THE WARRIOR QUEEN (The Guinevere Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

“You make a lovely queen, Guinevere,” she said, and leaning down as if to help me adjust the crown on my head she whispered in my ear, “It will get easier, my dear.”

She had known it, too. She had been married twice to men whom she did not know, who had desired her and chosen her and to whom she had been given. I hoped that she was right. I hoped that she would stay at court. I also hoped that my discomfort was visible to no one else but her. I did not want to show any weakness. She slid into the seat beside me, with a warm smile. I supposed I ought to take some comfort in the fact that Arthur had such a woman as his mother.

The woad-faced man in the black cowl and habit sat beside Arthur, at his left hand side. His dark eyes were on me, I could feel them. I had not seen him sit down; he must have slipped in there, like a shadow. I tried to ignore him. Approaching the table came Sir Kay and Sir Ector, who greeted us both warmly. Arthur smiled a deep, warm smile like his mother’s as he greeted Sir Kay, his Seneschal and, as he told me then, his foster-brother. I thought it strange that Arthur had been fostered with one of his father’s subjects, but I was glad that they would be there, in places of high honour and close by me, because of it. After them came a pale, slender woman with dark hair pinned back at the front, but loose and free behind, shining in the candlelight in a cascade that fell all the way down her back. She was robed in dark blue, sewn all over with little dark sapphires so she appeared to be covered in a dress made of dark, glossy scales. Her face was pale as porcelain with high cheekbones and thin, arched eyebrows, a tight, thoughtful mouth and watchful grey eyes. Like the man beside Arthur, her skin was decorated with the blue woad of the druids, all over her pale face in delicate swirls like the growth of vines, and down the deep neck of her dress. Her hands, too, were patterned with it, and I suspected she was painted like this all over. She walked up to Arthur and bent down to kiss his cheek. Her gestures were affectionate, but her look was absent. He kissed her other cheek and gave her the kind smile of his affection.

“Guinevere, this is my sister Morgan, wife of King Uriens.”

She turned to me with a respectful nod, which I reciprocated, but she looked at me as if she did not see me, and while Arthur looked on her with kindness, she did not seem to see him either, and the grey eyes remained hollow, as though they were looking at something else far away. She sat beside her mother Igraine, whom she also did not seem to see. From what I knew, it was only the mother they shared, and Uther Pendragon had killed her father in order to have the Lady Igraine for himself.

After her came the russet-haired woman I had seen sitting beside Gawain in the chapel. I would not have called her beautiful now that I saw her close before me, but she had all the look about her of a noble queen, a broad proud face, striking and attractive, with a few pale freckles. On her head she wore a crown of dark gold, formed in spikes. She must still rule Lothian as Lot’s widowed queen. She seemed strong and brave enough to do so. I wondered why Arthur had not wanted her as a wife, but I supposed she was almost ten years older than I was, and she had many sons already. She came forward to greet Arthur and I noticed that though she kissed his cheek, he did not return the kiss as he had done with Morgan, but seemed to shy back from her. She did a curt little curtsey towards me.

“My lady Queen Guinevere, I am Morgawse, who was King Lot’s wife, sister to King Arthur and mother to Aggravain, Gawain, Gaheris, Gareth and Mordred.”

Well, that explained well enough why Arthur did not marry Lot’s queen. And she was older than the other sister. Another half-sister of his. I gave her a little nod and she sat beside her sister Morgan with Gawain and another one who was clearly her son, and older than Gawain. It must have been Aggravain. His name, too, had come to Carhais. Lot’s widow. My father would have known her pain, a widower himself from Arthur’s wars. Perhaps I should ask Arthur to send her over the sea to keep my father company. She was gentle of expression and good-looking, far more comely than her grim sister Morgan. She had a ready laugh, which I had heard already, tinkling like a bell, and something about her movements made her seem as though she were about to dance. I liked her already.

The fifth knight who had ridden with us from Dover came up and was introduced to us, a quiet, slender youth with a serious demeanour and dark sandy-coloured hair, named Sir Perceval. More came, more names that swirled in my head – Pedivere, Bors, Uriens, Accolon, Urry, Tristan – until I could no longer remember who was who. I would, I supposed, have all the time in the world to learn.

