Guinevere Forever (Lost Camelot Book 1) Read online

  Guinevere Forever

  Lost Camelot Series

  Book One

  By M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2017 Monica L. Bullock

  All rights reserved

  And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:

  “The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

  And God fulfils himself in many ways,

  Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

  Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

  I have lived my life, and that which I have done

  May He within himself make pure! but thou,

  If thou shouldst never see my face again,

  Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

  Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

  Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

  For what are men better than sheep or goats

  That nourish a blind life within the brain,

  If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer

  Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

  For so the whole round earth is every way

  Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

  But now farewell. I am going a long way

  With these thou seëst—if indeed I go

  (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—

  To the island-valley of Avilion;

  Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,

  Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies

  Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns

  And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,

  Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”

  Excerpt from The Passing of Arthur

  Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1859-1885

  Dedicated to all those that dream of the kings and queens of old.

  I dream too.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One—Guinevere

  Chapter Two—Guinevere

  Chapter Three—Guinevere

  Chapter Four—Luke Ryan

  Chapter Five—Morgan LeFay

  Chapter Six—Guinevere

  Chapter Seven—Guinevere

  Chapter Eight—Luke Ryan

  Chapter Nine—Guinevere

  Chapter Ten—Luke Ryan

  Chapter Eleven—Guinevere

  Chapter Twelve—Guinevere

  Chapter Thirteen—Guinevere

  Chapter Fourteen—Guinevere

  Chapter Fifteen—Luke Ryan

  Chapter Sixteen—Arthur Pendragon

  Epilogue—Arthur Pendragon

  Chapter One—Guinevere

  People say that when you are dead you do not know anything. They say that the soul ceases to exist, that you cannot feel or see beyond the blackness. But all those wise and learned men, the ones who claim they know what lies beyond death’s mystical doorway, are wrong.

  All of them.

  I have been dead a long time, and I feel everything. I see everything and know far too much.

  *

  Five floors below me, a young woman with pink hair and a raspy voice wanted to die. She fantasized about it daily in graphic detail as she vacuumed the carpets, and her reasons were as endless as her nail polish collection. Louise was her name. Working with her was Richard, whose daydreams were different but just as hopeless. Richard pined for his neighbor, Brenda, while he waxed the hallway floors night after night. He wondered how he would ever pay his hospital bills and thought perhaps it would have been better to die an early death. Another man, Carlos, the night watchman, stole change from a nearby desk and planned to set the building on fire.

  This I would never allow.

  Of the three, Carlos interested me the most. But not so much that I would engage in conversation with him, unless I decided to kill him.

  And this was now my kingdom. I was the Queen of Death. I secluded myself in my tower away from the living except to plunder their minds…and sometimes their blood. And when they called for death, even subconsciously, I was drawn to them. For I was Death.

  Some would revel in such knowledge; I had known men and women who would have killed for such an advantage, but these pitiful mortals were not my enemies. I had only one enemy—and for the first time in a hundred years, she was close and I waited. Morgan delayed for reasons of her own. Perhaps she was hesitant to face me after nearly seven hundred years because she knew I would kill her…and not quickly.

  For now, I closed my eyes and lingered in my kistvaen. Its stone walls kept me cool and protected from the sun’s rays, which were not yet extinguished. The glass windows of my penthouse were covered with expensive blinds set to retract after sundown. The sunlight would not harm me as it once had, for I was much stronger now, yet it repulsed me and would swiftly sicken me. However, on clear nights after I fed I often watched the world below for hours; sometimes I counted stars and pondered the surface of the moon. The nighttime celestial lights were my constant companions. The apartment had high, spacious ceilings and fine wood floors. Although it had hardly any furniture, it met my needs and shielded me from humanity—and others of whom I became increasingly aware.

  Like the one who drew near now.

  Morgan!

  With relentless determination I continued searching for the mind of my enemy, but she eluded me.

  Perhaps I had only imagined Morgan nearby—so deeply did I long for Camelot these interminable days.

  Yes, I dreamed of Camelot. And not the fabled city with golden spires atop rising towers, the stuff of fairy tales and legends. No, I dreamed of Camelot as she first began, an encampment of wood and earth and fire. A stronghold built on courage, strength, love and trust.

  Until trust was broken.

  I dreamed of the Camelot that Arthur and I built with our bare hands—with our own blood, sweat and tears. Yes, so many tears, yet so much hope. We poured our souls into that bit of land and saw miracles arise from the sowing. Oh yes, we saw wonders, but all of that was forgotten now, lost in the shadows of time that swallowed everything. Like whitened dandelions, blown away by the gentlest of breezes, so was our city gone forever.

  But my long memory recalled the days before the burning and the terror that came by night. I felt warm sunshine without fear then and tasted golden apples and was surrounded by the laughter of children—and I rested in my love for Arthur. Yes, I could see him now. Alive and laughing at his many merlins—how he loved those birds, and how he laughed at everything. Arthur rose in my memory, and I pictured him standing tall against his enemies, unafraid to fight whoever or whatever stood in his way. All for the Greater Purpose, as he called it. Sometimes he even fought with me, but he always loved me and I him. We had been inseparable for a time, and then he was gone.

