The Guinevere Deception Read online

  She shivered as the cave tunnel sealed them off from the night. The rock was black, slick with moisture. Arthur did not stumble or slip, but he walked more slowly than she suspected he could. She appreciated it. Mordred’s words lingered like the chill around them. Banishment. Or worse.

  “I have never had a queen before. What shall I call you?” Arthur’s voice was soft, so the echoes surrounded only them, not reaching Mordred where he walked ahead. The way was narrow and close, forcing them into single file.

  “Guinevere suits me very well, thank you.”

  “Only Guinevere? Nothing else? I know the power of names.”

  His words hit her with two meanings. Names that were titles gave power among men. True names gave power among the things that came before men. She focused on the torch to make her voice cheery, like it. “Guinevere, when spoken by you, has power enough.”

  She would hold her true name to herself as a talisman. A secret. In the horrible inn, claustrophobic and desperate, she had whispered it to herself in the middle of the night. It did not feel real. She wondered if, with no one else to say it back to her, it would cease to exist. Guinevere, she whispered. The cave swallowed it whole, carrying it away toward Camelot.

  Guinevere. Guinevere. Dead and buried. What had she been like? Who was she?

  Me, she thought. Guinevere. She imagined stepping into the name as she had stepped into the clothing. Putting it on sound by sound, piece by piece. Draping it over herself, and then cinching it up tight so it would not slip away. It was a complicated name. So many pieces. She would have to be very complicated to fit it.

  “Guinevere” followed Arthur through the cave.

  They emerged into a cramped storage room filled with barrels. Arthur helped Mordred shift a large one to get them through. Mordred levered it back in place while Arthur produced a key and unlocked the door. When they had all stepped through, he locked the door behind them.

  They were outside, on one of the walkways that twisted around the exterior of the castle. Guinevere stared up at the castle, dark and soaring above her. She put her hand to the stone, but it was old. So old it had forgotten what it was before it was a castle. Mordred put his hand next to hers. His fingers were long and finely shaped. They looked as soft as a new leaf. But perhaps a leaf with teeth, like the one in the forest.

  “We did not build Camelot,” he said. “Neither did Arthur’s father, Uther Pendragon. He did what men always do. He wanted it, and so he claimed it. And then we took it from him.”

  She did not know if he sounded proud or sad, and the night around them offered no clues.

  “Look!” Arthur drew her attention away from the past that had been bloodied and defeated on the edge of his father’s sword.

  She turned outward and the rest of the night was revealed. The city of Camelot knelt before them, and past the buildings and homes and walls, the lake carried sparks of fire. Hundreds of boats were crossing the lake with illuminated lamps. The lamps reflected with rippling beauty off the black water. It was like the night sky, burning with stars.

  She could almost love this place, even with the lake.

  “They are bringing light to Camelot in honor of their new queen.”

  Guinevere watched. Her smile was like a reflection, too. Not quite real. They offered her hope and beauty in return for a deception.

  * * *

  She was draped in red and blue. A belt of silver hung low across her hips. Her hair was heavy with jewels. It was the last time she would ever wear jewels there, as married women never did. It was also the first time she had worn them, but no one knew that. A fur collar adorned her cape, the ghost of the animal tickling her. If she touched it, what story would it tell?

  She did not touch it.

  They knelt in front of an altar. A priest recited words in Latin. The words meant nothing to Guinevere; they were as meaningless as the vows she spoke. But Guinevere, dead Guinevere, was a Christian princess, and so Guinevere, false Guinevere, had to be the same.

  When they were finished, Arthur led Guinevere to a balcony overlooking the city. The lights had moved to the streets now. People thronged, crowding to get close to the castle. Guinevere smiled, even though they could not see it from that distance. Why did she constantly offer smiles when none were demanded? She raised her hand and waved.

