Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

As it happened, nobody had been knighted since the end of the war, and it was big news. Vera was bowled over by the number of townsfolk who wanted to personally come and congratulate Gawain as the word spread. She knew he’d taken his gifts for teaching magic into the village but hadn’t grasped the number of lives he’d touched. His off-putting demeanor hardly seemed an obstacle. In fact, it might have endeared them to him even more.

When the sun sank low and drew near to kissing the horizon, all the orbs through town flickered to life, signaling that it was time to gather for the evening banquet. It was customary that a crier announced the arrival of guests or performers, and tonight, Arthur’s visiting council of knights were the guests of honor. There were five of them, and as their names were called out, they each entered with varying degrees of comfort at the attention.

Vera and Arthur stood together at the front for the procession. She recognized right away that these knights were the ones from Guinevere’s memory in the great hall—the memory from before the final battle. She had incorrectly assumed that the two women at the table were wives of knights. They weren’t—they were knights.

First was Elaine, who had the air of a cowboy in an American western. It was a small tragedy that she didn’t have a revolver strapped at her hip, but one hand snapped to her sword as the other gave a flick of her wrist, more a salute than a wave. She stalked through the scattered tables to bow to Arthur and Vera (followed by a far less formal hug initiated by Arthur) and sat at the table with the local king’s guard.

Next came Tristan, with his bright green eyes striking as new grass in the springtime and soft brown hair that curled and stuck out at awkward angles but somehow made him look ruggedly handsome. He followed in the same way, not displeased by the attention but uncomfortable with it. He let out a prolonged exhale through puffed-out cheeks when he reached the front.

Edwin had grey hair cropped short, and he had a wise and steady way about him. Then Lionel, who was built like a tank that could steamroll any opponent but who had deep smile lines and a boisterous laugh as he egged the crowd on, like a footballer soliciting louder cheers after an exceptional play. Marian brought up the end, gracious and relaxed, her dark, long hair in a single braid. Her lithe legs and lean, muscular body drew the enamored stares of more than a few as she passed. She was resplendent in her flowing black gown, though the short sword dangling from her waist sent a clear message that she was far from defenseless. Marian beamed, squeezing the shoulder of someone she recognized on her way to the front.

When Arthur hugged her, she kissed his cheek and framed his face between her hands with a fond gaze. Vera made sure her smile didn’t twitch—though a deep part of her inwardly roared.

Vera’s jealousy melted when Arthur’s hand slid around her waist, holding her back as the others went to fill their plates. He leaned close to her ear. “There’s something I should tell you about Tristan.”

“The young one?” Vera glanced at Tristan in time to see his head tip back, laughing at whatever Elaine had said. He had dimples when he laughed. She somehow knew they would be there before they appeared.

“Yes.” Arthur paused as Lionel and Edwin passed by and took their seats at the farthest end of the table. “The two of you grew up together. Your fathers intended for you to marry.”

“Oh,” she said. “Fuck.”

He laughed. “And that changed when I expressed interest in your father’s partnership. And in you.”

“So, I dumped Tristan for you. Do I have that right?”

“Something like that,” Arthur said with a fleeting smirk. “He’s a good man. I’m honored to have him as a member of my council.”

She didn’t know why he told her that, and the opportunity to ask vanished as the rest of the knights descended upon the table. They were a rowdy bunch. Their table was the loudest by far as they told story after story.

When dinner finished, the night was still young, and the council knights and king’s guard had plans for the evening. They could have asked castle staff to prepare the big room for their after-dinner merry-making, but a unit of soldiers who hadn’t had any need for a mission in recent years acted as though this was their own covert operation.

Lionel swiped platters of food, and Elaine and Wyatt made off with pitchers of drinks in each hand. Arthur stepped in to advise against Edwin and Percival’s plot, goading Gawain to bring the giant marble statue as Marian stood nearby, happily watching the shenanigans unfold.

Lancelot attempted to use Randall as a silverware mule by dropping spoons in his pocket every time he passed. Randall noticed each attempt, perhaps owing to his sensory gift but more likely due to Lancelot’s inability to be discreet. Randall removed the utensils without so much as a glance in his direction.

