Camelot's Queen

CHAPTER 1-2

Arthur’s brow wrinkled. “Ana, what are you apologizing for?”

My eyes snapped to him, and I searched his face for some hint of malevolence or deception, some indication this was a cruel joke. But all I found was genuine confusion.

“You didn’t know.” The words were a gasp, hardly above a whisper as they escaped my lips. I’d assumed he was aware of the circumstances but had simply done as he pleased. This turn of events shook my perception of him, prodding my reluctant heart toward compassion.

Ana covered her mouth with her hand. “I thought—I thought for sure you knew, that Leodgrance told you and you overruled him.” She looked at the floor, unable to face either of us. “Guinevere and my son Aggrivane pledged their troth shortly before you asked for her hand. My husband was supposed to secure her father’s consent, but you succeeded first.”

Arthur looked between Ana and me, surely searching for something in my eyes to confirm or refute her words. Then his gaze became distant, as though he was envisioning his own stolen future.

A moment later, he gave me a sorrowful look. “I did not know. I am sorry. I do not ask your forgiveness, for an offense of such a nature will take a long time to heal, but I beg you to try not to hold this misunderstanding against me.”

I looked at Ana, pleading with her to give me a sign or tell me what to say, but her gaze was still on floor, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. So this was to be my first test. How would I respond to an impossible request without anyone to guide me?

I cleared my throat before placing my hand on Arthur’s and giving him a soft smile, just as a queen should. “Of course I forgive you, husband. It was a tragic misunderstanding but one that brought us to this night. Let us dwell not on it but enjoy our feast.”

Those pretty words were required of me. In my heart, shock, confusion, and misery warred. I had no idea which one would win out.

The long meal finished, our guests reveled in earnest. Musicians filled the hall with lively song while jugglers, bards, and entertainers of every ilk roamed among the guests, delighting and mystifying them with colorful tricks and witty verse. The tables were pushed against the walls to create an ample dance floor, which quickly filled with tipsy couples.

Arthur led me into a lively round where we stayed side by side for most of the dance. Something had been bothering me since our conversation with Ana, and I took advantage of the situation to unburden myself.

“Arthur, if you intended to ask me to be your wife, why did you award the stag’s head to Elaine?”

His expression showed he thought the answer was obvious. “Pellinor was my host; I could not insult him. Besides, he is a valuable subject.”

“I thought you were going to ask her to marry you.”

He laughed. “So did almost everyone else. Perhaps I was a little too charming, but she is a sweet girl and thrived on my attention. What was I supposed to do, warn her ahead of time?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “A hint would have been polite. The poor girl was crushed.” Arthur grunted, and I glanced around his shoulder at Pellinor, who certainly didn’t appear upset that his daughter had been passed over. “Her father looks to be quite recovered from the disappointment.”

Arthur winked at me. “Gold cures most ills, trust me.”

The song ended, and we milled among the crowd, accepting even more well-wishes. Within a few minutes, I felt as if the false smile I had maintained all day would stiffen and set, as permanent as the crescent mark of Avalon on my brow.

A young couple approached us, and my stomach twisted. He was Lord Malegant of the Summer Country. I had learned his identity when he pledged his fealty to me during my coronation. Then I had been dazzled by his handsomeness, but all night something had needled at me, a tiny voice insisting I had seen him before.

Malegant was tall and muscular, wavy dark blond hair tied at the base of his neck with a royal blue cord identical to his cloak. His skin was ruddy with drink. He led a small woman by the arm—a child really, perhaps all of fourteen—and gracefully maneuvered her in front of him as they reached us. She dipped into a low curtsey, and he bowed.

“Well met, Lord Malegant.” Arthur clapped him on the shoulder.

“My king, allow me to introduce my wife, Fiona.”

Fiona raised her head, revealing amazingly large hazel eyes. “I am honored to be in your presence, my lord.” She smiled shyly at me and added, “Yours as well, my lady.”

Malegant took my hand and kissed it, his slight beard gazing my skin. “Your Majesty.” His eyes glinted with a look that was truly magnetic.

With a sharp intake of breath, I realized I knew that look, and the memory came flooding back.

It was during my third year in Avalon, before I had attained priestesshood. Normally I wouldn’t have been allowed on the other side of the mists, but one of the marsh women had gone into early labor and I was asked to accompany one of the priestesses as her assistant midwife.

I had been standing on the shore of the lake, waiting for my companion to finish her business inside, when he emerged from one of the little huts at the base of the Tor. I’d expected to see one of the wild hermits who were part of the community of Joseph of Arimathea, but instead this well-groomed noble fixed his irresistible eyes upon me. I remembered thinking I would melt and be swept away by the waters of the lake.

When I described him to my priestess companion, she knew immediately who he was and warned me in a motherly tone to stay far away from him. He was known to cause trouble for women, especially those vowed to the isle, she said. But I never understood why because she refused to say more.

