Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Wait.

What?

There wasn’t any extra time to process the madness as the man pulled his hand from his pocket, reeled his arm back, and hurled what looked like an egg at Vera. She clutched the baby to her chest, trying to shield her from the blow.

But the impact never came. One moment, Arthur had been fully engaged with the couple, his back turned. And the next, he’d lunged in and caught the egg, which shattered into his hand.

“No!” The man who threw it dropped to his knees and screamed out in terror, the remnants of his anger melting into a pitiful cry. “It was for her,” he wailed.

Vera did her best to ignore him, made easier by the overwhelming and putrid smell that erupted the instant the egg broke. It must have been rotten, but then—it was a puff of greenish smoke that emanated from it and none of the expected oozing mess. Other than the smoke, the egg was empty. But Arthur’s skin started to blister and bulge, rolling like the surface of boiling water.

Vera stared at it, but Arthur was focused on her. With his uninjured hand, he took her shoulder, eyes searching her and the baby in her arms—blissfully unaware and still sleeping.

“She’s fine,” Vera said.

“She’s a witch!” The man screamed out through his tears as Lancelot tackled him to the ground. The man’s face contorted with his wild rage. “She’s brought a curse upon us! Burn her.”

He wrenched his arm from Lancelot’s grasp only long enough to point at Vera. And the faces of the listening crowd weren’t what they should have been on hearing the ravings of a mad man.

They were afraid—but they were looking at Vera.

They were afraid of her.

It was eerily quiet. They sat in the throne room, Matilda close at Vera’s side. Lancelot, on her other side, was uncharacteristically somber. He’d taken the man to the dungeon before joining them in the throne room and made a beeline for Vera when he arrived.

“You’re unharmed? Truly?” he’d said, his brow furrowed as he took her hands and studied her face.

“I’m fine.” She felt sick, and her skin prickled and burned in the wake of the shock, but she wasn’t hurt. Lancelot’s breath shook as he exhaled. He kissed each of her hands. Vera glanced across their circle at Arthur. He paid Lancelot’s brazen affection no mind.

It was only the four of them, with one empty seat left for Percival. Percival, who had all the information. Percival, who’d been sent to question the mad man. It would have been Arthur, but his boiling hand kept him from it. Camelot’s physician had insisted on treating it immediately as the rolling blisters inched up his wrist and threatened to overtake his forearm.

His hand and wrist were bandaged now, though the angry red blisters continued to spread. A new one was rising above the dressing. He had to be in agony, though his mastery over his expression nearly concealed it, except that his jaw had been clenched since he arrived.

There were guards outside the throne room. There never had been before. They flung the doors open for Percival when he arrived. He dropped into the one remaining seat and heaved a deep breath as Arthur inclined his head at the youngest knight in a clear invitation for him to begin.

“There’s some good news,” Percival said, though his face was grim. “Let’s start there. The work in Exeter is done. Our troops have already begun returning and should all be back by morning. Merlin will be with them. The harvest would have been exceptional. We’re lucky for it. They were able to salvage a decent amount. We’ll almost completely deplete our reserves when it’s all said and done. It’s a gamble that next season’s harvest will be good … but no one will go hungry over this winter. For now, that’s cause for celebration.”

Vera heard the nerves in Percival’s voice. Something had changed in him. And in Lancelot—a hardness that betrayed their fear. Arthur kept his face carefully blank.

“The attacker?” he prompted in a soft voice.

“He’s out of his mind,” Lancelot mumbled.

“He is,” Percival said. “But that doesn’t change the accusations that he levied. Dangerous accusations. And I’m sorry to say it, but they’re shared by others.”

A deep line formed between Arthur’s eyebrows as they drew together. “That doesn’t make sense.”

But Vera innately understood. She’d been thinking about it all morning. “The trouble started after I came back,” she said.

Percival nodded. “You’re different than you were before—though who could expect otherwise? None of our soldiers, present company included, were the same after the wars. Why should you be after you nearly died?”

“Of course she’s changed,” Matilda put in with a note of defensive pride. “And she’s the better for it. We’re all the better for it.”

“Agreed.” Lancelot’s eyes flashed to Arthur before they settled on Vera with his familiar warmth.

Heat rose to her cheeks, and she stared at her toes. She felt less flattered and more like she’d successfully run a con on them. She wasn’t brave enough to see how Arthur reacted.

“I feel I know more of you now after mere minutes of conversation than I ever did in the years of being in your presence before, Your Majesty,” Percival said. “You seem stronger.”

Arthur shifted in his seat, and Vera thought she saw a flash of anger blaze through him. Percival ignored it. “That’s one of the issues, though. They take offense that the lady is outspoken.”

