Guinevere took a long drink of tea, turning over another voluminous page.

“Are you having any luck my dear?” Gaius inquired from across the room. He was fortressed behind his desk by mountains of books, perusing volume after volume for the same reason that she was: an explanation for the mysterious medallion discovered on the dead squire’s body a week ago.

“Not much yet I’m afraid.”

Wading through the numerous sigils, emblems, banners, and crests of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond were a strenuous task not lightly undertaken, but Guinevere was grateful for the work.  The image of the young man, who had presumably died to reach her, haunted her waking moments and whispered in her dreams.

Why had he wanted to see her? Was he a messenger from the King? But why did he carry no letter? What was so important that someone would take his life?

He had been buried hastily, with Arthur and Gaius agreeing that the still-frail Uther shouldn’t be bothered with the news.

Gaius had also kept from Arthur that the man died with Guinevere’s name on his lips.

Arthur has too much on his mind already, she reflected, not without a pang.

Princess Mithian had arrived in Camelot the day after their discovery of the body. Guinevere had stood on the palace steps with a smattering of other courtiers, trying to ignore their hushed whispers and excited speculations. The King had been abed that day, having caught a cold in the chest, so it was Arthur who stood before his stalwart Knights, the scarlet cape draped over his magnificent shoulders, its ends stirring with the unseasonably chilly breeze. Morgana had been present also, striking in an emerald green gown with a jewelled shawl around her slender frame.

Gwen had longed for the old days, before their friendship had grown clouded with secrets and shadows, when her friend would have put a comforting arm on her shoulders, made her laugh with a bitingly witty comment. Instead it was Melwas who had stood beside her, his arm wound possessively about her waist, clad in his grey regalia.

When the princess rode in the entire courtyard grew silent, and when she raised her misty veil of golden flowers to reveal a lovely, clear-eyed face, there were not a few gasps and hums of approval.

Guinevere couldn’t see Arthur’s face, but he strode forward to welcome her, extending a courteous hand and offering murmured words of greeting. From the smile on her face, it was clear his words were pleasing.

She had felt her limbs grow heavy with ice.

She had avoided the welcome feast with the excuse of a mild indisposition, though she shrank from the cowardice of it. But even her overawed heart conceded there could be no escape tonight. The rumours flitting up and down the castle halls like fledgling birds had it that the feast tonight was in truth a betrothal feast, complete with flowers and dancing and splendid celebration.

Loath though she was to admit her own weakness, Guinevere felt ill every time she thought of the approaching night. So instead she focused her attention on the pages in front of her, glancing occasionally at the strange medallion and reflecting on the usefulness of having helped Merlin steal the forbidden volume from under Geoffrey’s nose all those weeks ago.

“Aha.”

She looked up at Gaius’ exclamation, “You found something?’

He gestured for her to join him and pointed at the page, “I assume you are familiar with the Triple Morrigan?” There it was, the same symbol that gleamed knowingly on the medallion, three ravens with interweaving wings, their bodies forming a serpentine ring.

Gwen furrowed her brow. The Triple Morrigan was known to all those who followed the Old Ways, whether in darkness or light. A shadowy brotherhood sworn to serve and protect the Dark Fire, they were indispensable allies for the High Priestesses who rejected the legacy of Avalon and sought to replace its light with the Fire of Darkness. Though they used magic and the Old Ways, those who served the Shadow Flame sought only power, and dominion over all others.

She searched her memory for the old tales, “They are said to have pledged their lives to the service of Dark Magic, though I don’t remember what the principle of three signifies.”

Gaius looked at her gravely, “The Triple Morrigan was said to be awaiting the Three, an unholy alliance of powers that would threaten the power of Avalon with destruction. Can you think of such an alliance, Gwen?” the meaning of his words dawned slow and clear on her.

“Morgana, the witch Morgause…and the child.” She remembered Angelica’s words to her two years ago.  This child Morgana carries, it is not a child. An evil and unholy magic caused her womb to bear this fruit. For your sake, and the sake of Avalon, it must be destroyed.

The physician sighed heavily.

“I still don’t understand, Gaius. What did that poor man want with me?”

Gaius closed the book and leaned back in his chair, “I fear this is more serious than I first suspected. If the Triple Morrigan brotherhood is here in Camelot, we’re all in grave danger.”

