Work Text:
The boat pulls in and a pale girl rises from her place among the oarsmen. She is handed ashore by her King-Uncle's ambassador and led solicitously to where armed riders wait.
Her name is Cyneswith, but here she is simply the Saxon princess, a token of friendship between two powerful kings.
She huddles deeper into her furs and the lead rider smiles encouragingly at her and dismounts to help her onto a milk white mare. He is a splendid knight in the flower of his youth, with tawny hair and eyes.
She thanks him in very broken Latin.
"My pleasure," he replies in the same language, then lapses into the British tongue. "I'm Lancelot," he says, "his Majesty's champion."
She looks carefully blank, until Ambassador Wulfric steps forward to translate.
She wonders whether the Britons know that the Saxon King has sent his most feared war-chief as ambassador. It matters little if they do; are they supposed to complain about such a sign of respect and honour?
They have a long journey ahead, but Lancelot rides with her, Wulfric's nephew and squire alongside to translate.
He talks of simple things, the beauty of the castle on a summer's morning, the fine horses in King Arthur's stables. And he tells jokes against himself, describing his mishaps when he came to Camelot as a boy from his native Brittany. She laughs at his jokes, though never until they are translated, and were she the simple girl she carefully portrays, his kindness might well put her at ease.
They break for the night at a small settlement, the manor's hall cleared for their use. Wulfric speaks softly to her. He has noted the knight's attentions, suggests she subtly encourage them.
She nods meekly and retires for the night. The Britons may see a delicate princess, an adolescent bride, but Wulfric knows what she can do. She is a tool his king has provided for him, a weapon to his hand.
-x-x-
The King, her betrothed, meets them in Camelot's main courtyard. Ninety-nine knights of his round table stand in ranks in the courtyard, Lancelot makes up the full one hundred. This is not just a welcome; alliance notwithstanding, it is a show of strength.
Arthur is a man approaching middle age, occasional white hairs stand out amid his dark hair, but his blue eyes are surprisingly penetrating and shrewd. This is the man who has bound every lesser King of Britain as his vassal, who has kept his borders secure by diplomacy and guile as well as the force of arms.
Cyneswith keeps her gaze limpid, smiles at him shyly, guards her thoughts behind impassable shields.
The King speaks to her in courtly Latin phrases and she blinks in feigned confusion.
"The princess's grasp of Latin is cursory," explains Wulfric, "but I am sure she will study to improve it."
-x-x-
Alone at last in her chamber, she unbinds her hair, loosens the bodice of her dress. Unless the Britons are more trusting than she can credit, her luggage will have been searched before being brought upstairs. The searchers will have found nothing to incriminate her.
But from within her dress and knotted in her hair she draws daggers, both ceremonial and practical, runestones and rare herbs that carry power for life or death.
The servants have brought her water for her toilette. She smoothes a hand over the bowl and murmurs words of power.
The surface of the water clouds over and she is looking into the King's private chamber, where Lancelot reports their journey to him in the King's own tongue. He says nothing to worry her. He has seen nothing more than the idealistic young girl she created for him to see, but his sharp, pointed comments on Wulfric and on the country they rode through tell her that there is more to this knight than his amiable facade. (And more loyalty than will be overcome by a pretty face, no matter what Wulfric may hope for.)
With another wave of her hand, the scene changes. Wulfric is in his own quarters, satisfied with the day's work. She listens to him give orders to his servants, his Saxon guards. She will compare these words to whatever he tells her tomorrow; no sense in trusting even her closest ally.
-x-x-
The King throws a great feast on the eve of their wedding.
The hall is carefully arranged; places of honour for all the Saxon nobles, yet not one of them, even she, is in a position to tamper with the King's cup or the food on his plate. The Britons are not so credulous then.
Knights and barons pay her honour; she smiles much and says little. But she listens a lot and hears more than people intend.
The most serious murmurs are about the King's aged adviser, Myrddin the Magician. He spoke against this marriage for two years -- wise man, thinks Cyneswith -- but all was agreed within months of his disappearance. Some of the nobles fear the consequences; others see the Saxon alliance as the first step into a new future and Myrddin as an old fool who outlived his time.
When the time comes for speeches, British knights rise to extol the virtues and great deeds of their king. The princess wonders how many of the stories are true and makes a note to ask Wulfric. Then the ambassador speaks, fair words of friendship between their peoples.
Finally the King takes her by the hand and presents her to his people. He tells them that this will be their queen and renames her in their tongue, Guinevere.
Cyneswith smiles still, and accepts the new name. Names have a different kind of power than magic and a British name paves the way for her acceptance as a British queen.
Besides, she does not expect to be in this court long enough to become accustomed to it.
-x-x-
The next day, under cover of wedding preparations, she asks Wulfric about the King's Magician.
