Mistress of Legend

Nicole Evelina

Description

Legend says Guinevere spent her final days in penance in a convent, but that is far from the truth.

Having escaped death at the stake, Guinevere longs to live a peaceful life in Brittany with Lancelot, but the threat of Arthur’s wrath quickly separates the lovers. Guinevere finds herself back in Camelot, but it is not the peaceful capital she once knew; the loyalty of the people is divided over Arthur’s role in her death sentence. When war draws Arthur away from Britain, Mordred is named acting king. With Morgan at his side and a Saxon in his bed, Mordred’s thirst for power becomes his undoing and the cause of Guinevere’s greatest heartache.

In the wake of the deadly battle that leaves the country in civil war, Guinevere’s power as the former queen is sought by everyone who seeks to ascend the throne. Heartbroken and refusing to take sides in the conflict, she flees north to her mother’s Votadini homeland, where she is at long last reunited with Lancelot. The quiet life she desires is just beginning when warring tribal factions once again thrust her into an unexpected position of power. Now charged with ending an invasion that could bring an end to the Votadini tribe and put the whole island in the hands of the Saxons, Guinevere must draw upon decades of experience to try to save the people she loves and is sworn to protect.

Sujets

• Fantastique
• Fantasy historique
• Médiéval-Fantastique
• Arthurian
• Lanzarote del Lago
• Ávalon
• Lancelot
• Holy Grail
• King Arthur
• Lancelot du Lac
• Guinevere
• Avalon
• Camelot
• Fiction
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Lawson Gartner Publishing
• Date de parution: 15 septembre 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780996763264
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Mistress of Legend

Nicole Evelina

© 2018 Nicole Evelina
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, Nicole Evelina, or the publisher, Lawson Gartner Publishing, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Lawson Gartner Publishing
PO Box 2021
Maryland Heights MO, 63043
www.lawsongartnerpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America
First Printing 2018

ISBN
978-0-9967632-5-7 (print)
978-0-9967632-6-4 (e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018951438

Editor: Cassie Cox, Joy Editing
Cover Design: Jenny Quinlan, Historical Editorial
Layout: Qamber Designs and Media

Contents
PART ONE : The Broken Crown
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
PART TWO : People Of The North
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
PART THREE : The False Queen
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
PART FOUR : Y Goddodin
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Before You Go . . .
Author’s Notes
Acknowledgements
About the Author




To Aunt Darlene and Uncle George,
I wish you could have lived to see the trilogy completed.
Rest in peace. I love you.




Men went to Gododdin, laughter-inciting,
Bitter in battle, with blades set for war.
Brief the year they were at peace.
The son of Bodgad, by the deeds of his hand
did slaughter.
Though they went to churches to do penance,
The young, the old, the lowly, the strong,
True is the tale, death oer’took them.

Men went to Gododdin, with eager laughter,
Attacking in an army, cruel in battle,
They slew with swords without much sound
Rheithfyw, pillar of battle, took pleasure in giving.

Men went to Catraeth, swift was their host.
Fresh mead was their feast, their poison too.
Three hundred waging war, under command,
And after joy, there was silence.
Though they went to churches to do penance,
True is the tale, death oer’took them.

Three hundred gold-torqued,
warlike, wonderful [~]
Three hundred proud ones,
Together, armed;
Three hundred fierce horses
Carried them forward,
Three hounds and three hundred,
Sad, they did not return.

He pierced three hundred, most bold,
He cut down the centre and wing.
He was worthy before the noblest host,
He gave from his herd horses in winter.
He fed black ravens on the wall
Of the fortress, although he was not Arthur.

—Y Gododdin, author unknown (stanzas 6-8, 91, 102)








