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  “And threaten to broil me over a pit?”

  “If that was the only way to convince you to come with me, yes.”

  Her smile broadened, and I beamed back at her. For a moment, my old friend had returned, but then her gaze switched sideways. The upward tilt of her lips sagged, and she stared out the window to watch a servant load her belongings onto a cart—in comparison to my wagons-full, her possessions seemed paltry.

  I wasn’t sure what spurred my cousin’s distant behavior of late. I thought she’d be excited for our upcoming departure, especially since she had been afforded the freedom to choose her own husband without restrictions—Camelot would open up an entirely new field of prospective suitors for her. I would have given my seat a thousand times over for the liberty to select a suitor of my choice—regardless of status, decorum, and responsibility—yet a sadness played in her countenance, regardless of her attempts to disguise it. I wanted to ask her what was wrong, throw my arms around her and fix whatever ailed her, but I knew Elibel only grew more uncomfortable when I pressed, so I didn’t.

  “What do you think it will be like, Elibel?” I asked.

  “Camelot?”

  I nodded. Elibel pulled her thick braid over her shoulder. The loose ends trailed over the seat like ivy. She focused on a spot outside, her huge eyes far away.

  “Remember about four summers ago, when that traveling bard arrived, offering to entertain at your father’s court?”

  “Remember?” I laughed. “How could I forget? He claimed descendancy from the Sacred Order of the Oak, and father ran him out with a host of soldiers on his heels for his blasphemy against the Church of Jesu. Poor man. Father’s men must have chased him clear back to Pictland. It was the talk of Camelaird for months!”

  “I snuck out after him.”

  “What? Elibel, you never told me!”

  “You were far too young to come with me anyway." She shrugged as if never broaching the subject should not have mattered to me, one way or another, and I wondered what other secrets my cousin kept locked away. “The bard, Adair with the Silver Tongue, he called himself, sung of the Golden Warrior King, Arthur Pendragon, and of the shining towers of Camelot—of the city of milk and honey and the young king who strived to create a haven of peace and abundance for all. Ever since he painted those vivid pictures, I’ve wished to see it for myself. By the words of this bard, Camelot will be wondrous.”

  “I hope you’re right, Cousin, though I don’t give much weight to the words of a bard, even if he did claim descendancy from the old ones.”

  “He was right about Arthur. Everything he proclaimed about him—his beauty, his power, his wealth, his valor—is true.”

  Was it? The bards had exaggerated about me; certainly, they had exaggerated about Arthur. His exterior qualities were undeniable, but I still couldn’t help but think, that in his depths lurked a smug and self-important man whose motivations were slightly less than valiant than everyone professed.

  Elibel read my pause as disagreement and continued, “Surely, you see the beauty in a bard’s words, Guin. After all, you’re a talented musician. I would think, if anyone would ride the wings of a well-bent phrase, it would be you.”

  “Words can be created to twist, manipulate, deceive and flatter. Not that I blame the bards. Long ago they were inspired men and women, but now, in order to survive the bias of people like Father and rid themselves of their magical associations to the druids, they have succumbed to spinning tales to flatter kings and nobles in order to win their bread. Take their outrageous claims about me, for example. I am not ‘as graceful as a swaying willow.’”

  Elibel giggled at my expense. “Well, that’s an inaccuracy I can attest to.”

  “Why thank you for agreeing, Cousin,” I replied smugly.

  I reached for my harp and plucked at the strings.

  “But song is different. The melody and rhythm reveal a window to the soul. Unlike men, music can’t lie.”

  To demonstrate, I sang the first verse from The Song of Crede, Daughter of Guare. My voice sprang out, lilting in a tender falsetto as I grabbed hold of all the feelings I had for Lancelot that I kept trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress and infused them into the melody.

  These are arrows that murder sleep

  At every hour in the bitter-cold night:

  Pangs of love throughout the day

  For the company of the man from Roiny.

