Chapter 33
1,573 Years Ago
“If I may have but a moment of your time, My King,” Sir Meliagaunt says, drawing my attention away from Guinevere as her bright laugh carries across the courtyard of Camelot.
I am surprised by the urgency in his tone, as the knight is normally at ease, even when faced with battle. “Of course, Sir Meliagaunt.”
I steal one more look at my wife before beckoning for the man to follow me away from the clusters of people enjoying the first day of warmth after a harsh winter. I study him as we fall into a slow step together. His face is pinched, lined with worry.
“You have my attention,” I say, prodding when he doesn’t speak.
Meliagaunt’s eyes dart to me and then away, uncomfortably clearing his throat. “What I must say,” he starts, “may offend you.”
I stop, facing him, and he mirrors my action. “If it was not important to you, you would not have asked for an audience. Pray tell your troubles.”
His jaw ticks. “I worry that Sir Lancelot has become too forward with Queen Guinevere,” he grits out after a pause.
My stomach flips, but I keep my expression impassive. “Is that so?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Meliagaunt’s attention wanes, landing on Guinevere playing with the little girl who belongs to another woman of the court. My heart breaks at the sight of the yearning on her face, her womb still empty since she miscarried two moons ago. “I have seen him lewdly gazing upon her.”
I am unsure how to handle this development, though I have often wondered if it is as obvious to others how Lancelot and Guinevere feel about one another. I have at least one person to confirm that, indeed, it is.
“And,” Meliagaunt continues, looking more uneasy, if possible. “And I have seen their hands touch in passing when they think not a soul is watching. I am worried that they make a fool of you, King Arthur.”
I clear my throat to buy time, a nervous sweat breaking out along my temple. “I appreciate you bringing your concerns to me. I shall examine it further.” Clapping him on the shoulder, I step away. I need to find both of my lovers and tell them to lie low for a little while. At least two of us have garnered some attention, and I must protect them from further scrutiny.
“You are doing nothing?”
I halt, my body seizing with tension at his judgement-laced tone. “I shall examine it further,” I toss over my shoulder.
“But—”
Whirling, I cut off his scoffed response. “Sir Meliagaunt, you have relayed your thoughts. I will take it from here. Have I made myself clear?” I snap.
He takes a couple of steps backward, bending at the waist with stiff reverence. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he murmurs, but his voice is bitter.
I stalk away, fuming at the predicament. Guinevere notices me, but I shake my head at her when her face falls, her teeth worrying her lip, and she looks ready to chase after me. Guilt slams into my gut at the wounded look on her face, but I force myself to keep moving, storming into the castle. I am nearly to my study when a familiar face steps into my path, a broad smile on her face, and my dark mood dissipates.
“Morgause!”
My older half-sister chuckles as I leap to embrace her, hugging me tightly in return. “I swear it—you still act as if you were naught but a child, though you are a king.”
“Only for my dear sister,” I point out, holding her at arm’s length. “You look well.”
And she does. Morgause has seen turmoil in her life. Her husband, Lot, fought valiantly with me when I first became king, but was slain in battle as we searched for the Holy Grail. She has raised her five children—one fatefully conceived just before Lot died—with the help of our mother’s sister, Sorcha. She has refused to remarry in the sixteen years since.
Even so, she looks as untouched by grief as I know she is not.
“And where are my nieces and nephews?” I ask, glancing around.
I notice the slight tension that bleeds into her smile at the question. “They remain with our aunt,” she answers. “Only Mordred has accompanied me.”
I grin. “How is the boy?”
“Not a boy,” a surly voice calls.
I spin, happy to see my nephew, and see that he is indeed no longer a boy. He stands as tall as I do, with his mother’s dark hair and eyes. “I can see that! What happened to the little lad who liked to ride up high on my shoulders?”
“I grew up,” Mordred answers flatly.
“Enough,” Morgause reprimands him, shooting me an apologetic look.
He clearly is in no mood for pleasantries, so I answer her look with of reassurance. “What brings you here to Camelot?”
My half-sister casts another look at Mordred behind me. “For Mordred,” she says. “He has been training with the soldiers at home. He wants to be a knight, Arthur. Your knight.”
Brow raised, I turn back to Mordred. “Is this true?”
His answer is as terse as his attitude. “It is.”
I study him, eyes tracing the sword he wears well. “Then perhaps we will put you through some exercises tomorrow, see where your training is at.”
