Chapter 49
The first thing I did upon Sir Mordred being dragged out of the house by my protective charms was ensure he left my land.
The huntsman had faithfully awaited me by the spring, so I sent him to track the black-clad men out of the valley.
Thereafter, I ran up the stairs to my study and sent a group of magpies to follow the rest of Mordred’s journey to Camelot, or learn if he took any detours.
I could afford to take no chances with my slippery nephew.
When the birds had gone, I went to my desk and wrote several letters—three identical messages to Arthur, telling him in brief what I had learned, and another to Elaine, warning her of what may come, and urging her to sail to our father’s ancestral lands in Ireland at the first sign of trouble.
I sent Elaine’s letter and one of Arthur’s with my fastest horse messengers, then returned to my turret and tied the two remaining scrolls to the magpie matriarch and her mate, sending them off towards the southern horizon.
With luck, magic and the good winds I would conjure, they would reach my brother in all haste, and bring him back.
Once done, all I could do was wait for what came next.
Inaction wasn’t my strength, and I considered chasing after Mordred, but I could not leave without risking the protective veil.
In any case, it was knowledge that mattered, and there was little I didn’t know from his confession.
He would do everything possible to get the Crown of All Britain.
Unease prickled beneath my skin like nettles, but none of this could I change.
It was politics, war, the business of realm and royalty within a world I had been exiled from—a system full of my enemies for whom I was not inclined to risk myself.
Moreover, I had my own responsibilities: before long, news would spread about my visitor and Alys and Tressa would be in my study, asking what had happened.
My duty was to them and Belle Garde; until Arthur asked something of me, nothing else was my concern.
I glanced down and saw the unfurled parchment Yvain had given to me—my brother’s last message.
For reassurance, I read it again, but the words had shifted, gaining a resonance more immediate.
Hold fast, it said, but when put before all I knew now, it seemed less a command of waiting than one of resistance. Of the need to do what was right.
I leaned my palms against the desk and sighed, relieved when footsteps sounded on the stairs and the huntsman appeared.
“Sir Mordred and his men quit the valley directly,” he said. “My lads followed them some way and they’re not turning back.”
“Good,” I replied. “Thank you.”
He bowed in acceptance. “Is there anything else, my lady?”
I looked again at the note, Arthur’s voice in my mind as if he stood beside me.
When the time comes, he urged, you will know how to help me.
My brother was right: I did. What’s more, in the deepest parts of my being, I had always known what I would do. The nettle scratch under my skin was telling the truth I least wanted to admit, but whatever my reluctance, I could not defy the call of my own honour.
“Ready my fastest horse,” I said to the huntsman. “I must ride out at once.”
*
It was a long time since I had been to the Caerleon fortress, and like most of Arthur’s important court-holding palaces it had grown considerably, buildings expanded, windows glazed with jewel tones, gardens formalized and carefully planted.
Nevertheless, the castle held an air of abandonment.
The main gates stood wide, no guards in sight until I was almost upon the main keep, and I saw not a single knight until I had crossed the open threshold and found my way into the main hall.
A fair few armed men were scattered through the room, perched casually in window seats or leaning against the long tables in conversation.
The remnants of a recently eaten meal sat out, a skeleton of servants slowly clearing silver plate and heels of dry bread.
All talk stopped as I entered, every pair of eyes turned upon me. A broad blond knight jumped up, hand at his sword, but it fell again when he saw I was a mere woman.
“I’m here to see the Queen,” I said. “It’s important.”
Not a soul asked my name or thought to announce me to her first, which was a relief; if she knew I was coming, I may not have made it a step farther.
Instead, the blond knight beckoned and led me into a reception chamber just off the hall.
It was bright and sun-warmed by large windows, intricate tapestries draping the walls depicting a fantastical woodland scene: kings and ladies at some mythical revel, attended by nymphs and satyrs, bordered with grapevines full of birds.
An image of a time both long gone and that never was—a Vale of No Return all its own.
She stood in profile before a long window, still golden and quintessentially beautiful, eyes faraway with thought.
“Guinevere,” I said, before the knight could.
To her credit, she didn’t swing around with the shock I anticipated, but turned in a slow, controlled manner.
