Reflect- Snow White Retold Read online

  Unlike her father, Artorius never raised his voice, or lost his temper.

  The blue knight never took his eyes off her.

  And at the end of the audience, when Artorius rose to dismiss his court, he still kept hold of her hand.

  "Three days' hence, there will be a celebratory feast, to mark the marriage of two kingdoms, when I will take Princess Guinevere as my bride," Artorius announced.

  Guinevere almost cried with relief, but managed to restrain herself, for she felt everyone's eyes upon her.

  Everyone but the blue knight, who suddenly found the flagstones at his feet far more fascinating.

  Six

  Xylander headed back to the inn, thinking to collect his things and ride away. Now Guinevere was safe, he could be on his way. Find his own destiny, so to speak, as far from his father as possible.

  "Is she fair, the princess?"

  "The fairest lady I have ever seen. Skin white as fresh-fallen snow, lips as red as blood…"

  Xylander grinned. Guinevere didn't think she had any beauty to speak of, but she'd turned every head in court today, male and female alike. She'd been wasted, shut up in Father's castle. Here, she would be allowed to bloom.

  Or at least he hoped so. Perhaps he should stay for a little while, just to see how her marriage suited her. He owed her that.

  "…and hair as black as ebony. The prettiest princess you ever saw, with a heart so soft, she covers her face and weeps at the sight of blood."

  They weren't talking about Guinevere. Xylander had seen his sister hawking with their mother, and when her falcon had brought her a duck or a fat pigeon, she'd snapped their necks like any born hunter. Quick, decisive, yet without cruelty or enjoyment, heedless of the blood on her hands from the wounds the falcon's talons had gouged in her prey.

  Even on the day Mother's gyrfalcon, Circe, had sliced through Mother's glove and drawn blood, Guinevere had held her head high, taking the bird from Mother before cleaning and bandaging Mother's arm. He'd wished for Guinevere, the first – and last – time he'd come to Castrum.

  A time best forgotten.

  "When she takes her place as queen, then we will truly know peace."

  Xylander choked back a laugh. A leader who could not stand the sight of blood would not be strong enough to maintain any kind of peace.

  "You dare laugh at our future queen?" a cool voice demanded.

  Xylander blinked, realising the merchant was addressing him. Evidently he hadn't choked back his laughter soon enough. "It takes a strong leader to ensure peace. One like King Artorius. He's taking a new wife soon, who may yet give him a son. If she does, the princess will never be queen."

  The merchant shook his head pityingly. "You know little of our king, sir. He has not taken another wife because he means to see Princess Zurine inherit his throne. The only son he wants is a son in law, a fitting consort for the princess, but no man is good enough."

  Xylander opened his mouth to say that Artorius had thought he was good enough, then snapped it shut again. He was pretending to be a knight, not a prince. And he did not want their ebon-haired princess, who would never want to come hunting with him. He imagined her as a dark raincloud, raining tears too often.

  Instead, he said, "The new queen is fair. Fair of eye and hair and skin…why, it might be said she is fairer than Princess Zurine. With a wife so fair, surely the King will not be able to resist begetting a son. Several, maybe."

  One man slammed his empty cup down on the table. "Princess Zurine is the fairest maiden in the land, and I will fight any man who says otherwise!"

  Xylander reached for his sword. "Princess Guinevere is fairer, and I will answer such an insult with my blade!"

  He had barely a moment to think that perhaps Castrum was worth staying in, after all, if it was to be this much fun, before the brawl began in earnest and he found himself in the middle of the best fight he'd had in years.

  Seven

  "The white silk. His Majesty commands it."

  The whirl of activity around Guinevere ceased, and the maids fell silent. Judging by the quality of her dress, the noblewoman who spoke of silk was some relation to the King.

  But Guinevere had been her father's chatelaine for too many years to be cowed by a commanding tone, and here she would be queen. "White silk is impractical, and nothing like I saw the women wearing in court. Something darker would be much more sensible."