Fuck. She’d not once taken this seriously enough. Vera had behaved like Camelot was a playground … all the moments she’d laughed inappropriately at dinner with Lancelot, that day when she’d made a scene playing at the pit. And then her sharp tongue, both with Lord Wulfstan and now with the man locked in the dungeon.

“By contrast,” Percival went on, “there have been the last few weeks when the chief complaint was that the lady doesn’t interact with the people. They perceive her as—” he paused with an askance glance at Vera.

Oh god. What else? “Say it plainly,” she said, her stomach churning.

“Standoffish,” he said. “That you feel your northern upbringing makes you better than them.” Percival gave a grim smile. The corner of his lips that were crossed by his scar didn’t lift with the rest. “It’s an unfair expectation, leaving you with a narrow corridor of acceptable behavior.”

“What about the infidelity?” Matilda’s voice was quiet and apologetic. “Do others think that, too?”

Percival dropped his elbows to his knees and clasped his hands between them. He looked like he was fighting to get the words to come out or like he was trying to keep from throwing up. “There are some rumors that the queen is spending her nights with other men. I’ve been unable to find the origin.”

Vera and Lancelot caught one another’s eyes. Their early mornings together. It had to be. It was exactly what she’d known to dread all along.

She was alarmed to notice that Percival had shifted his focus to Lancelot, too.

Lancelot actually laughed. “Oh, come on. She is allowed to have friends.” He knew better than anyone in this room that their particular friendship, though it wasn’t romantic, wouldn’t be seen as innocent by any suspicious party.

“She is always with you,” Percival said, his voice carefully even. Vera slumped in her seat.

“She’s also always with Matilda,” Lancelot shot back. “I don’t see—”

“That’s different.”

“Of course,” he drawled sarcastically, “because two women have never taken up—”

“Stop it,” Matilda said sharply. “Right or wrong, it’s different. And you’re behaving like a child to act like it’s not.”

Percival’s face reddened as Lancelot, not ready to give in, rolled his eyes and went on. “She’s with Arthur plenty, too. Every court. All the meals. For the Gods’ sakes, they go to the same chamber every night.”

“But she’s happy when she’s with you!” Percival barked back, his volume mounting with his frustration. “That’s what’s really at the heart of this. The queen—” He seemed to remember himself. Percival looked at her, then at Arthur, who’d listened in cold silence.

“Go on, Percival,” Arthur said with infuriating calm. “Tell me.”

Percival inhaled to begin but stopped himself.

“I mean it,” Arthur said. “Give me the truth. All of it.”

“She—” Percival paused and instead addressed Vera directly. “You look terrified at the king’s side. And Your Majesty,” he shifted to face Arthur, “you look like you’re being tortured. The people watch carefully. They watch everything you do carefully. And they have taken notice of your apparent displeasure with the queen. The people love you, and they will follow your lead when it comes to her.” He swallowed hard. “They have followed your lead.”

Arthur’s face changed for a shade of a second. From sitting by him, listening to him, diligently observing him all these weeks, Vera realized that she’d begun to be able to read the minuscule breaks in his carefully crafted exterior. She recognized the expression that rippled across his features. It was the same one she had seen her first night when she asked him if the water was safe to drink.

Arthur was ashamed.

Good, Vera thought with a savagery that only reached as deep as her hurt and perhaps was merely a placeholder for it.

“And there’s the accusation that she’s a witch,” Percival added.

Vera scoffed and surveyed all their faces. None of them took it lightly.

“But … aren’t there witches everywhere?” She’d assumed, apparently incorrectly, that any woman with a gift would be considered a witch. It was probably something she should have known. Percival’s raised eyebrow was confirmation enough.

Arthur covered it. “You use a different term in the north. In the south, a ‘witch’ is a woman who uses dark magic. Unsanctioned magic.”

Percival nodded. “The coincidence that the harvest’s wreckage came on the heels of the queen’s return …”

“Shit.” The light of Lancelot’s laugh and indignation was gone from his eyes as they fell on Percival. “There’s no way around this, is there?”

Percival shook his head.

“Arthur,” Lancelot said quietly, “ten years ago, maybe even five, that would have been enough evidence. She would have already been burned for it.” He looked to Percival, and Vera realized that they’d begun talking to Arthur in tandem. They were working to persuade him about something but what? To burn her? The thought had barely crossed Vera’s mind before she tossed it aside. It may have been naivete, but she trusted Matilda and Lancelot completely and was surprised to realize that she trusted Arthur not to harm her, either.

“I wish I could say this wasn’t an issue, Your Majesty,” Percival said, taking the thread of conversation he’d been passed, “but this belief goes deep. For some, it started while the queen was gone and festered there. Few gave it merit. But it planted a seed, and our current reality gave it roots. The people who believe this aren’t small in number anymore. And that man attacked her today. He meant to disfigure her.” Percival gestured to Arthur’s injured hand. “He told me a witch should be as ugly as the harm she’s inflicted.”

