Guinevere's Gamble

  Guinevere opened her eyes, suddenly cautious. “Morgan’s been talking to you about me? What for?”

  Elaine shrugged. “She was always asking questions about you—snooping questions, trying to find out things. She doesn’t like you, Gwen. She’s afraid of you, I think. God knows why. I told her you were a nobody, but she didn’t seem to believe me.”

  “Well, thanks for trying,” Guinevere said with a small smile.

  Elaine’s look lightened. “Maybe it’s Morgan’s fault the men are after Llyr. If she’s the only one rich enough to offer that reward, then she must be the one who lost the dagger.”

  “I thought of that, but it can’t be her. Sir Bedwyr told Trevor that the owner of the dagger accused Llyr by name. Princess Morgan doesn’t know that Llyr exists.”

  She was making a mental tally of the people in camp who knew of Llyr’s existence when she saw Elaine’s face. Her breath caught in her throat. She grabbed her cousin’s arm. “Does she? Tell me the truth. Did you tell her about Llyr?”

  “Let go! You’re hurting me!”

  “Did you tell her?”

  Elaine jerked her arm away. “Of course not!”

  “You did!”

  “No, I—I didn’t mean to,” Elaine stammered. “Honest, I didn’t. It just slipped out.”

  “Oh, Laine, how could you!”

  Elaine sat down on her pallet with a thump. “She put a spell on me—she must have—because I wouldn’t tell her anything about you. She doesn’t believe it, though. I told her nobody believes it—not even you. But she said of course you did. She was very cross.”

  Guinevere struggled for words. “You don’t mean—you wouldn’t—you told her about the prophecy?”

  The truth was written plainly on Elaine’s face, distorted now with fear and fury. “She tricked me into it! And what does it matter, anyway? Everyone already knows. You don’t think your brother Gwarth’s been keeping it a secret, do you? He’s proud of it, for pity’s sake!”

  Guinevere caught her breath. What a fool she had been not to foresee it! Gwarth had always been proud of the prophecy. He thought it brought the family distinction.

  “He didn’t tell Princess Morgan. You broke your promise to me, Elaine. You swore you’d never tell anyone, ever. If anything happens to Llyr—”

  “Nothing will happen to Llyr. He’s an Old One, isn’t he? They’ll never find him.”

  Guinevere shoved her feet into her boots and reached for her cloak. “They’d better not. Trevor thinks they’ll kill him if they do.”

  “He’s exaggerating.”

  Guinevere shot her a fierce look. “I’m not willing to take that chance.”

  “How can you find him when everyone else has failed? And even if you find him, will he go? He can’t leave, can he, if he’s your guardian?”

  “He might—if I go with him.”

  Elaine stared at her. “You can’t. They’ll send soldiers after you. They’ll arrest him in Gwynedd. You’ll be lucky if Mother doesn’t have your head on a spike outside the gates!”

  “Listen, Elaine, do me a favor—you owe it to me, after all. Go see Trevor. Tell him we suspect Princess Morgan and ask him what we can do. If it’s the High King’s sister we’re up against, we’re going to need help. Will you do that for me?”

  Elaine grimaced. “All right.” Reluctantly, she picked up the gown Grannic had set out. At the sound of women’s voices from the queen’s tent next door, she cast a sly look at Guinevere. “You know what they’re planning, don’t you? Mother and Queen Esdora, closeted together for days on end?”

  Guinevere pulled up short halfway to the door. “Yes,” she said cautiously. “I do. But I didn’t know you did.”

  “How could I not? It’s all they talk about.”

  “Are you pleased?”

  Elaine hesitated. “Not at being kept in the dark. You should have told me.”

  “It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

  “No? Whose, then?”

  “Your mother should have told you.”

  “Mother doesn’t tell me secrets,” Elaine retorted. “You should have told me, Gwen. What did you think I’d do? Warn Trevor off because of the prophecy? All I want to tell him is that he couldn’t have made a better match.”

  Guinevere bit her lip against laughter. “But, Laine, he has made a better match. It’s not my wedding they’re busy planning; it’s yours.”

  Elaine gaped at her.

  “It’s true. Really. I had it from Trevor himself. He fell for you the first day he met you.”

