The Guinevere Deception

Guinevere was drawn to the sorrow in Arthur’s voice. She had been worried he would still be angry with her. But she saw how sad it made him to have to weigh the lives of those he loved against the burden of an entire kingdom. She had made it harder for him, forced him to protect her at the cost of Sir Tristan. How could he live with such decisions?

She had met more men in the last few days than in all the other days of her life combined. It would take some time to decide how she felt about them in general, and him in particular. Though he was by far the best of them. She suspected she could meet every man on the entire vast island and still find Arthur the best.

“Your future queen, Guinevere!” The crowd roared, shouting the name Guinevere. Over and over. If only it were actually her name.

She tried to have compassion for him. It was like he lived every moment of his life all at once, his mind slipping through time. Which meant that he knew things were coming before they happened, but it also meant that he had a hard time landing on what needed to be said or done at any given time.

A fine coat of mist settled on her and she shuddered, holding his hand too tightly, pulling as much of her sense of Arthur into herself as she could. If her fear was like the water—pounding, rushing, coating everything—Arthur’s strength was like the rocks. Steady and immovable. No wonder he was the foundation on which a kingdom was built.

Guinevere closed her eyes, but now that she knew what the fear was—that it was real, not simply foolishness—she found it easier. The shame of her terror of water had been almost as great as the fear, and without shame, the fear could be faced.

“It sounds complicated.” He flopped onto the furs and put his forearm over his eyes. “It is. Why do people get bored with peace? Why is a border seen as a challenge rather than a barrier?”

“But surely you hate Camelot and everyone who lives there.” “It seems to me,” Rhoslyn said, sitting with a weary grunt, “that it is man’s work to hate and want to destroy what he cannot possess. I was sad to leave Camelot, yes. But it has its rules, and I did not follow them. In the end, we did not fit with each other anymore. Would I like the prot

Arthur squeezed her arm, then turned back to his men. A few more, wearing the dust of many miles, had joined them. Their faces did not hold the happy ease of a market day. They held the weight and strain of news.