Chapter One

Winter 497

The sigh of a reed pen across parchment, one jagged line of ink. That was all it took to betray my king and myself.

My signature, made with trembling hands, may have made me Arthur Pendragon’s wife, but it couldn’t change my heart. He’d asked for my assent to this marriage, and I gave it, but it was a lie.

Marrying him was my duty. That much I had resigned myself to in the two months since Arthur proposed, shattering my dreams of a life with Aggrivane of Lothian.

I watched with hollow detachment from my place next to Arthur as our marriage contract was sealed in the snowy courtyard of the old Roman fort of Carlisle, the stronghold of Arthur’s father, the previous high king, Uther.

Arthur stood facing my father, back to the gate of the castle. His breaths were small puffs of white in the frosty air. “King Leodgrance of Gwynedd, by the signing of this contract, I bind myself to you and your kin through the hand of your daughter, Guinevere. As proof of my fidelity, I bestow upon you the price of her honor.” Arthur extended a wooden box of coins, ornately wrought gold brooches, and jewels—my bride-price, the money that assured Arthur’s sincere backing of our union but which would become mine should we ever part ways.

“I thank you, Your Majesty,” my father said with a humble bow. “You are now my son as well. My gift to you is a symbol of my tribe, the people who are your most loyal servants.”

My father held out his hand, and a servant placed the reins of a bridle into them. He passed them to Arthur. At the other end was a coal-black steed, a reminder of the days when brides were sold for cattle or land rather than gold. The stallion was muscular and strong but calm, indicating he was well trained and would be a valuable addition to Arthur’s growing cavalry.

Arthur handed the reins to one of his attendants and clapped my father on the shoulder. “All of Britain is indebted to you for the most precious gift of your daughter, who, in a moment, will become our queen. I thank you for giving her into my care.”

My eyes welled with stinging tears. To anyone in the assembled crowd, I likely appeared overwhelmed now that the deed was done, but my heart burned with a mix of emotions. Some small part of me knew this was the same transaction that would have taken place had I married Aggrivane as I’d intended, but my heart said this was all wrong. I should have been standing next to a man I loved, one with whom I couldn’t wait to share my life, not the stranger who had stolen my dreams.

But those were the ruminations of a lovesick, petulant girl, not a level-headed ruler. As Merlin approached me with a pot of fragrant rose oil in one hand, the crown of Britain in the other, I forced myself to think like the high queen I was about to become. I was married to the High King of Britain, a position most women would kill for, and I’d had to do nothing to obtain it thanks to my father’s willingness to use me as payment of his life-debt to the king.

I glanced at Arthur. His kind gaze held not a hint of temper or malice; he would not abuse me. Plus, he was allowing me to be crowned queen instead of simply naming me his royal wife, which meant we would rule as equals. Those facts had to be enough to trump whatever hurt and pain I still felt. Besides, though I would never openly admit it, part of me wanted to be high queen. I had been raised to rule and govern, and now I had a chance beyond my wildest imaginings.

I fell to one knee before Merlin, touching my right thumb to my forehead, lips, and heart—the sign of Avalon—in acknowledgement of his office as Archdruid.

Merlin’s smile reflected our long friendship, forged from my years in Avalon under the tutelage of the Lady of the Lake. He leaned in close, his voice soft in my ear as he said, “No one is more deserving of this role than you. But take care your heart does not lead you astray.”

I pulled back, regarding Merlin quizzically. I had no idea what he meant. For a moment, his eyes held the glassy, faraway look of prophecy, then he blinked, and it was gone. Before I could be sure I had really seen it, Merlin turned away as though nothing had ever passed between us.

To the waiting crowd, he proclaimed, “Guinevere of Northgallis, priestess of Avalon, and now wife to High King Arthur Pendragon in accordance with his will, this day I anoint you High Queen of Britain.”

Bowing, I willed myself not to shake, though my legs felt as if they would give way beneath me.

“May you be blessed with purity of mind and judgment by the Maiden”—he anointed my hair—“with love of your people from the Mother”—he drew small, sticky shapes on my cheeks—“and with the wisdom of the Crone”—he covered my hands in the warm oil—“and may she of a thousand names bless you and keep you always.”

He placed the glittering circlet upon my head, secured a heavy braided metal torque around my neck, and knelt. “May I be the first to pledge my loyalty to you, High Queen Guinevere.”

The crowd genuflected as one with a soft rustling of furs and other fine materials.