  “You lie!” Elaine reddened. “Mother wouldn’t do that—she knows who it is I love!”

  “Yes, of course, we all do, but the man is married. You won’t be unhappy with Trevor; really you won’t. He’s easy to like, and he adores you. He even likes your tempers. You can hardly ask for more.”

  “Can’t I? Oh, can’t I?” Tears of fury brightened Elaine’s eyes. “I will not be queen of Powys! Why, it’s smaller than Gwynedd! And if you think for one moment that I’m going to settle for a freckled, backwoods—”

  Guinevere clapped a hand across Elaine’s mouth. “Hush! Don’t let Queen Esdora hear you!”

  Noises came from Queen Alyse’s tent next door: the chatter of women’s voices, the thud of wooden buckets, and the slosh of liquid. Elaine shook off the restraining hand. “I don’t care—I hope she does hear me! Mother’s promised me my choice, and she ought to know I’ll never choose Trevor of Powys!”

  Guinevere shrugged. “Have it your own way. But that means your mother and Queen Esdora have been negotiating all this time in vain. When are you going to tell them so?”

  “I’ll tell them now!” Elaine cried, and ran to the door.

  Guinevere stopped her. “Better dress first.”

  Elaine looked down at her night-robe and swore.

  “Hush! Someone’s coming.”

  Footsteps and voices approached. Elaine opened the tent flap to peek out, and her shoulders fell. “It’s only Ailsa and Grannic, emptying night soil and Mother’s morning bucket of sick. For a moment, I thought I heard Sir Bedwyr’s voice.”

  Guinevere gasped. “You … knew your mother was ill?”

  “Of course. How not?”

  “Do you know what ails her? And why she’s keeping it a secret? Oh, Laine, it’s not a mortal illness, is it?”

  “Mortal?” Elaine laughed. “Not likely. She’s never had trouble before.”

  Guinevere looked at her blankly, and Elaine heaved an impatient sigh. “She’s not dying. She’s with child.”

  The blood drained from Guinevere’s face.

  Elaine caught her arm. “Easy, Gwen, you look perfectly gray.”

  With child! Guinevere’s chest tightened until her breath came fast and shallow. Her own heartbeat thundered in her ears. Through it Morgan’s cool voice echoed: The Queen shall die of what she carries in her….

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Body

  “Help! Help!”

  Through mists of shadow, Guinevere heard Elaine’s voice calling.

  The door to the tent flapped opened. “What’s the matter?” “It’s Gwen, Mama! She’s fainted, and I can’t wake her up!” Gradually, Guinevere became aware of the ground beneath her back and the useless passivity of her limbs. Her eyes fluttered open to see Queen Alyse and Queen Esdora standing above her. Ailsa’s arm behind her shoulder helped her to a sitting position.

  “Are you ill, Gwen?” asked Queen Alyse. “No,” she breathed, looking up into the queen’s lovely gray-blue eyes. Sunlight from the open door behind her set her golden hair alight and made a radiant halo around her head. Never before had her aunt appeared so beautiful or so precious to her. Fiercely, she fought back tears. “I’ll—I’ll be all right in a moment.”

  “What happened?” Queen Alyse addressed her daughter sharply.

  “Nothing, Mama. She’s … worried about Llyr, that’s all.”

  Guinevere pushed herself up. She was still light-headed
, but at least she could stand.

  “I expect she’s gone without breakfast,” Queen Esdora said.

  Guinevere nodded as Ailsa clucked in dismay.

  Queen Alyse put the subject behind her. “Guinevere, attend me. We have something to say to you, Queen Esdora and I, something of the utmost importance.”

  Guinevere made a nervous reverence to both women.

  Queen Alyse got straight to the point. “You will go find Llyr and send him home to Gwynedd. At once. I am sorry to deprive you of your friend,” she added quickly to forestall a protest that never came, “but Esdora and I have talked it over and we both agree: Llyr must be sent home. It’s for his own good.”

  “I believe, my dear Alyse,” murmured Queen Esdora, “that your ward has already come to that conclusion herself.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Guinevere said. “I’m off to see Llyr now.”

