Quest - Book 2 of Queen's Honor - YA + Adult Fantasy Romance and Adventure (2 page)

Arthur strutted to the table, settling his hands across the
surface as he strode around in a circle. "This is the same Round Table
that belonged to my father?"

"Yes." My father's eyes glistened as he watched
Arthur's reaction.

“And the requirement is one hundred and forty-forty loyal
knights?”

My father nodded again while Arthur’s mind clicked with his
own calculations.

“I possess one hundred and forty-one such knights now. I
shall seek three more of the bravest and most honorable of men!”

Father nodded, knocking loose a strand of his gray hair. It
sprang over his face, like a slash from a sword.

"I could not have received a more valuable gift, King
Leodegrance, or shall I say, Father?"

“The hope of all Britons resides with you now, Son.”

Arthur reached out and grabbed my father, pulling him into an
embrace. Father returned his enthusiasm by hugging him back; his affections for
Arthur bore no resemblance to his regard for me—none of the detachments that characterized
our relationship existed between the two men. I also noted that the Round Table
had trumped my value as far as "gifts" went, and a twinge of
annoyance struck me.

Arthur pulled away and turned on his heel. "Now, I must
be off to start this quest for worthy knights. Guinevere, fetch your belongings.
We take leave at once."

"No!" I don't know what demon possessed my tongue,
but every bit of me refused him and, regardless of Elibel's warning to act like
a queen, my emotions got the better of me.

"No?" Arthur turned; a fascinated grin crossed his
lips.

"I cannot."

He strode toward me, and despite our audience, settled his
hands on each side of my waist. A shock wave of his energy shot up my sides as
his blue eyes sparked with amusement. He looked like an all-powerful god
smiling down upon me. I swallowed hard, trying to retain my wits.

"Do you plan to conduct our marriage from a different
residence?”

I shook my head.

“Good, because that would be a cold arrangement, Guinevere,
and I have warmer plans in mind for my bride." He squeezed me for emphasis.

His intimate insinuation formed a knot in my throat,
rendering me speechless.

"We will plan the marriage ceremony upon our arrival in
Camelot. The Bishop of Canterbury has already been summoned, and I have much
business to attend to with the ordination of new knights for your father's generous
gift."

"But I must have time to…"

"To what?"

My mind whirled. Leaving Camelaird, the only home I had ever
known, sent me into a panic. Or perhaps it was the unknown of Arthur, Camelot
and my impending Queenship that prompted me to want to stay in the safety of
Camelaird. Though I had accepted my duty to my crown when I had agreed to marry
Arthur, a part of me still fought that responsibility, which hinged on my
ability to like, and perhaps even love Arthur. Or as my father had stated, at
the minimum, to honor him. Leaving my home signified my total commitment to the
challenges ahead. Even though I knew my departure inevitable, I wanted to buy
time. "To say a proper good-bye and collect my belongings. And Aethelwine—"

"How much time do you require?" Arthur pulled me tighter,
and my skin jumped.

I stared helplessly. For the first time I could remember,
Elibel had not come to my aid. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. She
stood as stiff as a marble column, no inkling of her intervention at hand.

Father cleared his throat as if to speak, when Arthur cut
in, "Of course you are right. I forget how women can be with their
emotional attachments. You may have two days leave. I will ride ahead and prepare,
and you may come after."

An unpleasant rebuttal positioned itself past the knot in my
throat, but my father jerked his head in my direction, so I said, “Thank
you," instead.

When the phrase did not appease Father's furrowing brow, I
mumbled "My Lord." Though the words seemed distasteful in my mouth
after Arthur had left out any title when he addressed me, they won my father's
approving nod.

"Sir Lancelot," said Arthur still holding me in
his grip, "you will stay behind until the lady is ready. I entrust you to
escort my bride back to Camelot."

Lancelot as my escort? My heart started to thud against my ribs.