When all were seated, Arthur stood with his goblet of wine in his hand – a golden goblet, studded with jewels, but old and worn, too, with the hands of many kings of Logrys – and announced, “Lords and Ladies of Britain, I invite you to feast with me and my new wife, Queen Guinevere.”

Queen Guinevere
.
I was already becoming someone else. I had been just Guinevere all my life until now. I supposed there had been those who had called me princess, but not in my own land, not in my own castle. And later tonight I would become yet another woman, or I was supposed to. A wife, in every sense of the word. I wrapped my hand tight around the stem of my golden cup, which was full almost to the brim with wine. I did not intend to change.

There was a loud cheer and a thundering as the people in the hall thumped their cups against the tables and stamped their feet in celebration. I could feel my heart racing within me. I knew no one in the room, really. I was their queen, but we were strangers to one another. I stared deep into my own goblet of wine and in the dark red liquid saw the shadow of my own reflection, red hair, white face, gold crown, and then I drank.

Chapter Four

Arthur stood and the room of cheering, singing, drinking, eating people fell silent in an instant. I had eaten little, though I had been hungry, and the wine was soft and strong in my head, and I was beginning to feel pleasantly dizzy. I had not drunk much, and yet I felt it. I had wanted my strength and my wits about me for what I knew was coming next, but I had let my nerves and the wine cloud within me, and I felt the edge of danger in it, how it was blurring through me. I had wanted the food, which had been delicious, but my anxious stomach had clenched shut after a few bites of bread, a few morsels of the succulent beef stew we had been served. I had managed some sweet cake, but not much. The Lady Igraine had given me a sympathetic smile.

“My lady Queen and I will now retire from the feast,” Arthur declared, and I saw him smile, pleased with himself. There was great cheering at this, too. I knew what this meant. I rose slowly and took the hand he offered me. His hand was steady, confident. I wanted mine to be the same, or better, tense and defiant, but it was neither. I could feel myself trembling.

As he led me down the hall and from the room he smiled and called to some of his men and they laughed back. He was loved here, by his people. That was some comfort. He did not say anything to me as he led me across the courtyard to the north tower that housed his rooms, nor did I try to speak. There were servants there to open the heavy wooden doors to the tower for us, and he led me up the narrow spiral staircase within. A war-king’s rooms as well. Easy to defend. Camelot was no show-court made for pageantry and display, it was a siege-fortress and the king inhabited the heart of it. The first room off the stairs looked to be a council chamber, although filled with artefacts that suggested the woad-faced man spent his days there – an astrolabe, a row of jars of herbs (or poisons) on a wooden shelf – and we carried on up. The second appeared to be a room for entertainment, bare but for scatterings of crimson velvet cushions and a lute resting in the corner. I had not heard the music of a lute in a long time. All of our musicians had traded their lutes for swords and gone to war. I don’t know if any had returned.

Finally, we came to a bedchamber. Inside, candles were burning ready for us, and I could see a brass jug of wine, two cups, a silver plate piled with the fruits of Logrys – strawberries, apples and pears – standing on a table beneath the window, and the bed.
The bed.
I felt my body tense at the sight of it.

Arthur shut the heavy wooden doors behind us, and drew across an iron bolt. He still had not spoken to me. I would not speak first. If he wanted me, he had to at last be brave, not the kind of man – the kind of boy
–
who would come and peer at me in secret.

I could not even run, now, for I had nowhere to go. He had me in his kingdom, and I was just another prize of his conquest. He lifted the heavy crown off his head and set it beside the jug and silver cups on the table. He poured into both glasses, drank from one, and offered me the other. I took it, and drank until it was all gone. My resolve to stay sharp had dissolved away as the moment was finally upon me, and I remembered Christine saying to me this morning,
the more you drink, the less it hurts
.
But
I was still resolved to resist. He set his drink down and bent to unlace his boots, taking them off and placing them at the end of his bed; then he unbuttoned and shrugged off the crimson and gold brocade surcoat he had worn all day and set that on an empty chair beside the table. I could see the strength in his shoulders as he moved to take it off, through his shirt. I stood frozen, feeling the bolted door’s presence at my back, waiting.

Arthur turned to me with a kind smile, but I was still wary. “My lady Queen.” He offered me his hand. I did not reach out to take it, but crossed my arms over my chest. I could feel my heart hammering already. The wine had not helped; if anything it had made it worse. I could feel sweat on the palms of my hands, my feet, between my breasts, bound tight together in the silk bodice of the dress.
He is still a stranger to me
.

