Even with the Guinevach complication, Guinevere had not forgotten that Arthur put her in charge of Camelot. She would not shirk the tasks that had piled up in Arthur’s absence.
Guinevere set herself up in the dining hall. It was the best space for meeting with large groups, and there were many people to meet with. Arthur tried to engage his subjects on the same level they existed, and she would do the same. No thrones or daises.
It was hard to focus as several merchants argued that their stalls in the preharvest market should get better placement. She promised them better spots in the much larger harvest festival, provided they lend their horses and wagons to the harvest effort for reduced cost.
After that, it was a city engineer with an issue with one of the aqueducts. Guinevere did not understand what he was saying, but she knew that Arthur would only trust the city’s water supply to an expert, so she approved all his requests for funds and man power. If the aqueducts failed it would not be disastrous—they still had the lake—but it would definitely make life harder for the servants. She remembered that long-ago tour of the city at Brangien’s side, and her comment about Camelot’s favorite saying when things went wrong: Could be buckets.
She kept repeating it to herself as issue after issue was listened to and dealt with as close to what she could imagine Arthur doing. Could be buckets. She could be Ramm’s prisoner, waiting to be ransomed. Could be buckets. She could be married to a monster like King Mark, unable to protect herself or anyone else. Could be buckets. She could be sitting in her room waiting for Arthur to return, nothing to occupy her time or mind except worrying.
Sir Gawain sat to one side, taking careful notes about the line of curfew breakers currently giving excuses and seeking pardons. Lancelot had confirmed her own suspicions: the young knight was deliriously in love with Guinevach and had made no secret of it. When Guinevach told him that she would rather stay and wait for her sister to return, he had hastily agreed. Her guards had left, stranding her with her two maids. She could not be sent home unaccompanied. It was a clever move.
Lancelot stood near the door, watching everything. There were a few officials, as well, there to consult should Guinevere need them. As much as Guinevere accomplished, though, the work never ended. As soon as the curfew breakers were pardoned or punished, there was a land contract to be discussed between two farmers. After that, the captain of the guard needed her to approve the rotation of men to protect the roads for the preharvest market, and then she had to look at and agree to funds for the extra forces for the harvest. There would be more goods and money in Camelot then than at any other time, meaning they had to be extra wary.
After the details were hammered out—fortunately, Arthur had had most of the plan in place already—it was down to the harvest festival. “Would you prefer to discuss it tomorrow?” asked one of the officials, a slight man with wispy hair and skin so pale it was nearly blue.
Guinevere wanted nothing more than to be done for the day. But Arthur trusted her. She needed to convince these men that his confidence was not misplaced. And to do that, she could give them no excuse to take over, no reason to think her weak. Even if they meant to spare her out of kindness, it was not what Arthur would ask of or accept from them.
“No, thank you. We are all here. We should use our time well.” She would ask Arthur for a crown similar to his own. Her jeweled circlet was too ornate, decorative. She did not want to project beauty and wealth. She wanted to project confidence, assurance, dependability. Like her king. How often had she tried to absorb those same feelings from his touch?
Guinevere looked down at the notes for the festival. “What will we do if we have latecomers who want to sell goods at the festival?”
“We cannot give them the best spots!” One of the merchants from earlier was still lingering at the back of the room. His face was red with resentment at the idea.
“Of course not.” Guinevere lifted a hand to reassure him. “I thought we could reserve a section on the lakeside of the grounds. It is not the best land—too muddy—but we are not using it for anything else. That way we can accommodate them without inconveniencing any of our own trusted merchants who have applied for their spots and aided the city in invaluable ways.” Guinevere offered the merchant a smile and he accepted it with a relieved sigh and a nod.
The door opened and Lancelot stood to block it, but a golden flash of hair announced Guinevach’s arrival. “Oh, hello!” She dipped a pretty curtsy, a smile as bright as her hair beaming across the room. Guinevere noticed several men sit straighter in response. Sir Gawain practically fell out of his seat with the physical force of his response.
“I am sorry, I had hoped to visit my sister, the queen.” Guinevere wondered if perhaps Guinevach had emphasized the words my sister too much, or if it was all in her head.
Sir Gawain stood in a flurry of paper. He grimaced in horror as all his work fluttered to the floor, but then bowed stiffly. And then just as stiffly tried to bend over while his spine remained perfectly straight as he gathered the notes he had most likely ruined.
Several of the officials looked at Guinevere expectantly. Guinevach had forced her hand. Guinevere had to introduce her. And by introducing her, claim her and give her power. “This is my sister, Guinevach of Cameliard.”
Guinevach’s smile became even prettier. It was as though her cheeks could pinken on demand. “At home, they call me the Lily of Cameliard. You may all call me Princess Lily, if you wish.”
“Princess Lily,” Sir Gawain whispered to himself. His face had gone a shade of red like it had been left too long in the dye vat. He fixed his papers and kept his eyes on them.
Guinevere refused to call Guinevach Princess Lily. It sounded absurd. And why was she claiming a new name? Guinevere remembered how tempted she had been to tell Arthur her real name. It had been part of why she had given it to the flame and snuffed it out. If she did not know it, she could never reveal it. Was Guinevach not really the other woman’s name, and she wanted to go by her true one? And why was she insisting on that title? Was Guinevach in fact a princess? Guinevere had been. The real Guinevere had been. Guinevere shook her head, trying to keep track of the lies. Trying to remind herself that she was not in fact the real Guinevere. Sometimes even she forgot. She would ask Dindrane whether Guinevach was a princess now that Guinevere was married, or if Guinevach had always been a princess. Guinevere had no idea how it worked in Cameliard, which was a problem, since she was supposed to have grown up there.
“I am not available right now, Guinevach.” Guinevere saw Guinevach’s eyes tighten with a flicker of displeasure at the use of her name. “We are discussing the upcoming harvest festival.”
Whatever anger had been on Guinevach’s face was replaced by wide eyes and clasped hands. “Oh, wonderful! Will there be a tournament?”
“We have not—”
“Even in Cameliard we have heard of Camelot’s tournaments! I have always wanted to see one! King Arthur’s knights are the best in the whole world.” Guinevach beamed at each of the knights in the room, lingering a few extra seconds on Sir Gawain, whose face had not recovered from the deep-red hue any merchant would pay to capture for their cloth.
“The festival is not about our knights. It is about our people. It is to celebrate the harvest,” Guinevere said.
“But what is the harm in a tournament?” Guinevach took an empty space on a bench next to an official, who eagerly shifted to give her room. “The knights are the pride of Camelot, and the people are from Camelot, so celebrating the knights is a way of celebrating the people and their harvest.”
“Tournaments do lead to higher attendance, which means we sell more,” the eager merchant in the back said.
Guinevere forced a smile, keeping her voice even. “Yes. But this is the harvest festival. There will be food and drink, minstrels, dancing, and—”
“Oh, will you have animals?” Guinevach broke in. “Once a man with a bear came to Cameliard. He had raised the bear from when it was a cub. The bear could dance, and balance a plate on its nose! Oh, such a dear, wondrous thing.”
Guinevere found the entire concept horrifying. But several men were looking at Guinevach raptly, and the wispy-haired man was nodding eagerly as he spoke. “My sister wrote me about a trained bear once! Perhaps she knows where we can find the man, and we could—”