Betrothal (Queen’s Honor, Tales of Lady Guinevere: #1), a Medieval Fantasy Romance NOVELLA Read online

  Chapter 5

 

 

  "Boy!" a soldier's ill-tempered voice yelled out.

  I continued to sneak through the rows of tents, directing my way to the shire horses, palfreys and ponies I had seen from the hillside, but a hand gripped my shoulder and twisted me around.

  "You boy! You deaf?"

  I realized the soldier addressed me and figured from my attire and slight frame that I looked like a serving lad. Since I kept my head tucked downward to conceal my face, my view of the man consisted of a wide middle, cloaked in leather armor with matching breeches and boots, and a sword dangling at his side.

  I shook my head in response, while holding air in my lungs, afraid to speak less my high-pitched voice give me away.

  "Don't laze while others work! A battle is at hand." The soldier pushed me in the direction of two empty water buckets sitting by a nearby tent.

  I lunged at his thrust and scrambled to the buckets, the air knocking from my lungs with relief. I hefted one pail in each hand, and took off at a jog, away from the brute but back on track toward my objective.

  "Don't let me catch you loafing again or I'll cuff you by your ears, boy!" The soldier's voice mixed with the clamor of sharpening swords and the rumble of preparations for battle as I continued onward.

  Soon, several shire horses appeared, towering over the mélange of warriors. Quickening my pace, I approached. Four of the massive beasts were harnessed to wagons, while two with only bridles were tied up to the backs of the carts. A few finely bred mules and a couple ponies were corralled with ropes next to the massive shires.

  If I took a wagon, I wouldn't have to risk riding one of the beasts, but it would be impossible for me to sneak away from Arthur's troops. I knew I'd never be able to climb upon a shire horse, and the possible fall from the height of its back sent a shivers down my spine, so I chose the pony closest to me, figuring the smaller animal would be more cooperative than a mule.

  "Ho, boy! What are you doing there?" A man called out, approaching me.

  I frantically searched the ground, spotting a bit of twine piled near an empty trough. Grabbing the string, I knotted the two buckets together and threw them across the pony's back, gesturing to the man, the buckets and the empty trough to show him I intended to fetch water. He grunted then strutted away, calling underneath his breathe, "Hurry up about it then. There's a stream a couple hundred paces east."

  I nodded, then grabbed the pony's halter and led him from his makeshift corral and headed out. A triumphant grin spread across my face as I cleared sight of Arthur's army—part one of my plan a success. Releasing the buckets from the pony's back, I took a deep breathe, then gripped the beast's mane and threw my leg over him. Since his withers only reached to my ribs, I didn't have far to toss my leg, but as soon as my rump hit the pony's back, he snorted and pinned his ears backwards.

  My breathe quickened as his body quivered underneath me and my nerves constricted.

  "Settle down, boy," I tried to coo, but my voice choked as the little beast reared. Grappling for his mane, I leaned into him and held on with all my might. His forelegs crashed down and his hind legs kicked up while I squeezed my legs into his flanks, intending to hold on, but instead I signaled the fiend to dart.

  We shot across the rolling meadow like an arrow as I yelled, "Whoa!" to no agreement as the miniature monster flew along at a pace I wouldn't have thought his short legs capable. For good measure the creature bucked and kicked every few hundred paces until he sent me flying to the ground and galloped off over the hill.

  "Impudent beast!" I yelled as his rump disappeared out of view. Now I knew why I didn't ride horses.

  As I stood to dust the dirt from my trousers, I stared at the view before me. The little imp had dumped me no more than fifty paces from Melwas' camp, but within moments of my appearance on the hillside, Melwas' soldiers surrounded me.

  "Halt!" yelled one, as two others appeared from nowhere and grabbed each of my arms.

  Their limed hair and blue painted faces caused their features to flatten, enhancing the menace in their facades. My breath caught in my throat as their hands pressed into the skin and muscles of my upper arms. My cloak sunk down over my head to conceal my identity, and I kept my chin tucked to my chest as the men continued their interrogation.

