Betrothal (5 page)

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."

Chapter 7

My heart sank into my knees at my father's announcement as a cheer rose from the crowd. Lancelot's expression turned stoic—unreadable—but his stare remained fixed on me. Cups clanked in acknowledgment of the betrothal. The fiddler's tune rejoined the celebration as the tambour tapped out a merry beat.

My vision blurred; darkness threatened at the edges. The flap of wings resounded in my ears and it seemed the raven dove from its perch and vanished once more. I reached out, grabbing a nearby chair to steady myself and keep from falling. Married? To Arthur?

King Arthur's grin broadened, covering his face.

Elibel's eyes scrunched into slits as she crossed the room with a quick gait. She swiped a goblet from the table and glided toward Sir Lancelot, engaging him with a smile that reopened her enormous eyes, successfully detaching the knight's gaze from me.

The fuzziness in my view expanded as if a thick haze enveloped everyone. I thought I would swoon, but I did not. I stood dumbstruck, unable to move.

Elibel guided Lancelot by his arm and led him down the corridor, out of my sight. A surge of jealousy welled at her action until Arthur approached me and my insides froze.

"My Lady," he said, extending his elbow for me to grasp.

No!

When I didn't move, he reached forward, his fingers brushing my sleeve.

No! I yelled inside my head, but nothing started inside me. I remained incapable of speech, of movement, of thought. The chamber and its contents blurred; darkness edging away my sight.

When Arthur's hand wrapped around my forearm, and the touch of his skin sparked against my own, my blood finally rushed. With a jerk, I shook loose of his grip, turned, and strode away.

My heart roared somewhere inside my throat, or outside my skin, or inside my head—all over and from every direction. The throb continued, beating harder as my pace quickened until I flew down the hallway, away from the crowd, away from my father, away from Elibel and the mysterious knight, but most of all, away from King Arthur.

When I reached my chamber, I heaved the door shut behind me, leaned against it, and fought to quiet the pounding. With my back against the wood, I slid downward, unable to hold my legs in a standing position any longer.

Noting my condition, Aethelwine greeted me with a panicked screech. His concern stopped my progression to the floor. He hunkered down on his perch as if he would take flight in an attempt to reach me if he had not been maimed so many seasons past.

I could not bear his distress on my behalf. I pressed my hands against my thighs to push back up into a standing position and crossed to my bird, cupping his head in my hand. He pressed into my palm, his silvery blue feathers caressing me.

"We might as well be tethered, noble friend," I whispered. "For all our passion we remain incapable of flight."

His presence reduced my heart's pounding to a tremble until the chamber door flew open. The bang of wood on stone caused me to jump, and Aethelwine to cry out. I swung around to meet my father, who rumbled toward me. His cheeks raged with redness. He wore an intense scowl, causing his brows to jut downward and crease his forehead.

"I will not marry him!"

I do not know where I gained the strength to challenge my father. The words rushed without thought. Even as I tried to contain them for fear of my father's state of mind, I could not.

"You have no say, Daughter! You will compose yourself. Leave your chamber at once and apologize to your soon-to-be husband and king!"

"I will not!"

"You will as I command!"

"Did you even love my mother?" I demanded. "Or did you marry her for the crown of Camelaird?" The long-time notion boiled to the surface and blew out of me as my limbs livened, pricked by every nerve in my body.

"Enough, Daughter! You will not speak so disrespectfully to me!"

He raised his hand as if to strike me; his open palm quavered in the air.

Aethelwine let out a row of nonstop screeches, flapping his wings, including his damaged one, in a show of aggression. His movements distracted my father as his eyes settled upon the lame bird.

"I should have never indulged you with that creature. It is exactly the type of beast your mother would have condoned."

I moved between Father and my falcon, creating a barrier between them.

"Aethelwine has been my one loyal companion. He is the only grace you've ever allowed me. Now you say you wish you had not. Why not wish me gone, too, Father? Wouldn't that have been simpler? When you got rid of my mother, why not just get rid of me as well?"

"Is that what you think?" he screamed, the veins bulging in his forehead. His arm still shook, but he lowered it to his side, twisting his fingers into a fist.

"What am I to think when you will never speak of it?" All the anger for his years of secrecy spewed out of me as each word punctuated with long-held resentment.

"She would have made you one of them. One of the old ones. One to be shunned and hidden. They are a dying race, Guinevere. Even though they are tolerated by some kings, and chieftains, Christianity overcomes, and they will not remain among us much longer."

"So you murdered her."

"I exiled her."

