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Guinevere turned to Isolde. “There is no magic allowed in Camelot.”
Isolde nodded. “Brangien told me as much. I never had any talent for it anyway, in spite of what they said at my—” She stopped, her expression far away and vacant, doubtless remembering her trial. Her condemnation. Her husband. She blinked rapidly, forcing a smile. “It was always Brangien who was good with those things. She is the special one.”
“There are many ways to be special.” Brangien squeezed Isolde’s hand as she passed her. The way they moved, always reacting to the other, was almost like a dance. Brangien opened the door at the first knock and took the tray from the guard, then shut the door without thanking him. She placed the food—some fruit and meat—along with a pitcher of watered wine on the table, then steered Guinevere into a chair.
“Rest. There are no problems that will not keep until tomorrow.” She narrowed her eyes, doubtless wanting to demand Guinevere tell her what the real problem was with Guinevach. But Guinevere could not. Would not.
Guinevere nodded, smiling. “Show off our city. Impress her.”
As soon as the door was closed, Guinevere addressed Lancelot. “Find out what happened. Sir Gawain was supposed to make certain Guinevach left. Did she bewitch him? Bribe him?”
“Smile and bat her eyelashes at him?” Lancelot shrugged at Guinevere’s frown. “He is very young. She is very young. I cannot imagine he took much convincing to disobey his king’s orders. But I will find out the exact course of events.”
Guinevere nodded. Tomorrow, she would hold a council of war. Perhaps, having failed on two fronts already, the Dark Queen was well into her third. Guinevach had drawn first blood by staying. She would not win.
* * *
Guinevere had assembled her fiercest allies: Lancelot, the best knight in Camelot; Brangien, a formidable witch and endlessly clever maid; and Dindrane, the most accomplished gossip Guinevere had ever known.
“You want us to what?” Dindrane asked, leaning forward intently. They were in Guinevere’s sitting room, which was being converted to a bedroom for Isolde and Brangien so they could have some privacy. Guinevere had promised it to Lancelot, but that was before they had an addition to their ranks. Lancelot could have a cot in her own bedchamber when Arthur was away. That way she could get some rest while protecting Guinevere.
For now, though, it was still a sitting room. Guinevere sat on a cushion, leaning back against the wall. Dindrane had taken a chair, while Brangien sat on a stool and Lancelot stood near the door.
“I want you to spy on Guinevach. Gather any information you can about her. Why she is here. Who she is talking to. What she is doing.” Guinevere expected demands for details or a refusal to help without explanation. She braced herself.
“That is easy,” Dindrane said, her tone pleasant. “I can have her over for a meal this evening. Do you want to be there, too, or would you like me to work on her alone?”
Guinevere almost questioned why Dindrane was not questioning her request, and then she remembered what it had been like at Dindrane’s wedding. Dindrane knew being related did not necessarily make people family. “Alone. She might open up without me there in ways she would not if I were present. And thank you,” she said.
“You are very welcome.” Dindrane smiled, then leaned across the space to Brangien, brushing her fingers along Brangien’s pale-blue sleeve. “Do you think this color would look good in my sitting room? How could we incorporate it?”
Brangien tugged her sleeve from Dindrane’s touch. “A cushion or two will bring in enough of the color without being too expensive. I brought this with me, but a woman on Shi—Market Street”—Brangien corrected herself from using the old name—“sells something in a similar hue.”
Dindrane stood, excited, and excused herself. “I will let you know how the visit goes!” she called as she left the room.
“My queen,” Brangien said, settling onto the more comfortable chair Dindrane had vacated, “it would help if I knew why we need to watch Guinevach so carefully. How can I find something if I do not know what I am looking for?” Brangien demanded the information Dindrane did not care about.
Guinevere toyed with a heavy silver ring on her finger. She was still not used to wearing things like it, though Brangien was more insistent lately that Guinevere wear her jewels and finery. It felt distracting. “I am afraid this has something to do with the Dark Queen.”
Brangien’s face shifted, horrified. “Your sister?”
Guinevere could not admit to Brangien that she had no idea whether Guinevach was in fact Guinevach. “Arthur’s own nephew was in league with her. And we do not know the scope of her power and influence. Guinevach could be under her sway without knowing it. Or she could be entirely innocent. I do not know. But the timing of her arrival and her insistence on staying are both suspect. We trusted Mordred. We will not make the same mistake with Guinevach.”
“There is still something you are not telling me.” Brangien’s gaze was cool.
Guinevere sighed. “Yes. There are several things I am not telling you. And, just as before, I need you to trust that I would tell you if I could, but what I am not telling you does not put you in any danger.”
“But does it put you in danger?”
“Not immediately. You will be the first to know if that changes. For now
, we all watch Guinevach and gather whatever information we can. Look for any attempt to undermine me or the king. Any whispers or rumors that start, whether they can be traced to her or not. And let me know at the slightest hint of magic.”
“Very well.” Brangien looked determined, if not happy. “Leave Isolde out of it. She is a terrible liar.”
“That is not a bad quality,” Lancelot said.
“It is a very good quality,” Guinevere agreed, an ache in her chest making her wish she had the same problem, or that she could even afford to. Her whole life was a lie. She had to be the best at it.