Unwittingly, Guinevere glanced at the medallion again, its jet-set raven eyes, and an involuntary shiver passed over her.

Gaius observed the worry on her face, “Arthur must be told. Uther is still weak, I fear he shall never raise a sword again.”

Gwen whirled to face him, “Gaius, do not tell Arthur of my part in this.  He would…” her words stuck in her throat. What would he do? Worry? Or worse, maybe he’ll do nothing, now that the beautiful Mithian is to be his bride. “I would tell him myself,” she finished.

The old man’s eyes gleamed knowingly, but he only said, “As you wish, my dear. In the meantime, do not venture anywhere unaccompanied, especially after dark,” he wagged a protective finger at her, and Gwen was touched by his fatherly protectiveness.

“I sha’n’t,” she smiled, and impulsively kissed him on the forehead, “I must go prepare for the feast.”

***

The sunlight was softening with dusk when Gwen started making her way across the courtyard. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see the Princess Mithian, fresh from riding, stride up to her.

“Lady Guinevere, isn’t it?” said a smooth voice.

She looked up, startled. Mithian was flushed from the exercise, her chestnut hair escaping its tight coif to flutter around her rosy cheeks. She seemed fresh-faced and eager, not at all like the icy princess Gwen had secretly, to her own shame, imagined.

“Yes,” she smiled, “I’m glad to finally meet you, your highness.”

Mithian brushed away the title and fell in step beside her, “Please, call me Mithian. I can’t stand the stuffiness we nobles impose on ourselves.”

“I apologize for my absence at the welcome feast, Mithian,” Gwen added smoothly, “I was…somewhat unwell.”

“Ah yes, Arthur seemed disappointed that I couldn’t meet you,” she went on, not noticing how Gwen’s smile faltered slightly, “He’s told me all about his visit to Eirinn, and I must confess it’s made me most curious to know more about your homeland.”

He told her all? How much? Surely he hadn’t told her about…well, surely not all?

Mithian’s light touch on her arm surprised her, and Gwen looked up into her clear face, “I apologize if my words were careless. I understand there is presently some unrest in your kingdom. It must be difficult for you.”

Her words were unadorned, her smile genuinely kind, and Guinevere felt a strange sadness. In her youthful eagerness and fresh beauty, Mithian reminded her of how Morgana had been once.

“Not at all, Mithian,” she returned the smile, “Your candour is most welcome.”

Mithian beamed, “Then we shall be friends. Very few ladies and even fewer men appreciate my so-called ‘candour’. Although the latter is not so surprising,” she added dryly, making Gwen laugh despite herself.

We could be friends. Yes. If things were different, Guinevere mused sadly. She would make a fine queen, noble and beautiful and kind. The people would love her.  Her heart clenched. Arthur would love her.

“You will be at the feast tonight then?” Mithian looked at her hopefully, “I would love to learn more about Eirinn, if it would please you to tell me.”

“It would please me greatly.”

***

“Are you feeling well, milady?” Bernadette asked softly, fastening the laces of Guinevere’s dress.

Gwen blinked, recalling her wandering thoughts, “I am, Bernadette. Forgive me, my mind is adrift it seems.”

Bernadette finished fastening her dress and fetched the comb as Guinevere sat down before the vanity, “All the maids are talking about the feast tonight. Do you really think Prince Arthur will ask for her hand?”

Gwen kept her expression calm, “I’m sure he’ll do what he thinks best.”

Bernadette gently brushed the luxuriant curls, “ I would love a Royal Wedding,” she sighed longingly, “The head cook was telling us about when his majesty wed Queen Igraine. They said it was a sight to behold.”

Gwen glanced at the single rose kept fresh on her vanity, another token from the Queen’s garden that she had plucked earlier in the day, intending to wear at the feast. 
Soon the garden would be Mithian’s prerogative, and the words Arthur had spoken there, the kisses they had stolen, would vanish like moonbeams in the quenching light of day.

Each time I faced death on the battlefield, your face was the one that flashed before my eyes. The memory of you dancing is branded in my mind like fire, you enchant me without any magic.

“Are you excited for your wedding, milady?” Bernadette put the finishing touches in her hair, “You’ll make the loveliest bride, if I may say so.”

