Camelot's Queen

CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER ONE Winter 497 The sigh of a reed pen across parchment, one jagged line of ink. That was all it took to betray my king and myself. My signature, made with trembling hands, may have made me Arthur Pendragon’s wife, but it couldn’t change my heart. He’d asked for my assent to this marriage, and I gave it, but it was a lie. Marrying him was my duty. That much I had resigned myself to in the two months since Arthur proposed, shattering my dreams of a life with Aggrivane of Lothian. I watched with hollow detachment from my place next to Arthur as our marriage contract was sealed in the snowy courtyard of the old Roman fort of Carlisle, the stronghold of Arthur’s father, the previous high king, Uther. Arthur stood facing my father, back to the gate of the castle. His breaths were small puffs of white in the frosty air. “King Leodgrance of Gwynedd, by the signing of this contract, I bind myself to you and your kin through the hand of your daughter, Guinevere. As proof of my fidelity, I bestow upon you the price of her honor.” Arthur extended a wooden box of coins, ornately wrought gold brooches, and jewels—my bride-price, the money that assured Arthur’s sincere backing of our union but which would become mine should we ever part ways. “I thank you, Your Majesty,” my father said with a humble bow. “You are now my son as well. My gift to you is a symbol of my tribe, the people who are your most loyal servants.” My father held out his hand, and a servant placed the reins of a bridle into them. He passed them to Arthur. At the other end was a coal-black steed, a reminder of the days when brides were sold for cattle or land rather than gold. The stallion was muscular and strong but calm, indicating he was well trained and would be a valuable addition to Arthur’s growing cavalry. Arthur handed the reins to one of his attendants and clapped my father on the shoulder. “All of Britain is indebted to you for the most precious gift of your daughter, who, in a moment, will become our queen. I thank you for giving her into my care.” My eyes welled with stinging tears. To anyone in the assembled crowd, I likely appeared overwhelmed now that the deed was done, but my heart burned with a mix of emotions. Some small part of me knew this was the same transaction that would have taken place had I married Aggrivane as I’d intended, but my heart said this was all wrong. I should have been standing next to a man I loved, one with whom I couldn’t wait to share my life, not the stranger who had stolen my dreams. But those were the ruminations of a lovesick, petulant girl, not a level-headed ruler. As Merlin approached me with a pot of fragrant rose oil in one hand, the crown of Britain in the other, I forced myself to think like the high queen I was about to become. I was married to the High King of Britain, a position most women would kill for, and I’d had to do nothing to obtain it thanks to my father’s willingness to use me as p*****t of his life-debt to the king. I glanced at Arthur. His kind gaze held not a hint of temper or malice; he would not abuse me. Plus, he was allowing me to be crowned queen instead of simply naming me his royal wife, which meant we would rule as equals. Those facts had to be enough to trump whatever hurt and pain I still felt. Besides, though I would never openly admit it, part of me wanted to be high queen. I had been raised to rule and govern, and now I had a chance beyond my wildest imaginings. I fell to one knee before Merlin, touching my right thumb to my forehead, lips, and heart—the sign of Avalon—in acknowledgement of his office as Archdruid. Merlin’s smile reflected our long friendship, forged from my years in Avalon under the tutelage of the Lady of the Lake. He leaned in close, his voice soft in my ear as he said, “No one is more deserving of this role than you. But take care your heart does not lead you astray.” I pulled back, regarding Merlin quizzically. I had no idea what he meant. For a moment, his eyes held the glassy, faraway look of prophecy, then he blinked, and it was gone. Before I could be sure I had really seen it, Merlin turned away as though nothing had ever passed between us. To the waiting crowd, he proclaimed, “Guinevere of Northgallis, priestess of Avalon, and now wife to High King Arthur Pendragon in accordance with his will, this day I anoint you High Queen of Britain.” Bowing, I willed myself not to shake, though my legs felt as if they would give way beneath me. “May you be blessed with purity of mind and judgment by the Maiden”—he anointed my hair—“with love of your people from the Mother”—he drew small, sticky shapes on my cheeks—“and with the wisdom of the Crone”—he covered my hands in the warm oil—“and may she of a thousand names bless you and keep you always.” He placed the glittering circlet upon my head, secured a heavy braided metal torque around my neck, and knelt. “May I be the first to pledge my loyalty to you, High Queen Guinevere.” The crowd genuflected as one with a soft rustling of furs and other fine materials. Arthur came and stood by my side, taking my gloved hand. Loudly enough to be heard by all, he said, “These are your people, my lady. From this day forth, they are in your care. You are my equal in war as in peace. Will you fight by my side to defend their honor with your person and your very life?” The full weight of responsibility was a stone in my stomach as I looked over the bowed heads of Britain’s nobility—the kings and queens of our thirteen kingdoms and countless tribes—along with Arthur’s most trusted warriors and advisors. A flurry of movement caught my eye, and I glanced over just in time to catch my father yanking Father Marius, his confessor and advisor, to his knees. The pious troll had