She heard soft voices from her sitting room and sat up. A piece of cloth fell from where it had been dropped on her chest. She knew that red thread. The embroidery Brangien was always fiddling with. How had Guinevere not seen it? Brangien knew knot magic. And she had used it on Guinevere.
Surely her maid would not risk being banished or executed just to steal a few nights with a lover. Brangien seemed too smart, too practical for that. The sitting room was always empty at night. Brangien could have snuck in a man under cover of darkness.
There had to be something sinister at play. It made Guinevere sick. Brangien had been her guide. Her friend. And she had been blind to magic being done right under her own nose. What if Brangien had struck? What if she had hurt Arthur?
Guinevere was a fool for trusting anyone. Everything about herself was a lie; she should assume the same of everyone around her.
The sitting room door was open just a crack. Guinevere put her eye to it and peered through. Brangien was inside with…Sir Tristan. Guinevere had risked everything to save him. Was he, too, against her and the king?
Brangien was in his arms. Maybe it really was that simple. A maid and a knight in a relationship that would be gossiped about. Brangien was not socially inferior to Sir Tristan, though. And Guinevere and Arthur both would have celebrated it.
The way her shoulders were moving. She was not being embraced with amorous intentions. She was being held as she wept. The bath was full, nearly brimming over with water. Guinevere watched as Brangien pulled herself together, sniffling.
“I will try again. You are right. We cannot give up.”
She leaned over the bath and pulled a lock of hair from her bag. She dipped it into the water, using it to create ripples and movement. Brangien was scrying—looking for something or someone through the water.
“You are doing it wrong,” Guinevere said, stepping into the room. She held the dagger Arthur had given her. There was a killing knot—a simple, brutal movement—that she could tie on skin with the point of the metal. Far more effective than a stabbing Sir Tristan might survive. Her stomach turned, but her resolve tightened. She would do it. If she had to.
Brangien cried out in fear and dropped the hair on the floor. Sir Tristan spun, hand on the pommel of his sword. Then his eyes widened in surprise, and he bowed. “My queen. I am sorry. We were—”
“You were scrying.”
Brangien picked up the hair and clutched it to her chest. “Please, my lady, let me explain.”
“Explain why you were using magic to force me to sleep?”
Brangien hung her head in shame. “Please, I beg mercy. Banishment, not death. If I have done anything to help you, anything to—”
“It was well done. The knot magic, I mean. I have not seen those patterns before, but they make sense. You combined sleep with…” Guinevere waited. Neither had moved toward her. The promise of violence made the dagger feel heavier than it should.
Flinching, Brangien filled in the details. “Weight. It holds the sleeper down so nothing disturbs their rest. I used it once before when you were so tired but your sleep was restless. I wanted you to get better. And it worked so well, I thought…I thought I could use it so we would have enough time to scry without being caught.” Brangien lifted her chin, strong and defiant. “Sir Tristan did not use magic. He does not know how. I bewitched him.”
“Brangien,” he said, shaking his head.
“See? He is still under my control.”
Guinevere had planned on the same lie should she be caught and Arthur implicated. “Not if he has been through the doors in the castle in the last few days. Any spell would be broken.”
“That was you?” Brangien gasped. “I had to redo my work so many times! I thought I was losing my skills!”
“You do not seem surprised I know magic, though.”
Brangien shook her head, wringing her hands nervously, the hair still clutched there. “I saw the knots in your hair. A few other things. I know things are different in the south. I thought— Well, I thought you might understand.”
Brangien had been revealed, but Guinevere had, as well. She could see the realization dawning on Sir Tristan. His hand drifted to his arm, the wound still wrapped but healing nicely. “Did you—”
“I was not about to lose such a good man. I thought you were a good man. I need you to be, still. Brangien, you are my only friend here. I have never felt a threat from you.” She would have known. Surely she would have known. She would have felt it in Brangien’s touch. This was a betrayal, but perhaps not as dangerous as Guinevere had feared. “Both of you, tell me truthfully: Are you a threat to Arthur?”
“No!” Sir Tristan exclaimed. He dropped to one knee and shook his head, his beautiful brown eyes hurt at the very suggestion. “I would die for my king.”
“And for your queen.” Guinevere had not forgotten, would never forget. Sir Tristan had not hesitated to put himself between her and the wolf. That was not the action of a man who was conspiring against them.
“I believe in everything King Arthur is doing here,” Brangien said. “Surely in our time together you have seen that. I believe in Camelot. I would never harm the king.”
Guinevere noticed the way Brangien held the hair, how unconsciously she stroked it. It was not Arthur’s hair, which was always cut short. Or Guinevere’s, for that matter. It was rich auburn in the candlelight, long and soft.
“Give me your hand,” Guinevere said. Brangien complied, raising one trembling hand to Guinevere’s.