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“Yes, thank you,” Guinevere said firmly. “We will discuss entertainment at more length tomorrow. Right now we are discussing the particular details of how to organize the festival.”
“But there must be a tournament. Even a small one.” Guinevach locked eyes with Guinevere, her golden ones flashing with intensity and what Guinevere suspected was aggression in spite of her plum-sweet tone. “You cannot very well have a tournament of farmers competing to see who can plow the straightest line or thresh the fastest.”
“Actually,” Guinevere said, “that is a wonderful idea.” She turned to the official in charge of the festival planning, a calm, meticulous man in his late twenties with tightly curled hair and a brown complexion similar to Sir Tristan’s. ?
?Could we create a tournament field with tasks similar to the tournaments, but to celebrate our farmers and field workers? A competition of strength, seeing who can lift the heaviest bales of hay and carry them across the field. A tree-felling contest—we will have to bring in the trees, of course. Oh, and we can have a show of livestock! And a milking race.”
The men in the room laughed imagining it, but they were also nodding. It was a good idea. Guinevere knew it was. The people would love it, and would love the chance to be in the spotlight in front of their king. The fact that it went against what Guinevach had barged in and demanded was only a small part of Guinevere’s satisfaction.
“Excellent. See to it. Now, back to the planning. How far in advance should we send the guards out, and how many miles of road should we cover?” Guinevere did not look at Guinevach again, expecting her to slink out of the room. But Guinevach stayed seated until the end of the meeting, a full two hours longer, every minute of which Guinevere could feel two angry golden eyes on her.
Finally, it was time for evening meals. Guinevere was pleased. She had accomplished as much as any king. Probably more than Arthur, if she was being honest. He had a shorter attention span than she did. “Thank you, good sirs. Until tomorrow.”
They all bowed and filed out. Guinevach stood, too. Guinevere turned toward Sir Gawain to ask about some detail from earlier in the meeting. She knew Guinevach had plans to dine with Dindrane that evening and would not want to be late. Guinevach hovered for a few moments before turning and swishing out of the room.
“Will you be eating in here?” Lancelot asked. Already servants were shifting the benches and moving tables back into place. Several of the knights ate every meal here. Guinevere occasionally joined them, but after that many hours sitting as queen, she had no desire for more time spent in the company of expectations.
“In my rooms.” Guinevere stood, her injured shoulder creaking in protest at movement after so long being still. Lancelot offered her arm and Guinevere accepted it. Once they were alone in the hall, Guinevere steered them in the opposite direction from her chambers.
“Where are we going?” Lancelot asked.
“Guinevach is not here, and knowing Dindrane, she will not be released until it is almost curfew. We are going to search her room.”
The castle was carved out of the mountain, so it was shallow and soaring, many stories tall. Guinevere’s rooms next to Arthur’s were on the fifth story. The first floor was an entrance hall and several small rooms held by the knights without families. The second was the great hall—also used as the dining hall—and the kitchens. The third and fourth were servant quarters and storage rooms. The fifth was the royal bedrooms, along with more storerooms and small chambers used by the pages. The sixth was where Uther Pendragon, Arthur’s father and the previous king until Arthur defeated him, had kept his favorite companions. Guinevere had never had much reason to come to the sixth floor. Most of the stairs from one floor to the next were outside the castle, narrow stone flights that crisscrossed its exterior, winding around it, sometimes leading nowhere, sometimes leading to things like Mordred’s favorite alcove and nothing else. Fortunately, the sixth floor could also be accessed by an interior passageway, which meant Guinevere and Lancelot could go from the fifth floor to the sixth floor, where Guinevach’s room was, without being observed from outside the castle.
Without any windows, the passageway was pitch-dark. As they reached the top, Guinevere felt a swell of pity for the women Uther had favored. Lancelot had to use all her significant strength to push the heavy door open. Arthur had mentioned that the exterior door and stairway had been blocked. The only way in and out when Uther was king was through this black tunnel. The women had been prisoners.
Arthur had, of course, unsealed the exterior door. Guinevach and anyone who visited and stayed here could come and go as they pleased. But the door remained an uncomfortable reminder of who had been here before Arthur. Of what this castle—wondrous and strong—could be in the wrong hands. Protection turned to prison.
Guinevere followed Lancelot up the last few steps to the hallway. It had been a prison, but a beautiful one. The windows had colored pieces of glass, and nicer rugs than Arthur had in his own room lined the stone floor to make it softer, warmer, and less echoey.
“I do not know which room she is in,” Guinevere said. There were three doors, one on either end and one in front of them. That room would have no exterior windows; Guinevere could not imagine anyone putting Guinevach in it. The windowless rooms were used for storage or as servants’ quarters.
“On the right.” Lancelot pointed.
Guinevere looked at her, surprised. “Did you already find out?”
“I assigned her room strategically.” Lancelot looked almost offended. “She has no guards anymore. Only her two maids are left. One is a girl of twelve, the other an older woman. I do not know if you—if Guinevere—would have known either of them in Cameliard. The page I spoke to was unsure how long they had been in Guinevach’s service.”
Guinevere nodded. It was important information. The servant girl, being only twelve, would doubtless question her own memory before she would question Guinevere’s identity, assuming she had ever met the real Guinevere. It was unlikely she had been working in the castle at Cameliard before the real Guinevere left for the convent. The older woman was far more likely to be an issue. Guinevere would have Brangien interview her first to ascertain how well she had known the real Guinevere.
“Can we not just banish her?” Guinevere stared at the door uneasily.
“Not without answering questions about why. Especially now that she has established herself here and forced you to introduce her as your sister.” That detail had not escaped Lancelot, either. “Did she seem threatening today at the meeting?”
“No. Just…annoying. She undermined me and tried to take control of the discussion.”
“You were right to decide on something other than a tournament. The harvest festival is not about knights or soldiers. It is about what we all do, together. But she seemed less confrontational to me and more…” Lancelot paused so long that Guinevere prodded her.
“More what?”
Lancelot shrugged. “Young. Very young.”
Young or not, Guinevach was still the biggest potential threat to Guinevere’s safety. Guinevere strode forward and opened the door to Guinevach’s rooms. They were set up much like her own. The main bedroom had a bed, several chests, and two chairs. Everything was in shades of blue, elegant and feminine. The bed was neatly made, nothing out of place.
“We know any magic would be undone coming in, but she could do magic once she was inside,” Guinevere said, “provided she did not cross the thresholds of the doors again.” It was a flaw in her protection system. She had only anticipated magical threats coming from the outside in. It had been a failure of imagination on her part that allowed Mordred to fool them all.
Her hand drifted toward her heart, where she had pressed his flower. The flower was gone now. Trusting Mordred had been a mistake she would not make again. Guinevere certainly would not trust this girl, whoever she was. She stepped toward the trunks to look for evidence of magic or evil intent, when the door to the dressing room opened.
