Chapter 15
My spine uncoiled at the familiar dryness in his voice.
“Don’t be absurd, Kay,” I said. “How could you possibly have known?”
He offered his crooked smirk of old, as a sudden bell rang through the sepulchral hush. “The monks are still praying the hours,” he said, beckoning. “Come with me, and hide your face.”
Without considering whether it was wise, I pulled down the glamour and followed him out a side door and into a warren of servant passages.
Kay glanced at me sideways. “I pride myself on being a rational man, but that disguise is unsettling. You look nothing like yourself.”
“I could say the same for you,” I replied. “I can barely see your face for bruises.”
He grimaced. “I assure you these are far less magical.”
Otherwise, he was largely the brown-bearded, curly-headed knight I had known, with his mother’s eyes and a harried expression.
More frown lines on his forehead, perhaps.
At length, we emerged into a familiar gallery and he ushered me towards the Seneschal’s Chamber.
The room was also unchanged—shelves full but orderly, walls painted with trees and woodland creatures, the long table at the back spread with parchment, detailing whatever lavish event Camelot was planning next.
I dropped the glamour and became Morgan again. Kay looked on in mild amusement, then walked stiffly to his desk. His gait had been laboured all the way, but I now saw he was trying to conceal a pronounced limp. Soreness came off him in waves.
“You were one of the knights,” I said. “In the trial by combat.”
“So you saw it. Wonderful.” He gave a sour smile that tugged at a split lip. “Second to fight, second to fall.”
I recalled the white knight’s flashing sword, his dominance, the relentless speed and strength as he cut and battered his way to victory.
“God’s blood,” I said. “You should be in bed. I can feel your pain on the air.”
“I’ll live,” he replied. “Camelot doesn’t stop because I ache.”
He shuffled a pile of papers to no purpose, then looked up at me, suddenly serious. “Eleven winters, and not the slightest bit different from the last time I saw you. How can that be?”
“To a rational man, it would sound like madness,” I said. “Let’s just say, time and experience have changed me in ways this world cannot understand. How did you know it was me, in the cathedral?”
Kay leaned his palms against the desk and sighed. “I saw you in the mausoleum. By a particular tomb.”
“Oh” was all I could say.
“On our last encounter, Lady Morgan—everything happened so quickly. I never had a chance to express… ” He pushed himself upright, regarding me directly. “Sir Accolon was a great knight and a good man—even I was fond of him. I am sorry for his death, and that you were parted.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I wish I could say it was a long time ago, or that he is blessed to be with God—but I cannot. Better he was still here, sinning with me, than turning to dust in our brother’s crypt.”
There was no reply Kay could make, so he gestured to a chair. I took one and he attempted to sit opposite me, but the pains in his torso screamed so fiercely that they flared on my nerves as heat.
“You took quite the beating yesterday,” I said. “To guess, at least three of your ribs are broken. No one should be walking around in such a dangerous state. Let me heal you.”
He limped back towards his desk, clutching his sides. “I shouldn’t.”
I stood up, strangely irked by his refusal. “Are you afraid I’ll put you under some witch’s curse?”
He regarded me with such reproach that I felt immediately scolded.
“Of course not,” he said. “But if you heal me, then I will be better. The bruises will vanish from my face, and I’ll once again be able to frolic these halls like a newborn foal.
How would I explain that to my fellow knights and brother King, who all saw me get pulverized barely a day ago? ”
I blushed at my overreaction. Kay did not fear nor hate me, and had never been afraid to show it.
“Forgive me,” I said. “Though I’m not deterred. I can leave what’s visible, but let me fix your ribs, check you are not bleeding within. You will at least be able to sleep and suffer less discomfort. And not die unnecessarily in the middle of drafting a memorandum.”
His face broke into a cynical smile. “What a glorious thought. King Arthur’s Seneschal dead, with not a sword in his hand but a quill, while reprimanding some ill-behaved Round Table knight.” He lifted his arms in surrender. “Go ahead.”
I grinned and put my hands to his ribs, savouring the golden force rising in my blood. Kay flinched at the pressure, trying unsuccessfully not to squirm.
“How is Lady Clarisse?” I asked by way of distraction. “I have missed her wise companionship.”
“My mother is well, Lord be thanked,” he replied. “Though she retired from the Queen’s service several years ago, preferring to be at home in the forest.”
“Why, if her sons are here?”
