It was ten years ago that Guinevere first travelled across the seas to Camelot. She’d been as young and wide-eyed as any child, happily ignoring her parents’ admonishments to run up and down across the deck. Only Andromdhe’s strong but gentle arms had prevented young Gwen from clambering up the masts behind the first mate. They had sailed in the midsummer gold of July, and the vibrant sea air had filled her with what she now realized was the hopeful bliss of childhood.

Now she stood on deck, a woman in the blossom of her beauty, shawl-wrapped against the reluctant spring air of waning April as they neared the harbour.

Melwas had convinced Peadar that Eirinn should send a delegation to Camelot, to seize upon Uther’s undoubted joy at Morgana’s return and cement a military alliance between the two kingdoms. With the alliance of mighty Camelot behind them, he’d argued, and the undisputable power of his own militias and fortune, the throne of Eirinn would stand without bloodshed, and peace would eventually be restored to the land. That is, if Guinevere agreed to be his bride.

Amid the rush of preparing for the journey, Gwen had asked that the marriage be postponed until their return from Camelot. It would allow time for subduing the uprisings, and the people would be ready to celebrate the wedding and ascension. Inwardly, though she had steeled her resolve to marry Melwas and ensure Eirinn’s stability, every ounce of her flesh recoiled from the thought of becoming his wife.

After her parents’ death and her adoption as royal ward, Gwen had put away the sunlit dreams of the young girl she had once been. Like other women of the court, she had resigned herself to one day marrying a man she did not love. She had expected, as they did, to endure the conjugal motions for the sake of childbearing.

But then, Arthur Pendragon has swept into her life like the cresting tide, and the dreams she’d thought dead rose from their shackles at his touch.  From the moment of their first meeting, his eyes had awakened desires that no woman in her position should allow herself to feel. If it hadn’t been for those stolen, feverish kisses, she might have sacrificed her heart for Eirinn with far less anguish.

She had always hoped to revisit Camelot someday, and imagined doing so with joy. Yet all she felt was trepidation. What had become of Morgana’s child? Would she be the same person she was before?

How would she face Arthur, knowing she wore his mother’s ring close to her heart, and tell him she was betrothed to another man?

Questions with answers barbed as thorns pricked her skin, nettling her thoughts as the ship prepared to weigh anchor.

***

“Would you like to bathe before the feast tonight, milady?”  Bernadette, the young girl who would serve as her lady’ maid in Camelot, flitted about like a neat bird.

Guinevere eased out of her shoes, grateful to be off the ship and with everyday comforts within easy reach. “Yes please, Bernandette. And if you would, lay out the purple dress. I think that’s what I’ll wear.”

Bernadette handled the garment reverently, “ ‘tis a beautiful dress, milady. You will look lovely, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

 Gwen smiled at the diminutive girl and was instantly reminded of Aili. The night of Morgana’s abduction by Morgause was clear as cut glass in her mind.

Upon their arrival, an escort of knights had welcomed them and led them to the castle. Uther and Arthur were out hunting, and Morgana was resting in her chambers until the feast. The only familiar face Gwen had seen was Merlin, and despite Melwas’ disdain she’d clasped his hand and greeted him like the friend he was. It was all she could do to hold back the questions that had teetered on her lips.

It was clear though that Morgana was brought back to Camelot alone. What then of her child? Had the babe died in birth, beyond even the witch’s power to salvage?

Bernadette was quick and efficient, and soon had a tub of steaming water ready. Guinevere immersed herself in the hot soapy depths gratefully, combing out her long curly tresses.

When at last the warmth began to ebb from the water, she stood and robed herself. A knock sounded at the door, and Melwas walked in just as she rounded the screen. His eyes travelled the length of her body with indolent appreciation, and she drew herself up stiffly, “Can I help you, milord?”

He strolled casually over, followed by a page carrying a large box. “I thought it fitting to present you with our betrothal gift.” He gestured for the page who set the box down on her dresser. It was customary in noble families to present the woman with such a gift, as a token of intent and a symbol of the groom’s wealth.

“I would like you to wear it at the feast tonight,” he drawled, as she opened the lid. Sharp light danced before her, and she heard Bernadette gasp. It was a necklace, if indeed such a numerous and sprawling assemblage of jewels, strung together with filigreed silver, a veritable fountain of radiance, could be described by so simple a word. Rubies bright as pigeon-blood gleamed among a starry web of diamonds: it would sheathe her throat and spill across her bosom like a constellation.

“Thank you, milord,” she said quietly, “But I fear I’ve already prepared my garments for tonight and they are far too plain for such jewels.”