"But Sir Lancelot—" Elibel cut herself off in mid-sentence.
All eyes turned to my cousin; she seemed uncertain of how to proceed. She
glanced toward me, then toward Lancelot.

My pulse quickened until I felt the thunder of blood in my
throat. Would Elibel betray me and announce my passion for the knight, here, in
front of everyone?

"If I may be so bold, My Lord, Sir Lancelot is not the
best choice for said task."

Arthur's bright eyes sparked. "And why is that? Lady
Elibel, is it?"

Elibel smiled at his recognition of her name; her face lit.
His use of a title before my cousin's name and neglect of the same propriety
before mine did not escape my notice.
 
I
tried to capture Elibel's attention and send her a plea for discretion, but she
avoided my attempts and continued.

"Sir Lancelot is your most capable knight. He should remain
by your side should you run into marauders."

I had not realized I had been holding my breath, but the air
rushed from my lungs—my cousin would not expose me after all.

"Yes, he is," replied Arthur. "This is why he
must escort my bride. I would only entrust her safety to the most capable of
men."

Elibel curtsied, conceding the point—all of her emotions
hidden behind her well controlled façade.

My face, however, must have been an open book as my gaze
flicked over Arthur's shoulder, toward Lancelot. A craving to be held in the
knight's arms instead of Arthur's besieged my senses. And in that moment, Lancelot's
deep eyes caught my own, and I could have sworn he experienced the same mix of longing
and fear for our upcoming journey that I did.

The drizzle continued
for the next two days, well into the morning of our departure. Elibel had made
herself scarce during that time, and I spent most of my days and nights alone, packing
and worrying over the ride ahead and the impending arrival and marriage
afterwards with no one to talk to but Aethelwine—who was a wonderful listener
but fell short as an advisor.

My entourage
consisted of a carriage, several wagons, which held my belongings and the
dismantled Round Table, soldiers for protection, and Lancelot, who had not
appeared, though his dapple gray stallion stood at the head of the line.

My carriage was
sandwiched between soldiers and wagons. I hesitated as I climbed the steps to
the coach with my falcon perched upon my shoulder; I glanced around for a
sighting of either Elibel or the knight. Or my father.

When no one
appeared, I settled myself inside the coach, lowered Aethelwine onto the seat
and waited.
Just when I thought we would depart, Elibel appeared and
perched herself across from me.

I reached out and hugged her. She stiffened at my embraced.

“You came!”

“Indeed. Did you think I’d let you sneak off to enjoy the wonders
of Camelot without me?” Though her lips held a smile, her eyes remained flat.

“I’d hog tie and drag you along if I had to.”

A glimmer sparked in my cousin’s eyes, and I knew I had her.
I continued, “And stick an apple in your mouth so you couldn’t protest.”

“And threaten to broil me over a pit?”

“If that was the only way to convince you to come with me,
yes.”

Her smile broadened, and I beamed back at her. For a moment,
my old friend had returned, but then her gaze switched sideways. The upward
tilt of her lips sagged, and she stared out the window to watch a servant load
her belongings onto a cart—in comparison to my wagons-full, her possessions
seemed paltry.

I wasn’t sure what spurred my cousin’s distant behavior of
late. I thought she’d be excited for our upcoming departure, especially since
she had been afforded the freedom to choose her own husband without
restrictions—Camelot would open up an entirely new field of prospective suitors
for her. I would have given my seat a thousand times over for the liberty to
select a suitor of my choice—regardless of status, decorum, and
responsibility—yet a sadness played in her countenance, regardless of her
attempts to disguise it. I wanted to ask her what was wrong, throw my arms
around her and fix whatever ailed her, but I knew Elibel only grew more
uncomfortable when I pressed, so I didn’t.

“What do you think it will be like, Elibel?” I asked.

“Camelot?”

I nodded. Elibel pulled her thick braid over her shoulder.
The loose ends trailed over the seat like ivy. She focused on a spot outside,
her huge eyes far away.