  "No weapons, sir," answered a fourth soldier as he accosted my cloak and patted me down with an aggressive search. Each nudge of his meaty hands felt like a singe on my skin, and a lump of revilement visited the back of my mouth. When his examination neared my breasts, I tugged away, wrapping my arms around my middle. The soldiers replied by drawing swords and spears; they encircled me, making no room for escape.

  "Who are you?" asked one.

  When I didn't reply, not for want of keeping quiet, but for lack of words, another asked, "What is your purpose here?"

  Unable to form any type of intelligible speech, I thought my plan was indeed ill advised and perhaps I should have listened to Elibel's counsel, when one of the soldiers snatched the hood off my head.

  "A woman!"

  "A fetching woman, at that," said another; his leer turned lecherous, his yellowed teeth in sharp contrast to the smeared blue woad on his face.

  I forced myself to breath to compose the nerves threatening to explode underneath every inch of my skin. I squeaked out my words. "I have business with King Melwas."

  "And what kind of business would that be, lass?"

  "Funny business," said another with a lustful smile. He sniggered and the others joined him, hooting with licentious intent.

  My anxiety gave way to anger at their indecent suggestion. And, true to my nature, my fury always resulted in rash discourse—I either choked up or let loose. I rolled my eyes with exaggerated sarcasm.

  "Not that kind of business you depraved donkeys."

  Then I realized it was almost that type of business and my confidence sunk as if it leaked into the ground beneath my feet.

  Their hoots rose in pitch at the self recognition of my actual "business," when a voice broke from behind, "That is no woman!"

  A beefy man appeared—the ruddiness of his skin shown through his war paint. He was large, though well muscled as if he dined on Midsummer's festival food each night. The emblems of a shield and hart enameled on his shield, his shaven cheeks, a generous moustache, and gold ring on his thumb suggested his identity: King Melwas.

  Elibel had not been right about his good looks—unless one considers a bear good-looking. I assumed he suffered from the same inflated bardic portrayals that I had.

  "This is a Lady," he corrected. "Lady Guinevere, to be exact."

  He ordered his men to stand away; they backed off at his command, but one mumbled, "Lady Guinevere of Camelaird? I thought she'd be more beautiful. Not that she's ugly, but I thought she'd be—"

  King Melwas swatted toward the man as if he was a pesky fly and the soldier scampered backwards without another word.

  Just as I had suspected, my inflated bardic portrayals preceded me. I wagered I was a disappointment to everyone I met—even battle hungry brutes.

  Then Melwas swept down and bowed with consent.

  His response gave way to the hope that my earlier interpretation of King Melwas' honor of the old ways proved true. I pressed forward even though I thought my knees might buckle.

  "Your Lordship, rather than shed blood today, I propose we come to a more peaceful and equally satisfying arrangement."

  An intelligent flicker passed across Melwas' façade. The sides of his lips turned upward under the mound of hair, whether out of amusement or admiration, I did not know.

  "What does your Ladyship have in mind?"

  "That I would speak to my father on your behalf, and you will be considered as one of my suitors. An honorable betrothal will strengthen your Lordship's claim and quell any unrest that my people will possess if you take Camelaird by force. I can assure fair consideration on your behalf."
/>   "I'm intrigued," Melwas said. "But would one of your other suitors be Arthur Pendragon?"

  His response startled me. Why would Arthur be a contender for my father's throne? As I puzzled out the meaning behind his statement, a low thrum sounded in the distance.

  King Melwas held my gaze. His smiled slumped into a suspicious glare at the growing noise.

  "A clever decoy for an ambush?" he asked, more to himself than to me.

  I frantically shook my head in response, but he turned away from me at the same moment Arthur's cavalry broke the crest of the hill.

  Melwas' men scrambled in all directions, seeking weapons to face off against their attackers as a battle cry rose from the men barreling down upon us. The screams tore through me like a banshee crying for death as the two forces reached one another with a thunderous clamor.