  A cheer erupted. Arthur—a hero from Merlin’s stories three hours ago, her husband now—nudged her in the side. “Watch.” He gestured to a man standing nearby, who called out an order. There was a rushing noise, and then the people cheered with such delight and ferocity that Guinevere saw how weak their cheer for her had been in comparison. They scrambled, laughing, lifting each other up to long, winding troughs set over the streets.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Water, usually. We divert it from the river so it flows down through the city and people can siphon it from the aqueducts. But tonight we blocked the water and my men up there are pouring barrel after barrel of wine to toast our wedding.”

  Guinevere covered an inelegant snort of laughter. “I shall be a very popular queen indeed. Until they awake in the morning in agony.”

  “Pain is often the price of pleasure. There is a feast awaiting us, with all my best men, where you can experience both as you meet their wives.”

  Guinevere wished very much for her own aqueduct of wine then. This would be the great test of her hasty instruction, her clumsy costuming in another girl’s life. And if she did not pass, everything would be for naught.

  While everyone was watching the wine spectacle, she pulled a few strands of her own hair, tying them in intricate knots. Each twist and turn and loop secured the magic to the hair. To her. Sealing it in. It was a small, finite magic. The only safe kind for now. She reached up as though adjusting Arthur’s crown and wrapped the knotted hairs there. He smiled at her, surprised by her apparently spontaneous gesture. Satisfied, she took Arthur’s offered elbow and walked with him into the castle.

  Knot magic was fragile and temporary. Merlin did not use it. But Merlin did not need to. He walked through time, trailing the unknowable future, cloaked in magic. He could ask the sun to change color or command the trees to join him for breakfast and she would not be surprised if they obeyed.

  Guinevere—the true Guinevere—was not a wizard. Guinevere was a princess who had been raised in a kingdom far enough away that no one here had ever seen her. She had spent the last three years in a convent preparing herself for marriage. And then she died, leaving a space in her wake. Merlin saw the space, and he claimed it.

  He also saw to it that no one knew or remembered the Guinevere-who-was. He erased her from the convent’s memories. That was not a finite or controlled magic. It was a wild and dark and dangerous magic. It was a violent magic, undoing the record of a life and giving it to someone else.

  The new Guinevere wanted, desperately, to whisper her own name to herself, but she could not risk its being heard. Guinevere, she whispered. Instead imagining the name as her dress and cloak, she imagined it as armor. But when she and Arthur walked into the feast, she forgot her fear.

  This, finally, was something Guinevere could enjoy. She had lived on so little in the woods. She and Merlin ate whatever nature decided to give them. Sometimes it was berries and nuts. Sometimes a falcon would drop a fish on their doorstep. Once, a falcon dropped the fish on her head. Perhaps she should not have teased him. Falcons were such terribly prideful birds. But occasionally nature decided they would like nothing more than a meal of grubs. The grubs would bubble up from the ground outside the shack. Merlin never minded. She went hungry those days.

  At King Arthur’s table, there were neither grubs nor petulant falcons. There was food the likes of which she had never seen, and she wanted to try it all.

  She had to be careful and measured. The real Guinevere would have been accustomed to such fare at he
r father’s castle before she was sent to the convent. But eating also meant not speaking, which was good. The ladies at this end of the table—wives of the knights, mostly, with a few ladies-in-waiting and some visitors—were content to chatter and gossip around their new queen. They were politely distant as they tried to get a feel for what she would be to them.

  What she would be to them did not matter. What she was, was famished. The first course was all meat. Ground venison in wine sauce. Succulent cuts of fowl. All things she and Merlin had never eaten. She tasted everything. She was careful not to touch the food with her hands. Probably the animals would not speak to her, but she did not want to risk it.

  There was a pie filled with something she could not place. “Eels,” Brangien whispered at her side. “You may not have had them as far south as you were. We raise them in the marshlands. Whole acres of eels. Living, they seem like nightmares. But baked into pies, quite nice.” She took a bite.

  Guinevere did, as well. The meat was chewy, the pie having soaked up the oil. It was an unusual taste. She preferred the other dishes. A piece slid off her knife and she snatched at it to catch it before it fell onto her dress.