  "The King commands that his bride will be wed in white. His queen will stand out in court, no matter what she wears, for you will sit beside him." The woman's stubborn chin jutted out as she matched Guinevere's gaze, then bobbed the slightest bit in a mocking curtsey. "Your Highness."

  "Yes, Lady Ragna," the maids chorused. The maids bustled about her with the white silk, ignoring Guinevere's quiet protests.

  "Your veil will be embroidered with gold thread, the same shade as your hair," Lady Ragna continued. "I will see to it myself." And with that, she turned in a swirl of skirts, and was gone, but for the clinking of the keyring at her girdle as she marched down the corridor.

  The castle chatelaine, Guinevere guessed. One who already grasped the reins of the household firmly in hand. With such a woman already here, perhaps Guinevere could sit around in white silk, embroidering handkerchiefs or whatever took her fancy, for she would have little else to do. A situation as alien to her as the surface of the moon, for even when her mother was alive, Guinevere had been learning how to keep a castle. For, her mother had often said, a king might rule a kingdom, but it was the queen who ruled the castle, and to do that, she must know everything that went on within it, to make sure it ran as smoothly as possible. Yet Castrum coped fine without a queen.

  Castrum was shaping up to be a very different place to home, she reflected. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing, or a bad one.

  Then again, in her two days in Castrum, no one had shouted at her, threatened to kill her, or brought her an impossible problem and begged her to solve it.

  Perhaps she could learn to like it here. White silk, idleness and all.

  Eight

  The wedding was a mercifully brief affair, so unmemorable that even after, as she sat on the queen's throne beside Artorius in court, nodding her gratitude for the endless stream of wedding gifts being presented by his vassals, the only details she could recall were about the cathedral. Older than the one at home, and altar before which they'd said their vows sat beneath a circular dome that appeared to be a giant caricature of the bishop's bald head below it.

  Firmly yet with great courtesy, Artorius took her hand to guide her from cathedral to throne room, and then on to the feasting hall, where he seated her beside him on the dais. A girl close to her own age sank onto the bench beside Guinevere. A girl who wore white silk, just like her. Guinevere opened her mouth to greet the girl.

  "Princess, you have not yet congratulated your father and his new bride," said a male voice from the girl's other side.

  Guinevere found herself impaled by the girl's gimlet glare, as the girl pursed her lips into a disapproving rosebud. "She's wearing my silk. I can't help but wonder what else she means to usurp while she's here. I can't imagine what my father was thinking."

  The man leaned forward, his eyes bulging as they avidly regarded Guinevere.

  She'd never minded people staring at her before, but the touch of this man's eyes made her skin crawl. She wanted to bathe all over again, scrubbing fiercely until she could no longer feel it.

  His tongue darted out, licking plump lips. "He was thinking like a man. A man with needs that must be met. Needs that only a wife can truly satisfy. I'm sure when you are a wife, you will understand. If you had but accepted my offer, tonight could have been a double celebration, and I would only be too happy to educate you in all your wifely duties. Just say the word, Princess."

  Though the lecherous man spoke to the princess, his eyes were undressing Guinevere.

  Like Artorius would, after the feast, in the privacy of his bedchamber.
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  Her wedding night. Guinevere shivered. She had heard many tales about what happened, both bad and good, and she prayed she would not embarrass herself or her new husband. That would be enough. To hope for the pleasure she'd heard some women experienced in the bedchamber…no, that was too much to hope for.

  "Lord Melwas, I would not marry you if you were the last man on earth. My father has promised I shall marry a prince, and I am content to wait until he comes to claim me. On that day, I will celebrate." The girl drank deeply from her wine.

  Guinevere smothered a laugh. Artorius' daughter might not like her, but she quite liked the daughter. Guinevere vowed to help the girl marry her prince, if that's what she wanted. Perhaps the girl might come to like her, if she could arrange it.

  Nine

  As a mere knight, Xylander sat far to the back of the hall, where the men ate off trenchers instead of plates. Not that he minded the plain fare – he'd eaten plenty such on hunting trips. As long as there was plenty of it, and there was. King Artorius kept a good table.