After his failed flatware mischief, Lancelot caught Vera’s eye and gestured for her to follow him.

“Come with me to the kitchens to get the sweet cakes?” he said as she fell in step with him.

She doubted he needed any help, but that all his dearest friends were in one place, and he wanted time with her brought Vera a sort of happiness she didn’t know how to hold.

Margaret had the cakes sliced and ready on a tray.

“You are too good to us,” Lancelot gushed.

“Of course I am.” She squeezed his cheek and gave him a crinkly– eyed smile, reserving a pat on the arm for Vera. “Now, off with you so I can catch a wink of sleep before we cook for half the kingdom tomorrow!”

They grinned like schoolchildren, ready to make off with their prize.

“Oh! One moment,” Margaret said as she held up a finger. She bustled over to the cabinets and rifled through until she procured what looked like a large milk carton—except that it was made of leather. “You’ll see Merlin before me, I’m sure. I used the last of your tonic tonight, Your Majesty. Good timing that he’s back to make more!”

The smile hadn’t yet fallen from Vera’s face, but her insides lurched. “My tonic?”

“Well, yours and the king’s,” she amended as she pressed the jug into Vera’s hands. “I hadn’t thought to use the mage gifts to keep your health up through the winter months, but it seems to have fortified the both of you well.”

“How, er, how long have you been using the tonic?” Lancelot asked with a glance at Vera.

“Merlin gave me the first batch after Yule. Be a dear and have him refill it?”

Vera wasn’t sure if she’d answered or acknowledged Margaret’s words at all. She distantly heard Lancelot and Margaret’s voices saying some sort of pleasantries to one another—which were mercifully short. She had to get out of this room.

She left the kitchen as fast as she could without running and made it halfway through the courtyard before she stopped to let Lancelot catch up.

“I’d thought at least Arthur was safe from magic’s influence by now.” She wanted to fling the damn jug over the castle wall. “I never thought to worry about what comes from the fucking kitchens. Why would Merlin—”

“Stop it,” Lancelot said gently. “Maybe it is a health tonic.”

Vera leveled him with a scathing glare.

“All right,” he relented. “It doesn’t look good, but were you having fun tonight?”

“What?” He had lost his mind. “No! This isn’t my idea of—”

“Before,” he said. “Were you having fun before you knew?”

“Yes, of course—”

“Nothing has changed.” He nodded at the jug in Vera’s hands. “That’s empty. There’s nothing we can do about what’s already been done. Don’t let this ruin a perfectly fine evening.”

Vera scoffed. “That is idiotic.”

“Is it?” He chuckled. “You’re right. How foolish to let yourself enjoy a party with the greatest knights you’ll ever meet when you could spend the whole time miserable about something you can’t do a damn thing about.”

He had a point.

“And if you can set the weight of the world down for a few hours of dreaded fun,” Lancelot added, “I promise that we’ll talk with Gawain about it before the night’s over and see if he can give us some answers.”

She had to admit that sticking her head in the sand for a bit had its appeal. “Fine.” She sighed. “Lead the way.”

The group, with all their contraband in tow, had made it to the big room by the time Vera and Lancelot got there. She tucked the jug from the kitchen under a table near the door. Tristan lumbered in a few minutes later, weighed down with a bulging drawstring bag slung over one shoulder and a sheathed sword in his opposite hand.

“What’d you steal?” Lionel called as he arranged his bounty of lifted platters on the table with pride.

“Nothing!” Tristan said indignantly. There were two open tables, one on each side of the enormous fireplace. He slung the bag onto the smaller of the two as the other was already occupied by some of the knights. “These are for the king and Guinevere from my travels.”

“You brought gifts?” Lionel huffed. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

Tristan grinned. “They’re gifts from Tang Gaozu.”

“I’m fairly certain you made those words up,” Wyatt said, though he and Marian crossed the room to get a good look at the sword. Its sheath was a dark and shining wood and was ramrod straight. Wyatt pulled the blade free by its jade-encrusted handle. It was sharpened to a fine point along its edge with a slanted tip. He frowned appreciatively as he balanced the weapon in his hands.

“He’s the emperor in the Far East, nitwit,” Marian said as she, too, took in its craftsmanship. “Arthur will love that.”

