The Camelot Betrayal (Camelot Rising 2)

Sir Tristan straightened in his saddle. “Do you smell that?”

Guinevere breathed in deeply. He was right. Something had changed, but she could not say what. Dust and heat and drying green were now overlaid by something else. It smelled like…life. Sharp and bright and cold, with a hint of decay.

“The sea.” Brangien hurried her horse forward. It was another league before they saw it. At last they came over a rise and the horizon disappeared.

“Oh.” Guinevere could think of nothing else to say. The blue stretched as far as she could see, to the end of the world. There was land, and then there was water. And nothing else.

A hand at the small of her back made her realize she had been lost, frozen, staring at the water. Lancelot had dismounted and was right next to her. She half expected to see judgment in her face.

Instead, she found sympathy and support. “Are you well, my queen?” Lancelot asked.

Guinevere nodded, still dazed but at least able to focus. She kept her eyes on Lancelot to avoid looking at the sea again.

“Ships,” Brangien said, breathless.

If Guinevere was going to do this, she would have to face it. She turned toward the water and took it in, bracing herself. While she still felt overwhelmed, it edged toward awe. Maybe the Lady held no sway over the sea. Even if she did, how could she find Guinevere on something so infinite? Guinevere laughed, closer to hysteria than delight, but at least she could move. Whether the sea really was not the same as the rivers and lakes or whether her body simply did not have enough space to contain that much fear, Guinevere steeled herself. Along the shoreline was a series of wooden buildings, and bobbing in the water like a sad copse of lost trees was a series of masts attached to boats.

“Ships indeed. Shall we go find one?” Guinevere grasped her reins.

Brangien burst into tears. Lancelot looked at Guinevere, alarmed. Guinevere nudged her horse next to Brangien’s and reached out to take her friend’s hand.

“Thank you,” Brangien said.

“We will save her.”

Brangien nodded, taking her hand back and wiping under her eyes. To give her time to compose herself, Guinevere turned toward Lancelot, who was remounting her horse. Sir Tristan rode ahead to scout the road.

“Are you at least a little excited for a quest, Lancelot?”

Lancelot did not smile. “I am not here to rescue Isolde. I am here to protect you. I will do whatever that requires, even if you do not like it. Even if it means this quest fails.”

“Come on!” Sir Tristan called, guiding their pack horse. “We can hire a ship and be on our way before nightfall.”

Lancelot clicked her tongue and her horse followed the command. Guinevere watched Lancelot’s back as she rode, worry tight in her chest. Nothing was allowed to go wrong. Lancelot would not have to make the choice to save Guinevere over anyone and anything else.

If the smell of the sea from far away was invigorating, this close it was invasive. Guinevere raised a sleeve to her nose to filter out the riot of rotting fish, wet wood, and refuse assaulting her.

“That one.” Sir Tristan pointed. The ship he had picked was not the largest, but it looked big enough to transport the horses. The horses could not be left behind. Besides being more valuable than anything else they carried, Lancelot’s horse was her most important possession. Guinevere knew there was no way they would continue without it. She did worry about the faithful blind steed and how it would handle something as unfamiliar as a sea voyage, though.

They had decided Sir Tristan should do the bargaining. He was the least remarkable of their company. Lancelot could be mistaken for a man in her clothing and with her short, unadorned hair, but when she spoke at length it made the mistake less likely. Guinevere and Brangien unfortunately looked nothing like each other or either of their companions—Sir Tristan was the darkest complected, his family having been brought here by the Romans and then settling, and Brangien’s features favored those of her father, who had walked across the world from the farthest east of it to make his fortune. Guinevere was paler than Lancelot, and none of their faces spoke to relations. There was no pretending that any of them were siblings.

Guinevere hoped that there would be no questions when payment was offered, but if there were, Sir Tristan was a traveling knight, Guinevere his wife, Brangien her maid, and Lancelot Sir Tristan’s…well, they had not figured that part out yet. Squire? Fellow knight? Very distant cousin?

Sir Tristan flagged down a young man hauling a tangle of nets out of the bottom of a small boat. “Who does that ship belong to?” He pointed to the one they wanted. It seemed absurd to Guinevere to trust a few planks nailed together against the might of this endless expanse of water. She had to turn her back on it before she began thinking about it too much. She could still hear it, though. Waiting. Waves lapping against the shore, stretching out toward her.

“Wilfred.” The young man wiped his nose along the sleeve of his much-patched tunic.

“Where can I find him?”

The fisherman shook his head, then pointed toward a shack clinging precariously

to the rocks on the shore.

The group exchanged confused glances. Shaking his head and then pointing seemed contradictory, but there was a language barrier. Sir Tristan shrugged, then picked his way across the rocks to the indicated shack while the rest waited with the horses.

“I will try not to speak,” Lancelot said. “It is best if they assume I am a man.” Lancelot’s voice was low, but not as low as a man her height should have. “Once we are on the ship, we are at their mercy to a certain extent. We will hope this Wilfred is honorable, but if he proves otherwise…” Lancelot’s hand tightened on her sword pommel. “I will allow no harm to come to either of you.”

“We are not without defenses, too.” Brangien had pulled out a strip of cloth and was industriously sewing. Guinevere could not see the knots, but she doubted the piece was decorative.