Chapter One



Summer 518

A rthur’s men caught up to us before we reached Lothian.
I thank the gods they did. Otherwise I would be dead.
Lancelot and I were camped in the woods less than a two-day ride from Camelot when they found us. No doubt they spotted our fire, but we could not be without one, for I lay on the ground, wrapped in Lancelot’s cloak and shaking with fever. The burns on my left side that ran from above my hairline down to my foot stung with the fury of a whole nest of hornets and my skin glistened with sweat, yet nothing could warm me. We had had no choice but to stop, for I could no longer sit a horse.
Only days before, Arthur had tried to have me burned at the stake after Lancelot and I were accused of infidelity and treason as a result of our extramarital affair. Initially banished from Camelot, Lancelot returned just in time to rescue me from death, though I suffered severe burns in my escape. We had intended to flee to my mother’s homeland in the Votadini territory, but my injuries proved too severe for so long a journey.
Now, a group of Arthur’s most loyal knights—the Combrogi—approached on horseback, no doubt to drag us to back to face the justice we had fled. Lancelot was doubly condemned as both a traitor for his affair with me and for interrupting my death sentence, so he had even more to fear than I.
Lancelot drew his sword, ready to defend me. I stumbled to my feet, holding onto him for support. Each movement was fresh agony, pulling at my inflamed skin and taxing the damaged muscle underneath. But I was a warrior. No matter how ill I was, I would not cower on the ground while they dragged me away like the spoils of the hunt. Repositioning Lancelot’s cloak to give me greater freedom of movement, I took up his dagger, prepared to use it if I had to.
As they approached, Aggrivane, Bedivere, and Kay held up their hands, still on the reins, to show they wielded no weapons against us.
“We come in peace,” Bedivere called.
They would have to forgive us for not believing that.
My heart stuttered and squeezed at the site of Aggrivane, unsure whether to love or hate him. In our youth, he had been my lover. We’d planned to marry, but my father made a contract with Arthur before we could tell him, which trumped our plans. Then less than two months ago, Aggrivane was among those who betrayed Lancelot and me to Arthur, though Aggrivane later repented of his actions.
They dismounted, hands still raised.
“We are not here to arrest you,” Kay said. “Arthur ordered us to bring you back to Camelot. He wishes to grant Guinevere a full pardon. He never intended to have her killed. That was the work of his bishop, who now awaits his trial in prison.”
“How do we know you speak the truth and are not simply trying to get us to come along peacefully?” Lancelot retorted.
“If we had ill intent, would we warn you to flee, Lancelot?” Aggrivane asked. “Arthur may be merciful to his former wife, but he has not spoken of you. As far as we know, you are still exiled, still a subject to death upon your return.”
Aggrivane was right. Arthur may once have been a king of justice and mercy, but with the events just passed, it was impossible to know if that still held. After all, if he could order his wife’s death, what worse did he have in store for the man who’d cuckolded him? Even if they were telling the truth about him not wishing me dead, Arthur was still a wronged man who had a right to revenge.
I turned to Lancelot, his blue eyes frightened and conflicted. “You cannot return to Camelot, but I will not go without you. Let us carry on as we had planned.”
Bedivere cautiously approached me. When I didn’t lunge at him with the dagger, he put out a tentative hand, carefully examining my charred skin and weeping, red blisters. If he noticed how my teeth knocked together despite my clenched jaw, he didn’t show it. “If you remain on the road, you will die. Only a priestess can heal these wounds, which I’m certain you know, seeing as you are one.” He gently brushed a finger over the blue crescent moon tattoo on my brow—a mark that all priestesses of Avalon wore—as though to remind me.
Lancelot turned to me. “You must go with them, Guinevere. I will go on to Brittany. Send word when you are well, and I will make sure a boat awaits you in Camelot’s harbor.”
I made to grasp his tunic but stumbled as a wave of dizziness overtook me. Lancelot steadied me. “No. We will not be separated again. You are Arthur’s best knight. Surely he will pardon you too.”
Kay joined the two men at my side. “Arthur has reason to forgive you, Guinevere, especially in light of all you have suffered. But Lancelot defied him twice. He will not be inclined to be merciful, lest he set a precedent of weakness with the other Combrogi that could lead to his ouster. The people are not pleased with him after what he did to you.” Kay turned to Lancelot. “You can take the risk if you’d like, but I do not advise it.”
Lancelot growled in frustration, looking at the stars as though they could advise him. After a period of thought, his gaze returned to me, cataloging my injuries. To the Combrogi, he said, “She will get worse the longer she goes without aid. I will not sacrifice her life to save mine. Let me come with you as far as the edge of town. If I can see she is well received, then I can bear the guilt of knowing I abandoned her and that she suffers without me.”

They carried me to Camelot on a stretcher. While it was not quite the indignity of being transported in a prisoner’s cart or forced to walk behind the Combrogi in chains, it certainly was not the entrance any soon-to-be-redeemed queen wished to make. But I did not really care, for my wounds turned even breathing and blinking into torture. They throbbed and burned, rubbed even rawer against the fabric of the stretcher with every jolt. My fever came and went, plunging me into nightmarish visons where I relived my failed execution and created far worse fates for myself, only to be brought back to reality with startling clarity when the heat relaxed its grip.
I was between bouts of delirium when Camelot came into view. The castle loomed large on the hillside above as we trod the hidden track to a private entrance, rather than the wide thoroughfare used by noble guests, merchants, and all manner of visitors. The people need not know I had returned. There was no need to stir up a mob now, especially when I needed peace and quiet to heal. They would have plenty of time to voice their joy or displeasure later.
See