But before I could speak, Malegant led the doe-eyed girl away, his hand clasped just a little too tightly around her arm. Caught up in my own thoughts, I had missed the whole conversation plus any opportunity to find out more about the Lord of the Summer Country. Uriens called Arthur’s name, and my husband excused himself.

I was heading back to my chair, still wrapped up in half-remembered rumors about Malegant’s questionable reputation, when a voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Well, well,” it said.

I could almost see the catlike smile in the lilting voice. It was a sound straight out of my nightmares. I knew the speaker even before I turned. “Hello, Morgan,” I said as cheerily as I could manage.

We regarded one another coldly, each taking the other’s measure. She was little changed, the candlelight making her skin glow and highlighting the crescent mark of a priestess on her forehead. Wherever she had fled couldn’t have given her too hard a life.

She settled into a mock curtsy. “Your Majesty.” She nearly choked on the words.

I gave her a triumphant smile. “Last I heard, you slipped Avalon’s guard and went missing. What ill star directs you to darken this happy occasion?”

Morgan shook her head and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Still bitter about being second best, I see.”

“You know my role, yet you dare call me second best?”

She was nonplussed by my outrage, which only irritated me more. “I’ve always been better at understanding the will of the Goddess than you.”

I sucked in air to reply, but then I noticed how her hand hovered protectively over her abdomen, which, now that I looked closely, was swollen. She was pregnant.

I tried to cover my astonishment. “And whom did the Goddess direct you to marry? Or do you just rut like a sow and see who the child most resembles?”

Morgan’s smile was indulgent, as if she was dealing with an especially simple child, but her tone was frosty, biting. “My husband is Uriens of Rheged, brother-in-law to the king. Welcome to the family, Guinevere.”

I plopped down in my chair with a huff, mind still reeling from Morgan’s revelation. An orphan who did not know her lineage had managed to infiltrate the highest levels of Briton nobility—and now she was my sister by marriage. That meant I would be spending much more time in her presence, no doubt the subject of her constant conniving. I’d thought I left that behind when we parted ways in Avalon, but the Goddess had willed us together again whether I liked it or no.

Sensing my displeasure, my life-long attendant, Octavia, flitted to my side and replaced my cup with a fresh one. I smiled, grateful for her constant concern and friendship. I brought the cup to my lips, intending to drain it in one gulp, but the sharp smell stopped me. It was unlike any wine or ale I had ever encountered, nor was it cloying like mead. I sniffed it warily, its bitter bouquet stinging my nose.

Octavia saw my confusion. “It is a drink from your mother’s native land. Some of the Votadini ambassadors brought it to toast your queenship. You are one of them after all. Your father and some of the knights are partaking of it liberally in the adjoining room—and enjoying themselves immensely, I might add.”

I raised an eyebrow at her and took a slip. It was bitter but slid smoothly down my throat, its peppery tail burning like a comet. I shuddered, intending to push the cup away. But the warmth that followed made me reconsider. This strange drink heated me from the inside out, making me feel comfortable for the first time all day, as though I was wrapped in my mother’s old blanket. A few more sips and I barely remembered talking to Morgan or any of the pain of the last few months.

Lost in this tingling fog, I scarcely noticed when the crowd began to thin. Eventually Arthur returned to my side, a little worse for the wear. He was laughing and smelled of the same strange brew. I wondered when they had pulled him into the other room.

The tone of the music changed, becoming slow and sensual, and with it, the entire tenor of the room shifted. Now it felt more like a Beltane ritual than a wedding feast. Arthur’s closest friends and many of his knights were teasing us, telling lewd jokes with base gestures that openly indicated what was to come. Soon the entire room descended into debauchery.

Kay was more than happy to fulfill his duty as Arthur’s first man. When the appointed hour came, Kay wriggled his eyebrows at me, picked me up, and threw me over his shoulder, symbolically kidnapping me. He carried me into the bridal chamber as I flailed and screamed with laughter for him to put me down. His bravado faded, however, as soon as he set me on my feet. He took his leave with a stiff bow, but not before swatting me on the backside. I thought I heard him stifle a drunken giggle as he passed over the threshold.

Turning into the room, I froze. The bed, with its double-layer feather mattress, was finer than anything I had ever seen. The expensive sheets were strewn with rose petals and fertility herbs, and a bough of mistletoe hung over the pillows, prepared to receive the newlywed lovers.

Octavia slipped in to prepare me. She lovingly removed my clothes and bathed me in perfumed water, whispering advice and a few pointers I was embarrassed she knew. She clothed me in a simple white shift and quietly ducked out of the room, leaving me alone to wait for my husband.

I heard the horde of men even before the door opened to a chorus of whoops and whistles, and Arthur stumbled in, having been shoved by his enthusiastic friends.

“No listening in the hall,” he called after them as the door closed and the lock clicked. He regarded me uncertainly, the firelight glinting off his freshly oiled chest.

Nervous laughter escaped my lips. “You look ready for a wrestling match.”

Arthur lifted an eyebrow. “If that is how you would like it.” He stepped closer and removed the chaplet of flowers from my hair. “And you are fit for a ritual, not a wedding bed.”