Quest - Book 2 of Queen's Honor - YA + Adult Fantasy Romance and Adventure (3 page)

Father frowned; he
scrutinized me while I scrambled to right myself and smooth my gown, though I
could do nothing to fix the mud stains on the hems of my skirts. I struggled
with the desire to follow Elibel, but my father's seriousness held my
attention.

The tiredness in
Father's features seemed more pronounced. His arms hung at his sides without welcome,
and I did not know if I should embrace him or stand back, so I opted for the
safer choice of staying put.

His gaze dropped,
settling on the triquetra dangling from the chain around my neck. "Where
did that charm come from?"

I reached down and
knotted my hand around the triquetra.

"I found it,
Father, in the baths."

He stilled for a
moment, taking in a breath before continuing. "I do not know how you
obtained your mother's charm, but it is ill-suited for a good Christian queen. Give
it over."

He reached for the
triquetra.

I pulled the charm
closer to my chest. “This belonged to my mother?”

 
“It is a witch’s symbol, Guinevere.”

“But Mamma said
the triquetra represented love, honor and protection. How can that be bad?”

“How do you know
what your mother said?”

“I remember.”

Father's cheeks
sagged. Cloudiness glazed his eyes, as if old haunts pushed into his consciousness.
“What more do you remember?”

I shook my head.
“Little things. Snippets here and there.”

We held one
another’s gaze for several heartbeats before he said, "Keep it then. Just
remove it from that chain. It should not be displayed alongside your cross.”

I nodded.

“You represent all
the kings and queens who have ever ruled Camelaird, Guinevere—a long line of
noble blood whose legitimacy can never be questioned.”

“I know.”

“Then you realize
your union will solidify Arthur’s position to the other kings and chieftains of
Britannia. He will be able to claim the right of High King.”

“Yes, Father, I am
aware.”

“And with this
crown, along with his power, wealth and army, Britannia can finally be united.
We can be protected from Saxon invaders and petty uprisings. Peace can reign
for our people.”

“I have known the
weight of my duty for my entire life, Father. Rest assured the gravity of it
has not escaped me.”

“Then you know
there is no turning back. You must be on your best behavior, Daughter. Do as
Arthur bids without rebellion. Honor his choices in all decisions and make him
a good wife."

"Will you
come to our wedding, Father?" Though I knew what his answer would be, I
had to ask. Having my father with me during that pivotal moment of my life,
regardless of our unfamiliar relationship, would have offered me some comfort.

As I suspected, he
replied, "Arthur's troops will arrive and require my direction,"
dismissing my sentimental notion of his attendance.
 

"I love you Father."
The words spilled out of me and I immediately regretted them when he did not
respond, leaving a gaping hole of silence between us.

I broke the stillness
by turning around to get back in the coach, but Father's voice came again. It
quavered as he spoke.

"I never
meant to hurt you, Guinevere." Father's eyes reddened as he continued,
"When you love someone, you'll do whatever you think it takes to keep them
safe. I never thought taking your mother away would do more damage to you than
good."

The pain in his
gaze intensified. His shoulders shrunk, causing him to seem a thousand years
old. I had harbored so much anger toward him for so many years that I was
unsure if our relationship had deteriorated because of his actions or because
of my response to his actions. But in that moment, all the resentment drained
out of me.

"I know you
never meant to hurt me."

Father approached.
He fumbled, then took me in his arms—squeezing me as eagerly as he had embraced
Arthur. I returned his hug, wrapping my arms around his girth. He smelled of
salted pork and the roughness of his beard stabbed at my cheek, but I reveled
in his momentary abandon.

"I see so
much of your mother in you, Guinevere."

A rush of
happiness flooded me at the comparison, until he continued, "Her blood
runs through you, outweighing my own. I fear it will cause your downfall if you
do not keep your true nature in check."

My limbs slackened,
and I pulled away.

He held my eyes
with a grave look. "Please, Daughter, promise not to disappoint me."

I stiffened. The
sting of his disapproval returned, replacing any warmth that had existed.

"Rest your
worries, Father. I swear to you; I will be a good and honorable queen."
Though in truth, I did not know if I were capable of such a promise.

I removed the triquetra from my chain, stowing it within the
pocket of my mantle. Father nodded, then
marched across the courtyard without another word, disappearing through
the towering doors of Camelaird's great hall.

The sky opened;
the drizzle turned into rain. As I climbed into the carriage, I spotted Elibel
toward the head of the caravan. Instead of turning back to the shelter of the
coach, she batted her eyes at a nearby soldier.
The man dismounted from
his courser, handed her the reins and helped her into the saddle. She lifted
her hood against the droplets, and kicked the beast forward as Sir Lancelot
appeared.

My insides liquefied, turning my spine to slush. Warmth
tingled in parts of me that made me think father was right—wickedness lurked
within me to feel such heat at the sight of a man.

Lancelot mounted his gray and signaled to our troops. Elibel
trotted up beside him. He acknowledged her, and they rode side by side as I sank
inside the coach and closed the door. Aethelwine blinked, and I smoothed his
feathers to sooth my trembling heart, which fluttered along with the patter of
rain on the carriage roof. The coach jerked forward; we headed toward Camelot.
And like Father had said, there was no turning back.

"We'll stop here and set up camp."

The low resonance of Lancelot's voice woke me from my fitful
sleep. His tone possessed a richness that made me believe his singing voice
would cause women's hearts to falter.
 

I blinked, stretched and peered outside. Though the rain had
stopped, the oppressive fog remained, dampening the air. The sun sank over the
horizon casting darkness across the tall timber where our caravan circled. The
soothing murmur of a creek sounded in the distance and I longed to make contact
with the water to clean the day’s travel grime from my face.