“I’m sure you can find something suitable. I insist, Guinevere.” He turned to Bernadette, “You, girl, don’t stand there gawking. Make yourself useful and lay out your lady’s dresses.”

Furious but unable to protest without giving the servants fodder for gossip, Gwen offered Bernadette a small smile as the girl scurried to the wardrobe.

Melwas stepped closer to her, leaning down to whisper icily in her ear, “Do not take me for a fool Guinevere. I will not share my future bride with a Pendragon. You will wear the necklace, and they shall know to whom you belong.”

She stood stoically until he left, only giving in to trembling after the door closed behind him. Anger and helplessness burned her eyes, and she wiped hastily at her cheek before Bernadette could notice.

****

Remember sister you must keep up appearances.

But Guinevere has always been a friend

She is destined for allegiance with your enemies.

Choice can alter destiny, can’t it?

Some fates are beyond our power to change. Guinevere is lost to you now. But your son is not.

****

Guinevere walked into the Hall on Melwas’ arm, her calm countenance betraying none of her inner turmoil. As they passed the mulling courtiers, she could discern their whispers and sideways glances, the mingled hum of surprise, admiration and envy.

The gown she had chosen was ruby-dark, a rich shadow of the scarlet banners unfurled all around the Hall. The bodice fit snug over her shapely curves, and the billowing skirts accented her slender, laced-in waist.  She had never worn it before, preferring rather the soft flowing lines and simple femininity of more old-fashioned gowns that women had worn in her mother’s time. In this garment, with its sleeves that left her shoulders bare, and its wide neckline skimming over the lush swell of her breasts, combined with Melwas’ ostentatious token glittering across her bosom, Guinevere felt almost naked, a polished trophy on display.

She kept her eyes straight ahead, on the head table where Uther stood with his son and ward, waiting to greet them. She noticed Morgana beside him, marble-still, a pale and glittering column of light, like a jewel that reflects radiance but keeps its own depths a secret.

She beamed at her as they approached the table, “Gwen, how wonderful to see you!”

Guinevere made to approach her, not daring to look at Arthur for fear her face might betray her, but Melwas held her back.

“My lords, lady Morgana,” he bowed, “I’m happy to announce that Lady Guinevere and I are betrothed, and we shall take our place on Eirinn’s throne as soon as we return.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur’s expression, and the confusion in his voice, cut her like a blade. Tucked in her bodice, the ring burned against her pounding heart.

He recovered quickly, straightening under Uther’s glare, and nodded his head in a stiff welcome.

****

“You’re being rather obvious,” Merlin muttered as he refilled Arthur’s goblet, causing the prince to snap his eyes away from the crimson-clad Guinevere.

“No one likes a clever-clogs, Merlin,” he rumbled. It was bad enough having to endure his father’s I-told-you-so smirks all evening, the last thing he needed was Merlin            weighing in.

He risked another glance at her. She was speaking with Morgana, her food untouched. Her loveliness was a wild rose his eyes kept reaching for, mindless of the cutting thorns: the dark-blood gown she wore glowed against her rich cocoa and cinnamon colouring, as the firelight caressed her honeyed shoulders enticingly. Arthur noticed several of the knights and lords stealing looks at her as well, this jewelled, dark-eyed beauty from a land as mysterious as her almond eyes.

Ah, but they had not seen her barefoot on a summer’s night, her hair flowing loose like dancing shadows. Possessively, he reminded himself that he alone of the men ogling her tonight, had seen her such.

Look at me, Guinevere.

****

She sensed rather than saw Arthur’s stolen glances. Gwen longed to return them but forced herself to resist, wary of Melwas’ presence and Uther’s speculative gaze. Morgana said little, and Guinevere dared not ask questions when surrounded by so many waiting ears. Already exhausted by the journey, now the muscles in her neck and along her shoulders were stiff with effort. She felt as though her every move, blink, smile, were scrutinized.

If she met Arthur’s eyes now, their crystalline smoulder that haunted her dreams, then the quaking deep within her would shudder outward and she would surely fall away into a million aching fragments.

To her relief, Morgana announced that she would retire, and asked Guinevere to walk with her to her chambers. The men rose as they left the hall.

A safe distance away, Gwen grasped her friend’s arm, “Morgana, I can’t believe you’re standing here, in front of me. What happened? How did you escape?”

For a moment something flashed in Morgana’s eyes, a sudden uncertainty, but she only said, smoothly, “The witch only wanted my child. When he…when the child died in birth she had no more use for me. She abandoned me in the wilderness, and I lived among various villagers for two years, unsure whether I wanted to return,” she smiled, though her eyes remained impassive, ‘Of course, in the end I couldn’t bear to remain apart from those I care about.”

