The Guinevere Deception (Camelot Rising 1)

She froze.

“Ah, there it is again. You are trying to decide which expression to give me to deflect notice or conversation.” Mordred tapped the side of his nose. “It is easier for you when you are behind walls, trapped by stone and expectations. But out here in the wild you have a harder time.”

Guinevere needed some excuse, some reason why she would behave this way.

“You treat the world with the wonder of a child,” Mordred said, filling in the empty space between them. He looked nothing like Arthur. Arthur was carved from the same stuff as Camelot—regal and majestic. But Mordred belonged out here, with her.

She shook her head, correcting herself. This was not where she belonged.

She needed to choose her words carefully. How to explain that the whole world was a wonder in a way that would not be suspect? She loved the way it smelled, the way it felt. The movement of the horse beneath her. The simple food they would eat when they stopped for a meal. Seeing a new place—seeing any place at all! Of course she could not hide the way she felt. “It was a long time to spend in a convent. Everything feels new outside those walls.”

“Except you traded those walls for different ones.”

“Camelot is incredible!”

Mordred laughed, raising his hands in innocence. “It is. But it is tame. Structured. Sometimes we need a break from that.”

She had planned a far more dangerous break. But he was right. She loved it out here. She would not let the tasks ahead of her steal away the joy of travel and the anticipation of meeting Arthur at the end. The warmth of his smile flashed through her like the sun through parting clouds, and she admitted it was not only the honesty they shared that she missed.

Mordred kept close. Their party was stretched out, the open plain offering no threats, but he always rode next to her. Guinevere had been surprised that he had joined them at all. Bored with the slower pace, she brought it up. “I thought you were the one left behind to take care of Camelot in Arthur’s absence. Why are you coming with us?”

Mordred scanned the horizon. “Your husband would not trust you to travel to him with anyone but his family. And he wants all his best knights with him for this meeting. Camelot can be held against enemies for months with the men in it now. It will keep.”

“What is the meeting?”

“Something with the Picts. Arthur has been active on the northern borders. He will have to play nice and reassure them he is not expanding, merely maintaining.”

“Why does he need me, then?” This sounded like politics and military issues, not magical threats. She wanted to help Arthur however he needed, but if she was not essential, she was wasting her time and risking Arthur’s safety. She could almost feel Rhoslyn getting farther and farther away. Having more time to plot wickedness with the patchwork knight.

“What better way to show peaceful intentions than to bring his new bride? It demonstrates that he trusts them and is treating this as a pleasant meeting between friendly allies.”

“So I am a decoration?” Her heart sank, and she gritted her teeth.

“You are a vital piece in a complicated game.”

“Mmm.”

“You do not sound happy with that answer.”

“I am happy to help the king in whatever way I can.” But her face would not give up its frown. Maybe there was more to it. There could be something magic in play, and Arthur was bringing her under false pretenses.

“Well,” Mordred said, “I am afraid your disobedient horse is about to break into a gallop again and I will have to follow. It may be a while before we can get the horse to slow down.”

Her horse was walking calmly. Mordred’s mossy-green eyes twinkled expectantly. She clicked her tongue and tapped the horse’s sides. It broke into a gallop, the wind greeting her once more.

* * *

After a tongue-lashing from Brangien—who apparently felt freer outside the walls, as well, and had no qualms about shouting at the queen for risking her neck and riding too fast—Guinevere was forced to keep her horse at a reasonable walk.

To further emphasize her point, Brangien planted her horse twenty feet ahead of Guinevere’s and kept it there. Mordred grew ever more focused on their surroundings.

The countryside offered no threats, though. In their daylong ride, they passed field after field. The vista of green and gold was broken only by the occasional small town or hamlet. There were not many people in the towns—they were out in the fields, working. But a few children were around, playing happily or watching the mounted procession with open curiosity. Horses were not a common sight out here.

As afternoon stretched out warm and content like a cat, they passed through another small village. A woman and her son sold them fresh bread. It reminded Guinevere of what Brangien had said about the little boy in the village claimed by the forest. When the whitewashed cob houses faded in the distance, Guinevere turned to Mordred.

“Have any forests grown here? Do you have to fight them back often?”

“No.” Mordred looked past her. On the far horizon there was a dark smudge, but that was the only evidence of forestland she could see. Her hand-knotted magic had not reached that far north—she had focused it all in Rhoslyn’s direction. “Magic thrives on blood and wonder and chaos. Camelot is so well ordered, so structured, that magic can find no hold. Arthur strangled it, starved it, and cut it out. He allows no seeds within his borders.”