Mistress of Legend

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Summer 518

Arthur’s men caught up to us before we reached Lothian.

I thank the gods they did. Otherwise I would be dead.

Lancelot and I were camped in the woods less than a two-day ride from Camelot when they found us. No doubt they spotted our fire, but we could not be without one, for I lay on the ground, wrapped in Lancelot’s cloak and shaking with fever. The burns on my left side that ran from above my hairline down to my foot stung with the fury of a whole nest of hornets and my skin glistened with sweat, yet nothing could warm me. We had had no choice but to stop, for I could no longer sit a horse.

Only days before, Arthur had tried to have me burned at the stake after Lancelot and I were accused of infidelity and treason as a result of our extramarital affair. Initially banished from Camelot, Lancelot returned just in time to rescue me from death, though I suffered severe burns in my escape. We had intended to flee to my mother’s homeland in the Votadini territory, but my injuries proved too severe for so long a journey.

Now, a group of Arthur’s most loyal knights—the Combrogi—approached on horseback, no doubt to drag us to back to face the justice we had fled. Lancelot was doubly condemned as both a traitor for his affair with me and for interrupting my death sentence, so he had even more to fear than I.

Lancelot drew his sword, ready to defend me. I stumbled to my feet, holding onto him for support. Each movement was fresh agony, pulling at my inflamed skin and taxing the damaged muscle underneath. But I was a warrior. No matter how ill I was, I would not cower on the ground while they dragged me away like the spoils of the hunt. Repositioning Lancelot’s cloak to give me greater freedom of movement, I took up his dagger, prepared to use it if I had to.

As they approached, Aggrivane, Bedivere, and Kay held up their hands, still on the reins, to show they wielded no weapons against us.

“We come in peace,” Bedivere called.

They would have to forgive us for not believing that.

My heart stuttered and squeezed at the site of Aggrivane, unsure whether to love or hate him. In our youth, he had been my lover. We’d planned to marry, but my father made a contract with Arthur before we could tell him, which trumped our plans. Then less than two months ago, Aggrivane was among those who betrayed Lancelot and me to Arthur, though Aggrivane later repented of his actions.

They dismounted, hands still raised.

“We are not here to arrest you,” Kay said. “Arthur ordered us to bring you back to Camelot. He wishes to grant Guinevere a full pardon. He never intended to have her killed. That was the work of his bishop, who now awaits his trial in prison.”

“How do we know you speak the truth and are not simply trying to get us to come along peacefully?” Lancelot retorted.

“If we had ill intent, would we warn you to flee, Lancelot?” Aggrivane asked. “Arthur may be merciful to his former wife, but he has not spoken of you. As far as we know, you are still exiled, still a subject to death upon your return.”

Aggrivane was right. Arthur may once have been a king of justice and mercy, but with the events just passed, it was impossible to know if that still held. After all, if he could order his wife’s death, what worse did he have in store for the man who’d cuckolded him? Even if they were telling the truth about him not wishing me dead, Arthur was still a wronged man who had a right to revenge.

I turned to Lancelot, his blue eyes frightened and conflicted. “You cannot return to Camelot, but I will not go without you. Let us carry on as we had planned.”

Bedivere cautiously approached me. When I didn’t lunge at him with the dagger, he put out a tentative hand, carefully examining my charred skin and weeping, red blisters. If he noticed how my teeth knocked together despite my clenched jaw, he didn’t show it. “If you remain on the road, you will die. Only a priestess can heal these wounds, which I’m certain you know, seeing as you are one.” He gently brushed a finger over the blue crescent moon tattoo on my brow—a mark that all priestesses of Avalon wore—as though to remind me.

Lancelot turned to me. “You must go with them, Guinevere. I will go on to Brittany. Send word when you are well, and I will make sure a boat awaits you in Camelot’s harbor.”

I made to grasp his tunic but stumbled as a wave of dizziness overtook me. Lancelot steadied me. “No. We will not be separated again. You are Arthur’s best knight. Surely he will pardon you too.”