She didn’t need to know that. Vera’s head swirled. She’d begun to reckon with the hardship she’d brought on the kingdom, but she hadn’t understood before now that her life might actually be in danger, too.

“I have to do it,” Arthur finally said.

Lancelot let out a sigh. He and Percival had succeeded, though neither were pleased. “You do.”

“It should be done today,” Arthur said. He’d never looked like he carried a heavier burden than right now. “Belaboring it will only draw more of a crowd. I want to send a clear message without stirring up undue fear.”

“What are you—” Vera’s words came out so quietly that no one heard her.

“It’ll be the first in your reign, won’t it?” Lancelot asked with a frightening gentleness.

Arthur nodded.

“The first what?” Vera asked. Trepidation had driven breath behind her voice, making her question sound like a demand.

At last, Arthur met her gaze. He held it steadily. “Execution.”

She couldn’t make sense of the word at first. On her arrival to this time, she’d assumed a brutal society, a reality rife with cruel punishments. It was a notion she’d quickly been dispelled of. They’d built a different world. Arthur dreamed of a new sort of nation, and he’d made it and—

He was going to execute the man who attacked her.

It was all shattering, everything they’d fought for. Everything she was supposed to help them save. And it was Vera’s fault. That man was going to die because she hadn’t held her tongue. It was her fault.

A pained sound escaped Vera before she found any words. “No. No, you can’t.” Camelot was different. This England, it was better. It had been better … until she arrived. She would fix it. She would beg. She would plead. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I’m sorry. I should have stayed silent. I shouldn’t have pretended to be her—”

“You haven’t done anything wrong.” Lancelot spoke over her, trying to cover her slip before Percival or Matilda heard it.

“There must be another punishment. He—” her eyes shot to Arthur’s wrapped hand, “he didn’t mean to hurt you. It wouldn’t have killed me—”

“You were holding the child, Guinevere,” Matilda said this, and gently. “If he had hit you, it certainly would have killed the baby.”

Conscious thought was gone from Vera’s mind, replaced by rapid bursts that didn’t quite connect with one another. She crammed her eyes closed, trying to shut it all out, but all she could imagine behind her eyelids was death. A dead child in her arms. The man. Vincent.

Her fault.

Arthur could fix this. He loved his people. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. Please don’t—”

“It’s not your fault.” Vera thought Arthur said it. It may have simply been what she wanted to hear. Her vision went blurry. She couldn’t see him clearly.

“I don’t want this.” Her voice was rising, heedless of what she was saying. “I’ll leave. I’ll go back to Glastonbury—I should have never come here. I can’t be her—”

“It’s not about you!” She heard that. Arthur yelled it so forcefully, so furiously, how could she not? Vera sucked a deep breath in, and her vision cleared enough to find revulsion etched in the lines of his face. “It is my decision. That man committed treason. His actions are a threat to my rule and the kingdom we have built. He dies. You have no say in this.”

It wasn’t about her. It never had been. It was about his rule. Of course. That shouldn’t have made her angry. Vera knew she was nothing more than a placeholder for Guinevere.

She gritted her teeth and glared back. Anything softer than anger would have left her sobbing.

When Arthur spoke, his voice was quiet though startlingly stern. “It has nothing to do with you. Do you understand?”

She’d break. She’d cry if she spoke.

“She does—” Lancelot began, but Arthur stopped him with a glare before turning it back on Vera.

“Do you?”

It was a lie. It had everything to do with her, and Vera despised herself for it. But in that moment, she hated him, too, and that made it easier.

“Yes, sire.” She threw the word like a dagger.

“Who performs the execution in the absence of a mage?” Percival broke the overlong quiet that followed. “Merlin won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“I’ll do it.” The response came from the door, startling them all. Lancelot and Percival rose automatically and assumed defensive postures, unmatched by the man who stood by the closed door with his hands clasped in front of his dingy brown robe. His eyes were deepset in his skull. It might have been this that emphasized the perturbed scowl carved into his features. His inky dark hair wasn’t long or short. It lazed about down to the middle of his ears, the distinct appearance of someone who meant to have short hair but couldn’t be bothered to maintain it. Coupled with the scowl, the eyes, and a sharp nose, Vera found him rather alarming.

Percival’s open-mouthed shock made Lancelot crack a half smile, though his sword was also half unsheathed. “Who the bloody fuck are you?” Percival barked. “How did you get in here?”

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he said flatly, “I’ll perform the execution.”

Percival’s lips moved in exasperation, though no sound came out.

“That’s a generous offer from an unidentified stranger,” Lancelot said with a quirked eyebrow, “but all executions must be performed by a mage.”

“I’m aware,” the sullen man answered, followed by more thick silence.

A hum of recognition came from Arthur’s direction. “You’re Mage Gawain.”