never borne me any affection. In fact, he had tried to ruin my life a few years earlier, so seeing him forced to prostrate himself before me gave me no small pleasure. I turned my gaze back to Arthur. “I will. From this moment on, I honor and care for them as I would my own children, for they are children of the gods. I am privileged to lead them.” A cheer went up, growing louder as the group rose to their feet. In a moment, they would come forth one by one to pledge their allegiance to me, but there was one thing left for me to do—our union must be sealed with a kiss. I turned to Arthur. My stomach clenched as I looked into his deep blue eyes. I saw naught of malice, only affection and hope—hope for the future of Britain, for us. As our lips met for the first time, I told myself the past was done. What mattered now was our future and the future of our kingdom. As the sun set on the old Roman fort, nobility from across the country and emissaries from all of the surrounding lands toasted our health and welfare. Arthur and I were seated above the rest, on a dais at the center of a long table. Our families trailed off like ribbons on either side. The hours sped by in a haze of ale, music, laughter, and good cheer. Dish after dish of delicacies were placed before us and removed, finely dressed pheasant giving way to fish in pungent sauces, roasted boar with herbs followed by sweetmeats, candied nuts, and baked apples. All the while, wine and ale flowed freely—so freely some even said the fountain in the courtyard dedicated to the god of victory spurted wine in our honor. Amid the clatter of plates as courses changed, Isolde, heir to the throne of Ireland and my dearest friend, came to my side and embraced me tightly. “See, I told you my queen would bring you good fortune,” she teased, referring to her piece from the game of Holy Stones we’d played on and off for over a year. I reached into the pouch beneath my gown and retrieved the gleaming red orb. “Is this occasion enough to return it to you, or do you wish to win it back?” I held it out to her on my open palm. She considered for a moment, green eyes dancing with mirth. “I believe you have better things to do tonight.” As though the implication in her voice were not enough, she threw a longing look at Arthur. “It is my turn to be jealous, I suppose.” My elbow caught her ribs just as she snatched up the stone. “Speaking of jealousy, how is Galen?” Galen was the one-time betrothed of our friend Elaine whose heart Isolde had broken when she ran away to Ireland with him. She rolled her eyes and sighed. “It is far too long a story to relate tonight, but I will tell you this—I knew what I was doing when I agreed to let him come with me. He has proven to be valuable leverage for my family.” Slightly fearful of her thirst for justice, I wondered what fate she planned for him. She read my expression and continued, “I have plans that will benefit both his country and mine.” I shook my head, in awe of her determination and strategy. “You are a formidable ruler already, and the crown has not even passed to you yet.” She flashed her impish smile. “I learned young it is never too early to read your allies and enemies and uncover what each one most needs. If you can provide it or deny it, you hold the power.” Her gaze flickered across the room to the lanky, fair-haired warrior called Tristan. I remembered him from the tournament as part of the house of Cornwall. “Speaking of which, I have allies to make.” I wasn’t sure if she meant politically or personally. Knowing Isolde, it was probably both. We gazed at each other for a long moment, knowing we likely wouldn’t see one another again before she returned home. “I will write as often as possible. You will make a great queen.” She squeezed my hand and glanced at Arthur. “Do yourself a favor. Forget about what is past and enjoy the role fate has given you.” She arched an eyebrow. “I certainly would.” Her laugher trailed behind her, and I couldn’t help but echo it. Arthur turned toward me. “This is the happiest I have seen you since the night we were betrothed,” he said, sounding slightly astounded. I dropped my gaze to my lap, embarrassed. “Isolde brings out the best in me.” Arthur raised my chin softly with his finger. “If the roles were different and I could have her at court, I would command it in a heartbeat, if only to see more of your beautiful smile.” I blushed, uncertain what to say. Since our betrothal, we had been under the same roof less than two weeks, so the awkward tension of strangers had yet to melt into familiarity. I fidgeted with the torque encircling my neck. Made of intricately twisted strands of gold, silver, and copper, it was the symbol that proclaimed me queen to all who held to our people’s beliefs; the crown I wore was mere pageantry. Tipped on one end with a highly polished black lodestone and on the other with an opaque orb of moonstone, it was a constant reminder of the light and dark responsibilities of queenship while also acting as a conduit to the wisdom of the gods. I lifted one of the finials from the skin I was convinced it was bruising. “Please tell me we don’t have to wear these every day.” His gaze followed my hand, and he smiled. “Only on formal occasions.” He adjusted the weight for me. We were so intent on each other neither of us noticed a visitor had approached until she spoke. “Patience, brother. You’ll have time enough later for undressing your new bride.” We both looked up, startled, into the placid eyes of Ana of Lothian, Arthur’s older sister. Her expression was playful. “I swore my loyalty to Guinevere earlier, and now I would like to offer you both my love.” She fixed her gaze on me. “And my apologies. I am truly sorry for the circumstances surrounding your engagement. If I had known your intentions—”