Upon seeing my face, her pale-green eyes flashed—a moment of fear, quickly mastered.
She drew herself taller, cloaking her uncertainty with regal poise like the High Queen she always had been.
“Lady Morgan,” she said formally, as if presiding over a court as regent. “I suppose you have come to gloat.”
Her dedication to receiving my presence in the worst faith almost made me want to spin on my heel and leave her to reap what she had sown, but for what Mordred had said. Enemies though we were, it wasn’t in me to let Guinevere live that sort of horror first-hand.
“Such things are long since beneath my interest,” I replied. “I need to speak with you in haste. Though it’s best if you hear it in private.”
I indicated her knight at my shoulder. She frowned at me, then nodded. “Leave us,” she told him. “But continue preparations for my departure. This will not take long.”
The knight bowed and retreated, leaving Guinevere and me alone together for the first time since she had found me wracked with the sickness of early pregnancy from mine and Accolon’s soon-to-be-stolen son.
Though she could not have known what would happen to the child (and was still not aware), that night she had told me to leave the court or burn at the adultery stake, and momentarily, my blood seared with remembrance.
“You have plans to leave here,” I made myself say. “When, and to where?”
“I am expected at Camelot,” she said icily. “Not that it is any of your business. Say what you must and quickly—I will not be delayed.”
As ever, she knew how to make my hackles rise, but there was no time for such a joust. I was tired, exhausted with the idea of war in any form, even with her. My heart, my mind and entire spirit had gone beyond.
“Do not go to Camelot,” I told her. “That is all.”
She had already opened her mouth to dismiss me, but my words gave her pause. “Why would I trust anything you say?”
“You may not, and perhaps that is fair,” I replied. “All I can say is I rode through the night to tell you not to go. My only proof of honesty is that your husband trusts me again and he would want me to tell you this. He and I were reconciled—I know he has told you.”
“Arthur told me you and he were seeking to try and settle your differences,” she said. “Just before he vanished off to war. Given everything that has happened in the past few months, what people say means increasingly little.”
I held up my hands; in no world was I about to debate with Guinevere about deceit. “Take it as you will,” I said. “I have done what I came for.”
I was almost at the door when she said my name. I paused and turned back to her.
“Arthur is dead,” she declared. “Where should I be but Camelot?”
Her unemotional tone drew me closer again. Of course, she would not want to show herself upset before an adversary, but her demeanour seemed far beyond inner strength. Her husband was dead, and any life she knew had imploded; her stoicism was not so much admirable as it was missing something.
I considered her, then took a risk. “Arthur is not dead,” I said.
The truth settled as silence. Guinevere regarded me steadily, threading her fingers together before her in a slow, contemplative movement.
The remaining emerald ring glinted from one hand—twin to Lancelot’s precious talisman—and a carved gold band shone from the other, identical to Arthur’s from their hasty, lovestruck wedding so many moons ago.
“What do you mean?” she said carefully. “Have you not heard the news?”
“Yes. The declaration was brought to me directly. Nevertheless, he is not dead.”
“Why? Because in your wisdom you refuse to believe it?”
Her voice depicted anger, but without heat, her heartbeat accelerating across my senses. She did not believe it either.
“Indeed,” I replied. “And because it’s not true.”
I held her gaze, challenging her to bring me a more persuasive show of doubt. Instead, she sighed and looked out the window, across the tangled vista of what was once an ornamental garden.
“How do you know?” she asked. “That he lives.”
I found myself wordless, wondering how to even begin articulating the tidal pull that Arthur and I so little understood ourselves.
“I…I can feel it,” I said eventually. “I could not explain to you how, but—”
Guinevere turned back, so suddenly it cut me off. “I feel it too.”
“You do?” I said, and she nodded.
“In a different way, no doubt. Still, I know it in my soul. I don’t believe Arthur would ever die while there is more left for him to do.”
The truth of her statement struck me—a declaration of pure knowing from someone who had been closer to Arthur than anyone for most of his life, and resounding in my own heart. For a moment we stood, unified in instinct, reaching beyond years of mistrust and hatred.
“Then take my word,” I said. “Do not go to Camelot. Disaster awaits you there.”