Kay joined the two men at my side. “Arthur has reason to forgive you, Guinevere, especially in light of all you have suffered. But Lancelot defied him twice. He will not be inclined to be merciful, lest he set a precedent of weakness with the other Combrogi that could lead to his ouster. The people are not pleased with him after what he did to you.” Kay turned to Lancelot. “You can take the risk if you’d like, but I do not advise it.”

Lancelot growled in frustration, looking at the stars as though they could advise him. After a period of thought, his gaze returned to me, cataloging my injuries. To the Combrogi, he said, “She will get worse the longer she goes without aid. I will not sacrifice her life to save mine. Let me come with you as far as the edge of town. If I can see she is well received, then I can bear the guilt of knowing I abandoned her and that she suffers without me.”

They carried me to Camelot on a stretcher. While it was not quite the indignity of being transported in a prisoner’s cart or forced to walk behind the Combrogi in chains, it certainly was not the entrance any soon-to-be-redeemed queen wished to make. But I did not really care, for my wounds turned even breathing and blinking into torture. They throbbed and burned, rubbed even rawer against the fabric of the stretcher with every jolt. My fever came and went, plunging me into nightmarish visons where I relived my failed execution and created far worse fates for myself, only to be brought back to reality with startling clarity when the heat relaxed its grip.

I was between bouts of delirium when Camelot came into view. The castle loomed large on the hillside above as we trod the hidden track to a private entrance, rather than the wide thoroughfare used by noble guests, merchants, and all manner of visitors. The people need not know I had returned. There was no need to stir up a mob now, especially when I needed peace and quiet to heal. They would have plenty of time to voice their joy or displeasure later.

Seeing this place, this dream begun by Arthur’s father and fulfilled in our reign, through fresh eyes was strange. When I’d first seen it as a new bride so many years ago, it was to me a place of wonder and majesty, a place of light and welcome. Now, its shadows held dominance, swallowing up the comfort I used to find within its walls, daring me to attempt to find solace here.

Kay and Aggrivane had just carried me into my old bedroom when Arthur met us. Grainne and Morgan—Arthur’s second wife and my lifelong enemy—trailed in his wake, their blue robes of priestesshood covered by thick off-white aprons that signaled their readiness to see to my wounds as soon as I was released into their care. Arthur dashed to my side, his eyes widening as he took in my scarred face and neck, all that was currently visible from beneath my clothing.

“Guinevere! Sweet Mother of God, what have I done?” Arthur brought a hand to his blond beard, covering his mouth.

“You’ve nearly killed her, that’s what you’ve done,” Grainne shot back, already examining me.

Morgan moved in to help transfer me to the bed, but Arthur stepped in front of her. Her eyes widened in offense. If I was not in so much pain, I would have laughed.

Arthur leaned down to me, his blue eyes softened with tenderness and grief. “I did not intend to kill you, please know that. I gave no order, despite what you may have been told. You must believe me.”

“Arthur, move away and let us work,” Morgan snapped, elbowing past her husband. She dripped a few drops of a bitter liquid onto my lips, and I instinctively licked them away before recognizing my error.

“No. I will not let you poison me too,” I yelled, flailing my right arm at her and trying to sit up. A wave of nausea pushed me back to the pillows.

Grainne held me down with muscles honed from years of birthing babies and wrestling recalcitrant patients like me. “Stop fighting us. No one is trying to poison you. It is only a small dose of poppy juice, just enough to make you sleep. You do not want to be awake to experience what is to come.”

“Why did she accuse you of poisoning her?” Arthur asked Morgan. When she ignored him, slicing into my dress with a dagger to expose the extent of my injuries, he turned to me. “What did you mean, Guinevere? You said ‘too.’ Who has she poisoned?”

I attempted to answer, but my lips felt swollen and my tongue wouldn’t obey my commands. Snorting out a breath, I balled my fists and tried again, but the effort was too great. Blackness tugged at my eyelids, making them feel as though they were made of wet sand.

Finally, I managed to slur, “You,” before I slipped into unconsciousness.