Arthur was the only one yet to arrive. This was normal, though, especially when guests filled the castle. He would be the earliest to arrive at meals and meetings and the last to depart.

Vera stayed at the table with Tristan and the gifts as the others meandered to their seats by the fire. This was a gold mine. Nobody from her time had touched artifacts like this, items scarcely few had even seen beneath thick glass at museums. She ran her fingers across the sword as Tristan unpacked more treasures. Vera still carried her instinct to touch the ancient things, the way she’d touched St. Michael’s Tower on the Tor or the abbey’s walls. But these items weren’t so ancient just yet. They were gleaming and new.

“I don’t know what the hell—sorry.” Tristan gave her a look. Guinevere must not have had the mouth that Vera had. He corrected himself and went on. “I don’t know what any of it is or what to do with it.” He pulled items out one at a time. There were at least half a dozen small statues wrapped in brightly dyed silks (their protective wrappings prizes in themselves), and then came a wooden box tied neatly with brown string.

“What were you doing in China?” Vera asked. Was it even called China at this point in history? She had no idea, but Tristan understood her.

He shrugged as he leaned against the table. “I enjoy travel. When the king asked for a representative to visit, I was happy to volunteer. I got to study their battle strategies and learn some fascinating combat tactics. Their emperor has done many things like your husband—uniting tribes, building a nation—all that.”

His eyes were unreadable and trained on the door as Arthur entered and joined the others by the fire. Tristan picked up the palm-sized box and shook a hefty stack of rectangular sheets free from it, turning them in his hands.

“Do you know what these are?” he asked.

“No,” Vera said with a quick glance. But then she did a double take, and her brow furrowed. Tristan had five thin plates in hand, and he fanned them out so that they overlapped one another. She cocked her head to the side.

“May I—?” She reached toward them, and Tristan passed them to her. They had little pictures on them. One was a sketchy painting of a person’s face, and the others had delicate flowers. One with two blooms, one with four, another with eight. She flipped them over. They all had the same intricate geometric pattern covering the reverse side. Her mouth dropped open.

“It can’t be.” With the five cards in one hand, she began to flip through the rest, confirming her theory. Vera laughed. “I think … I think they’re playing cards.”

Tristan scooted halfway behind her to stand close with his chin over her shoulder, his cheek nearly brushing her skin. His history with Guinevere was readily apparent. He was clearly comfortable with her. “What are playing cards?”

“Well, I don’t exactly recognize these symbols, but that’s an easy fix,” Vera said, an idea taking shape. “You can play loads of games with them.”

“How do you know all this?” Tristan asked in wonder. He reached to touch the cards, but his pinky also grazed the side of Vera’s hand. Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t pull away as she should have. She looked at Tristan out of the corner of her eyes.

He was behaving normally except for how he gazed at her with tenderness.

“Guinna stayed at an interesting monastery during her recovery.”

Vera jumped at Lancelot’s voice, foolishly feeling like she’d been caught doing something wrong. He stood a few steps away, his stare fixed on Tristan.

“Did you?” Tristan asked, nonchalantly stepping back.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat in an effort to break the tension that probably only existed in her mind. Vera spread the cards out on the table, flipping them so their unique sides with the blossoms or faces pointed upward. There were well over a hundred, with enough repeats among the patterns and the pictures. She organized them into piles and looked up at Lancelot as the idea solidified. “Will you get a quill?”

Setting aside the sacrilege of graffiti-ing an artifact that would be priceless in her time, Vera added notations to the cards. She made two fifty-two-card decks, with some left over and laid aside as spares. Lancelot watched while she worked. After a while, Tristan wandered to join the others.

“What’s this game?” Lancelot stood just as close to her as Tristan had. His arm brushed hers, and he even rested his chin on her shoulder. The knot in Vera’s stomach eased. See? Friends, especially dear friends, could be affectionate. Vera conveniently chose to ignore the whole arranged betrothal bit.

“I think we should play poker,” she said. “Texas hold’em.”

“Excellent.” Lancelot pulled over a chair and sat down. She loved that he didn’t question it. “Teach me.”