  Melwas screamed, "Grab her!" before I could turn and run.

  A heavy arm snatched me around the middle, pulling me off my feet.

  In soothe, I do not think I even possessed the will to run. Images of death waylaid me as metal met flesh. Blood bloomed from wounds as men sunk to the earth beneath them. A metallic odor rose from the corpses, saturating the air. My captor ran with me tucked underneath his arm like a sack of grain, dodging oncoming knights with jarring movements as my feet dragged over the ground. We weaved and bobbed, my flesh battering against the man's bones as he followed his king's wake. My circlet slipped from my head and tumbled away to land near a raven.

  The peculiar beast sat motionless in the middle of the tumult with my circlet at its talons. Luminous eyes peered from the shadow-black of its form, watching my captor carry me away. Whether my sight deceived me, or I saw truly, the creature's eyes appeared human-like. Its unnatural green-colored orbs stared as if attempting to pierce my soul. I blinked, but the image persisted. The raven's beak cracked open and a woman's voice filled my head.

  "Women must remember not to leave decisions in the hands of men who are driven by the desire of their spears alone. Alas, what is done is done and what is started cannot be stopped. Remember, Guinevere of Camelaird, the power to see through the guise is the ability to see into the heart of a man."

  I blinked again, as my bones thrummed against my captor; he continued to sprint through the battlefield. When I reopened my eyes, the raven and my circlet were gone, but the visions of slaughtered soldiers remained. Numbness filled me as the blur of casualties continued.

  This was the exact moment I sought to prevent.

  I would have fainted had my senses remained, but they did not. They retreated inside some fortress within me like cowards, fearing the massacre before me.

  Without knowing why, I hit the ground. My captor slumped over me, his slack arm weighed down across my middle as heavily as being buried under a pile of stones. I lay motionless for moments—stunned, unable to move. The visions of death continued to spiral around me. Men groaned, yelled, cried and bled.

  Finally, I summoned the power to heave and arch my back, pushing the fallen man off me. As I scrambled out from under his grip, I realized why he'd come to a halt. The flesh of his neck lay open; blood still spurted from the gaping wound. My hand involuntarily reached out to stop the rush, but when I felt the warmth of his life draining, I pulled back, and stared at the red stains on my hands. A violent tremor started inside me while my eyes stayed hostage to the horror before me.

  I barely distinguished the thunder of hooves prancing behind me—like a drone of drums in the distance. Before I could move, a strong but gentle arm pressed around my middle. Comfort rushed through me at the touch. Within a breath, my body left the ground, hefted onto a dapple gray steed. My limbs continued to shake of their own accord as I stared at the carnage who had been my captor.

  But my rescuer's strength steadied me as he pulled me toward his lamellar armor in order to snuggle me protectively against his chest. He had hopped back before lifting me and my rump sat sideways on his mount, the saddle steel separating us. But I did not feel separate from him. An all encompassing sensation flooded over me, as if drawn into his being—as if we shared the same physical space of life and limb, and I collapsed into the security he provided, my tremors stilling with his continued touch.

  With me in one arm, and his sword in the other, he kicked his steed into a run, guiding the horse without reins, using the pressure of his legs alone. Unlike riding with Arthur, or on the pony, the motion of his stallion seemed like a wave beneath me as his body guided mine in rhythm with the horse's motion. For once, I didn't fear falling.

  As we galloped away from the fray, I turned to him, seeking my rescuer's face. The mysterious knight from Arthur's arrival returned my gaze with deep, dark eyes peering from either side of his helmet's nose guard. Though his mouth and jaw remained hidden by a chain mail covering, I could tell his features were strong, tan and angular, yet it was his eyes I felt lost in, like I could swim in their depths without end. Then the knight disengaged from my gaze, and scanned our perimeter for danger.

  A pang of rejection filled my insides as his eyes left mine. I must have stiffened at his refusal, because he spoke—with the same paradox that pervaded his touch, a mix of strength and gentleness. "I've got you now. You're safe," he said.