  For the first time, Queen Alyse noticed Guinevere’s boots and leggings. The expression on her thin face lightened. “Go, then,” she said. “But go quietly and tell no one your mission. They are looking for him, and he must not be caught.”

  Guinevere did not need to be told twice. She ran to the door, where she nearly collided with Sir Bedwyr, who entered unannounced, armed and ready for the road.

  “Lady Guinevere, you’re just the one I’m looking for…. Ah, Queen Alyse and Queen Esdora. I beg pardon for the intrusion. My lady queen, I beg leave to have a word with your ward.”

  He bowed politely, and both queens gave him a stiff nod in return.

  “Not alone,” said Queen Alyse. “Anything you have to say to Guinevere can be said in front of me. And Esdora.”

  Sir Bedwyr bowed again. His voice was gentle as he turned to Guinevere, but she heard the urgency behind it.

  “Lady Guinevere, one of my men has just ridden in with a dire message. When he was out hunting, he came across a group of men in the foothills west of here.” He paused. “The men had gone hunting, too, but not for deer. Can you—I beg pardon, but can you guess who they were looking for?”

  Guinevere nodded. Her mouth had gone dry.

  “They may have found him. I can’t be certain. That’s why I need your help.”

  Guinevere tried to draw breath and found it difficult. “What—do you want me to do?”

  “I’ve had the body brought to my tent. I’d like you to identify him, if you think you can.”

  “Body!” Elaine came to Guinevere’s side. “Is he dead?”

  “Sir Bedwyr, you go too far,” said Queen Alyse. “Gwen is too young. I shall identify the boy.”

  Sir Bedwyr glanced swiftly at Queen Esdora, and a warning passed between them.

  “Alyse,” said Queen Esdora. “I advise against it. Not in your condition. Surely there is someone else who knows this young man? King Pellinore, perhaps?”

  Shaking, Guinevere stepped forward. “I know him best, my lord. Do not bother the king.” She turned and planted a gentle kiss on Queen Alyse’s wasted cheek. “Thank you, Aunt Alyse. But Queen Esdora’s right. You are not well, and anyway, it falls to me.”

  Queen Esdora took Queen Alyse by the elbow and drew her away. Sir Bedwyr offered his arm to Guinevere and, with consummate gentleness, led her from the tent.

  Guinevere walked beside him without knowing that she moved. Numb to feeling and to thought, she floated through a world devoid of sensation. The cool, bright afternoon, the sunlight on the tent cloth, the grass underfoot, the snap and flash of colorful banners streaming in the breeze, all passed her by unnoticed. Someone pulled back the door flap to the High King’s tent. Voices murmured nearby. A light appeared. Another door flap faced her, manned by guards. Sir Bedwyr came to a stop.

  “Lady Guinevere,” he said. “A thousand pardons for forcing this upon you. I thought, after meeting him, I could identify him myself, but—” He shrugged. “I’m afraid the Old Ones all look alike to me.”

  The tent flap opened. Inside stood another guard. Sir Bedwyr led her to a corner where a small form lay still—too still—on a pile of canvas sacks. The tent was quiet. The camp outside was quiet. The whole world seemed to hold its breath as Guinevere lifted her hand from Sir Bedwyr’s arm and approached the body. Three paces away, she stopped. The beating of her heart thundered in her ears. The clothes were Llyr’s.

  Carefully, she knelt beside the body, so small and insignificant in death. Those were the leggings she had made for Llyr with her own hands, and the tunic, ripped and stained with blood, was her handiwork as well. It was clear how the boy had died. There were stab wounds in his chest.

  Her gut twisted viciously. Sir Bedwyr was at her side in an instant to help her up. He spoke words of comfort and pressed a winecup to her lips. The liquid slid down her throat and trickled away into nothingness. It had no effect on the strange, invisible shell that seemed to encase her, holding her prisoner in its trance and locking out grief.

  She looked down at the pale young face, unmarked except by fear. He had seen it coming, then. She uttered a silent prayer for this stranger whose spirit was already on its journey to the Otherworld, and at last allowed Sir Bedwyr to lead her away.

  He took her into the large chamber next door and gave her water to drink. She sat on a carved chair, the very chair Princess Morgan had occupied the night of the presentation. As she listened to the steady flow of Sir Bedwyr’s compassion, her dazed mind began to right itself. When he fell silent for a moment, she put down the cup and turned to him.