They spent the better part of the next twenty minutes going over the game: what the hands meant, how to understand them, and the finer points of how to play. She made a cheat sheet of which hands beat what. Lancelot was excellent with games, so he caught on quickly.

“This is grand. Let’s do it.” He wheeled around to the others. “Who wants to learn a game?” Lancelot said, clapping his hands together.

Matilda yawned pointedly. “I’m exhausted. Next time.”

“I’ll turn in, too,” Randall said, looking anywhere but at Matilda.

Vera contained her suspicions about what the two leaving together meant to a short, clipped giggle as Matilda bid her goodnight, sighing in mock annoyance as her cheeks flushed.

Everyone else wanted to play except Marian, who adamantly said she’d rather observe.

“Too competitive,” Elaine murmured. “Afraid she’s going to lose and show us she isn’t graceful every second of every day.”

“That is absolutely correct,” Marian said as she sank into a seat, lounging back with each hand draped over an armrest. She looked like a pristine painting in motion.

Edwin scoffed as he scooted his chair closer to the table. “No sense in that. We’ve seen her piss on the front lines, same as the rest of us.”

“Yes,” Marian said, “but that wasn’t a contest. And if it had been, I’d have won. This will be more fun for all of you if I spectate.”

Vera pulled a chair next to the empty one Arthur had occupied only minutes ago. But when he sat back down, it was across the table from her. Tristan slid into the chair by her side. They all scooted in close together for the ten of them to fit at the table. Vera and Lancelot gave the instructions, collected enough varied coins to use as chips, and, after a few questions and practice rounds, they were ready to begin.

It wasn’t without bumps. After winning the first hand, Wyatt was a self-deemed savant and spent the rest of the game telling everyone what to do—in what turned out to be terrible advice. Twice, Tristan tried to play a flush using two different suits. Vera laughed so hard, correcting him the second time, that she could barely sit up straight.

They started to get the hang of it after a while, and it was a brilliant way to thaw the ice between her and the visiting knights. Vera liked Elaine very much. She was wickedly funny and had the most unreadable bluff of anyone at the table.

Unlike Wyatt, Marian roved around and offered sound advice until Lancelot called her out. “Oy! You can’t peek at all our hands and then meddle in the game.”

One corner of her mouth quirked up. That was exactly what she’d been doing. She settled into a seat at Arthur’s shoulder, becoming an advisor solely to him, often leaning forward to murmur in his ear. He inclined his head toward her when she spoke, and Vera tried not to bristle. She realized with a jolt that she’d been staring at them for the entirety of this hand and determinedly pulled her attention back to Tristan.

He was great fun, excited like a puppy when he won a hand, but he didn’t care enough about the game to be upset when he lost. It drove the more competitive players mad as he carelessly called when he shouldn’t have or raised on a pair of threes that turned into a four-of-a-kind on the flop. He felt familiar to her, similar to how Lancelot had, and he didn’t find it suspicious that she loved hearing him recollect their childhood adventures. Percival was on Tristan’s other side and encouraged him to tell the most embarrassing ones. This packed table was the happiest family Vera could imagine.

Tristan and Percival’s laughter dimmed in her ears as Vera’s eyes found Arthur. He’d pulled them all together. The kingdom was practically a paradise, more peaceful and prosperous even than the life of comforts from the future that Vera grew up with. It didn’t seem possible—but here they were.

Arthur’s eyes flicked up from his cards and met hers. Butterflies thrummed through her as he smiled at her. She returned it, embarrassed because she knew her adoration glowed plainly on her face.

Lancelot shouted and pulled her from her reverie.

“Dammit, Gawain!” He slammed his cards down on the table. “That’s so stupid. How did you know I didn’t have the ace?” Gawain had successfully called out Lancelot’s attempts at a bluff every time. The last one cleaned out his paltry stack of chips, and he was the first to be eliminated from the game.

“Nicely played, Sir Gawain,” Vera said, keeping her eyes locked on Lancelot as she high-fived Gawain.

Lancelot scowled and pointed at each of them. “Fuck you both,” he said.

The table burst into laughter, any notion that Vera might be offended by their language long forgotten.

On the next hand, Percival went out and erupted in frustration because Elaine, seated next to him, had peeked at his cards.