He sighed when he saw I would not take it.

“Are you upset that I did not reveal myself to you yesterday?” I said nothing, turning my face up defiantly towards his. He sighed again. “Do you know why it was you I wanted?” He did not wait for an answer. “My advisor Merlin told me that you were of the blood of the Irish Witch-Queen Maev; powerful, magical blood.” He sighed again, softer this time. His gaze on me was earnest, gentle, but it was still that of a king. His tone was patient, but it was the patience of a man who knew there was no other way – that he would eventually get what he wanted. In the light of the candles, his hair was flecked with gold, and in his thin shirt I could see the powerful muscles of his shoulders and arms. I could see beneath that sweet, young face, the body of what was already a hardened warrior. But his face – it was that of a boy, lost. If I had not been so angry, if he had not been the conqueror who had demanded me from my home, I might have put my hand against his cheek, in comfort, but I did not. I would not. “I have... I have a bad destiny, Guinevere. I did not know who my parents were, and – the child Mordred, the youngest child of my sister Morgawse – he is
mine
, Guinevere.” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, and he hesitated to see if I would react. I did not. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know she was my sister, but Merlin tells me that God has cursed me for it. That is why I need you, your powerful magic blood, the blood of the Witch-Queen Maev. I needed to know that you were truly the blood of the Otherworld. Kay, my foster brother, he can tell, and I wanted him to see you, and tell me if what they said about you was true. But you can tell, I know. I saw you notice it in him, too.” He tried a wary smile, but I remained still. He would have
nothing
from me, if I did not wish it. Not even a smile. “When I saw you I was pleased, so pleased... you’re beautiful, and...” he took a wary step closer, “we will make a son. I will be safe from my evil destiny. Guinevere...” He moved towards me, as if carried by his own imploring words. Perhaps he thought his painful honesty would sway me, but he had not been honest with me yesterday. I did not move away. There was only a foot or so between me and the door, and I wanted that space for when I might finally need it. He reached out a hand and gently touched my cheek. It was more gentleness that I had thought a man of his size was capable of. I felt a sudden rush of heat of my face that I had not expected, and I was resistant to it. I had come resolved, and I would not be swayed. “Was Queen Maev as beautiful as you?”

“Maev was a Warrior-Queen, who commanded an army of thousands, who subdued in battle the hero they called the Hound of the Ulstermen. The blood she spilled carved valleys in the land. She had four consorts and eight sons. She rode into battle, and men talk of her tearing down lines of her enemies with her sword. They don’t say much about her beauty,” I replied, coldly. Maev of Cruachan had been my father’s grandmother, and I knew I had her blood in my veins. I did not have to give in to anything.

Arthur took another step towards me and reached out to lift the crown off my head. I felt my skin burn where his hands brushed it, lifting it off, and I was yet unsure if this was revulsion, or the wine, the heat of the fire, or something else. He walked back away from me and set it down beside his own, and took another sip of his wine. Mine was still in my hand. I tipped it up for the dregs, and set it down on the floor beside me. I could feel the nervous tingling all over my body, the tension in the air between us. Neither knew what the other would do next. He walked back over to me. His eyes still had all the excited eagerness of a boy, but I was not so eager for him as he was for me, and I kept my face still, and cold.

“Guinevere, I think you and I together can make this kingdom great. I know we are strangers, but...” He reached out his hand and laid it gently against my waist, then slowly slid it upwards, to stroke my breast. I caught him by the wrist, hard. “Guinevere...” He was firmer this time, and though he did not move his hand any further, he did not lift it away. I could feel the power in his arm under my grip. He could have pushed me away. He did not sound as patient as he had before. I knew it would wear thin fast. “Believe me I have been warned that brides can be nervous.”

“You are but a boy, Arthur.” He was shocked by my sharpness, and clearly he had not noticed as I had that he was younger than me. He thought himself all grown. The hint of an arrogant smile chased across his lips.