"No need to worry," he says. "Myrddin set his face against us, but he is gone. I hired the Sorceress Eviane and she removed the problem. Locked him up safely, in a hawthorn tree, paved the way for your marriage."
"Another sorceress?" she asks.
"What, jealous? She couldn't do what you are going to. It takes a virgin bride to get close to this king." He laughs lewdly.
Cyneswith masks her irritation. "But still," she says, "that's a lot of power. Eviane isn't a Saxon name. Do you know you can trust this woman?" Will she get in my way? she means, can she disrupt my plans?
"Enough!" says the ambassador, winding his hand in her hair, tight enough to hurt. "Don't get ideas above your station. Eviane's gone; she wanted revenge and was glad enough to be paid for it, but you're not unique. I can find other witches if I need to."
She nods meekly and rebraids her hair.
-x-x-
Her wedding night is not unpleasant.
The King is courteous and gentle, though not passionate and she loses her virginity with little pain.
If she were the innocent child she appears, her husband's tenderness might well win her affection. But then Lancelot's handsome face and good-natured kindness might equally win that child's heart, so it's probably as well that her affections are safe.
She could tell Arthur that his care is pointless; the price of magic is infertility; she will bear him no heirs. But the truth would spoil the story of a fairytale wedding.
The King returns to sleep in his own chamber and she emerges composed the next morning to take up her place at court.
-x-x-
She is enthroned at the King's side as he sits in judgement. She maintains her inane smile. But she learns a lot about the kingdom.
Soon she can recite the tribute due from different vassals, the taxes levied on each baron's lands, the wealth of the kingdom measured in barley and sheep.
She also sees the personal petitions; a widow brings suit against her dead husband's overlord, a baker claims a miller has adulterated his flour. She watches these cases in fascination, grappling with the intricacies of the British law code. She has heard of such things in southern Saxony or the northern kingdom of the Danes, but they contrast sharply with her King-Uncle's realm where might equals right and fealty is absolute, where there is no second chance at justice beyond the will of your lord.
-x-x-
Wulfric approaches her, asks for a sleeping draught for her husband's guards so he may slip past them to infiltrate the archives.
"No," she refuses. "I can mix a draught, but they will know they have slept. If even one man's honour is greater than his fear of punishment, you will be found out. Or at least the King will know his security has been breached. I have a better way."
Back in her chambers, she mixes hawthorn and rowan berries, adds sage and mistletoe and a single drop of her blood. She dabs the mixture on her forehead and wrists and leave the room silently, passes unseen before the guards' eyes.
She spends most of the night reading, turning papers, learning history and piecing together the kingdom's strengths and weaknesses. When she is done she has a much deeper knowledge of this land she has married into. She also carries a parchment of careful notes about troop numbers and deployment to give to her Uncle's ambassador.
-x-x-
Lancelot walks with her in the afternoon sun, gesturing at the British trees and wild flowers, identifying the bird songs in the local tongue.
She exclaims in delight over a five pointed white flower and returns to the castle carrying a posy picked by the knight.
Today they have neither interpreter nor chaperone, so their conversation is restricted to a few words of Latin, but Lancelot makes the most of extravagant gestures and clasps his hands to his heart as he declares himself her devoted servant.
As they pass through the wicker gate to return to the castle, he stops her with a hand on her arm, looks deeply into her eyes. She gazes back and for an instant the world contracts to a pair of brown eyes.
Then the moment is gone and she returns alone to her chamber.
-x-x-
Wulfric accosts her outside the Great Hall.
"It will be soon," he says.
-x-x-
Riding the next day in the forest, she allows her mare to bolt with her, spurred on by a glimmer of magic.
Once she is out of sight of her accompanying ladies, she recovers the reins and rides swiftly to the east. She should have an hour, perhaps even two, before it becomes unbelievable that she is wandering in the forest without being found.
She has ample time to reach a twisted hawthorn bush outside a small cave, its location carefully memorised from her night in the archives.
She dismounts on the edge of the clearing and tethers her horse to a tree, ready to flee quickly if necessary. Wulfric has given her few details and the court scribes had not known what information to note. For once she does not know what to expect.
She approaches the hawthorn cautiously. The air is very still in this clearing, the birds silent, but she triggers no magical trap.
She stands in front of the twisted bush and lays a hand on its bark.
She can feel the sorcery now, deep and ancient. These spells are potent beyond her strength and she shivers.
But the magic is old and gone. She can feel the shape of the elderly wizard, wise and powerful beyond his years, but only an imprint is left in the tree. He loved this land and he protected his King, but his spirit is now banished far beyond the human realm.
The magic that imprisoned him is stranger still, entirely nonhuman, whatever Wulfric may have believed. "Elf," she murmurs. But that magic is quiescent too. Cyneswith cannot match an Elven Queen, but Eviane's revenge is complete and there is nothing to call her back to Britain.