“Well, hold them closer if you don’t want me to see. You’ve got them all the way out here.” She mimed holding her cards with her arm fully extended. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I am not doing that,” he snapped. “You’re right next to me; it doesn’t matter how I hold them. Guinna, how did they keep people from being unrighteous cheaters at the monastery?”

It was Vera’s turn, so she was busy studying her hand as she responded. “Poker tables are usually circular. I think that helps.”

“That’s what we need.” Percival rapped the table sharply with his knuckles. “A round table.”

She heard it.

A round table. She looked up from her cards and around at the knights, Arthur’s most trusted council of knights. The round table. Vera did the only thing that made a lick of sense to her: she laughed. Really laughed. Laughed until tears wet her cheeks. With no way to explain it, she’d simply have to accept their cocked eyebrows and bewildered stares.

“Probably a monastery thing,” Gawain said as he pushed more coins to the center.

The game pulled them back from Vera’s hysterics. She lost shortly after that and stayed for a while, leaning toward Tristan to offer him quiet advice or to explain the difference in suits when she could sense he was about to mess up. Lionel took to yell-singing made-up sea shanties to roast everyone around the table, but even amid the raging ruckus, Vera’s eyes grew heavy, and she nodded off where she sat.

“Hey.” Lancelot’s whisper at her ear jolted her. Vera lifted her head from Tristan’s shoulder, where it had lolled as she dozed. “Ready to turn in?”

She nodded in a haze. “Sorry,” she mumbled to Tristan, who wasn’t bothered at all. Vera wasn’t so groggy that she missed Arthur looking up at her from his cards every few seconds as he pretended not to watch.

“I’ll walk you,” Lancelot said with a glance at Gawain.

He rose quickly. “I’ll come, too.”

“Why not?” Lancelot said. He played it off perfectly, as if he’d not orchestrated it all ahead of time. “Let’s make it a proper escort.”

Vera scooped up the jug on their way out. She waited until they reached the tower stairwell before she stopped and passed it to Gawain, explaining what Margaret had said. “Is there any way you can test it?” she asked. “To know what it is for certain?”

“Yes.” Gawain frowned as he ran his fingers around its base. “If there’s enough residual liquid.” He didn’t unstop the cork to check; rather, he closed his eyes and mumbled beneath his breath. The jug glowed green as it had when he tested Percival’s liquor on the way to Yule. As the glow faded, his eyes shot to Vera. “I’m sorry, Guinna. It is what you expected.”

Her heart plummeted. She wordlessly turned and started up the stairs. She knew Gawain and Lancelot followed as their steps echoed behind her. When they reached the landing, Gawain broke the silence.

“Do you want me to tell the king?” he asked.

“Yes—No,” she said, changing her mind as she spoke. This wasn’t fair. “Wait until after the tournament tomorrow. It will only be a distraction that we can’t talk about until the day is done anyway.”

“And we can’t have him punching Merlin,” Lancelot added, and Vera knew it was only half a joke.

“Thank you, Gawain,” she said, determined to push it away. In the end, nothing had changed since this morning. It was all as it always had been. “Can you give Lancelot and me a minute, please? And no listening devices.”

Gawain nodded, eyes darting between them.

“Wait for me here on the landing,” Lancelot said, giving Gawain’s elbow a squeeze.

“Am I wrong to wait to tell Arthur about the potion?” she asked once they were halfway down the corridor.

“Honestly, I don’t think it matters. I have known him all my life. He’s never looked at anybody the way he looks at you.”

She wanted to believe that, too. When Arthur held her in his gaze, she could nearly believe she was the most important, most lovely human alive. Nearly—because it was tainted. “He’s never been under a potion to adore someone either.”

Lancelot sighed dramatically. “There’s not a mage alive who could make a potion with those results.” He leaned on the doorframe as they stopped outside Vera and Arthur’s chamber. “And why does it even matter? What’s so bad about two married people being disgustingly in love?”

“What if I’m playing right into some awful destiny that I can’t stop?” The words were tumbling from Vera now. “Merlin was adamant that the stories about Arthur from my time didn’t get any of it right, but there’ve been a number of suspicious coincidences.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, first, there’s the two of us. And I know it’s not an affair, and we’re not in love or any of that …”

“Speak for yourself.” He raised his eyebrow suggestively.