Arthur came and stood by my side, taking my gloved hand. Loudly enough to be heard by all, he said, “These are your people, my lady. From this day forth, they are in your care. You are my equal in war as in peace. Will you fight by my side to defend their honor with your person and your very life?”

The full weight of responsibility was a stone in my stomach as I looked over the bowed heads of Britain’s nobility—the kings and queens of our thirteen kingdoms and countless tribes—along with Arthur’s most trusted warriors and advisors. A flurry of movement caught my eye, and I glanced over just in time to catch my father yanking Father Marius, his confessor and advisor, to his knees. The pious troll had never borne me any affection. In fact, he had tried to ruin my life a few years earlier, so seeing him forced to prostrate himself before me gave me no small pleasure.

I turned my gaze back to Arthur. “I will. From this moment on, I honor and care for them as I would my own children, for they are children of the gods. I am privileged to lead them.”

A cheer went up, growing louder as the group rose to their feet. In a moment, they would come forth one by one to pledge their allegiance to me, but there was one thing left for me to do—our union must be sealed with a kiss.

I turned to Arthur. My stomach clenched as I looked into his deep blue eyes. I saw naught of malice, only affection and hope—hope for the future of Britain, for us. As our lips met for the first time, I told myself the past was done. What mattered now was our future and the future of our kingdom.

As the sun set on the old Roman fort, nobility from across the country and emissaries from all of the surrounding lands toasted our health and welfare. Arthur and I were seated above the rest, on a dais at the center of a long table. Our families trailed off like ribbons on either side.

The hours sped by in a haze of ale, music, laughter, and good cheer. Dish after dish of delicacies were placed before us and removed, finely dressed pheasant giving way to fish in pungent sauces, roasted boar with herbs followed by sweetmeats, candied nuts, and baked apples. All the while, wine and ale flowed freely—so freely some even said the fountain in the courtyard dedicated to the god of victory spurted wine in our honor.

Amid the clatter of plates as courses changed, Isolde, heir to the throne of Ireland and my dearest friend, came to my side and embraced me tightly.

“See, I told you my queen would bring you good fortune,” she teased, referring to her piece from the game of Holy Stones we’d played on and off for over a year.

I reached into the pouch beneath my gown and retrieved the gleaming red orb. “Is this occasion enough to return it to you, or do you wish to win it back?” I held it out to her on my open palm.

She considered for a moment, green eyes dancing with mirth. “I believe you have better things to do tonight.” As though the implication in her voice were not enough, she threw a longing look at Arthur. “It is my turn to be jealous, I suppose.”

My elbow caught her ribs just as she snatched up the stone. “Speaking of jealousy, how is Galen?” Galen was the one-time betrothed of our friend Elaine whose heart Isolde had broken when she ran away to Ireland with him.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “It is far too long a story to relate tonight, but I will tell you this—I knew what I was doing when I agreed to let him come with me. He has proven to be valuable leverage for my family.”

Slightly fearful of her thirst for justice, I wondered what fate she planned for him.

She read my expression and continued, “I have plans that will benefit both his country and mine.”

I shook my head, in awe of her determination and strategy. “You are a formidable ruler already, and the crown has not even passed to you yet.”

She flashed her impish smile. “I learned young it is never too early to read your allies and enemies and uncover what each one most needs. If you can provide it or deny it, you hold the power.” Her gaze flickered across the room to the lanky, fair-haired warrior called Tristan. I remembered him from the tournament as part of the house of Cornwall. “Speaking of which, I have allies to make.”

I wasn’t sure if she meant politically or personally. Knowing Isolde, it was probably both. We gazed at each other for a long moment, knowing we likely wouldn’t see one another again before she returned home.

“I will write as often as possible. You will make a great queen.” She squeezed my hand and glanced at Arthur. “Do yourself a favor. Forget about what is past and enjoy the role fate has given you.” She arched an eyebrow. “I certainly would.”

Her laugher trailed behind her, and I couldn’t help but echo it.

Arthur turned toward me. “This is the happiest I have seen you since the night we were betrothed,” he said, sounding slightly astounded.

I dropped my gaze to my lap, embarrassed. “Isolde brings out the best in me.”

Arthur raised my chin softly with his finger. “If the roles were different and I could have her at court, I would command it in a heartbeat, if only to see more of your beautiful smile.”