"Is that what you call it?"

"Hold your tongue, Daughter!"

I shook my head at him, disillusion filling me. So he would not deny his ill treatment of my mother—exile or murder made no difference—because of him, she was dead to me throughout my childhood.

"Your mother had no intention of moving forward. Everything I did, I did to protect you! What I do now, I do to protect you!"

"To protect me? Or to protect your kingdom?"

My father quivered with rage. I returned his stare with just as much anger as he shot at me. Neither of us spoke out of too much tension seething between us, until I ended our impasse, and said, "But I do not love Arthur."

The admission broke the dam of emotions inside me. Tremors welled up from my belly, to my breast, through my throat until my entire body trembled and I started to sob. Tears seeped from my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. My face contorted, my lips twisted, but no more words came. Only whimpers.

Father's resolve dispersed. The crease in his forehead receded. He reached for me and took me in an awkward embrace as if he didn't know where to put his arms. He finally settled for patting my back, and mumbling, "Hush, now."

Father had never hugged me—not for as long as I could remember. Perhaps he had when I was a child, but I do not recall it; he remained inaccessible in all my memories of him. Now his arms wrapped around me, however loosely, providing a solace I did not know I needed.

"King Melwas would have taken you today." A brittleness pervaded Father's tone.

"You do not know that, Father. I could have—"

"What you did was foolish. You were one girl against an army. You would have been enslaved for your crown. And if not Melwas, then what about the Saxons? How long will Arthur's triumph keep them at bay? Even though he has brought some peace to the lands, each king still competes for title of High King. My power dwindles, Guinevere. My army barely exists. The vast lands of Camelaird are vulnerable to anyone who would seek to take them."

I remembered the sight of Arthur's army stretching across the field—the sheer mass of it.

"After information leaked to me of Melwas' intentions, I besought Arthur's aid. His invitation to Camelaird came with the promise of terms."

So I had been traded like a gold piece for the protection of Camelaird. Arthur knew he'd win me from our first meeting on the hillside. The rage inside me washed out by grief and hopelessness, leaving me heaving in my father's slack embrace.

"Love and honor do not always go hand in hand, Daughter. You need not love Arthur as a man, but honor him as a King."

I sniffled into his robes. "I do not know if I can."

"You must. You must honor him because he can provide Camelaird's people with the protection I can no longer offer. The alliance of Arthur's army and our lands will make you the most powerful queen in Britannia. It will promote Arthur to High King and subdue the battle for title. I would not ask this of you if we had another choice. Arthur is our one and only option."

My sobs increased. I tried to press into my father's chest for comfort, but he pushed me back, and straightened my sleeves.

"Clean yourself up, Daughter. Then go to Arthur and ask for his forgiveness. Grant him your happiness in this marriage."

Father turned, and as I watched him exit, I knew in my heart I could not do as he commanded.

Chapter 8

My intention had been to flee—run and hide—but my reality remained: there was no place for me to go. No sanctuary. No safety. No options. Instead, I headed to the bathhouse to settle my head, and clean the tear stains from my face.

When the Romans occupied our lands, they had built fortresses with modern conveniences such as running water and sewage systems. Camelaird, before the Romans, had been a circular hill fort, but when the Romans came they built their stone fortress and tiled bathhouse over the top of the ancient grounds. When the Romans retreated back to their own lands, my mother's ancestors reclaimed Camelaird, building a third rendition of the city over the top of the Roman remains.

Even though the bathhouse fell into a state of deterioration without the proper maintenance the Romans once provided, it soothed me like no other place within the walls of Camelaird. The trickling water fed by a natural spring provided a panacea—even though I was locked inside this massive fortress, nature still found its way to me.

Only the frigidarium room's pool remained filled out of the three the Romans had built—the heating system for the warm and hot water pools of the tepidarium and caldarium rooms long since defunct.
I crossed the floor with an echo as my feet hit the cracked tiles, and I settled down beside the pool. One torch burned in the far corner, giving off a diminutive glow across the water. After splashing my face with the cool water, I stared without thought. My mind numbed at the confusion of the day's events. Thoughts mingled until I could no longer make sense of any of them, so they turned into an amebic jumble, blocking any clarity I might find.

Movement caught my attention. My eyes flicked to the opposite end of the pool; a whirl of gold blurred beneath the waters. I strained for a better view as the flurry neared me, stopping directly in front of where I sat. Three goldfish swam in a stationary circle. I frowned. How could goldfish have entered the pool? Through the spring, perhaps, but unlikely.