“Where were you?” Arthur asked his queen, his voice clipped and sharp.
Guinevere said, “One of my stockings went astray, and my lady had to fetch me another. Lancelot joined me outside our chamber, and we hurried here to await Lord Thayne.”
“Come sit in your place. Thayne will be here soon.” He spared a look at Lancelot, nodded and smiled, but his eyes were watchful, distrusting. Lancelot bowed and stepped off the dais. Suddenly, he stopped and became as frozen as were all the other people in the great hall.
Arthur said to Guinevere, “I have been told by one of my spies that Thayne is here to kill me. I have told all my knights to be ready. There are many men like Thayne who pretend to friendship and honor but have none.”
Guinevere nodded, walked to her throne, and sat gracefully down on an elaborate green embroidered cushion. Arthur said between seamed lips, not looking at her, “I am sending Lancelot to Londinium. I want him to meet with soldiers I have heard are searching for a master. If he finds them able, he will bring them here.”
She seemed to stiffen, yet her graceful white hands lay quiescent in her lap. “Will it be dangerous?”
Arthur turned to look at his queen and said sharply, “There is always danger, no matter who or where you are. We ourselves are awaiting danger right here in Camelot. Why would you be concerned? He is my man. He will do as I tell him to do.”
“But surely you must need Lancelot here—”
Suddenly, there was a loud shout. The doors of the great hall flew open, and armed men flooded in, yelling, their swords drawn. King Arthur leapt from his throne, drew Excalibur, and jumped from the dais and into the battle. They saw a warrior leap at him while he was fighting another, his sword held high, and he was bringing it down into Arthur’s back. And then—
Olafar, Grayson, and Mathilde once again stood outside the giant wooden gates of the fortress.
Mathilde grabbed Olafar’s hand. “What happened?”
“I do not know. It was as if we were simply plucked out—by what? What power could do that?”
Grayson said slowly, “You spoke of the time flux taking you to the wrong Camelot. It appears it brought you back to the wrong Camelot again and jerked us out just before Lord Thayne murdered Arthur, and, one supposes, Guinevere ran away with Lancelot.”
Olafar looked up at the empty ramparts and searched for soldiers, but didn’t see any, and listened for any noise that did not come. He said slowly, “It is odd, but I feel something, a differentness. Perhaps the time flux has shifted again, perhaps because I am with you and Mathilde and together, with Pip’s spirit, we are now strong enough to bring us to the right Camelot, the one of history.”
Grayson said, “Only one way to find out. Let us go to the great hall.”
Mathilde said, “Guinevere, she was more beautiful than any woman I have ever seen or dreamed of.”
Olafar nodded. “She was so beautiful it made my teeth ache to look at her.”
Grayson couldn’t disagree.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The great hall was as it had been but moments before—filled with people, courtiers, and soldiers, but again, they were only images, representations Mathilde had called them, frozen in time, nothing more substantial than people in an old painting.
On the large gilded throne sat a strong-looking middle-aged man, his thick dark hair mixed with silver strands, and like the young Arthur, it was pulled back from his face and bound in a club. It was King Arthur. He was dressed more elaborately than his younger counterpart, his tunic fine gold-spun linen, the same thick golden chain around his neck with its black etched disk. He wore Excalibur fastened at his side on a fine black leather belt. Beautiful boots covered his feet, bound by supple leather cross garters to his knees. He was tapping his strong, blunt fingers against the throne arm. He turned and called out, again, in English they could understand, “Guinevere, hurry, love. I wish you to be here when Lord Thayne arrives. I want to keep you safe.”
The red velvet curtain parted, and a woman slipped onto the dais. It wasn’t the Guinevere of legend, the Guinevere they’d just seen, a temptress so beautiful a man’s lust rose fast and hard. Although this Guinevere’s face was lovely, the fact was she was short and plump, middle-aged, like Arthur. Her hair wasn’t the spun gold of a man’s dreams, lustrous and thick. Like Arthur’s, her hair was threaded with white, and it was bound in netting pulled back from her face. She wore a gown of soft green linen, a thin golden chain around her waist. She looked like a settled matron, perhaps a mother of grown children, just as King Arthur looked older and more settled. She had a bit of a double chin. They watched her smile at her husband, a sweet smile that held no guile. “My lord, one of my stockings went astray, and my lady had to fetch me another.” She leaned down, not very far, and kissed the tip of his nose. She lightly stroked her palm over his cheek. “Do you feel better? I did not like that cough during the night.”
Arthur grabbed her hand and pulled her onto his lap. Her feet dangled. She laughed, a lovely sound, light and carefree. He said, “I am well. Worry you not, sweeting. The cream you rubbed on my chest cured me. I have determined I married a witch, and I am glad of it.” And he kissed her again and set her on her feet. She settled beside him on the smaller throne. He said, “If my spy is right, Thayne has come to kill me instead of offering peace. Be alert. When he enters, what he plans will be clear soon enough.”
Guinevere raised a white hand from the folds of her gown. In it, she held a knife. “We will protect each other.”
They heard loud voices coming from outside the great hall. Suddenly, the frozen tableau came alive. People were shouting, running, men pulling their swords, women jumping onto the dais to protect Guinevere. King Arthur jumped up, pulled Excalibur from its scabbard, and leaped down from the dais and plunged into the battle.
It was as if they were spectators, watching a battle in front of them, but they weren’t really there, weren’t really a part of it. But it was real—they saw blood spurt from heads and bodies, saw an arm cleaved to fall on the wooden floor, flinging blood everywhere, heard swords clashing together, heard death yells. As suddenly as it had started, it stopped, and once again, it was a tableau.
Only Arthur moved. He stood panting over a man, blood covering his chest, moaning, staring up at him. Arthur spat on him. “You announced you wanted peace, yet I knew you only wanted my death, the destruction of my kingdom.” He raised Excalibur and with both hands struck downward, sending the mighty sword deep into the man’s chest.
The man didn’t make a sound.
Guinevere appeared at his side, panting, clutching at his arm, her knife tight in her hand. Arthur pulled out Excalibur, wiped off the blood on Lord Thayne’s tunic, and slid it back into its scabbard. He called out, “Lancelot? Where are you?”
A heavy middle-aged man with faded golden hair, flecked with white, came striding up, nodded to Guinevere, and bowed to Arthur. “We were ready. His men are dispatched, my lord. All is well.” He kicked the dead body at Arthur’s feet. “It is as your spy told us. Thayne was a treacherous swine.”
They watched Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot walk back to the dais, Lancelot smiling, nodding as Arthur sat himself again on his throne. “Ah, a lovely fight, but so quickly done. I fear my bones grow old, my lord. I fear I have strained my back.”