  Darkness. Water. Sliding and slipping and curling around a thousand siblings, a thousand mates, hungry, snapping, so cold, and the water, always the water—

  She dropped it as though burned. She did not want to touch eel ever again.

  Once those dishes were cleared, the second course was delivered. This, Guinevere was more familiar with. Fruits and jellies and nuts, displayed artfully. She eagerly reached forward and took several pieces, then froze. No one else had taken any. They were all just…looking.

  “The second course,” Brangien whispered, “is generally more to appeal to the eye than to the tongue. Though if you are not going to eat all those cherries, please slip one onto my plate.”

  Guinevere was startled by this new, brash Brangien. Then she saw how far into her very deep cup of wine Brangien was, and it made more sense. Guinevere put two cherries onto Brangien’s plate. A minstrel played while his companion sang, the songs competing with the general chatter and happy noise of the room. Guinevere felt invisible. It was not unwelcome.

  The courses continued. Guinevere was more careful to take her cues from the women around her. The table was divided between men and women. Arthur, surrounded by his men, was across from her. They laughed raucously, trading stories and commenting on the quality of the meat. She found herself wishing he would look at her. Even with Brangien next to her, by the sixth course she was beginning to feel truly alone. She was marooned in a sea of falsehood, and among celebrating strangers, she felt it most keenly. She meant nothing to any of these women. She only meant something to Arthur. But he meant something to everyone in Camelot. She had so little claim on him.

  But someone was looking at her. Mordred raised his cup in a toast, eyes glittering in the candlelight. She did not answer his toast.

  “Do not meddle with that one,” Brangien whispered, nibbling on the roasted nuts Guinevere had passed along. “He is poison. Sir Tristan says Arthur should banish him, but Arthur is too kind.”

  “Sir Tristan?”

  Brangien subtly pointed out a man sitting several people down from Arthur. He had black hair cut close to his head like Arthur’s, though his was coiled in tight curls. His skin was deep brown, his face handsome in a way Guinevere could not help but appreciate.

  “Sir Tristan brought me here and got me a position in the castle.” Brangien smiled, but it was a smile burdened by a deep sadness Guinevere was not privy to. Why would Sir Tristan have a young woman as a maid in the first place? They could not be family. They looked nothing alike. “Like most of Arthur’s knights, he is not from Camelot. Arthur took him in when he was banished. Took us both in.”

  “Why was he banished?” Guinevere asked it casually, but she needed information about everyone close to Arthur.

  “Isolde.” Brangien said the word as reverently as a prayer. This time she did not even pretend to smile. “She was my lady. She was betrothed to Sir Tristan’s uncle. An old lecher.” Brangien’s hand tightened around her knife.

  “Sir Tristan loved her?”

  There were tears pooling in Brangien’s eyes.

  “Are you well?” Guinevere reached out a hand, but Brangien brushed at her eyes and then smiled brightly.

  “The dim light in here. It makes my eyes weak. You must try the roasted fruit.” She scooped damsons onto Guinevere’s plate, too many for one person to eat. “Sir Tristan is a good man. You will like him. Sir Bors means well, but he is prideful and quick to anger. His arm was withered by his father.”

  “How did his father do that?” She could not see much of Bors’s arm. It was not unusual for men to be injured in battle or even to lose a limb. But Bors’s hand was twisted and gray, more like bark than skin where it stuck out from his sleeves.

  “Sorcerer.” Brangien popped a damson into her mouth. “Not a kind man. His father, I mean. Sir Bors is not kind, either, but he would never harm an innocent. And he fought back the forest with the ferocity of a man with four arms. He was one of the first to call for Merlin’s banishment.” Brangien dropped the information as easily as roasted meat fell from the bones in front of them. Guinevere tried not to react.

  “Did you know him? Merlin?”

  “He was gone before I arrived. There was a purge of anyone who practiced the old ways.”