She stands a little while before the bush, evaluating. Then she retrieves her horse and returns to Camelot to be rescued by her worried ladies.
-x-x-
She watches her husband train with his knights. He is no longer young, but few can match him for strength.
One of the best is Lancelot. He and Arthur trade sword-blows, neither retreating beneath the other's onslaught. Arthur wins the first bout, but Lancelot the second. He moves forward, grasped his King's hand to pull him to his feet.
For a moment faith and confidence are tangible between them, two men who have trusted their lives to each other and will do so again.
His knights are Arthur's best troops; their weapons are uniquely British and they fight in the continental style. She evaluates them, weighs them in her mind's eye against her King-Uncle's warriors, but she can't be sure which would triumph in battle.
She leaves the practice ground as silently as she arrived.
-x-x-
Wulfric's squire brings her a message, a single autumn leaf, pressed into her hand. He need send no more detailed instructions: tonight will be the night.
She sits at her dresser, herbs and runes spread before her, words of power on her tongue. She twists poisons together into an intangible rope, lets it hang in the air before her, given power by her mind and will.
She speaks one final sharp word and brings her hands together. The magical workings disappear, but her spell is complete. Death sinks into her fingertips, ready to be released from her hands.
-x-x-
At dinner she sits, sedate as always, at the King's left hand. Their thrones are substantial; she cannot reach across to his plate. She bides her time and waits for her chance.
After the meal, there is dancing. She turns in elegant circles with Arthur, with Lancelot, with her husband again.
As the musicians end their measure, Arthur calls for more drinks. Smiling, she takes his cup for the servants to refill, rich mead in a silver goblet. Her sleeves are drawn back for the dance, her every action in plain sight of the court.
As she turns back towards the dancers her finger sweep a discreet circle round the goblet's edge. Across the room, Wulfric's eyes follow her movements and he gives her an approving nod.
She carries the mead back to the King.
Before she reaches him, Lancelot is in front of her.
"My honoured Queen," he says, "let us talk." his hand grasps her elbow and he manoeuvres her to a half hidden recess. All his lazy good humour is gone, his face is sharp and focused. She fixes her mouth into an enquiring smile.
"What do you want to say?" she asks.
"We could talk," he says in Latin, now assuming she understands him, "of magic and poison, of whatever you have done to my Liege Lord's cup."
"This cup?" she asks, innocently.
Wulfric is watching them thoughtfully, as he drinks his own mead.
"I have done nothing," she says, "to my husband's cup."
On the far side of the dais, Wulfric collapses, clutching his throat. A sorceress can kill at a distance as easily as with a touch and it is a foolish conspirator who forgets that.
Several ladies scream and the ambassador's nephew darts quickly from the hall.
The Queen leans in towards Lancelot's ear.
"Tell my Lord Husband," she says in fluent British, "to prepare to attack. The Saxon forces are gathering on his north-eastern border, but they are expecting directions from their War Chief and a court in confusion after Arthur's death. Move against them now and they will fall into your hands."
She raises the King's cup to her own lips and drains the harmless mead in one great gulp.
-x-x-
Once the battle is over and the Saxons routed, Queen Guinevere rides the bounds of the kingdom at her husband's side.
She may not have the strength of Myrddin, but she has magic enough to reinforce Britain's wards, to charm the borders against attack and give early warning of invasion.
The King need not question her allegiance; she has cast her lot in dramatically with her husband's people, will not be welcome again in her uncle's court.
She admits this is self-interest as well as a principled choice. Far better to be Arthur's Queen than a tool and an assassin, passed from one diplomatic marriage to the next until prospective husbands grow wary of their predecessors' fates. She likes this green land and will be loyal to it.
Arthur knows all her secrets now, factors her abilities into his plans. In time he will learn that he can trust her judgement too and she will be adviser as well as consort.
She even makes her infertility known to him, the price of magic and a cost she pays willingly. She says she will go away, leave the King free to marry again, to choose a woman who can give him children.
He refuses. His sisters have sons and he needs a Royal Sorcerer more than he needs heirs. She knew that, of course, before she ever made the offer. The sardonic gleam in Arthur's eye says that he also knows she knew it before she spoke.
-x-x-
One morning in early spring, when she has pulled the magical power of the kingdom into her hands, she stands again before Myrddin's hawthorn. This time, the King and his Champion stand at her side.
She leans forward, and speaks to the powerful magician, lost somewhere in faeryland beyond and within the tree.
"I may not have your strength," she says, "but I hope to learn your wisdom and I vow to you now that the realm you protected will be safe in my hands."
She is Guinevere, and this is her kingdom.
-x- fin -x-
Read posted comments.