I blushed, uncertain what to say. Since our betrothal, we had been under the same roof less than two weeks, so the awkward tension of strangers had yet to melt into familiarity.

I fidgeted with the torque encircling my neck. Made of intricately twisted strands of gold, silver, and copper, it was the symbol that proclaimed me queen to all who held to our people’s beliefs; the crown I wore was mere pageantry. Tipped on one end with a highly polished black lodestone and on the other with an opaque orb of moonstone, it was a constant reminder of the light and dark responsibilities of queenship while also acting as a conduit to the wisdom of the gods.

I lifted one of the finials from the skin I was convinced it was bruising. “Please tell me we don’t have to wear these every day.”

His gaze followed my hand, and he smiled. “Only on formal occasions.” He adjusted the weight for me.

We were so intent on each other neither of us noticed a visitor had approached until she spoke. “Patience, brother. You’ll have time enough later for undressing your new bride.”

We both looked up, startled, into the placid eyes of Ana of Lothian, Arthur’s older sister. Her expression was playful.

“I swore my loyalty to Guinevere earlier, and now I would like to offer you both my love.” She fixed her gaze on me. “And my apologies. I am truly sorry for the circumstances surrounding your engagement. If I had known your intentions—”

Arthur’s brow wrinkled. “Ana, what are you apologizing for?”

My eyes snapped to him, and I searched his face for some hint of malevolence or deception, some indication this was a cruel joke. But all I found was genuine confusion.

“You didn’t know.” The words were a gasp, hardly above a whisper as they escaped my lips. I’d assumed he was aware of the circumstances but had simply done as he pleased. This turn of events shook my perception of him, prodding my reluctant heart toward compassion.

Ana covered her mouth with her hand. “I thought—I thought for sure you knew, that Leodgrance told you and you overruled him.” She looked at the floor, unable to face either of us. “Guinevere and my son Aggrivane pledged their troth shortly before you asked for her hand. My husband was supposed to secure her father’s consent, but you succeeded first.”

Arthur looked between Ana and me, surely searching for something in my eyes to confirm or refute her words. Then his gaze became distant, as though he was envisioning his own stolen future.

A moment later, he gave me a sorrowful look. “I did not know. I am sorry. I do not ask your forgiveness, for an offense of such a nature will take a long time to heal, but I beg you to try not to hold this misunderstanding against me.”

I looked at Ana, pleading with her to give me a sign or tell me what to say, but her gaze was still on floor, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. So this was to be my first test. How would I respond to an impossible request without anyone to guide me?

I cleared my throat before placing my hand on Arthur’s and giving him a soft smile, just as a queen should. “Of course I forgive you, husband. It was a tragic misunderstanding but one that brought us to this night. Let us dwell not on it but enjoy our feast.”

Those pretty words were required of me. In my heart, shock, confusion, and misery warred. I had no idea which one would win out.

The long meal finished, our guests reveled in earnest. Musicians filled the hall with lively song while jugglers, bards, and entertainers of every ilk roamed among the guests, delighting and mystifying them with colorful tricks and witty verse. The tables were pushed against the walls to create an ample dance floor, which quickly filled with tipsy couples.

Arthur led me into a lively round where we stayed side by side for most of the dance. Something had been bothering me since our conversation with Ana, and I took advantage of the situation to unburden myself.

“Arthur, if you intended to ask me to be your wife, why did you award the stag’s head to Elaine?”

His expression showed he thought the answer was obvious. “Pellinor was my host; I could not insult him. Besides, he is a valuable subject.”

“I thought you were going to ask her to marry you.”

He laughed. “So did almost everyone else. Perhaps I was a little too charming, but she is a sweet girl and thrived on my attention. What was I supposed to do, warn her ahead of time?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “A hint would have been polite. The poor girl was crushed.” Arthur grunted, and I glanced around his shoulder at Pellinor, who certainly didn’t appear upset that his daughter had been passed over. “Her father looks to be quite recovered from the disappointment.”

Arthur winked at me. “Gold cures most ills, trust me.”

The song ended, and we milled among the crowd, accepting even more well-wishes. Within a few minutes, I felt as if the false smile I had maintained all day would stiffen and set, as permanent as the crescent mark of Avalon on my brow.

A young couple approached us, and my stomach twisted. He was Lord Malegant of the Summer Country. I had learned his identity when he pledged his fealty to me during my coronation. Then I had been dazzled by his handsomeness, but all night something had needled at me, a tiny voice insisting I had seen him before.