Guinevere scanned her face, remembering against her will the malevolence that had shadowed her during those last days in Eirinn, and the unearthly voice of the unborn child speaking through Morgana’s lips. Could all of that really be behind them, like the shadow of a rain-cloud vanished by sunlight?

“Well, I can’t tell you how relieved I am to know you’re safe,” she said quietly, “I am sorry, about the…the child. Did Morgause - ,”

“I don’t wish to talk about it Gwen,” she snapped, then looked immediately contrite and rubbed her temples, “I’m sorry, I’m tired…it’s been a long day. We can talk tomorrow.”

“Of course. Goodnight, Morgana.”

I was warned too

Guinevere remembered the Dragon’s warning to Merlin, and Angelica’s words to her.  She prayed desperately they were both wrong, that they had somehow misread the portents of the future.  Divining was the subtlest of all magical arts, and even the most skilled warlock could be deceived by the shadows of yet-to-come. Lost in her thoughts, she rounded the hallway to her chambers, and found herself face to face with Arthur.

Away from the watching crowd, her eyes could drink him in at last. His hair was a bit shorter, and the sharp edges of his jaw and cheekbone were more pronounced: youth hardening into necessary steel. But he was every bit as vividly handsome as she remembered, and the new solemnity of his features only added to his beauty.

“Hello Arthur,” she whispered.

He approached her slowly, as though unsure if she were real. He paused barely inches from her, and Guinevere felt her breath quicken, struggling behind her racing heart.

“Tell me that I misheard Melwas. Tell me you aren’t going to marry him,” he tried to keep his voice low, calm, reasonable as befits a prince. But all he could think about was how sensuously beautiful she was, how it maddened him to imagine another man touching her, how she unarmed him so easily, and it angered him that she could stand there in calm and bejewelled loveliness when she was affecting him so.

Her tip-tilted dark eyes looked up at him, “You heard right, milord,” she said quietly.

The formality undid him. Arthur grasped her small waist and closed the distance between them, until he could feel her sweet, quickened breath.

“All those times we…the words you spoke, the touches we shared. Were you betrothed to him through it all?”

“No I -,” she felt weak with the nearness of him, wanting him to kiss her and knowing she shouldn’t.

He was hypnotized by the liquid softness of her eyes, the single birthmark on her right cheek, the rose-perfection of her lips, ““Were you in love with him the entire time?”

At that her eyes glowed angrily, and she put her small hands on his chest to widen the distance between them. She looked as she had that night in Eirinn when she defied kings to offer him a token of Avalon, when she had challenged him to question his father’s authority. Arthur felt lust and tenderness warring within him, fuelling his anger at his inability to mask himself around her.

“How could you think such a thing?”

He captured her hands in his, “Then tell me why, Guinevere.”

Only Arthur could speak her name like an erotic caress, only his voice could turn her insides molten liquid. “You shouldn’t be here, touching me, talking-,” she managed.

“You weren’t so eager to send me away the night of that storm. As I remember, you were wearing far less than you are now,” his sapphire eyes darkened, and Guinevere felt the last of her resistance shrivel when his lips brushed hers in a feather-touch, his entire body quivering with leashed desire.  She could taste the spiced wine on his breath, and when his lips parted hers she grew dizzy, clinging to his broad shoulders as he deepened the kiss.  What a fool she’d been to think she could bury her feelings so easily! Arthur coaxed them out of her heart as easily as his mouth coaxed desire from her yielding flesh.  She was flush against his powerful chest and thighs, the tips of her breasts almost spilling over the low neckline as her breath heaved. His thumb brushed the satin-covered mounds as he tightened his grip on her, and Guinevere moaned softly.

Arthur broke the kiss, “You do remember,” his breath as ragged as hers.

Gwen felt angry again, at herself for coming undone so easily, at him for knowingly exercising his power over her.  What did he know of those long months tending dying soldiers, helpless as they succumbed to unholy wounds, clutching their feverish hands and wiping their eyes as death came for them?

She stepped away from him, firmly, “I must retire, milord. The hour’s late.”

He blinked, surprised, and she hated herself for pushing him away.

“Well, I apologize that I bear no magnificent jewels to warrant your attention,” he bit out, glancing scornfully at the glittering assemblage she wore.  Even as hurt pride and helpless longing wrung the words from him, Arthur felt sick at the hurt in her eyes.

He started to speak but she drew herself up and swept into her chambers, closing the doors swiftly.

Guinevere struggled with the necklace clasps, tearing it from her as she would the poisonous coils of a serpent before flinging it away.

 Relieved of its cold weight, her tears loosened at last.