“Oh, shut up,” she shot back, grateful for a reason to smile. “But Gawain’s in the legends, too. At first, I didn’t think much of it because I knew the Gawain in those stories was a knight and ours wasn’t, but then—”

“Ah. I see.”

“And,” Vera went on, feeling rather silly, “there’s a whole part in the story about how Arthur’s knights are the knights of the round table. Did you hear what Percival said today?”

“Yes, but he was talking about poker.”

“I know. It’s ridiculous. But,” she said, realizing it as she spoke, “history has little evidence from this time period. To even get Arthur’s name right, let alone so many others, and their roles, and you, and me … It’s strange.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head back and stared into space as he considered it. “You said there are a lot of different stories written about it. Is there a primary one? One that’s better than the rest?”

“I think Le Morte d’Arthur was the first that told the whole story.”

Lancelot pulled a worried face. “The Death of Arthur? That sounds pleasant. Is that what it’s all about?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t actually read it.”

He snorted. “Shit. That’s unfortunate. I wish you had.”

“You and me both.”

“The amount of time you are spending alone at the queen’s room has now crossed the boundary from acceptable to suspicious,” Gawain called from the stairwell.

Vera and Lancelot laughed. “Thank you, Sir Gawain. I’m coming.” Lancelot rolled his eyes, but his face lit as he said, “It’s always an adventure with Gawain. Look, I’m sure it’s nothing. They’re … oddities—and they aren’t quite bang-on right, are they?”

She supposed not. She’d never heard anything about Gawain being a mage. And certainly, the round table wasn’t in reference to poker.

Lancelot kissed Vera’s cheek. “Night, darling. Lock your door. Arthur has a key.”

“I know. Thank you, Mother. See you tomorrow.” But she watched Lancelot’s back as he left. Her intuition hummed that there was something odd in her interaction with him, but she couldn’t place what.

Vera didn’t need help changing, but she wanted to talk to Matilda. She crept over to her door and listened carefully for a minute, not wanting to interrupt if Randall was there. After a stretch of quiet that reassured her, she knocked. No answer.

If Matilda wasn’t here and she and Randall left at the same time … Vera giggled alone in the hallway. What a conversation that would be tomorrow. She couldn’t wait to tell Arthur.

She changed and got into bed. It had been a splendid evening, the kind that led to things like pining lovers finding one another’s arms.

The unbidden image of beautiful Marian with her lips inches from Arthur’s ear came to Vera’s mind. Her eyes shot open. What if he didn’t come back at all tonight? Maybe he’d go to Marian’s bed. He was allowed to, after all. Vera had no claim on him. He made it clear that she could pursue whoever she wanted, and he had the same right.

They were friends, and she was leaving soon. In fact, it would be better if he ripped off that bandage tonight and found intimacy elsewhere. As much as he emphasized not wanting Vera backed into a corner, he was stuck, too. She wasn’t the only one being fed a potion to manipulate her feelings.

Something could have already happened between Marian and Arthur. She acted awfully comfortable with him. There was that year-long gap after Arthur had already witnessed three versions of Guinevere perish. He didn’t even want Merlin to bring Vera. Why shouldn’t he have found pleasure or even love in that time?

Vera wanted to throw up.

She lay in bed, trying not to think about it and finding that she seemed to have no other thoughts. After at least an hour, she was nearly asleep when the faint sound of metal clinking came from the lock. She opened her eyes just enough to see Arthur’s distinct silhouette in the door. He took care to shut and secure it quietly. He didn’t even change his clothes. He took off his shirt and crawled into bed.

Vera was infuriated to notice that she was so relieved she was nearly in tears. She rolled over toward him and laid a hand on his bare chest, surprised by her own bold familiarity. He didn’t wait to pretend to be asleep. He reached up and covered her hand with his own.

She shivered. Vera wanted to lay her whole body on top of him, and her heart heaved at the thought of it.

He traced his thumb over the back of her hand. “Goodnight, Vera.”

“Goodnight,” she said.