  Gone too soon, my Summer King!

  Arthur Pendragon was myth to most now, his vibrancy reduced to an elusive idea that the modern world could not seem to grasp. Fashionable depictions of him frustrated me, for they were as far removed from reality as I was from those Glorious Days. Even our children had been forgotten, their names lost to the world. Their mother emerged in modernity’s new mythologies as a barren husk of a woman; a wanton whose womb suffered the wrath of God for her indiscretions, who bore no son, no daughter. It was a tawdry fantasy that they enjoyed.

  Ah, let it be. Let us all be forgotten by the world, but I never shall forget them. I will always remember my children. Arthur, I cannot let you go, my love…

  If I could have shed tears, I would have let them flow, but any relief through tears escaped me. My tears were stolen by Morgan’s curse, gone with my humanity. Yet I daily sought Arthur in my dreams as relentlessly as old Pellinore sought his
Questing Beast. Pushing against the Unseen Hand, I demanded entrance into the dream world, for at least I could still dream. I spoke my husband’s name, as if it were a key to the Otherworld, but I did not find him. Nor did he respond as he had in the beginning. This was an exercise in futility. As the sun blazed outside and humanity toiled in the building beneath me, I hid in stillness and hoped for a glimpse of those long-gone days.

  And then, just when I was about to give up hope, the dream-fog shifted and I was no longer seeking entrance into Camelot but standing on the hills of Avalon.

  I did not want to be here.

  It was cold, and the snowflakes fell quickly and heavily. Three queens stood with me as silent witnesses to the most horrible moment of my life, save one. The sickening sound of mortar slapping on stone, the screech of a watching owl made the moment genuine and also unbearable. I observed a nameless man seal the stone wall as it climbed higher, and I knew that wall would forever separate Arthur and me.

  The Bear of Britain, Arthur Pendragon, was dead. Betrayed and murdered. And gone down with him into the grave was the dream of Camelot, the Bright and Shining City for which we had given everything. Our fair dream and our time in the Summerland had come to an end. And even though I had been forewarned of the danger to Camelot, I would never have imagined her speedy demise.

  We, four of the six remaining queens of Britain, stood between the sacred torches, our cold breath creating swirls of fog around our faces. And through a veil of tears we said goodbye to my husband and our king. When the last stone was in place, I waited for some words of comfort. Some hope. But there were no arms to fall into as there once may have been, no consolation for me.

  Nimue vanished first, doubtless anxious to return to her hunt for Merlin, her lover and sometimes teacher. At least she did not scold me or blame me for Arthur’s death. Even she had given up hope for his healing in the end.

  “The Beast’s blade was poisoned, my queen. The wound inflicted by Mordred is of the kind that cannot be healed by my hand. If only Merlin were here…”

  And where was the man who’d put Arthur on the throne? Merlin, you failed us—you failed Arthur! I sent men to seek him out, but time was not our ally. I pleaded with the Powers on High to spare Arthur, to take my life if required, but my prayers were not answered. Not in the way I expected.

  My husband died that night, never opening his eyes to wish me farewell. He had not spoken to anyone at all except Galahad, who left immediately without offer of explanation. When I finally returned to Arthur’s side, he was in his forever rest.

  Vivian, Lady of the Lake and Queen of Avalon, broke the circle next. Her cold stare blasted the full measure of her hatred toward me. I could almost feel her loathing, like a wave from her precious lake slapping against my soul. For a moment, I saw that faraway look in her eye, the look she always wore when she was about to speak for her goddess, but she relented and said nothing. She spoke a few words to her manservant in her secret language, and I jutted out my chin in defiance. Her servant, a hulking figure of masculine strength, paused with his hand on his blade before obediently following the Lady. I had done the unthinkable—refused to relinquish Excalibur into her hands—and I knew I had not heard the last of her. She would no doubt take to swords over possession of the sacred blade, as was her right, but I could not part with it. How could I? It was the last bit of Arthur left, and his blood remained on the steel. The king’s blood had been shed—it was precious to me.

  The Lady of the Lake was wrong if she believed I kept Excalibur only for myself. What of Lochlon? Was not my son the rightful heir? Some would say yes; some would say no. But I knew the truth—he was Arthur’s son! Since the nobles and knights had not yet rallied around Lochlon, I would keep the sword until they came to their senses. It may have been wiser to bury Excalibur with Arthur, but Nimue had interceded.

  Kind, dreamy-eyed Nimue. “Morgan will seek the sword, and Vivian will not deny her,” she had whispered to me. “She would wield it and rule on a throne of blood. Do not release Excalibur, Guinevere. Arthur left it in your care.”

  Nimue had been right. Morgan was not above disturbing Arthur’s secret resting place to claim the sword, and she would have the power to break any prayer or spell of protection. In the end, I hid Excalibur until I could think what my next move should be.

  Ah, Morgan…even in my dreams, I felt the weight of your betrayal.