  Guinevere wanted more details, but Brangien moved on in hushed tones about Sir Percival’s sister, who had never married and who depended on her brother for everything, much to the chagrin of her sister-in-law. Since Guinevere knew nothing about either of them, the stories had no impact and her attention wandered to the more important bits.

  Mordred, always watching, distrusted among the other knights. Tristan, banished and in love with his uncle’s young wife. Bors, loud and brash, with his arm withered by magic. She would have to be most careful around him. Several other knights whose names she struggled to remember. The ladies whose names she actually remembered: Percival’s wife, Blanchefleur, and his sister Dindrane, the two of whom seemed to be in an aggressive game to get the best cuts of meat before the other. Most of Arthur’s knights were young. Sir Tristan, Sir Gawain, Sir Mordred, all unmarried. But the wives who were present were all older than her by at least a decade. So much experience. Despair overwhelmed her; she had taken on too much. The bottom of her cup greeted her. She wanted to whisper her name into it, to carry herself safely pooled in a cup.

  She realized several moments too late that everyone else was standing. She stood, too, to find Arthur beaming at the room. “Never has a king been so blessed with friends as I have. You are more than my friends. You are my family. We are Camelot, and on this night, I am filled with hope for the future.”

  “And hope of a good night with a fresh lass!”

  Guinevere’s face burned. The knight who had spoken—Sir Percival?—was red-faced, too, but flushed with wine, not embarrassment. The men laughed. The women primly ignored the comment. Except his sister Dindrane, who glared at Guinevere with undisguised malice.

  Brangien leaned near. “I will be close tonight,” she whispered.

  Arthur came around the table and held out his hand. Guinevere put hers in it. Cheers and whistles followed them out of the dining hall all the way to Arthur’s bedchamber. He closed the doors behind them, sealing them in. A bed waited, its four posters draped with muted cloth. The room glowed dimly in the candlelight, everything soft and dark with anticipation.

  She had known being queen was necessary. That only by being Arthur’s wife could she have the freedom to be close enough to do what needed to be done. But…she was his wife now.

  She had not thought this through.

  “So, my queen,” he said, turning to her. “Who are you really?”

  Arthur gestured toward the sittin
g area of his wide, stone-walled room.

  Guinevere was grateful to move in a direction away from the bed. “You should not have asked what to call me when we were in the cave. What if Mordred had heard?”

  Arthur leaned back, stretching. “Many men have special names for their wives. What if I called you your real name as a sort of endearment?”

  For a moment, the idea of hearing her name in Arthur’s mouth was more tempting than any delicacy at the feast. Maybe then she would feel at home here. But no. If she was to be Guinevere, she would be Guinevere all the time. “You may call me ‘My Queen.’ Or ‘Loveliest of Women.’ Or ‘Ruby of Unimaginable Value.’ ”

  Arthur laughed. “Very well, my sun and moon. Tell me, how is your father? I miss him.”

  Guinevere squirmed, uncomfortable with thinking of Merlin as her father, just as she was uncomfortable in the chair. Fatherhood fit Merlin even more poorly than her body fit this seat designed for a much taller person. “How is he ever? Half the conversations I have with him leave me more confused than I was to begin with. But I am fairly certain he sends you his best wishes.”

  “He sent me his best student and his only possession, which is better than wishes.”

  She felt a blush, and prayed the dim candlelight would hide it. “I hope I am enough.”

  “Banishing him was idiocy. I cannot believe I had to do it. I trust that he knows what is best, but pretending to hate him, allowing my people to hate him is…wrong.” He shifted in the chair, burdened by the invisible weight of the deception. Merlin had said Arthur was the most honest of men. The most true. Even though she had met him mere hours ago, she could feel that. It was as though she had known him before. Like if she reached deep enough, she would have memories of him.

  But that was Merlin’s doing. His words were so laced with magic that even his tales created pictures. She knew Arthur because Merlin knew him. She trusted him because Merlin trusted him.