  Great love of a man from another land

  Has come to me beyond all else:

  It has taken my bloom, no colour is left,

  It does not let me rest

  The last strum of the harp resonated throughout our carriage. As engrossed as I was in the delivery of the song, I hadn’t noticed Elibel’s reaction. When I glanced up, the peach hue of her cheeks had leeched to white and redness tinged the corners of her eyes.

  She gathered her skirts in her fists and headed toward the carriage door.

  “I think I will ride.”

  Her reaction took me aback. How had I offended her? “Elibel, wait. I can’t ride. I can fall and tumble, but riding for an entire trip to Camelot won’t do. Plus it’s raining,” I protested.

  “A little fresh air will do me good.”

  She exited, ignoring my plea. I frowned and poked my head out the door while she sashayed toward the front line of our convoy. I settled my foot on the slick step, wrestling to keep a foothold in the drizzle, wondering if I should follow her.

  "Daughter."

  My father's voice startled me. I jerked my head sideways, searching for him. My toe slipped as I spotted him, and I nearly plunged face first to the ground, breaking my fall with a grip on the carriage handle as I descended.

  Father frowned; he scrutinized me while I scrambled to right myself and smooth my gown, though I could do nothing to fix the mud stains on the hems of my skirts. I struggled with the desire to follow Elibel, but my father's seriousness held my attention.

  The tiredness in Father's features seemed more pronounced. His arms hung at his sides without welcome, and I did not know if I should embrace him or stand back, so I opted for the safer choice of staying put.

  His gaze dropped, settling on the triquetra dangling from the chain around my neck. "Where did that charm come from?"

  I reached down and knotted my hand around the triquetra.

  "I found it, Father, in the baths."

  He stilled for a moment, taking in a breath before continuing. "I do not know how you obtained your mother's charm, but it is ill-suited for a good Christian queen. Give it over."

  He reached for the triquetra.

  I pulled the charm closer to my chest. “This belonged to my mother?”

  “It is a witch’s symbol, Guinevere.”

  “But Mamma said the triquetra represented love, honor and protection. How can that be bad?”

  “How do you know what your mother said?”

  “I remember.”

  Father's cheeks sagged. Cloudiness glazed his eyes, as if old haunts pushed into his consciousness. “What more do you remember?”

  I shook my head. “Little things. Snippets here and there.”

  We held one another’s gaze for several heartbeats before he said, "Keep it then. Just remove it from that chain. It should not be displayed alongside your cross.”

  I nodded.

  “You represent all the kings and queens who have ever ruled Camelaird, Guinevere—a long line of noble blood whose legitimacy can never be questioned.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you realize your union will solidify Arthur’s position to the other kings and chieftains of Britannia. He will be able to claim the right of High King.”

  “Yes, Father, I am aware.”

  “And with this crown, along with his power, wealth and army, Britannia can finally be united. We can be protected from Saxon invaders and petty uprisings. Peace can reign for our people.”

  “I have known the weight of my duty for my entire life, Father.
Rest assured the gravity of it has not escaped me.”

  “Then you know there is no turning back. You must be on your best behavior, Daughter. Do as Arthur bids without rebellion. Honor his choices in all decisions and make him a good wife."

  "Will you come to our wedding, Father?" Though I knew what his answer would be, I had to ask. Having my father with me during that pivotal moment of my life, regardless of our unfamiliar relationship, would have offered me some comfort.

  As I suspected, he replied, "Arthur's troops will arrive and require my direction," dismissing my sentimental notion of his attendance.

  "I love you Father." The words spilled out of me and I immediately regretted them when he did not respond, leaving a gaping hole of silence between us.

  I broke the stillness by turning around to get back in the coach, but Father's voice came again. It quavered as he spoke.

  "I never meant to hurt you, Guinevere." Father's eyes reddened as he continued, "When you love someone, you'll do whatever you think it takes to keep them safe. I never thought taking your mother away would do more damage to you than good."