  Up at the high table, Guinevere sat like a marble statue come to life. Her veil hid her golden hair, but he'd know his sister anywhere. She was born to be a queen.

  The men around him toasted the health of their new queen, and the King, until they toasted more for another drink than whatever they were well-wishing. Xylander downed his drink, and decided to risk it. Artorius was busy talking to the man beside him, so Xylander could pretend to be as drunk as his fellows and approach the dais to wish the couple well. The King would likely ignore him, as he should to some drunken junior knight, but Guinevere would appreciate it, and she was the one who mattered.

  Xylander wove between tables, revellers and servers, his eyes fixed on Guinevere. She caught sight of him and flashed a smile that spoke more of hope than happiness. A hope for happiness, perhaps.

  He should have been watching where he was going.

  He smacked into someone, nearly knocking the slight figure down. He reached out to steady her, and found his hands ensnared in silk.

  Only then did he drag his eyes from Guinevere to meet…hers.

  Dark eyes peered up at him, shocked.

  Xylander ducked his head, praying she would not recognise him, if she hadn't yet already. If she knew him as the Green Knight, he'd be dead for sure. "Please forgive me, sweet lady." He bowed low.

  She made a disapproving sound deep in her throat. In a rustle of silk, she was gone.

  Xylander dared to breathe again, only to inhale her dizzying scent. Something sweet and floral, enchanting him even more.

  Rough hands seized his arms as a red-faced courtier took her place before him. "How dare you touch the princess!" the courtier hissed.

  He'd hoped to find her a gorgon, but her beauty had bloomed since he'd seen her last. Princess Zurine was as beauteous as Guinevere, if not more.

  It mattered not. She'd seen his hideous defeat in that tourney, years ago, and wouldn't want anything to do with him.

  Better that he leave. Now. Before she remembered, and sent more guards after him than these two. Xylander twisted out of their hold and hurried out of the hall.

  Ten

  "Come, wife, it is time to take you to my chamber," Guinevere heard Artorius say, and his hand engulfed hers.

  She wiped her lips to hide their trembling, then let the cloth fall as Artorius led her away from the high table.

  Guinevere held her head high, as a queen should, marching with firm steps behind her new king, hoping no one could see the tumult inside. The sheer terror at what was to come.

  Someone fell into step behind her. She glanced back, hoping to meet Xylander's gaze so that the eye contact might bolster her courage, but she found one of Artorius' knights following her instead. The knight bowed his head rather than meet her eyes, but it didn't stop her from recognising him. This was the azure knight who'd stared at her so when she first entered Artorius' court. Up close and in his wedding finery, he cut an even finer figure than before.

  For one mad, glorious moment, she wished she could have married the handsome knight instead of his king, so that her wedding night might feel like more of a pleasure than a duty. But a lone knight could not protect her from her father's forces, if her father came after her, while King Artorius could command armies of strong knights.

  The price of protection was to share the King's bed. A price she had promised to pay, and she would.

  "Your chamber, my queen," King Artorius said, opening a door and ushering her inside.

  He did not miss her hesitation.

  He clapped a hand on the knight's shoulder. "This is Sir Lancelot, the most loyal of my knights. There is no man I trust more to guard the door of my chamber, or yours."

  Lancelot dropped to one knee, accepting her hand from his king. "I am honoured, Your Majesties." His lips touched the back of Guinevere's hand.

  She gasped as lightning seemed to spark at his touch, running up her arm into the very heart of her. She darted a frightened glance at the King, hoping he hadn't seen.

  But of course he had, for he watched her closely.

  "You have nothing to fear while Sir Lancelot protects you, my queen," Artorius said. "Now, step inside, while I have a word with him."

  She had no choice but to obey her husband, no matter how much she felt the urge to run. A foolish urge, she told herself, as she entered the royal bedchamber. She spied the chest that was evidently used to store their crowns and breathed a sigh of relief. Never had something weighed her down as much as the circlet of gold atop her head, and she felt so much lighter as she laid the queen's crown in its proper place. She must have unfastened the fillet that held her veil in place, too, for she felt the fabric slide down her back into a pile on the floor.

