The Guinevere Deception (Camelot Rising 1)

“Thank you,” Lancelot said. “For everything. I hope the next time we meet in the castle, I will belong here.”

“You already do.” Impulsively, Guinevere leaned over and kissed Lancelot’s cheek. “For luck,” she said, smiling.

Lancelot put a hand against where Guinevere’s lips had been. Grinning, she stood, bowed, and then climbed straight down the side of the castle. Guinevere stayed outside long after, watching and waiting. She could not say for what.

* * *

In the morning, Guinevere sent Brangien ahead to the field to see to any last-minute needs. Being without Brangien also meant she could take the secret tunnel with Arthur.

When a light knock sounded on her door, she hurried to it, happy with anticipation. She had barely seen Arthur since their talk in which he asked if she would be his queen. His days started before the sun was up and ended long after it had set—when he slept in the castle at all. But at least today she would get to be at his side the whole time. And she wanted to be with him when he saw how hard she had worked, how well the tournament had come together. It was proof to them both that she could do something other than minor magic. That she could be something like a real queen.

She opened the door, beaming—

Mordred’s face was already set in an apologetic grimace. She tried not to let her own face fall, but she could not help glancing past him, searching for Arthur.

“He is not here.” Mordred looked at the floor, his thick, dark lashes covering his eyes. “There was a matter in one of the villages he had to see to before the tournament. He asked if I would escort you.”

“I am sorry you have to.”

“I am not sorry at all.”

Guinevere did not know how to meet the challenge in his expression. Her stomach fluttered and she pulled up her hood, her fingers betraying her with the slightest tremble.

She wanted one relationship—just one—that was simple. She envied Brangien her Isolde. Sometimes she wondered what they did in their dreams. Sometimes she wondered what she could do in a dream, if her actions did not matter. And she did not know whom she wanted in that dream with her as fire burned low and deep within her. Sometimes it was Arthur. And sometimes…

She shrugged deeper into her hood to avoid looking at Mordred.

She wore darkest blue today, but, in a nod to the patchwork knight, had asked Brangien to make her dress out of different squares of blue cloth. The result was playful, shimmering. Rather more like water than she had intended, but she did her best to ignore that. Her hood was deep green and only went around her shoulders, unattached to a cloak because the day was so fine. Her hair trailed beneath it, long and laced with delicate braids.

“The queen looks radiant,” Mordred said. He offered his arm. She set her hand carefully and lightly on his elbow.

“The king’s nephew looks quite dashing as well.” She bit her rebellious tongue for letting that out.

Mordred tensed beneath her hand, then relaxed. She did not look over to see his expression. But his steps were light. Happy, even.

“It is not easy,” he said as they walked through the tunnel. “I understand.”

“What is not easy?”

“Loving King Arthur.”

Guinevere did not like this topic. She wanted to move away from it, and picked up her pace accordingly. “I am his wife. It is easy.”

“We are alone. We need not pretend. I have seen the way you watch him, waiting for him to notice you. I know that feeling. Arthur—” He paused. Guinevere wondered how long Mordred had known Arthur. How it must have been to serve an uncle younger than yourself, knowing he existed because of violence done to your grandmother. Knowing your own mother had tried to kill him. Mordred had chosen Arthur. Chosen to believe in him and his cause. Just as Guinevere had. “He is like the sun. When he is focused on you, everything is bright and warm. Everything is possible. But the problem with knowing the warmth of the sun is how keenly you feel its absence when it shines elsewhere. And a king must always shine elsewhere.”

Guinevere did not answer. But Mordred was right. She wanted more of Arthur than she had. Than she could have.

“You deserve to live in the sun, Guinevere,” Mordred whispered, holding the sheet of vines so t

hat Guinevere had to brush past him as she exited the cave into the sunlight. In spite of the heat and the brilliance, she shivered. Part of her longed to go back into the cave. With Mordred. To trust him with all the wild and lonely things of her heart. Her honesty would hurt Arthur. She suspected—knew, even—that Mordred would not be hurt. He would understand.

She hurried toward the horses instead. There was so much chaos and activity at the stable that no one even noticed the queen arriving with only one knight. By the time she was on a horse, she was surrounded by all the knights who would compete that day, and many others besides. Sir Tristan. Sir Bors. Sir Percival. Sir Gawain and Sir George, with whom she had never spoken, and several minor knights who were not in Arthur’s inner circle. Also, carefully avoided, Sir Ector and Sir Kay. Mordred subtly shifted his horse so that he blocked her from view.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He winked. She looked quickly away.

The knights were in high form, their energy contagious. Lancelot would fight five of them before facing Arthur. They boasted and bragged, their excitement growing as they rode closer to the tournament field. This was Lancelot’s day, certainly, but it was also their day to perform in front of all of Camelot.