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Mistress of Legend

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Legend says Guinevere spent her final days in penance in a convent, but that is far from the truth.

Having escaped death at the stake, Guinevere longs to live a peaceful life in Brittany with Lancelot, but the threat of Arthur’s wrath quickly separates the lovers. Guinevere finds herself back in Camelot, but it is not the peaceful capital she once knew; the loyalty of the people is divided over Arthur’s role in her death sentence. When war draws Arthur away from Britain, Mordred is named acting king. With Morgan at his side and a Saxon in his bed, Mordred’s thirst for power becomes his undoing and the cause of Guinevere’s greatest heartache.

In the wake of the deadly battle that leaves the country in civil war, Guinevere’s power as the former queen is sought by everyone who seeks to ascend the throne. Heartbroken and refusing to take sides in the conflict, she flees north to her mother’s Votadini homeland, where she is at long last reunited with Lancelot. The quiet life she desires is just beginning when warring tribal factions once again thrust her into an unexpected position of power. Now charged with ending an invasion that could bring an end to the Votadini tribe and put the whole island in the hands of the Saxons, Guinevere must draw upon decades of experience to try to save the people she loves and is sworn to protect.

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Epigraph
Men went to Gododdin, laughter-inciting, Bitter in battle, with blades set for war. Brief the year they were at peace. The son of Bodgad, by the deeds of his hand did slaughter. Though they went to churches to do penance, The young, the old, the lowly, the strong, True is the tale, death oer’took them. Men went to Gododdin, with eager laughter, Attacking in an army, cruel in battle, They slew with swords without much sound Rheithfyw, pillar of battle, took pleasure in giving. Men went to Catraeth, swift was their host. Fresh mead was their feast, their poison too. Three hundred waging war, under command, And after joy, there was silence. Though they went to churches to do penance, True is the tale, death oer’took them. Three hundred gold-torqued, warlike, wonderful [~] Three hundred proud ones, Together, armed; Three hundred fierce horses Carried them forward, Three hounds and three hundred, Sad, they did not return. He pierced three hundred, most bold, He cut down the centre and wing. He was worthy before the noblest host, He gave from his herd horses in winter. He fed black ravens on the wall Of the fortress, although he was not Arthur. —Y Gododdin, author unknown (stanzas 6-8, 91, 102)

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