The Guinevere Deception (Camelot Rising 1)

“Thank you for your vote of confidence.”

Brangien grinned mischievously. “I just want to cover all possible outcomes so no matter how this plays out, I can say I did warn you.”

“What would I do without you?” Guinevere linked her arm through Brangien’s and they headed down the street to Sir Percival’s manor. Brangien knocked on the front door, but was informed by a servant that Dindrane entertained in her own room. She promised she would let Dindrane know they were there, then directed them around the side of the house to an alley so narrow it only received light a handful of hours every day.

They entered through a side door. The room was tiny and dim. The main light came through a door left open to the rest of the house. From the looks of it, the next room was her sister-in-law’s bedroom. Which meant Dindrane’s only options for coming in and out were to go around outside or to go through Blanchefleur’s room.

The manor was large enough to accommodate giving Dindrane her own set of rooms. Even Guinevere, uneducated in the subtle arts at play here, understood the power Blanchefleur was wielding. She used her social status as a spell to keep Dindrane in place.

Dindrane burst in from the outside door. Her face was flushed and her hands red and raw. It looked as though she had been cleaning. But she held her head high and greeted Guinevere with a polished curtsy—that doubled as cover as she kicked the door to Blanchefleur’s bedroom shut. “Apologies, my queen. I did not expect you. Usually when I have callers, they send word ahead of time to make certain I am available. You are fortunate. My schedule is quite full.”

“Thank you for making time to see us.” Guinevere sat in one of the two worn chairs that Dindrane gestured toward. Brangien stood against the wall as Dindrane took the other chair. Dindrane’s clothing was nice—it would have reflected poorly on Sir Percival if it were not. But her hair held no jewels and something about the way her sleeves strained made it clear they had been sewn for another body. Her eyes were clever and sharp, a pleasant warm brown, and her hair shone chestnut, well cared-for.

“I am afraid I have no refreshment to offer. I have just finished entertaining.”

Guinevere allowed her the lie. “Oh, we have already eaten. But it is kind of you to worry about us. I did not get a chance to speak with you at the wedding celebration and wanted to get to know you.”

“Mmm.” Dindrane smiled tightly. The silence was as close and confining as the room. Finally, she leaned forward. “Your hair is lovely. Is that the style in the south? It certainly is not the style here. But it suits you. I could never be so brave as to wear my hair like that.” Dindrane’s smile stayed firmly in place. Guinevere was positive she was being insulted. It was delightful. Everyone else was so careful with her, but Dindrane came prepared for battle.

“Have you always been so pale?” Dindrane asked, tilting her head to the side. “It does make your freckles stick out so. But the only solution is to spend more time in the sun, which will cause more freckles.”

Guinevere laughed. She could not help it. She had no desire for an enemy, and no need to feel insulted. She suspected Dindrane could use a friend even more than she herself could. At least she had Arthur. What must it be like, owing everything to your brother and the sister-in-law who obviously hated you? If Guinevere was out of place and struggling, Dindrane was, too. “I like you very much, Dindrane. I hope you will let me visit you often. And I would love to have you visit me, as well.”

Dindrane wilted, disarmed. “You would?”

“I have had no company but nuns for several years. I should very much like to consider you a friend. Or a sister, even.”

Dindrane’s smile was hesitant but genuine. “I have always wanted a sister.”

“You have a sister,” Brangien muttered, eyes on her ever-present sewing.

“My brother has a wife. That woman is not my sister.”

Guinevere reached out and took her hand. Dindrane gave no strong impression. It was reassuring. If she were a threat, Guinevere would feel it. Dindrane felt as Dindrane looked: tired and stubborn and the tiniest bit hopeful. “Allow me to be your sister, then. Would you accompany us to the chapel today? I need someone to sit by, since the king is away.”

Dindrane pretended to consider it, as though it were not a tremendous honor that could not be passed up. Guinevere knew whoever she sat by would be remarked on and noticed. Guinevere had wanted to sit by Mordred, but this was a better option. It would cause gossip, but no damage. Finally, Dindrane nodded. “I would be happy to assist you.” She smiled as though she were doing Guinevere a favor. “Your maid can help me dress before we go.”

Brangien’s expression indicated this was not an option. Guinevere stood. “Oh, I am very sorry, but we needed to pick up…a…”

“New thread,” Brangien finished, tucking away her sewing. “We will meet you in front of the manor when you are ready.”

It was a relief to escape Dindrane’s cramped room. They walked a fair distance in silence. Guinevere wondered if they really were going to get thread to complete the charade. Finally, Brangien spoke.

“Dindrane? Really? You choose Dindrane?”

“She is harmless.”

“I would not have been harmless had I been forced to dress her.”

Guinevere laughed, tugging Brangien to a stop in a glorious shaft of sunlight. “I promise you will never have to help her.”

“You are helping her enough for both of us.” But Brangien softened, tipping her face up to the light and closing her eyes. “You are like the king.”

“How so?”

“He sees value in everyone. You are a good match.”

The warmth in Guinevere came from more than the sun. She wanted to be like Arthur. But the warmth was pierced with a nagging worry. Rhoslyn was still out there. Even now, she could have agents within the city. Guinevere was not here to be a good match for Arthur. She was here to save him.