Gwen smiled lightly, “You’re sweet, Bernadette. Thank you.”

You are so beautiful Guinevere. His words were like silk on her skin.

She stood and took a final glance in the mirror. The cornflower-blue gown was one of her favourites, with gracefully flared sleeves and a whisper of silver-white lace at the elegant neckline. She touched her fingertips to the thin chain where it disappeared into her bodice, and the ring nestled warm between her breasts was familiar enough to break her heart.

***

Arthur had never particularly cared for feasts since he became Crowned Prince. When he was younger and still a fledgling knight, feasts were merry affairs where he could drink mead with his friends and admire the pretty women. But now there were too many eyes on him, too many voices vying for his ear, too many venomous tongues poised to note his every indiscretion.

He tried to focus his attention on what Mithian was saying beside him, something about the hunting traditions of Nemeth.  He knew that the entire court expected a betrothal announcement, could sense the subtle and not so subtle glances in their direction.

It would be so easy, he mused, contemplating the lovely princess before him. She was definitely not what he had expected. Unlike most noblewomen pampered since birth, Mithian was neither vain nor simpering, but held herself with easy charm and friendliness. She was witty too, and interested in furthering her political knowledge. His father would be overjoyed. Arthur tried not to think about Uther’s lingering frailness and waning strength, realities that bore down heavily on his shoulders.

If he had met Mithian a few years ago, Arthur reflected, he would have raised no objection to the match.  If he had never set foot in Eirinn, never watched a beautiful woman’s dark hair swirling in torchlight, he would have relinquished his heart at the altar of duty without question.

He managed to nod and respond politely as Merlin served them the soup, a rich broth made from the gathered juices of roasted pig.  His manservant seemed to sense his inner turmoil and clapped a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“This looks delicious, thank you Merlin,” Mithian inclined her head graciously.

Arthur glanced over at Guinevere, her lovely throat exposed gracefully by the elegant twist of her hair. He remembered what it was like to kiss that neck, the honey-softness of her skin, the way he could feel her pulse flutter beneath his lips like bird-wings, the way her breasts rose and fell with quickened breath.

As though sensing his gaze, Guinevere caught his eyes, and suddenly the great room seemed too close, the air too warm. But she quickly schooled her features and looked away, just as Merlin tapped him on the shoulder.

“What is it, Merlin?” but the slight irritation in his voice gave way when he realized that his spoon had been dribbling soup onto his tunic. “Ah.”

“Here, let me,” Mithian dabbed at his tunic with a napkin.

Guinevere regretted her decision to steal a glance at Arthur when she saw Mithian’s disturbingly domestic ministrations. Tears threatened to prick her eyes, causing her to direct undivided attention to her soup.

The doors opened and Morgana strode in. If she was aware of her tardiness she gave no indication, beautiful and impassive as cut glass in a gown that glittered gold-white like the new moon. She nodded briefly at Gwen before taking her place beside Uther, and Merlin stepped up dutifully with the soup.

Why was she late? Gwen remembered the strange knowing child handing her the mandrake, the way she devoured the pulsing black root without hesitation, and shivered.

What was she hiding? Was she at this very moment conspiring with the Triple Morrigan to ruin Camelot?

A small and unyielding part of her refused to fully concede Morgana’s allegiance with Dark Magic, insisted on hoping for her, for the earnest and loving girl who had once been her closest confidant even though oceans rolled between them.

Even now, she hoped Angelica's words would prove unfounded.

***

After the feasting, the tables were cleared for dancing as the minstrels struck up an infectious tune. Sweet harp notes trembled in the air as Guinevere watched Arthur dance again and again with Mithian.  She had been obliged to dance with Melwas twice, but now she stood by a pillar while he conversed with Uther.

Her wish that the night would end soon was shattered when she saw Mithian heading towards her holding a somewhat hesitant Arthur by the arm.

“I’m exhausted from dancing and I noticed you’ve been quite the wallflower,” she intoned lightly, “Arthur, let me rest my feet while you take a turn with Guinevere.”

“Oh I-“ she began to protest but Mithian cut her off.

“I insist. It’s most unfair for me to keep the prince to myself all night, especially when his old friends would like a dance too.” Though her voice was light, there was something different in her tone. Before Guinevere could protest again she had walked away, gesturing for a serving girl with a tray full of glasses.