Vera jolted. That was a name from Arthurian legend. A knight, one of Arthur’s knights. She was sure of it. For the hundredth time since her arrival, she loathed herself for never taking enough interest in the legend to have read a single damn book about it. But this man wasn’t a knight.

Gawain stared at Arthur’s injured hand as he gave one curt nod, his hair curtaining his eyes with the motion. “I’ve only just arrived.”

“I thank you.” Arthur inclined his head. “And I’m sorry this will be your welcome.”

“Treason is the highest crime against you.” Gawain’s dark eyes scanned them and pointedly lingered on Vera. “It’s my duty in Merlin’s absence, but I must insist on seeing to your wound first.”

“It’s already been tended by the physician.”

Gawain shrugged. “If you’re content with being permanently maimed.” He offered no further explanation.

“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” Percival stared at Gawain, aghast. “Please elaborate on what you mean.”

Gawain’s sunken eyes stayed on Percival for a long moment. “The wound was caused by magic. It must be healed as such.”

“You have a healing gift?” Lancelot asked with his head cocked to the side.

Gawain nodded. “They are rare. I am fortunate.”

They must have been extremely rare, for even Percival was cowed enough by the revelation to go slack-jawed with awe. It brought Vera’s dread back, though. The hands that would heal would soon perform the execution. She wanted time to slow down. She wanted his work on Arthur to take hours … something that would save them from what was to come. There had to be a way out of this.

But it all moved in a flurry. No one had to tell Vera that she needed to attend the execution, that Guinevere needed to stand by Arthur in the wake of Percival’s revelations. It was a foregone conclusion, though she couldn’t remember how she got to the town square. They didn’t have a designated site for executions, but the square was chosen for its logistics; a place for Arthur to oversee the act with Vera at his side (a raised box that had ironically been built for observing Camelot’s many celebrations) and ample surrounding space for … spectators. The square was nearly full, speckled with dejected and frightened faces who’d grown comfortable in a time of exuberant peace. At the very center was the man with his hands bound, knelt on a makeshift wooden platform.

She couldn’t see the tears from where she stood, but Vera heard his weeping. He was flanked by Lancelot in full formal regalia and sharply contrasted by Gawain on the other side in his dingy, brown robe. Vera also recognized Father John, the castle’s priest, who stood over the man, offering last rites before he backed away and disappeared into the crowd.

Soldiers were situated in a wide ring to make a bubble of space between the spectators and the main event. Percival and Randall bookended a cluster of soldiers guarding her and Arthur, their backs to them.

And then it was time. Vera’s legs shook so violently that it was a wonder she could stand. She clenched her teeth shut to keep them from chattering.

Arthur stepped forward to make the pronouncement. “Joseph, son of Cuthbert the carpenter,” he said, and Vera’s breath hitched. She hadn’t thought to ask his name before now. “You are unquestionably guilty of treason for attacking your king and queen, endangering not only their lives but those of countless witnesses present. You are hereby sentenced to death.” There was no direct mention of his verbal assault, but it was the reason that he would not be offered last words.

Lancelot’s face was taut and his expression hard as he stepped behind the man—Joseph—and held him by the shoulders. He nodded to Gawain.

It was going to happen. She caught Arthur’s movement in her periphery and felt the weight of his stare on her. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing his hatred.

She told herself it was curiosity, but the truth was that loneliness had her turning to him. In his eyes, she found fear and was overcome with the unnerving sense that he needed her. No, not her—Guinevere.

But she reached for him on instinct and would have stopped herself short if he had not moved toward her at precisely the same moment. The fingers of his bandaged hand met her untarnished one and closed around it, holding tightly.

Joseph’s crying rose and shifted to shouts, and the tender moment was gone like mist on the wind.

Gawain looped his left arm around Joseph’s head, bracing his neck firmly in place beneath the chin. In his other hand, he held a thin-bladed silver dagger.

Vera gasped. When there’d been no guillotine, no rope, no massive sword, she’d assumed the mechanism for the deed would be magic. Never a dagger. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck, though the day was cool.

“Close your eyes,” Arthur murmured, his lips hardly moving. “Please don’t watch.”

Her shock at his gentle plea nearly stole her breath, but Vera had to watch. She couldn’t look away when that man’s blood was on her hands.

Gawain struck swiftly, piercing Joseph’s chest in the center, all the way to the blade’s hilt. Joseph screamed, and it was the sound of an animal caught and made prey. He gasped and squirmed beneath the mage’s grasp. With every pull and cry, blood spurted from the wound, but Gawain remained motionless for one long inhale and exhale before he jerked his own head to the side.

It was as if the motion pulled the thread of life cleanly from Joseph’s body. The tension collapsed from his muscles, and he crumpled from man to corpse in a single blink.