  The mason finished his work, bowed his head to me and trudged away through the snow to leave me alone with my husband’s monument. But I was not alone. Queen Igraine remained too. Tall and slender, Igraine’s faded blond hair hung about her like heavy ropes. Her skin was as soft and white as her hair. It was not hard to believe that her loveliness had once nearly wrecked the peace of Britain. Arthur’s mother had been a great beauty in her day and a force to be reckoned with. She had been as her son was, vibrant and optimistic in all things.

  Except her daughter, Morgan. She never showed that child any love. It was as if all her love had been spent on Uther and then Arthur. There had been none left for little Morgan of the Fairies. But I had loved Morgan once.

  In my memory-dream, I reached for Igraine to say something that would ease her suffering, but she turned away coldly and left me standing on the white hillside alone. And I was truly alone. I had no allies. My daughter, Alwen, had been stolen the night her father was wounded; my son, Lochlon, fled Camelot for his life; and Arthur’s knights were dead or had disappeared from our land, unwilling to stand against Mordred, the son of Morgan and Accolon. How the young dragon had roared, but he was gone now too. Arthur had pierced his heart on Camlann’s bloody field.

  I collapsed on my knees, uncaring that the snow was gathering around me. Let it freeze me! Let it pile against me! I moaned, the grief carrying me into unknown places.

  “Arthur!” I yelled, anger welling up within me. “Arthur!” But there was no answer. I heard nothing but the whistling of the wind and the sound of leaves collapsing under the weight of the heavy snow.

  For what felt like an eternity, I wept there…and then the dream folded in on itself as they always did when it was time for me to awaken.

  I blinked open my eyes and knew that I was not alone. I sensed her presence. Then I saw her—my sister-in-law, a woman I once called my own sister. Morgan LeFay perched on a dusty table on the far side of the room. She did not move or appear alive at all. In fact, she looked much like a stone gargoyle, squatting low with her thin arms wrapped around her folded legs. If not for my vampire eyes, I might have overlooked her, but I saw her.

  Now, we shall see how this goes.

  I sprang out of the kistvaen, shoving the stone lid to the ground with all my might, and with a furious scream raced toward her.

  Chapter Two—Guinevere

  “After all this time, I will have your life,” I promised Morgan, my hunger rising along with my rage. My breath came quick and ragged as my hands wrapped around her jeweled neck, but she laughed at me in a strangled voice. Then her hands were on me and she swung me around, pinning me against the plain plaster wall and creating puffs of dust.

  “Come now, let’s be friends, sister-in-law. I have so much to tell you.”

  That proposal only infuriated me more. I pushed off the ground with my legs and lifted her off the floor, carrying her with me to the top of the high ceiling. I expected her to scream, to beg for her life, but she did none of those things and did not stop laughing. Baring my fangs, I lunged for her neck, but Morgan did not hesitate. She did not tremble or shake or beg for mercy. Something had to be amiss. And then she stopped laughing; her dark eyes pierced mine, and I shuddered at the pure hatred I saw in them.

  “Kill me, and any chance of saving your miserable life—or Arthur’s—dies with me.” I did not drop her, although I wanted to more than anything. What a pleasure it would have been to see her fall and break into pieces! But she was strong and as determined as ever. What kind of creature was Morgan now? She was not of my kind but something
else. Something I did not understand. The scent of musty leaves, forgotten herbs and a hint of rain permeated her skin.

  “Empty words, Morgan.”

  “Are they? You would have Arthur’s blood on your hands?”

  “Arthur is dead. They are all dead—I am too!”

  “You are stupid, aren’t you? You know that some souls never die. Arthur is alive, Undead Queen, and he is not the only one. Another lives still—or do you at last care nothing for Lancelot? Have you finally purged your heart?”

  Hearing their names spoken aloud surprised me, and my blood-hungry excitement waned for a few seconds as I pondered her words. After all this time, I knew that Morgan would not speak an idle word to me. If she came at me with threats, she always followed them up with the promised deed. Just like when she promised to destroy me, to make me suffer.

  I refused to release her, and we locked eyes. “I am already dead, as you well know, and so are Arthur and Lancelot. You brought death to me. Perhaps it is time that I bring you under his shadowy wing. I have grown strong these many years, sister.”

  Then she vanished, and I was left clutching the air. I immediately descended and watched as the thin brunette reappeared on the other side of the room. “Ah, not as strong as I, again.”

  A snarl escaped my lips, and I sailed toward her. “Strong enough,” I warned her, but she disappeared again. I screamed at the air around me, “Why are you here, Morgan? Have you come to gloat or merely to admire your creation?”

  Morgan reappeared as if nothing had happened between us. She straightened her gown; she had been so meticulous a dresser when we were all young and alive. She did not meet my eyes, but her words conveyed her serious intent. “I want what belongs to me, Undead Queen. I want what is mine. Give me Excalibur, and I will let you die as a mortal. I think that is more than merciful considering your many crimes.”

  I sneered, “Merciful? When have you ever been merciful? And what crimes are you speaking of, Morgan? It is you who betrayed the king, you who stirred the pot and planted hatred in Mordred’s heart.” I paused and added, “Perhaps we should ask Accolon about your mercy.”