Chapter 16
We walked along the Seneschal’s hallway in silence, Sir Kay two paces ahead.
Eventually, I asked. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the private throne room,” he said. “I assume that’s where Arthur will want to receive you. If he doesn’t just have us thrown in the dungeon.”
I wanted to tell him not to worry; the Arthur I had known would not argue with Kay’s judgment. But if our brother was so different that I could not imagine it, I might be in more trouble than I thought.
“I didn’t know he had a private throne room,” I replied.
“I told you, things have changed.”
Eventually, Kay led us past the King’s Council Room and Great Chamber, then through a crown-embossed door into a rectangular, sun-filled space. A dais rose up at the end, upon which stood the usual pair of golden thrones. Behind, a slew of dragon banners hung from the wall.
“Wait here,” he said. “Don’t get up to any…mischief. Please.”
“I’ll try,” I said faithfully. He gave me an ashen smile, then hurried up the dais steps and disappeared through a door in the back wall.
I circled the small throne room. For Camelot it was understated, ceiling painted red and white, a row of windows along one side glazed with restrained images of swords and lances.
There were no window seats, alcoves or benches to rest upon—no furniture at all apart from the thrones. Nowhere to hide.
A large tapestry hung opposite: an image of Arthur on his coronation day, surrounded by knights and lesser kings. Merlin stood off to the side, rendered in dark threads, waiting to tell the young High King of his true birth.
I was contemplating using an unravelling charm on it, when the dais door opened and an immensely tall, broad-shouldered knight entered, a silver-hilted longsword at his hip.
He was clad in mail so high-polished it glittered like stars, overlaid with a tunic of the purest white samite.
His chest, wide and deep as a church door, bore no device—the plain livery of Camelot’s order of Queen’s Knights.
He strode across the dais and came to a halt between the thrones, turning to face me in an elegant, disciplined movement. He was dark-haired and stern of expression, and the most objectively beautiful man I had ever seen.
To look at him directly was to stare at the sun: fascinating and tempting, but difficult to withstand for long.
There were Roman statues in Arthur’s courtyards that would have shattered in envy at the classical lines of his face, the carved muscular strength in his upright, symmetrical stance, singing of equal beauty in the body beneath.
Yet his remarkable aspect and godlike stature were not all that made him, but an intangible, resonating gleam, beyond his silk and mail.
His hair shone like obsidian glass, jaw length and tousled, pushed behind his ears, next to skin that upon reflection was less sun than moon: its light subtle, cool, celestial in its own right.
“You’re Sir Lancelot du Lac,” I said.
He cast his gaze down upon me, eyes ice blue as a January sky. His perfect mouth, full and sulky, twitched slightly at the corners, but he did not speak.
I needed no answer. This was Guinevere’s avenging angel champion, the dazzling, relentless warrior of sword and steel; he who had clutched the Queen’s hands and vowed he would risk anything to restore her reputation.
I smiled. “Since we are getting along so well, I should introduce myself. I’m—”
“I know who you are,” he interrupted. “Morgan le Fay.”
His voice was deep and clear as I had heard it with Guinevere, but with none of the tender, impassioned tone. He had spoken my correct name, at least, but the severe way he said it—like a dagger on bone—sparked in me, an affront and a challenge.
“A pleasure to meet you,” I replied. “I saw your impressive performance yesterday. I daresay I enjoyed it almost as much as the Queen herself.”
He looked as though he might rise to my bait, when the dais door opened and drew his attention. I braced myself for a royal entrance, but instead came the familiar figure of Sir Kay, his ears so red it looked like they had been thoroughly boxed.
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Is Arthur coming?”
“King Arthur,” Sir Lancelot snapped.
I met his savage, handsome glare with a grin, and he averted his eyes as if he had stumbled into Medusa’s lair. Briefly, I wondered how it might feel to climb such a tree.
Kay cleared his throat. “Upon discussion…the King says he honours Safe Conduct, but will not be accepting an audience.”
Heat ran up my spine. “My brother is refusing to see me? How will I explain that you haven’t done anything wrong?”
He spread his hands in defeat. It hadn’t been my plan to get caught in Camelot, but now I felt something had been stolen from my grasp. I had set my mind to a meeting with Arthur, and like any knight with his blood up, I would have satisfaction.
