The Guinevere Deception (Camelot Rising 1)

More than just Camelot. Visitors had been streaming in for days, camping around the arena. Word had spread and the entire field was teeming with activity. Rickety booths and stands had been set up in every available space, selling food, drink, colorful strips of cloth representing favorite knights—Guinevere saw many patchwork bands tied to arms—and anything else that an enterprising person thought they could make someone pay for.

The knights rode directly through the crowd to shouting and cheers so loud Guinevere would have covered her ears had it not been rude to do so. Rows of rough-hewn benches had been placed all around the combat field. Flags snapped from poles. Jugglers and minstrels strolled around the edges, entertaining the crowds while they waited for the fights to begin. Beyond them, there were tents in case any of the ladies wished to retire, or the knights needed to pray or change clothing or otherwise prepare themselves. In the prime position overlooking the field was a raised platform, enclosed like a box with rippling yellow and green fabric walls. It held a large, high-backed wooden chair, a smaller one next to it, and several rows of benches for the ladies and for knights who would not be fighting.

Arthur’s chair was empty. Guinevere rode to the stand, then dismounted. Servants led the horses away. It was amazing how many things she had to worry about—her clothing, her wrists, her ankles, her hair, whom she spoke to and for how long, so on and so forth—and yet how few things like choosing what to wear, paying for it, taking care of her own things, preparing her own food. She had not even held a coin since coming to Camelot.

She stepped up and into the shade of the royal box. She paused in front of her chair, waving. The crowd shouted in appreciation. Then she sat, and waited.

For Arthur.

She was still not very good at it. The thought of how much time in her future she would have to practice waiting for him made the brilliant day dimmer.

Brangien arrived at her side with a goblet of spiced wine. Spices were so expensive, they rarely used them. But tournaments were even more special than weddings, apparently. Guinevere sipped, idly watching the performers as they made the rounds. Dindrane joined them. She shifted in agitation.

“Is something the matter?” Guinevere asked.

“Yes. No. I am not certain. Time will tell.” Dindrane put her hands to her mouth, grimacing. Then she smoothed her lovely brown hair and set her hands primly in her lap. “I gave my handkerchief to Sir Bors. I am not certain he even knew what to do with it. But if he wears it today, I think—I hope—perhaps I will be courted soon.”

Guinevere wanted to laugh at the idea of clever, waspish Dindrane with that bull of a man. But he was good, at heart. Arthur trusted him. And he was older. He had had a wife many years ago, but she died in childbirth. He had a son still, and did not need an heir. Dindrane would be a good match for him.

Guinevere smiled and reached across Brangien to pat Dindrane’s knee. “I hope he wears it. And if he does not, he is a fool.”

“Oh, I have no doubt he is a fool. But I dearly hope he will be my fool.”

Finally, Guinevere had permission to laugh. She settled into her chair, still searching the crowds, looking for something. She caught herself. Looking for someone. Where was Arthur?

There was a ripple, a drop of commotion that spread outward from the crowd across the field. People jostled, exclaiming, pushing to get a better view. A child sitting on his father’s shoulders was lifted free and put on a different set of shoulders. Arthur emerged from among the crowd. No horseback entry for him. No immediate delivery to the separate, raised platform. Arthur galloped across the field, the child shrieking in delight as the king pretended to be a horse. Then, swinging the boy back to his waiting parents, Arthur raised his arms in greeting.

If Guinevere thought the shouting for the knights had been too loud, this was deafening. Arthur ran the full length of the field, passing each section so everyone would have a chance to see him. To be near him. Hands reached out and he held his own to them, brushing them as he passed.

He leapt onto the platform. Guinevere beamed at him, but he did not even look at her before turning around to face his people.

“Camelot!” The roar swelled and then faded to a low hum. “My people! Friends from near and far! Today is a wonderful day. Is it not?” Another tremendous roar. Arthur held up his hands and it quieted. “Today represents the very heart of Camelot. Today represents everything we work for. Today, we recognize valor. We test bravery. And we reward strength and goodness! Today, the brave warrior who saved my queen—” The crowd roared in approval again, and Arthur let them carry on. Guinevere raised her hand, acknowledging the people, though her only role in this narrative had been to be in peril and be saved. When they stopped cheering, Arthur continued. “He saved my queen from a rampaging beast. But you already know him from the arena. You have long watched the patchwork knight. Today, you meet Lancelot!”

On cue, Lancelot rode into the center of the field. Guinevere was delighted to see she rode her own horse. The loyal, smart blind steed that had taken such good care of them. Lancelot turned toward their box and inclined her head. Guinevere felt a thrill of nerves for her.

The crowd was wild, collectively giddy to finally see the patchwork knight face real opponents. Until now, Lancelot had faced only other aspirants. Today, Lancelot faced knights. Arthur’s knights. And there was no one better.

In truth, Lancelot faced more than just the knights. But all an aspirant had to do at tournament was defeat at least three knights in combat chosen by those knights. Nowhere was it noted that the aspirant had to be a man.

Arthur sat. He turned toward Guinevere, beaming, his excitement contagious. “I have something for you,” he said. He reached into a pouch at his side and pulled free a chain of silver, green jewels delicately clasped and streaming from it.

Brangien bit her lip in delight. “You cannot wear jewels in your hair anymore,” she whispered, “but you can wear them on your head.”

“For a queen,” Arthur said, his voice pitching soft. “For my queen.” He tried to fasten the piece around her head, fumbling it. Brangien huffed and stood, taking over. Guinevere felt the cool touch of the silver against her forehead, the subtle weight of the green stones. It was not a crown or a circlet, but it was a reminder. Of who she was. Of who Arthur had chosen her to be.

“I had it made the same day as your iron threads,” he added. When she, as a witch, had been commissioning pieces to protect him, he had been commissioning them to make her a queen. “Beautiful,” he said, and she did not know if he meant the jewelry or her.

“Thank you.” She lifted a finger to run along the lifeless stones. She had meant to bind magic to her jewels. But they bound her to Arthur now, which was a sort of magic. She hoped.

The crowd roared, drawing Arthur and Guinevere’s attention from each other. Sir Tristan, newest of Arthur’s knights, was first and had walked onto the field. A year ago he had been there as aspirant. He had bested only four of the five knights, so he had never faced Arthur. None of the knights chosen through combat had.

“Who defeated Sir Tristan when it was his tournament?” Guinevere asked.

“Mordred,” Brangien said, watching nervously as Sir Tristan looked over the wall of weapons. He was on foot, which meant he had chosen horseless combat.

“Mordred?” Guinevere asked.

“You wound me,” a voice murmured over her shoulder. She turned to find him with a smile on his face, his eyelids half closed. He was not watching the fight preparations. His posture said he was at ease, uninterested. “I am always the last defense between anyone and the king. And no one has ever gotten to him through me.”