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

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  As evening drew into night, I found myself cleaned, dressed, and peering around the corner of the great hall—alone. Elibel had not returned with Aethelwine, nor had my father come to speak with me in the long hours after the battle had left me sobbing in my chamber. My thoughts remained muddled as I tried to make sense of what had happened earlier in the day. Surely, I could have avoided the massacre had Arthur's army not descended upon Melwas. Yet Arthur had slaughtered no less than a hundred men, whether to protect me, defend my father, or for some other motivation, I did not know. All I knew was that my insides choked at the memories of death and I could not shake the inevitable conclusion that I was responsible.

  Torches, set in iron holders, cast off light that accentuated the shadows looming in the corners. For a moment, I spotted black feathers rustling in the darkness, but upon further inspection, only shadows lurked.

  A crowd gathered, laughing and dining as my father welcomed the "protector" of Camelaird in a celebratory reception. Smells of burning pine, roasted duck, and the salt of sweaty bodies wafted through the air. The quick rhythm of a tambour and fiddle, punctuated by the cheerful melody of the flute, added to the merriment. My harp had been removed from my chamber and stood near the wall, set behind the musicians. I feared the gesture meant Father would require I play for our guest. That notion, mixing with all the rest, wound my nerves into knots. They bunched up beneath my skin, causing me to freeze where I stood until Father caught me in his gaze and waved me to obedience.

  "Come Daughter, our guest has been awaiting your arrival. Give Camelaird's protector fair welcome."

  I forced my feet into action in order to cross the distance to the head table. My father, King Leodegrance, sat beside Arthur, patting his protector's shoulder as if old comrades, while gesturing me forward. My father provided a curious contrast to Arthur; while Arthur towered a head above Father with youth and vibrancy, my father slumped next to him, sunken and gray with age. Father's wiry hair had been slicked down for the occasion and he wore his jeweled crown, encrusted robe and diamond cross as if in full dress for a procession, yet he looked like an ancient memory next to the younger king.

  Arthur stared, watching me approach. His knights sat to both sides of him and my father, while the hall spilled over with his remaining retinue mixing with the residents of Camelaird. Most of Arthur's army had been dispatched back to Camelot once the victory over Melwas had been assured.

  I ignored his gaze and scanned the room as I neared them, searching for the mysterious knight who had rescued me. My heart quailed at the thought of spotting him. Even though I had not seen his entire face, I was sure I would be able to recognize him by presence alone. But he was no where to be seen, which caused an unexpected twinge in my chest.

  Movement from the corner caught my eye. A raven perched on a chair at the back of the chamber, cocking its head back and forth, yet no one else seemed to notice the creature. I blinked, and the bird vanished. Reasoning the day long, and my senses weary, I sloughed off the vision and proceeded toward the head table.

  Father had instructed my dress to be my finest this evening, and, with Elibel still missing, a kitchen maid had helped me into my attire replete with ruby-red silk fabric and so much metallic thread that the gold outweighed the red in visual impact. My outer sleeves dangled to my thighs in a v-shape while my inner sleeves squeezed all the way down to my wrists like ropes binding me. My cross hung from my neck while a belt completed the ensemble, crafted of gold, rubies and sapphires. I was missing my circlet, which remained lost somewhere in the day's carnage (or at the end of a raven's beak if my mind had not betrayed me), and my father noted this omission with a disturbed glance toward my head.

  Arthur attempted to capture my notice with a smile. When I finally conceded to return his look, the charm of his grin caused a rush of blood to my cheeks. My skin burned under his intense inspection, as his eyes flitted up and down my form. My breath came up short, causing the quick rise and fall of my chest. I reminded myself, regardless of his charisma, he was the enemy—the one who slaughtered an army whose numbers were dismal compared to his own, an army I had intended to sway.

  Suddenly, Arthur's stare broke as he took note of something behind me. His look switched from appreciative to lustful, but within a moment, his façade morphed back to his suave smile; I wondered if I had imagined the change in his demeanor.

  Then Elibel glided up behind me and I realized that Arthur's eyes had been set on her. An unladylike snort of disgust—or jealousy, I do not know which—escaped me before I could contain it.

  "Oh, Guinevere!" Elibel declared. "I am so relieved you are safe!"

  "Where's Aethelwine?" I asked, turning toward her, but her gaze remained occupied with Camelaird's protector.

  "Safe and sound in your chamber, My Lady," she replied. "All thanks to the valor of King Arthur. You should have seen how he leapt into action when he discovered your intentions. Just as the bards proclaim—an unmatched hero."

  I plucked her sleeve and whispered accusingly, for her ear alone, "You told him of my intention to negotiate with Melwas?"

  Elibel beamed at Arthur while returning her answer in a hush, "I could not bear it if harm came to you, cousin. What was I to do?"