She looked up to find Arthur watching her, “If you would, lady Guinevere.”

The moment his large hand with its sword-tapered fingers enveloped hers, the room around them melted in a wash of colour.  They fit together easily, finding the rhythm without effort as she allowed herself to unwind in his arms. His hand at her waist drew her close, bare inches short of indiscreet, and his eyes pinioned her with sapphire flame.

“Arthur…what are we doing?” she whispered as they moved around the floor.

“Just dance with me, Guinevere,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving her face, “For this moment, forget everything else. Forget everything except that I’m holding you in my arms.”

She swallowed, her gaze falling unwittingly to his full lips.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he remarked, leading her easily with the swirls of music.

“Not at all.  I’ve been unwell, and I borrowed some books from Geoffery and-,”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I don’t remember being under any obligation to see you,” she pointed out, wanting and yet dreading the end of the song.

Arthur’s lips quirked slightly as a knowing gleam lit his eyes, “You’re jealous.”

“I’m no such thing,” she retorted, and Arthur watched longingly the faint tinge of colour along her cheek and throat.

The song was reaching its end, and they took one last turn about the room.

“You should only be jealous of what you cannot have, Guinevere,” he bent to murmur in her ear, his breath teasing the wispy curls of her hair, raising gooseflesh along her neck, “And you’ve had me since the first night I saw you.”

He released her then, dropping a light kiss on her hand. They both looked around at the same time to notice that Mithian was gone. Melwas however was still very much present, and strode up to demand a dance in no uncertain terms.

Guinevere acquiesced silently, gritting her teeth at his iron grasp and oppressive closeness. How utterly different from being in Arthur’s arms, where she felt enclosed and free and desired all at once.

When at last her feet began to throb and her arms ache, she begged leave to retire, only to note that Arthur had vanished too.

Probably seeking Mithian, she msued as she made her way to her chambers. Many of the other courtiers were retiring as well, inebriated lords clinging to the arms of disgruntled ladies in their satins and silks.

She turned the corner to her chambers when a familiar hand pulled her into the moonlit shadows.

“Arthur -,”

He stopped her words with a kiss, and she resisted only a second before giving in a with a soft whimper when his arms closed around her, pulling her against him the way he had longed to when they danced.

Arthur’s mouth caressed hers hungrily, quickly deepening the kiss with his tongue while his hands travelled over her back. When at last he pulled away Guinevere was dizzy.

“I can’t do it, Guinevere,” he whispered hoarsely against her mouth, “When I think of him touching you I -,” he bit off an oath.

“But I must bear the sight of you with Mithian?’ she responded, breathless, her lips moving to his almost of their own volition.

“Damn it, Guinevere,” he growled, kissing her fiercely. She was pressed up against the wall now, arching into him helplessly as his sensuous tongue and skilful lips ravished her mouth until she could only moan softly, as though determined to express with his kiss what he couldn’t in words.

His taste was a drug, spinning through her veins, recklessly sweet.

“We shouldn’t…” she whispered, shivering when his mouth travelled over jaw, dropping butterfly kisses on her cheekbone before descending into the curve of her neck.

Arthur struggled against the arousal clouding his brain, dragging his lips away from her delicious skin to rest their foreheads together.

“I’m so tired of fighting this Guinevere,” he sighed, running a hand through her hair, “Tell me you aren’t.”

“What I am is of no consequence, Arthur. We both know that,” she untangled herself reluctantly, stepping away from him even as every ounce of her flesh cried out in protest, “Don’t make this any harder than it already is,” her voice broke softly.

Arthur looked at her then with so much naked longing that it was almost her undoing, and his thumb brushed her chin one last time, “ It’s far too late for that Guinevere. We both know that.”

“I should go. If someone finds us…”

No.

I don’t mean this.

Argue with me. 

Kiss me.

Guinevere dared not linger close to him for long.

“Goodnight Arthur.”

So what if a few tears dampened her pillow tonight? Her body and life maybe promised to another, her heart chained to duty.

But her tears, at least, would be her own.

***

She knows far too much, sister.

We can’t know for sure…

She is dangerous. We cannot afford such a risk.

What would you have me do?

What you should have done long ago.

I cannot-

Then ask him to do it. By your hand or his, Guinevere must die.