt failed and my chest pinched with tightness.
Lancelot's angular features betrayed no emotion as he directed Elibel and me toward the doorway. His hand sought the small of my back, guiding me through the exit. A rush of warmth washed my skin underneath my gown; I fought back the desire that rose at his touch.
His pace quickened as we emerged into the street. He pressed me along with a firm hand, and I imagined how tender his touch would be if his hands sought to wrap around my waist, as they had been around Elibel's earlier in the day.
Suddenly, my fantasy broke by the dimming of the torchlight—as if the flames struggled for air. Elibel started, her breath catching as she peered skyward. An unnatural darkness descended, annihilating the portion of night-sky that stretched over the northern watchtowers of Camelaird.
An eerie stillness pervaded the streets as if no one moved—as if neither animal, bird, nor bug scurried, flit or crawled. Lights from Camelaird's buildings seemed no more than candles set in window frames as we hurried in the direction of the blackness.
Lancelot's hand drifted from my back to his hilt. A chill spread over me from the absence of his touch. He gripped the handle of his sword, his knuckles whitening.
"What's happening?" Elibel's question resounded in the stillness, magnifying the quaver of her voice.
But no one answered.
We quickened as the darkness rolled toward us like storm clouds brewing thunderheads until we reached the north gate and ascended the watchtower.
My father and Arthur awaited us at the top, staring out over the ramparts as the blackness washed toward us. Never in my life had I seen such an unnatural gloom.
"What is it? What's going on?" Elibel begged for an answer again, her voice trembling.
"Druid magic," Arthur replied. "Seems Melwas has sought reinforcements."
I reached up to feel the triquetra beneath my dress, but found my father's Christian cross entwined with the triquetra instead. I fumbled to separate the two through the satiny fabric without success as the blackness roiled toward us. The speed of the mass increased and in moments the bulk of it drew down the fields of Camelaird, squashing them from my view. I could not reconcile the bright memory of my mother with the ominous nature of this dark magic.
"The bulk of my army is either defeated in that blackness, or, by the mercy of Jesu, on the northern side of this monstrosity and will not be able to penetrate to aid us," said Arthur.
"What of Merlin?" asked Lancelot.
Arthur shook his head. "The magician will not appear. He made his point clear. Since he does not approve of my marriage to Guinevere, he refuses his aid."
Does not approve of me?
My father nodded his head as if he understood, but the statement lingered in my mind. Why would a magician—a druid, an old one—disapprove of me? And why, for that matter, would Arthur, a Christian, employ such a man?
"How many of your men did you retain?" asked my father.
"Two dozen bowmen are stationed here, on the north wall. A couple dozen more with swords and spears surround us."
"My men guard the east, west and south gates and are positioned on each watchtower as well as the wall. As my successor, they are yours to command, Arthur."
Arthur nodded his acknowledgment. He turned, directing his speech to Lancelot. "Take the women to the king's hall and guard them there."
The knight nodded, but before he could direct us further, I interrupted, "No! I will not flee and cower while Camelaird is in danger. I will stay and help direct the fight."
"Daughter!" yelled my father, but Arthur cut in.
"And just how do you intend to help and not distract?"
"The right to protect my people is as much mine as it is yours."
Sir Lancelot pressed in behind me as if to signal my leave. A desire to sink backwards into him overwhelmed me. How easy it would be to allow him to escort me away, then protect me while I remained blinded to the events that would shape my father's future—indeed, the future of Camelaird, and perhaps the whole of Britannia. And how wrong it would be to allow myself that simple escape into the protection of a man I could barely resist.
Arthur stared wordlessly at me. His halo of bright curls dulled in the darkness, like a mass of ancient vines swirling on top his head. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me close. I started at the electricity of his touch—like lightning striking my skin—a curious opposition to the warmth Lancelot provided. I attempted to pull away, but the sensation of the sparks jolting my nerves held me in place.
"All I've ever wanted is the safety of all Britons."
"All you ever wanted was the crown of Camelaird," I slung back.
"You misunderstand, Guinevere."
His informal use of my name without the prefix of my title angered me and I fought to refrain from demanding adherence to proper decorum.
The edges of his mouth turned downward as he considered me. "My father, Uther, had sworn alliance to your father many years ago. They launched a campaign to wipe out the Saxons, so my father was gone for most of my childhood. When those murderous Saxon villains came upon us, my mother was alone. Even our stronghold's walls could not hold them back. I watched them murder her. When they turned their swords upon me, my father and yours finally returned and we escaped. A few seasons more of protecting our borders and my father fell to a Saxon sword; we buried him with my mother. I was eight summers old, but I swore the night I lost him that no Saxon would take another Briton's life when I grew to manhood."
Arthur released my wrist and grasped my hands in his. My skin buzzed in reply while his intense energy shot up through my palms and wrists. While Lancelot's presence soothed me, Arthur's enlivened me.
"The only thing I ever wanted was safety for the people of Britannia—so that no child would be left motherless again, so that every Briton could awake, knowing their loved one is still alive and at their side."
I blinked. Arthur only desires to protect?
"I will not force you to marry me, Guinevere. If you truly do not desire it, I will honor your position."
"But you—"
"Planned this? No. I wished for it. And I hoped you would return my affection and we could come to the arrangement equally, with the care of our people in our hands. I would never force it. What kind of a man would I be to force an alliance that dishonored the desire of my queen?"
"I…" No more words followed. They froze within my mind, leaving me unable to formulate a response. Had I misjudged him? The rhythm of my breath echoed in my ears and I realized how silent the air around us had become.
Arthur noted the peculiarity too, and yelled, "Close the gates!" at the same moment the darkness engulfed us.
Betrothal (Queen’s Honor, Tales of Lady Guinevere: #1), a Medieval Fantasy Romance NOVELLA Page 10