  She nudged the richly embroidered cloth with her slippered foot. Hours of work had gone into every stitch, in anticipation of this day, and now the day was over, she had no desire to take it up again.

  She heard a gasp, and turned, to find both Sir Lancelot and King Artorius staring at her.

  Lancelot ducked his head. "To my last breath, Your Majesty."

  Another clap to the knight's shoulder. "Good boy."

  From the furrow in the knight's brow, Guinevere judged he did not agree with his sovereign, but he had the grace not to say so. She wouldn't have called Lancelot a boy, either – he was most definitely a man – yet she had no desire to argue with her new husband.

  She would struggle enough to be meek and compliant. By all that was holy, why had she agreed to –

  The door clicked shut, and Artorius slammed the bar into place, barring the chamber to all but themselves.

  There would be no escape now. Guinevere swallowed back her terror. It had no place here.

  The King smiled. "Your hair is like spun gold. You will need to cover it in court, or you will blind my men with your beauty."

  She bobbed a curtsey. "Yes, Your Majesty." For all she'd been taught about protocol and the proper things a wife did for her husband, she could not for the life of her remember how she was supposed to address him.

  He dropped his crown into the chest. "Artorius, please. Or just Art, if you wish. Titles are for court or the battlefield, and you have no need to be present at either, if you do not wish it. Truly, I am too old to be breaking in a new wife, but I could never refuse aid to a damsel in distress. Now we are alone, tell me truly, Guinevere: is this the fate you would have chosen?"

  Better than the alternative. "Yes, Your…Artorius."

  He chuckled, but his shrewd, old eyes saw too much. "Or at least you fear me less than your father."

  "I do not fear you." Damn his eyes. "I fear…what all new brides do, is all." She ducked her head so that she might unlace her gown without him reading her very soul.

  "And rightly so, perhaps. A young man faced with a beautiful woman forgets himself and what is due to his bride, far too often." He glanced at the door, perhaps thinking of Lancelot. "A wedding night is only properly consummated when both
parties are willing and ready to join together in every way. I will not ask anything of you unless you are ready, Guinevere."

  Her gown puddled around her ankles, but the laces on her shift had somehow tied themselves into impossible knots. She dragged the garment up over her head and threw it on the floor. "I am ready." Ignoring how the cool air chilled her skin, she marched to the bed and lay down, closing her eyes tightly. "I am ready," she repeated, as much to herself as to him.

  She felt his weight as he climbed into the bed beside her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, trying to visualise the handsome knight naked. She would imagine he was Lancelot, and the ordeal would be over soon.

  "Well, I am not," Artorius said. "Drinking all those toasts to our health and happiness, I fear has given me a splitting headache. One that cannot be cured even by the sight of your beautiful body. So cover yourself, my dear, and get some sleep. I certainly intend to."

  By all that was holy, no. He could not do this to her. She had the courage for this now, but tomorrow…or another night…who knew if she could summon such courage again?

  "But if the marriage is not consummated…" she began.

  He cut her off with a loud snore.

  Guinevere's eyes flew open. The snoring continued. Her husband had fallen asleep, without laying a finger on her.

  She waited until she was certain he wouldn't wake before she slid beneath the blankets. Obedient wife that she was, she tried to sleep.

  Eleven

  Guinevere couldn't say what woke her, but as her sleep-fogged mind registered the heavy breathing in the bed beside her, the weight of dread pulled her out from under the covers. The room still held the warmth of last night's fire, now little more than ashes in the hearth she edged toward, but a chill settled over her as she reached for a shift to clothe her nakedness.

  The white silk gown, puddled where it had fallen, reminded her that she was a new bride, and her heavy-breathing bedmate was her husband, but it couldn't dim her desire to dress before he woke. Only when she'd laced up her lavender linen gown did she dare to approach the bed again on slippered feet.