I encouraged Aethelwine to mount my shoulder and exited the
carriage; my legs wobbled with weakness from the long ride.

Men hurried to make camp. They unsaddled, brushed, fed and
watered the horses with well-trained precision. Elibel had already disappeared,
and I wondered if she ran from me. I stumbled around our campsite searching for
her in hopes she would accompany me to the creek, but instead, found Sir
Lancelot tending his steed beyond sight of the main gathering.
 

His backside was to me. The rising moon cast light upon him.
His shoulders bulged, even without his lamellar armor to enhance their breadth.
Tousled black hair fell over the back of his neck as he brushed his horse in
only a tunic, trousers and boots. His muscles rippled with each brushstroke,
stretching the linen of his shirt. The gray nickered at his touch, turning his
nose into Lancelot's chest. The knight reached up with his broad, tanned hand,
and rubbed the gray's ears, causing the beast's eyelids to sink to half-mast.

Without the agreement of my brain, my feet placed themselves
in front of one another and trekked toward the knight while my mind fought to
stop my forward movement. Approaching a man who was not my husband-to-be, and
one I found entirely irresistible, was unwise. Yet my rebel legs continued
until I stood so close I could have reached out and touched him—caressed the undulation
of his shoulders as he groomed his stallion.

"Have you seen my cousin?" I asked.

Lancelot turned. He moved as if set to music, each muscle,
each limb and body part in concert with the other. His dark eyes set upon me,
deepened by the shadows of the impending night.

"Elibel has taken to the creek, I believe."

I rambled on, my tongue as unruly as my feet had just been,
struggling to keep our conversation going. "Your horse…" I said. Then
my mind abandoned all thought.

"Yes?"

I stared at him, dumbfounded, unable to find a suitable
phrase, or to turn and take leave as a proper bride should. My conflicting
desires caused the intelligence to drain out of my brain, leaving me fumbling
for words.

"What of my horse?"

"Your horse," I repeated, then added, "is
big."

I inwardly cringed. Could I have come up with a more absurd
statement?

Lancelot didn't laugh; his stoic face broke into a smile—a
kind one—which encouraged a whole new round of unholy desires on my part.

"That he is," he agreed.

Neither of us spoke. I couldn't wrangle my feet into motion,
so I mustered up another inquiry. "Shouldn't your squire tend your
beast?"

"Does your lady attend your falcon?"

With his rebuttal, I understood he harbored affections for
his horse, and I tried to backtrack. "It's just that most knights would
not bother with the menial task of maintaining their beast."

"He is a horse, not a beast."

Why did my tongue insist upon blurting absurdities without
my permission?

"Caring for him is not a bother." Though Lancelot's
words scolded, his tone remained level, and his features stayed in a state of
calmness as if nothing ruffled him.

If I could just manage to turn away, but the cast of the
moonlight lit the angles of his face; the black of his eyes shone like stars in
the night sky, imprisoning me where I stood.

"He carries me into battle, and faces an enemy dead on
because I ask it of him. I owe him my care."

Nothing came. I stood and stared and wished my talent for conversation
rivaled Elibel's instead of resembling a nervous child’s.

 
"Would you like
to brush him?"

"Oh, no!" I stumbled backward, then attempted to correct
my outburst. "I mean,
horses
and
I, we don't get along."

"Is that so?" He backed into his gray, leaning
against the horse's side. The stallion pressed into him, and they balanced one
another in a relaxed pose.

I nodded, then flushed.

Lancelot handed me the brush. I reluctantly took it from his
hand, and trembled—not because the horse towered over me and his muscles reminded
me of stone, but because Lancelot's hand and mine both touched the brush at the
same time.

"Clover won't bite."

"You named your war horse Clover?"

"Indeed."

"Your trusty steed, a stallion that faces death on your
command, and you called him after a weed?" I laughed, despite the fact
that my head and heart continued to wage war inside me. The bunched nerves
under my skin gave way; I relaxed. Even though my mind told me to take leave,
my heart insisted Lancelot provided a sense of comfort I had only experienced
once in my life—the day he rescued me from the fray at Camelaird.

The tips of Lancelot's lips lifted, revealing a row of
straight white teeth made even brighter by the bronzed color of his skin.
"But not any weed."

"No?"

"A magical weed."

"I know the saying, 'to be in clover.' The shamrock
brings a happy union and a lifetime of ease and prosperity."

"So you know the legends."

"I still would have thought you'd name a trusted
warrior something like Cadeyrn after the battle king, or maybe Thunderhooves."

He raised his brows. "You'd name a horse Thunderhooves?"

"Perhaps."

His smile broadened as if he tried to repress a laugh.
"Lucky for Clover he doesn't belong to you then. He might flee from battle
due to the embarrassment of his name."

I laughed. "I suppose Thunderhooves is a silly name for
a horse."

"Maybe even as silly as Clover."

"But you haven't explained why you didn't name him for
his might or valor."

"Perhaps his name reflects what he can bring, rather
than what he is."

"Yet you are a warrior, and not just any warrior, but
the best of knights. How strange to have such conflicting desires." Much
like my own, I thought. "Is that the kind of life you want? A fertile
farm, plump babies and a doting wife to tend to your needs?"

A slight sag brought down the edges of his smile. "Not
for me, but for those I protect."

"And why not you?"

“I do not deserve such a life.”

The remorse in his tone told me a long ago hurt lay beneath his
answer.

Lancelot straightened and maneuvered to my side. He reached
over, placing his hand atop my own and guided the brush to Clover's mane,
helping me stroke the thick salt and pepper-colored hairs. The knight's skin on
mine warmed my entire body.

As we progressed from mane to back and continued to run the
brush over the stallion’s side, Clover let out a lazy moan that lasted for
several breaths.