  “It’s not Llyr.”

  Sir Bedwyr blinked. “Pardon?”

  “The clothes are his…. I made them myself. But the slippers aren’t. And … and no matter what his clothes, Llyr wears a double string of wolf’s teeth around his neck.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “He looks like Llyr, but he’s someone else … someone I’ve never seen before.”

  She shut her eyes and bent her head against an uncontrollable stream of tears. Sir Bedwyr’s arm slipped around her, and he held her quietly until at last her sobs died into hiccups and sniffles.

  “That’s better,” he said, pulling away and giving her a cloth to wipe her face. “It’s as well to let it out. I’m sorry you had to see him.”

  “I’ve drenched your tunic.”

  “Never mind. I’ve another.” He smiled. “I’m glad it’s not your friend, princess, but that leaves me with another problem. What shall I do with the body? Where does this boy come from? Where should I take him for burial?”

  “He must go back to his clan. We can contact them through Llyr.”

  “Ah. Llyr. His whereabouts are another problem. The men will come looking for their talent of silver, and I can’t pretend that the dead boy is Llyr. It would mean cheating the dagger’s owner out of a fortune. I won’t do that, princess. And when the men are refused their reward, they’ll be after Llyr again. I can’t protect him if I can’t find him.”

  Guinevere looked away. A spark of anger lit within her. She welcomed it, for it drove out fear. “There’s also the problem of bringing the killers to justice.” She was thinking of Princess Morgan. This murder was her fault, if she was Llyr’s accuser, but who would bring her to account?

  “Yes,” Sir Bedwyr said carefully. “I hadn’t forgotten that. I’ve got the leaders in custody, but my power over them is limited. They’re not my men.”

  “Whose are they?”

  “Banin of Mab’s Bog was the leader. He’s from Guent. Cadog of Green Hill was his lieutenant. He’s from—”

  “Powys.”

  Sir Bedwyr raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ve heard of him before.”

  “There are others ready to take their places,” he warned, “as soon as word gets out that this isn’t Llyr. It’s my duty to prevent more killing, my sworn duty to Arthur, but I doubt I’ll be able to do it without your help.” He glanced at her cautiously, and his lips twisted in a smile. “A strange turn of events, wouldn’t you say, when the High King requires a maiden’s help to enforce his laws? I don’t have enough
men to stop them, you see. And now I must mount a guard on these two boneheaded scoundrels as well.”

  He paused and looked down at his hands. “I have enough men to keep order in camp, but not to secure the forest. The only way I can think of to prevent the same thing happening to Llyr is to bring him in and keep him under guard. But first he must be found. Prince Trevor tells me you’re the only one who can do that.”

  Guinevere gazed at his bowed head. He had beautiful manners. King Arthur had sent them a diplomat—a wise move when trying to persuade five Welsh kings to agree with one another. It gave her a heady feeling to be treated with such respect by one of the High King’s Companions, to be treated as someone whose intelligence and understanding could be trusted. With every passing moment she grew more disposed to please him.

  “I will help if I can.”

  A smile warmed Sir Bedwyr’s grave face. “Thank you.”

  “But we may not have much time. The murder has changed everything … if Llyr knows about it.”

  “You think he may not?”

  “It depends on how he came to give up his clothes.”

  “You don’t think it possible that they were taken from him?”

  Guinevere shook her head. “No. Not by Old Ones. And if someone of our sort took them from him, they’d have taken him as well, and we’d know about it. He may have buried them and that poor boy in there discovered them. Or perhaps an exchange was made. Llyr might have made contact with the boy’s clan—I don’t know, but I know he’s alive. And probably watching.”

  “Then how do we contact him?” Sir Bedwyr leaned forward eagerly. “Prince Trevor said you had some way of communicating with him.”

  “I build a cairn to signal that I want to talk to him. If he’s willing, he levels the cairn and waits for me. I can’t force him.”

  “Where will you build the cairn?”

  “I built it days ago. But so far, he hasn’t answered.”

  “Will you show me?”

  Guinevere rose to her feet. “All right. But come alone, not with a troop of men.”