Malegant was tall and muscular, wavy dark blond hair tied at the base of his neck with a royal blue cord identical to his cloak. His skin was ruddy with drink. He led a small woman by the arm—a child really, perhaps all of fourteen—and gracefully maneuvered her in front of him as they reached us. She dipped into a low curtsey, and he bowed.

“Well met, Lord Malegant.” Arthur clapped him on the shoulder.

“My king, allow me to introduce my wife, Fiona.”

Fiona raised her head, revealing amazingly large hazel eyes. “I am honored to be in your presence, my lord.” She smiled shyly at me and added, “Yours as well, my lady.”

Malegant took my hand and kissed it, his slight beard gazing my skin. “Your Majesty.” His eyes glinted with a look that was truly magnetic.

With a sharp intake of breath, I realized I knew that look, and the memory came flooding back.

It was during my third year in Avalon, before I had attained priestesshood. Normally I wouldn’t have been allowed on the other side of the mists, but one of the marsh women had gone into early labor and I was asked to accompany one of the priestesses as her assistant midwife.

I had been standing on the shore of the lake, waiting for my companion to finish her business inside, when he emerged from one of the little huts at the base of the Tor. I’d expected to see one of the wild hermits who were part of the community of Joseph of Arimathea, but instead this well-groomed noble fixed his irresistible eyes upon me. I remembered thinking I would melt and be swept away by the waters of the lake.

When I described him to my priestess companion, she knew immediately who he was and warned me in a motherly tone to stay far away from him. He was known to cause trouble for women, especially those vowed to the isle, she said. But I never understood why because she refused to say more.

But before I could speak, Malegant led the doe-eyed girl away, his hand clasped just a little too tightly around her arm. Caught up in my own thoughts, I had missed the whole conversation plus any opportunity to find out more about the Lord of the Summer Country. Uriens called Arthur’s name, and my husband excused himself.

I was heading back to my chair, still wrapped up in half-remembered rumors about Malegant’s questionable reputation, when a voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Well, well,” it said.

I could almost see the catlike smile in the lilting voice. It was a sound straight out of my nightmares. I knew the speaker even before I turned. “Hello, Morgan,” I said as cheerily as I could manage.

We regarded one another coldly, each taking the other’s measure. She was little changed, the candlelight making her skin glow and highlighting the crescent mark of a priestess on her forehead. Wherever she had fled couldn’t have given her too hard a life.

She settled into a mock curtsy. “Your Majesty.” She nearly choked on the words.

I gave her a triumphant smile. “Last I heard, you slipped Avalon’s guard and went missing. What ill star directs you to darken this happy occasion?”

Morgan shook her head and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Still bitter about being second best, I see.”

“You know my role, yet you dare call me second best?”

She was nonplussed by my outrage, which only irritated me more. “I’ve always been better at understanding the will of the Goddess than you.”

I sucked in air to reply, but then I noticed how her hand hovered protectively over her abdomen, which, now that I looked closely, was swollen. She was pregnant.

I tried to cover my astonishment. “And whom did the Goddess direct you to marry? Or do you just rut like a sow and see who the child most resembles?”

Morgan’s smile was indulgent, as if she was dealing with an especially simple child, but her tone was frosty, biting. “My husband is Uriens of Rheged, brother-in-law to the king. Welcome to the family, Guinevere.”

I plopped down in my chair with a huff, mind still reeling from Morgan’s revelation. An orphan who did not know her lineage had managed to infiltrate the highest levels of Briton nobility—and now she was my sister by marriage. That meant I would be spending much more time in her presence, no doubt the subject of her constant conniving. I’d thought I left that behind when we parted ways in Avalon, but the Goddess had willed us together again whether I liked it or no.

Sensing my displeasure, my life-long attendant, Octavia, flitted to my side and replaced my cup with a fresh one. I smiled, grateful for her constant concern and friendship. I brought the cup to my lips, intending to drain it in one gulp, but the sharp smell stopped me. It was unlike any wine or ale I had ever encountered, nor was it cloying like mead. I sniffed it warily, its bitter bouquet stinging my nose.

Octavia saw my confusion. “It is a drink from your mother’s native land. Some of the Votadini ambassadors brought it to toast your queenship. You are one of them after all. Your father and some of the knights are partaking of it liberally in the adjoining room—and enjoying themselves immensely, I might add.”