  The pain in his gaze intensified. His shoulders shrunk, causing him to seem a thousand years old. I had harbored so much anger toward him for so many years that I was unsure if our relationship had deteriorated because of his actions or because of my response to his actions. But in that moment, all the resentment drained out of me.

  "I know you never meant to hurt me."

  Father approached. He fumbled, then took me in his arms—squeezing me as eagerly as he had embraced Arthur. I returned his hug, wrapping my arms around his girth. He smelled of salted pork and the roughness of his beard stabbed at my cheek, but I reveled in his momentary abandon.

  "I see so much of your mother in you, Guinevere."

  A rush of happiness flooded me at the comparison, until he continued, "Her blood runs through you, outweighing my own. I fear it will cause your downfall if you do not keep your true nature in check."

  My limbs slackened, and I pulled away.

  He held my eyes with a grave look. "Please, Daughter, promise not to disappoint me."

  I stiffened. The sting of his disapproval returned, replacing any warmth that had existed.

  "Rest your worries, Father. I swear to you; I will be a good and honorable queen." Though in truth, I did not know if I were capable of such a promise.

  I removed the triquetra from my chain, stowing it within the pocket of my mantle. Father nodded, then marched across the courtyard without another word, disappearing through the towering doors of Camelaird's great hall.

  The sky opened; the drizzle turned into rain. As I climbed into the carriage, I spotted Elibel toward the head of the caravan. Instead of turning back to the shelter of the coach, she batted her eyes at a nearby soldier. The man dismounted from his courser, handed her the reins and helped her into the saddle. She lifted her hood against the droplets, and kicked the beast forward as Sir Lancelot appeared.

  My insides liquefied, turning my spine to slush. Warmth tingled in parts of me that made me think father was right—wickedness lurked within me to feel such heat at the sight of a man.

  Lancelot mounted his gray and signaled to our troops. Elibel trotted up beside him. He acknowledged her, and they rode side by side as I sank inside the coach and closed the door. Aethelwine blinked, and I smoothed his feathers to sooth my trembling heart, which fluttered along with the patter of rain on the carriage roof. The coach jerked forward; we headed toward Camelot. And like Father had said, there was no turning back.

  Chapter 4

  "We'll stop here and set up camp."

  The low resonance of Lancelot's voice woke me from my fitful sleep. His tone possessed a richness that made me believe his singing voice would cause women's hearts to falter.

  I blinked, stretched and peered outside. Though the rain had stopped, the oppressive fog remained, dampening the air. The sun sank over the horizon casting darkness across the tall timber where our caravan circled. The soothing murmur of a creek sounded in the distance and I longed to make contact with the water to clean the day’s travel grime from my face.

  I encouraged Aethelwine to mount my shoulder and exited the carriage; my legs wobbled with weakness from the long ride.

  Men hurried to make camp. They unsaddled, brushed, fed and watered the horses with well-trained precision. Elibel had already disappeared, and I wondered if she ran from me. I stumbled around our campsite searching for her in hopes she would accompany me to the creek, but instead, found Sir Lancelot tending his steed beyond sight of the main gathering.

  His backside was to me. The rising moon cast light upon him. His shoulders bulged, even without his lamellar armor to enhance their breadth. Tousled black hair fell over the back of his neck as he brushed his horse in only a tunic, trousers and boots. His muscles rippled with each brushstroke, stretching the linen of his shirt. The gray nickered at his touch, turning his nose into Lancelot's chest. The knight reached up with his broad, tanned hand, and rubbed the gray's ears, causing the beast's eyelids to sink to half-mast.

  Without the agreement of my brain, my feet placed themselves in front of one another and trekked toward the knight while my mind fought to stop my forward movement. Approaching a man who was not my husband-to-be, and one I found entirely irresistible, was unwise. Yet my rebel legs continued until I stood so close I could have reached out and touched him—caressed the undulation of his shoulders as he groomed his stallion.

  "Have you seen my cousin?" I asked.