“Things have changed. Camelot is larger, grander, busier than ever. The growing court brought a shift in mood that she didn’t much like.”
Kay forgot to fidget, and I found his damage: several broken ribs and a few blots of internal bruising. “How so?” I encouraged.
“Oh, ambitious types arrived, along with a mania for questing, increased competitiveness, complicated loyalties. The Queen’s ladies kept changing.
Nothing feels as it did at the beginning.
” He flinched as a jagged rib slid back into place.
“I miss Mother, but I’m damned glad she didn’t witness this past year. ”
The last interior bruise dispersed, no more than a flourish of my fingertips. I stepped back with satisfaction. “There. All fixed.”
Kay embraced his sides in astonishment. “By God, it worked! You are as good as you claim, my lady. Not that I had any doubts.” He regarded me with unexpected regret. “You are a loss to Camelot—I don’t care what anyone says. I wish things had been different.”
“So do I,” I replied with a sad smile. “How on earth did yesterday come to pass, Kay? Why did Arthur send away his own wife?”
“I cannot comment on what happened between the King and Queen,” he said. “Their marriage isn’t my business.”
The thought felt unfinished, so I waited. He sighed and gestured to the chairs again, where he now sat down easily.
“After Sir Accolon, and your escape from custody, there were a few strained years,” he said.
“Dark portents, brewing feuds, unsuccessful policy—all clouds that hung over Arthur. Then the Saxon Rock war came, we won, and it brought the kingdom together. Broken bonds were healed, alliances made, but within Camelot…I don’t know.
There was tension, an odd mood. The King and Queen had a… disagreement.”
“So he and Guinevere divorced?” It still sounded too outlandish to be true.
“Whatever rumours you’ve heard, it was a mistake, and it’s over now,” Kay said firmly.
“But accusations of dishonesty were made, and despite Queen Guinevere’s upset and outrage, Arthur would not see sense.
She was sent away, and Sir Lancelot—her trial champion—left with her. They went to his castle in the north.”
“They lived together?” I exclaimed.
Kay raised an eyebrow. “He remained in the Queen’s service,” he corrected.
“Arthur was upset that his best knight left Camelot, but you know how he is. He ground his heels into the flagstones and bid them good riddance. It took a year, but eventually he realized his error and brokered a peace for his marriage.”
The story had artfully little detail, but I understood it was as much as Kay could give.
He was still Arthur’s brother, after all and unfailingly loyal, with limits that even I could not push.
However, his information was useful, confirming my suppositions about the cracks in Camelot’s foundations, trouble deeper rooted than I had imagined.
“As usual, a powerful man can lose his mind for an entire year with no consequences,” I said drily. “Still, I’m surprised you chose to fight yesterday, against the Queen you have spent your life serving.”
Kay’s response was a dark laugh. “God’s teeth, I didn’t choose that,” he said.
“I know myself, Lady Morgan—I can be abrasive, sharp with my tongue, and can be goaded into argument on occasion. It’s even been said I’m a good fighter, when my blood is up.
But I’m not foolish enough to enter into a doomed situation. I was picked by my opponent.”
“Sir Lancelot chose you? Why?”
“The Queen’s brave champion doesn’t like me. And when something in the world displeases him, his solution is to duel with his troubles until they submit. Of course, given he is Arthur’s favourite, I am the only soul on this earth who holds this view.”
“Arthur’s favourite?” I said. “He was fighting for Guinevere against his cause.”
Kay shook his head. “Nothing is against Arthur’s cause when it comes to his wife. Our brother needed a way out of his mistake, and Sir Lancelot provided it. You’d be surprised how many things work this way since the great du Lac came to Camelot.”
The notion was curious. Arthur having knightly favourites was not unusual—indeed, Accolon had been one of them, before my brother decided he must die—but due to Merlin’s constant warnings, and the natural isolation that came with being a king of his stature, he had always found it difficult to trust. For Arthur to hold such an intimate faith spoke of an affinity beyond anything I could have expected from him, and a potential weakness.
Clearly, he had not seen how the same knight spoke in private with his Queen.
“What of Guinevere?” I asked. “If her champion is Arthur’s man, how could she rely upon him?”
“Oh, do not mistake me,” he said. “Sir Lancelot is close with them both, but he was Queen’s Knight before he was anything. Even more so now, after this. His breach with the King is far from healed.”
“Arthur cannot forgive him for leaving with Guinevere?”