I raised an eyebrow at her and took a slip. It was bitter but slid smoothly down my throat, its peppery tail burning like a comet. I shuddered, intending to push the cup away. But the warmth that followed made me reconsider. This strange drink heated me from the inside out, making me feel comfortable for the first time all day, as though I was wrapped in my mother’s old blanket. A few more sips and I barely remembered talking to Morgan or any of the pain of the last few months.

Lost in this tingling fog, I scarcely noticed when the crowd began to thin. Eventually Arthur returned to my side, a little worse for the wear. He was laughing and smelled of the same strange brew. I wondered when they had pulled him into the other room.

The tone of the music changed, becoming slow and sensual, and with it, the entire tenor of the room shifted. Now it felt more like a Beltane ritual than a wedding feast. Arthur’s closest friends and many of his knights were teasing us, telling lewd jokes with base gestures that openly indicated what was to come. Soon the entire room descended into debauchery.

Kay was more than happy to fulfill his duty as Arthur’s first man. When the appointed hour came, Kay wriggled his eyebrows at me, picked me up, and threw me over his shoulder, symbolically kidnapping me. He carried me into the bridal chamber as I flailed and screamed with laughter for him to put me down. His bravado faded, however, as soon as he set me on my feet. He took his leave with a stiff bow, but not before swatting me on the backside. I thought I heard him stifle a drunken giggle as he passed over the threshold.

Turning into the room, I froze. The bed, with its double-layer feather mattress, was finer than anything I had ever seen. The expensive sheets were strewn with rose petals and fertility herbs, and a bough of mistletoe hung over the pillows, prepared to receive the newlywed lovers.

Octavia slipped in to prepare me. She lovingly removed my clothes and bathed me in perfumed water, whispering advice and a few pointers I was embarrassed she knew. She clothed me in a simple white shift and quietly ducked out of the room, leaving me alone to wait for my husband.

I heard the horde of men even before the door opened to a chorus of whoops and whistles, and Arthur stumbled in, having been shoved by his enthusiastic friends.

“No listening in the hall,” he called after them as the door closed and the lock clicked. He regarded me uncertainly, the firelight glinting off his freshly oiled chest.

Nervous laughter escaped my lips. “You look ready for a wrestling match.”

Arthur lifted an eyebrow. “If that is how you would like it.” He stepped closer and removed the chaplet of flowers from my hair. “And you are fit for a ritual, not a wedding bed.”

“Is it not every man’s dream to lie with the Goddess?” I teased, the drink making my tongue bold.

His face darkened, and he looked away, mumbling, “I prefer my partners mortal.”

Silence stretched on for a few moments as we each tried to decide how to proceed. I finally decided to be honest with him, to tell him all the things building in my heart since the fateful night he had proposed. If the truth wasn’t spoken now, it might not ever be.

“You really didn’t know?” I asked, barely above a whisper. “About Aggrivane?”

Arthur shook his head, watching me carefully. “If you had it to do over again, would you choose me?”

How could he even ask me such a question? He was the king. What was I going to say—no? “Would I have a choice?”

Arthur stepped toward me, hand outstretched. “Of course. You’ve always had a choice.”

I stepped away from him. “Have I? You asked for my hand in front of the entire court of Dyfed, already having secured my father’s agreement.”

Arthur dropped his hand, balling it into a fist at his side. “Guinevere, I understand your pain. You are not the only one who has lost something. I had a completely different life before I became king—plans, dreams which will never be fulfilled. This is a duty I never asked for.”

“Neither did I.”

“But you’re here now.” His smile was tender.

Before I could respond, he leaned in and kissed me gently. Then he pulled back and searched my eyes as if looking for permission to continue.

My tension eased, shoulders sagging as I realized he was right. I was here now, with my husband. No matter what had come before, I’d made my promise to him. I had a duty now, to him and to my people. In answer to his questioning eyes, I kissed him back, with equal tenderness and no small amount of awkwardness.

He ran his hands over my hair, down my neck and shoulders, to my waist as our lips danced, gradually learning one another’s pace and preferences. When his hands reached my hips, he removed my shift and lifted me effortlessly. We made love with the uncertainty of strangers, the act slowly forming a bond between us even as we struggled to find pleasure in our forced coupling.

When it was over, Arthur lay his head on my chest and his breathing slowed to the even pace of a dreamer. I kissed the top of his head.

“I suppose being married to you will not be so bad,” I whispered before closing my eyes.