“But I have had more lovers than you, my Lady Guinevere.” He slid his arm around my waist, lifting it easily from my grip as I had suspected he could, pulling me up tight against him; the other he buried in my hair, winding his fingers in it, turning my face up towards him. I could feel the power of his body, his strength, all the way around me, and although in my mind I was resolved, resolved to resist until I had forgiven him and his people the loss of my own, to my frustration something in my body was responding, against my will. I did not like
him
yet, but despite myself I liked the feel of his strong arm around me, his hand rough in my hair, and it only made me angrier. I did not want to like it. “Unless there is something your father should have told me.” His eyes gazed right into mine. I could not tell if he felt himself to be being playful. Our faces were close, close enough that I could see the fine shadow of gold stubble against his chin catch in the firelight. I felt the touch of his breath against my lips. I was not repulsed as I thought I would be by the feel of him this close to me, our bodies pressing together, and the desire to refuse was leaving me, my desire to resist weaker than I had expected, but I was stubborn by nature, and I had come decided to resist.

“Oh no, my lord,” I hissed, “I am
intact
.”

“Well, then.” He leaned just a little closer, and I felt our noses brush. I felt my heart beat faster, my breath come quicker. I felt my body preparing to fight. “I do not think you will find me disappointing, despite my youth. I know what I am doing.”

He kissed me roughly, his hand on the back of my neck pulling me closer against him. I had been kissed before, in Carhais by the man I was supposed to marry, just once before he left, under a plum tree in the orchard. I could not honestly have said that I liked it much; it had been wet and clumsy and playful, a children’s game, nothing more, though he had been older, then, than Arthur was now. Nothing like this. This rough kiss was leading me somewhere. I felt his fingers at the back of my neck, growing soft now, almost tender and felt myself weaken, just a little, at their touch. No. If I relented I could not go home. I tried to push him off, and for a moment it caught him by surprise, but he pushed back and we slammed against the bolted door. A little gasp of pain escaped me. I could feel, against my thigh, that he was hard.

We were both breathing fast, and rough, pressed tight against each other, up against the door. I was sure he must have been able to feel my heart, pounding in my chest. He had not loosened his grip on me, but I could see that his gaze on me was soft.

“Guinevere... this is how it has to be. We are married, you are my Queen. I don’t wish to force you –”

“Perhaps you could not. Perhaps I would kill you,” I whispered, cold and threatening. But I no longer felt it. I was no longer sure I meant what I said. He smelled of the stables, clean straw and the homely scent of horses, his strength about me was almost overwhelming. I could feel my lips were hot from his kiss, and tingling, wanting more despite myself. The closeness of his body against mine was clouding my thoughts.

He laughed a soft, little laugh.

“I chose well, looking for one like Maev, then. But, Guinevere, this has to be,” he whispered. “Please.”

I said nothing. He leaned down to kiss me again, this time softly at first, and then when I did not push him away a second time, harder. I felt my mouth open under his, the instinct within me that I had denied waking through me. I had never been kissed like this by a man before, had never imagined it would be matched in me by my own desire. Arthur’s passion was rough, but it was also compelling. His hands were in my hair, unwinding the tight plaits, throwing the pins to the floor where they fell with a soft tinkle. I felt my heavy curls fall about my shoulders as he leant to kiss my neck. I felt my knees weaken a little, and I knew it was not the wine. I did not have to know him, or love him, to
enjoy
him. I had heard the women of my father’s court say that enough when they thought that I was not listening. I could not pretend I did not like the feeling of his strength. I was beginning to wonder if my stubborn resolve to go home wasn’t childish. This must have been what it was to give up childhood and become a woman.

Arthur unlaced my outerdress at the back and pushed it up fast, and pulled it over my head. One of the sleeves tore, but he did not seem to notice. He pulled me to him once more and kissed me again, his hands searching the undershift for laces, a way in, found instead my breasts and there he brushed my nipples gently through the thin fabric, and I felt a tingling go through me; a desire to be free from the underdress. My body responded, pressing back against him, and he made a low noise of excitement when he felt me yielding, just a little. He pulled his own shirt off, and his breeches. He had a young man’s haste. I reached out, unconsciously, to touch the bare skin so suddenly before me, irresistible. I had seen a man before, but if I were honest with myself no man as fine as him. Old men, my brothers when I was a child; we were not prudish about our bodies in Carhais. But still I had never before felt what I did now, at the sight of Arthur naked before me; a flutter of something enticing and unfamiliar in the pit of my stomach. I let my fingertips trail softly over the muscles of his chest, down across his stomach. I could feel the blood high in my cheeks, and his eyes on my face, and I knew he was excited by the sight of me, looking at him.