The Camelot Betrayal (Camelot Rising 2)

The movement did not stop there, though. The whole boat bobbed and dipped with the waves. Guinevere had hoped that since it was bigger than the ferries it might be steadier, but her hopes were dashed. The center of the ship was covered with a grate and the horses were whinnying in alarm beneath her. There was a small cabin on one end, a mast in the middle, and entirely too little wood separating her from the sea. She did not know whether it was the wood groaning or herself.

“Bucket,” Hild said, pointing to a battered bucket shoved in a corner between the side of the boat and the cabin.

“What?” Guinevere’s head was swimming, and the thought of anything swimming made her feel even sicker.

Hild pantomimed vomiting violently, then pointed again. “Bucket. Then dump.” She took the imaginary bucket she was holding and pretended to toss the contents overboard. She then began barking out commands, but Guinevere knew she could be of no use.

She fell more than sat, arms around her legs, head resting on her knees. Her breath was too fast, too sharp; her heart pounded. She could hear the water everywhere. Smell it. Feel the damp of it. It was too much. She could not do it. She had told Arthur she could, and she had been wrong, and the whole quest would fail because Merlin had made her afraid of water.

“Guinevere?” Brangien put a light hand on Guinevere’s shoulder.

“Put me to sleep,” Guinevere said through gritted teeth. “Put me to sleep. I cannot do this. Please. Put me to sleep.”

“But—”

“Brangien!” Guinevere’s whole body shook. She could not stand this, could not handle the fear, felt herself falling into a dark hole. Not the one in Camelot from her dream, but another deeper, darker hole, one she walked into of her own free will, only to—

“Drink this. Come on, you have to drink.”

Something pressed to Guinevere’s lips and she did her best to swallow. Half of it dribbled down her front. It was dark. Guinevere did not know where she was. A door opened and shut. The room was moving. Why was it moving?

“Keep drinking. Did you need something?” Brangien was talking.

Sir Tristan answered. Why was he in her room? And why was her room moving? “Hild is very…friendly.”

“Are you interested in that type of friendship?”

“All I want to do is serve King Arthur. Go on quests. Fight for goodness and take care of my friends.”

“I will do a better job of intercepting Hild,” Brangien said. “I am sorry. I should have helped more. Just tell her you are faithful to your unconscious wife.” Sir Tristan was not married. When did he get a wife? Why was she unconscious? Why was the room moving?

“I did not want to embarrass her and risk her stranding us. But she seems good-natured.”

A boat. They were on a boat. She was in the middle of the sea. There was water around her, beneath her, everywhere. Guinevere’s heart picked up. She could not breathe, could not—

“Finish drinking this if you want to go back to sleep.” Brangien’s tone was firm. Guinevere drank as quickly as she could.

The door opened again, bringing with it the scent of the ocean. Guinevere wanted to die. But not here. Not where the water would claim her body.

Lancelot spoke. “Hild said we will weigh anchor in a few hours. She will bring us ashore an hour’s walk from King Mark’s castle. How is she?”

“Her heart is racing so fast she may as well be a rabbit. Finish, Guinevere.”

Guinevere choked down the rest of the drink and felt the strip of cloth settle back into place, her relief outweighing her shame over being so useless.

* * *

“Come on. I need you awake.” Brangien’s tone was brusque. Guinevere reached up to pull the blanket over her head and block out the light, but there was no blanket. She sat up, startled to find herself on dry ground. She had been set on a patch of earth covered with pine needles. The light was weak, dappled and broken up by the branches overhead, but it still dazzled her to the point of tears. She could hear the ocean but she was on land.

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“And you will stay here.” Lancelot sounded firm. Guinevere could not make her eyes focus enough to see individuals. She felt shaky and wrung out, like a tree whose leaves were about to fall, trembling with the smallest of breezes.

“I will!” It took Guinevere several seconds to place Hild’s voice. “She is alive! That is good. I thought maybe she died, and then I would get no money.”

Someone held a canteen to her lips and Guinevere drained the whole thing. She tried to orient herself. She was on land. They were on their way to rescue Isolde. She had been asleep for two days.

“Thank you, Hild,” Lancelot said. “We will be back by nightfall.”