“He cannot just dismiss me. It’s not good enough.” Turning on my heel, I charged up the dais steps towards the interior door. Kay rushed after me, but Sir Lancelot got there first in two unhurried strides, putting his body in the way of mine.
“Let me pass,” I said.
My demand seemed to amuse him, his lovely mouth rising in a smile of utmost confidence. “Absolutely not,” he replied.
His arrogance lit me up like a torch. “If you think I need permission from you… ” Curling my hand, I struck my fingers against my palm. Fire before his exquisite face would show him who he was dealing with.
Nothing happened. My concentration was more scattered than I thought.
Kay stepped between us. “Perhaps I should try asking again.”
Sir Lancelot pulled his eyes from mine, snapping back to seriousness. “You heard what was said, Lord Seneschal. The High King has made his decision. Nor does my lady the Queen deserve to be further distressed by this incident.”
In the heat of our confrontation, I had forgotten about the gleaming knight’s less official attachment to Guinevere: what I had seen and heard, secluded between the pavilions.
Anything for you, he had said. You know that.
So quickly had she leapt to his thoughts now. What had sparked in my mind at the trial crystallized, became certain. He was more to her than Queen’s Knight.
I took Sir Kay’s arm and drew us away. “Go back to Arthur,” I murmured. “There’s something I need to tell him urgently.”
Kay frowned. “All of a sudden? What is it?”
“It’s only for his ears. But he will want to hear this, I promise.”
“Lord Seneschal.” Sir Lancelot’s cut-glass voice raised our heads. “I respect your office and the rank you carry here, but King Arthur wants peace in Camelot, and has refused the request. I’m sure you would agree there is no negotiation to be made beyond that.”
His tone was not strident but commanding, impossible to ignore.
Beside me, I heard Kay’s sigh of impatience, though I knew him well—it was also a concession.
No threat could make him retreat, but the thought of his brother, the loyalty running deeper than blood, spoke the loudest. For me, he had tried, but Arthur came first.
“Come, Lady Morgan,” he said. “I’ll escort you to the castle gates.”
“No.” Sir Lancelot strode between us, his starry mail sounding a faint music. “I will escort her. To the city gates, and ensure this task is completed properly.”
“Do not inconvenience yourself, Sir Knight,” Kay said tersely. “I’m sure you are busy preparing for your imminent departure.”
His barbed tone bounced off the champion like an arrow on stone.
“I always have time to ensure Camelot’s absolute security,” Sir Lancelot replied.
“In addition, when you were making excuses to the Queen, I suggested to King Arthur that he should understand what happened today—how an Enemy to the Crown and fugitive from justice was given Safe Conduct so easily. By you.”
Kay closed his eyes, nostrils flaring. “Du Lac, so help me God—”
“I wouldn’t delay, Lord Seneschal,” the knight interrupted. “His Highness awaits your explanation.”
Kay looked at me in doubt, but I shook my head; I had already caused him enough trouble. I mouthed a silent apology and he nodded, smiling faintly in forgiveness.
Sir Lancelot cast his winter gaze upon me and pointed to the door. “Come with me, Morgan le Fay.”
*
The shining knight ushered me out of the small throne room, past Arthur’s Great Chamber and Council Room, until we were beyond my brother’s vicinity altogether.
His long stride left me struggling to keep up, so I slowed to an obstinate, comfortable pace, taking in the bright murals on the ceilings and new stained glass, yet more impressive tapestries garlanding the walls. My supposed escort was several yards away before he noticed.
“Stay within my reach,” he warned.
“Then I suggest you slow down,” I retorted.
With a huff of irritation, he stalked back to my side, where I could study him at close quarters.
He was just as astounding in profile but easier to look at, without being in the direct beam of his beauty.
Perfection was often boring, but not in his case: every expertly rendered piece of him gave something upon looking.
Sensing my scrutiny, he glanced down in disapproval. His handsome disdain only made my blood flare.
He looked away again. “Do you have a horse?”
I wasn’t about to tell him of Alys and our city lodgings. “Just outside the western walls,” I lied.
“Then I will escort you to the Welsh Gate. Once you are without, I would strongly advise you to stay there.”
I laughed. “Threats! How quaint, if not very knightly.”
“I do not speak on my own behalf,” he said. “I serve at the pleasure of the King.”
“And the Queen,” I replied. “Do not forget her pleasure.”