  Lancelot turned. He moved as if set to music, each muscle, each limb and body part in concert with the other. His dark eyes set upon me, deepened by the shadows of the impending night.

  "Elibel has taken to the creek, I believe."

  I rambled on, my tongue as unruly as my feet had just been, struggling to keep our conversation going. "Your horse…" I said. Then my mind abandoned all thought.

  "Yes?"

  I stared at him, dumbfounded, unable to find a suitable phrase, or to turn and take leave as a proper bride should. My conflicting desires caused the intelligence to drain out of my brain, leaving me fumbling for words.

  "What of my horse?"

  "Your horse," I repeated, then added, "is big."

  I inwardly cringed. Could I have come up with a more absurd statement?

  Lancelot didn't laugh; his stoic face broke into a smile—a kind one—which encouraged a whole new round of unholy desires on my part.

  "That he is," he agreed.

  Neither of us spoke. I couldn't wrangle my feet into motion, so I mustered up another inquiry. "Shouldn't your squire tend your beast?"

  "Does your lady attend your falcon?"

  With his rebuttal, I understood he harbored affections for his horse, and I tried to backtrack. "It's just that most knights would not bother with the menial task of maintaining their beast."

  "He is a horse, not a beast."

  Why did my tongue insist upon blurting absurdities without my permission?

  "Caring for him is not a bother." Though Lancelot's words scolded, his tone remained level, and his features stayed in a state of calmness as if nothing ruffled him.

  If I could just manage to turn away, but the cast of the moonlight lit the angles of his face; the black of his eyes shone like stars in the night sky, imprisoning me where I stood.

  "He carries me into battle, and faces an enemy dead on because I ask it of him. I owe him my care."

  Nothing came. I stood and stared and wished my talent for conversation rivaled Elibel's instead of resembling a nervous child’s.

  "Would you like to brush him?"

  "Oh, no!" I stumbled backward, then attempted to correct my outburst. "I mean, horses and I, we don't get along."

  "Is that so?" He backed into his gray, leaning against the horse's side. The stallion pressed into him, and they balanced one another in a relaxed pose.

  I nodded, then flushed.

  Lancelot handed me the brus
h. I reluctantly took it from his hand, and trembled—not because the horse towered over me and his muscles reminded me of stone, but because Lancelot's hand and mine both touched the brush at the same time.

  "Clover won't bite."

  "You named your war horse Clover?"

  "Indeed."

  "Your trusty steed, a stallion that faces death on your command, and you called him after a weed?" I laughed, despite the fact that my head and heart continued to wage war inside me. The bunched nerves under my skin gave way; I relaxed. Even though my mind told me to take leave, my heart insisted Lancelot provided a sense of comfort I had only experienced once in my life—the day he rescued me from the fray at Camelaird.

  The tips of Lancelot's lips lifted, revealing a row of straight white teeth made even brighter by the bronzed color of his skin. "But not any weed."

  "No?"

  "A magical weed."

  "I know the saying, 'to be in clover.' The shamrock brings a happy union and a lifetime of ease and prosperity."

  "So you know the legends."

  "I still would have thought you'd name a trusted warrior something like Cadeyrn after the battle king, or maybe Thunderhooves."

  He raised his brows. "You'd name a horse Thunderhooves?"

  "Perhaps."

  His smile broadened as if he tried to repress a laugh. "Lucky for Clover he doesn't belong to you then. He might flee from battle due to the embarrassment of his name."

  I laughed. "I suppose Thunderhooves is a silly name for a horse."

  "Maybe even as silly as Clover."

  "But you haven't explained why you didn't name him for his might or valor."

  "Perhaps his name reflects what he can bring, rather than what he is."

  "Yet you are a warrior, and not just any warrior, but the best of knights. How strange to have such conflicting desires." Much like my own, I thought. "Is that the kind of life you want? A fertile farm, plump babies and a doting wife to tend to your needs?"