  She pulled away from my grip. Holding a container of wine—my father's preferred refreshment proclaiming ale the beverage of barbarians—she swept around the table, filling our guests' goblets, starting with Arthur's.

  A tremor of rage threatened to implode inside of me at the facts: my cousin had betrayed me, men had been needlessly slain, and Arthur sat next to my father with his smug smile as if all had been righted by his hand.

  "Who rescued me after your men advanced without notice?" I directed my question to Arthur.

  He glanced up from his flirtation with Elibel to focus on me.

  "It was not you that came to my aid after your men attacked and my position was compromised, but another knight. I would like to know his name so I may thank him."

  Fury caused my limbs to tremor. I fought back the quakes by squeezing my hand in to and out of a fist.

  A look of warning crossed over my father's face, while Elibel readied to interrupt when Arthur broke with laughter.

  "My sweet lady," said Arthur, his tone as smooth as cream, "I can assure you that I sent my bravest and most able knight to secure your safety. Sir Lancelot's sworn fealty to his king is unmatched by any and I entrusted him as if my own life lay in his capable hands. Your security was never in question."

  "And where is this brave knight?" I demanded.

  I admit my line of questioning veered off course, over-taken by my curiosity in the knight rather than my anger toward Arthur's flippant behavior toward me, and the lives of those he had slain.

  Arthur performed a quick scan of the room, searching for the knight, as I restated the knight's name over and over in my head—Sir Lancelot—reveling how sweet his name would sound spoken from my tongue.

  Before anyone else could respond, my father commanded, "Daughter, play for King Arthur. We must make tribute to the savior of Camelaird."

  Father waved toward my harp. His eyelids drooped. He looked frail and exhausted; I knew I could not disobey him.

  Though performing for others sent me into shivers, I grabbed my harp and seated myself upon the small dais the musicians had vacated, intent on rebutting Arthur with a performance of the Song of the Fallen, a lament for dead soldiers.

  Taking a moment to tune to the key of C, I tried to loosen my jumble of nerves by tightening and relaxing my fingers as I twisted the tuning pins. I attempted to ignore the fact that all of Arthur's army's and Camelaird's eyes rested upon me, undoubtedly expecting a grand recital.

  Forcing my focus on the music, I began, caressing the strings and melting into the moment. As I started the lyrics, my voice did not the find words. Only a keening melody emitted from my throat as the performance transformed into a duet of harp
and wordless vocals. The emotions from the day overrode, taking control, and I repainted the battle with mournful cries and sorrowful strings. My eyes squeezed shut as I relived the moment of battle, the death of courageous men, the blood weeping into the living earth beneath, and my failure to stop any of it.

  When I finished, and opened my eyes, everyone's attention bore through me. Tears leaked from some onlookers, as horror displayed on the faces of others at my audacity. The raven balanced on the thick wood beams of the candelabra high over the audience, and I realized the bird was the same from the battlefield—with human-like green eyes staring right through me. This time the raven didn't vanish, but continued to watch, cocking its head from me, to Arthur, and to my father.

  Arthur's gaze held steady upon me. His mouth turned up at the ends while his eyes sparked with fascination, which did not go unnoticed by Elibel. She glanced from me to him, her eyes widening as the moments slipped by. My father looked as if he wished to flay me for my offensive song choice, but Arthur cleared his throat in time to intercede.

  "Your loveliness is only surpassed by your talent, Lady Guinevere. The bards may herald you as the beauty of Britannia, but your spirit crosses into the Isles of the Blessed."

  I scoffed, thinking his commendation hollow when a magnetic pull drew my eyes toward the arched entry to the great hall. There, within the span of the doorway, stood the mysterious knight, Sir Lancelot. Without his helmet, I could finally view him in full: tousled black hair hung around his face, an angular jaw line broadened his chin and dark, nearly black eyes set in tanned skin as if he spent all his days underneath the sun. The lines of his nose, cheeks and forehead seemed sculpted with hammer and chisel while his armor shone in the torchlight, capturing the fire's warm glow. As my gaze drifted to him, his eyes, already staring at me, met my own and we connected. Like I had felt when he rescued me from the battlefield, I melded into him as if we shared the same being. I could not, for the life of me, explain my instant attraction. The deep, darkness of him swept me away as I stared for moments without end when my father cut in, preparing to make a toast.

  "King Arthur Pendragon, protector of Camelaird."

  My father stood. Arthur rose alongside him, towering over my father's squat form. Each man hefted their goblets in their hands toward one another.

  Father continued, "Our Lord and Savior has brought us an ally, to whom we owe our gratitude and safety. And now, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, it is high time I bestow our thanks for your gallantry. In honor for rescuing my daughter from the clutches of wickedness, and for the security of all Britons, I offer you Camelaird's most precious possession—the hand of my daughter, Lady Guinevere, in marriage."