Mordred’s eyes flare with something that looks like annoyance, but then flick to the left. Before I can investigate what has caught his attention, I feel a delicate hand rest on my arm. I already know before I look down that Guinevere is here. She looks unsure as she glances between the three of us, then peers up at me with curiosity in her gaze.
“Guinevere, sweet lady,” I say, covering her hand with mine. “I would like you to meet my half-sister Morgause and my nephew Mordred.”
“Oh!” she exclaims, hopping forward to Morgause and ensnaring her in an embrace. “I have heard much about you! It is a pleasure to meet you finally!”
I am not sure that my queen picks up on it, but Morgause’s grimace as she awkwardly accepts the hug is obvious. I’m surprised by the unfriendliness on her face. I want to ask, but I will not embarrass either of the women.
“I have heard much about you as well,” Morgause replies in an odd tone, disentangling herself. She looks over Guinevere as she steps back. “Such a pretty little thing,” she adds. “Do you agree, son?”
I had almost forgotten about the boy while studying the odd way my sister is acting. When he does not answer, I find his intense gaze fixed on Guinevere, and it is full of brazen perusal.
Guinevere, hearing the question directed at my nephew, spins. Her gown billows around her as she does, with a great smile on her face she directs at him. “Mordred, it is an honor to meet one of Arthur’s nephews.”
“Likewise,” he grunts, still scowling.
An awkward silence blankets us while I focus back on Morgause. Her eyes bore into Guinevere’s back, narrowed. Her jaw and fists are clenched, like my wife has done something especially offensive. The woman in question looks at me with a question in her eyes, stepping closer to me again.
“Has anyone settled you into rooms?” I ask, breaking the silence.
Morgause transfers her attention to me immediately, her expression changing to something pleasant once more. “Yes, of course,” she breezes. “I think I will retire to mine until supper.”
Stepping around Guinevere without sparing a look, Morgause clasps me to her again in an embrace. Her lips find my cheek, pressing a firm kiss against it, hovering over my skin for a moment longer.
“Come, Mordred,” she calls, sashaying away from our little group.
Mordred finally tears his gaze from Guinevere to shoot his mother an impatient look, and then stomps after her, remembering to bow to me before he goes.
It does not escape my notice that he does not bow to Guinevere.
Guinevere wraps herself around my arm, hanging on for dear life, with big, sorrowful eyes that search my face. “Did I do something wrong?”
I smile at her, caressing her cheek, and choose to dismiss their odd behavior. “Of course not. They are only out of sorts from traveling, I am sure.” The tension eases from her body, but mine fills with it as the conversation with Meliagaunt settles back over me. “I need to speak with you privately,” I murmur.
She allows me to pull her down the hall and into the chapel, the heavy door thunking closed behind us when I jerk it closed. The chapel is windowless, lit only by the candles at the front of the small room, leaving us awash in shadows and the orange glow of more than a dozen lit flames.
Putting my arms around Guinevere feels sinful while standing in a holy place, but I want to hold her as I tell her my news. “Someone has noticed how attentive to you that Lancelot is.”
All that tension that had leaked from her muscles returns in a hurry, causing her body to seize under my hands. “What do you mean?” she whispers back fearfully. “Have they seen us all together?”
I shake my head. “No, sweet lady. I think they only suspect that you and he are, perhaps, closer than you should be.”
“What do we do?”
“We need to be more careful. No more trysts outside of our chambers. No loving touches in the halls between you and Lancelot.” I pause as she nods, her expression sad. “If I could, I would not hide the love the three of us have shared. But Guinevere, I cannot. It would cause uproar to make it known my best knight has been intimate with the Queen of Camelot…and with me.”
“I know,” she sighs, her eyes tracking to the cross at the front of the room. “Do you ever wonder if what we have is an affront to God?”
“Yes,” I admit. “I wonder it often.”
“But if it is an affront,” she whispers, “how can there be so much love between the three of us? The Devil does not know love.”
I sweep her hair back from her face, pushing it over her shoulder so her neck is exposed to me. Leaning in, I press my lips to the curve at the base of her neck, inhaling deeply so I can scent the rich jasmine notes she is wearing.
“One day,” I vow, with my lips still against her skin, “we will all be together without fear. I know it.”
A shiver goes through her body, and it lends an ominous feeling to my words. She doesn’t respond otherwise, only keeps her eyes on the cross. Just as I am about to pull away and lead us back out into the castle, her lips part with another sigh.
“One day,” she agrees. “One day we will not know fear when we love.”
It is my turn to shudder in response. Somehow, in the dim-lit chapel, it feels as if we just made an oath stronger than any marriage vow.