“Remember about four summers ago, when that traveling bard arrived,
offering to entertain at your father’s court?”

“Remember?” I laughed. “How could I forget? He claimed descendancy
from the Sacred Order of the Oak, and father ran him out with a host of
soldiers on his heels for his blasphemy against the Church of Jesu. Poor man.
Father’s men must have chased him clear back to Pictland. It was the talk of
Camelaird for months!”

“I snuck out after him.”

“What? Elibel, you never told me!”

“You were far too young to come with me anyway."
 
She shrugged as if never broaching the
subject should not have mattered to me, one way or another, and I wondered what
other secrets my cousin kept locked away. “The bard, Adair with the Silver
Tongue, he called himself, sung of the Golden Warrior King, Arthur Pendragon,
and of the shining towers of Camelot—of the city of milk and honey and the
young king who strived to create a haven of peace and abundance for all. Ever
since he painted those vivid pictures, I’ve wished to see it for myself. By the
words of this bard, Camelot will be wondrous.”

“I hope you’re right, Cousin, though I don’t give much
weight to the words of a bard, even if he did claim descendancy from the old
ones.”

“He was right about Arthur. Everything he proclaimed about
him—his beauty, his power, his wealth, his valor—is true.”

Was it? The bards had exaggerated about me; certainly, they
had exaggerated about Arthur. His exterior qualities were undeniable, but I
still couldn’t help but think, that in his depths lurked a smug and
self-important man whose motivations were slightly less than valiant than
everyone professed.

Elibel read my pause as disagreement and continued, “Surely,
you see the beauty in a bard’s words, Guin. After all, you’re a talented
musician. I would think, if anyone would ride the wings of a well-bent phrase,
it would be you.”

“Words can be created to twist, manipulate, deceive and
flatter. Not that I blame the bards. Long ago they were inspired men and women,
but now, in order to survive the bias of people like Father and rid themselves
of their magical associations to the druids, they have succumbed to spinning
tales to flatter kings and nobles in order to win their bread. Take their
outrageous claims about me, for example. I am not ‘as graceful as a swaying
willow.’”

Elibel giggled at my expense. “Well, that’s an inaccuracy I
can attest to.”

“Why thank you for agreeing, Cousin,” I replied smugly.

I reached for my harp and plucked at the strings.

“But song is different. The melody and rhythm reveal a
window to the soul. Unlike men, music can’t lie.”

To demonstrate, I sang the first verse from
The Song of Crede, Daughter of Guare
. My
voice sprang out, lilting in a tender falsetto as I grabbed hold of all the feelings
I had for Lancelot that I kept trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress and infused
them into the melody.

 
These are arrows that murder sleep

 
At every hour in the bitter-cold night:

 
Pangs of love throughout the day

 
For the company of the man from Roiny.

 
Great love of a man from another land

 
Has come to me beyond all else:

 
It has taken my bloom, no colour is left,

 
It does not let me rest

The last strum of the harp resonated throughout our
carriage. As engrossed as I was in the delivery of the song, I hadn’t noticed
Elibel’s reaction. When I glanced up, the peach hue of her cheeks had leeched
to white and redness tinged the corners of her eyes.
 

She gathered her skirts in her fists and headed toward the
carriage door.

“I think I will ride.”

Her reaction took me aback. How had I offended her? “Elibel,
wait. I can’t ride. I can fall and tumble, but riding for an entire trip to
Camelot won’t do. Plus it’s raining,” I protested.

“A little fresh air will do me good.”

She exited, ignoring my plea. I frowned and poked my head
out the door while she sashayed toward the front line of our convoy. I settled my
foot on the slick step, wrestling to keep a foothold in the drizzle, wondering
if I should follow her.

"Daughter."

My father's voice startled
me. I jerked my head sideways, searching for him. My toe slipped as I spotted
him, and I nearly plunged face first to the ground, breaking my fall with a
grip on the carriage handle as I descended.