Chapter 1 — Guinevere Carmelide

The sun was barely making its way above the horizon, but the people of Camelot bustled in the streets, everyone heading to one place or returning from another. The farmers prepared to tend to their farms; the one who had an ox loaded the animal with his tools, while the one who did not lugged them along. Traders opened their shops, cleaned their wares, and displayed them for prospective buyers.

Fishermen dragged their hauls to the centre of the market, hoping to sell them off so they could drown themselves in a tankard of ale before the sun got high in the sky.

Camelot was a busy kingdom, and the magnificent castle where the royal family lived was no different. Despite the early hour, the king's court was already in session, with attendants from all over the kingdom present in the throne room.

Every man and woman currently present in the great hall, arranged in a semicircle around the dais that held the king's ornate throne, was a representative from their community who hoped to appeal to the king regarding one issue or another.

Of course, there were some that had been summoned by the king himself, here to receive an imperial order. The knight who had just lowered herself onto one knee was one such person: Guinevere Carmelide.

As the sun's rays diffused through the high windows and settled on her bowed head, illuminating her auburn locks, the crowd could not help but murmur, unable to contain their awe. She was truly beautiful. Her skin shimmered with a healthy wheat colour that seemed to point to an African ancestor, and her oval face was elegant, framed by her wavy bronze hair.

Her graceful figure was clothed in the uniform of the imperial knights, blinding white and gold. The two swords sheathed at her waist were both of a quality that could be found nowhere else but in the king's armoury. It had been said, and it would continue to be said, that there was no greater beauty anywhere in the kingdom.

The chancellor stepped forward, and after clearing his throat, he unfurled a scroll and began to read in a vibrant voice. The crowd quieted down such that if a pin dropped on the marble floor, the sound would reach the ears of all in the hall. They hung on every word that escaped the chancellor's lips. History was about to be made.

The chancellor finished reading the last word of the imperial order, rolled it up smartly, and looked expectantly down through the spectacles on his nose at the knight who was kneeling below him.

"I, Guinevere of the house of Carmelide, accept this imperial order," Guinevere said, bowing with her left hand placed reverentially over her heart. Her voice rang out in the silent room, elegant and pleasant like the tinkling of a wind chime shivering in a soft breeze.

She rose slowly from her kneeling position and could not help the small smile that curved upon her lips. She turned her gaze to the man on the throne. "Thank you, Your Majesty, for giving me the opportunity to serve you. I swear on my life that I will not let you down."

Uther Pendragon, reclining in the massive throne, smiled and nodded. He was the most important and powerful person in Camelot.

"You will act as my representative in the west. Drive the Saxons out in my name, and I will reward you with whatever you desire."

The crowd gasped as one, and even an eyebrow twitched on the chancellor's stoic face. Guinevere herself was not immune to the effect of the king's words. The assignment she had just been given was incredibly important, and the reward that awaited her was incredibly special. Her heart thumped, pushing blood faster through her body. She could feel it just beyond her reach: the glory and the honour that awaited her and her men.

Repeating her vow, Guinevere bowed deeply and walked backwards to the door, as was the custom when in the presence of the king. As the large brown doors closed in front of her, Guinevere straightened and stared at them briefly before turning to make her way out of the palace.

Finally, Guinevere thought as she strode through the hallway, boots striking the floor, she was getting the acknowledgement she deserved. This was an imperial order, not an order from a marquis or even a duke. It was an order from Uther Pendragon himself. Those whispered tales had reached the king's ears. Years of training rigorously to become a knight against her father's wishes had been worth it.

She reached the entrance of the palace and stepped into the sunlight, its soft heat warming her up. She jogged down the stairs to the edge of the courtyard, where her friend and most loyal knight waited patiently on one of the cobblestones.

"How did you fare?" Lancelot du Lac asked eagerly, rising to his feet as soon as he saw her. He was dressed identically to Guinevere. The only noticeable difference was the number of swords sheathed at his waist. While Guinevere was a dual wielder, Lancelot's skill—although impressive—limited him to just one blade.

"How do you think?" Guinevere asked, smiling. "It's just as I told you. We received an imperial order to squash the barbarians." The excitement she had kept on a tight leash in the hall seeped out, and Guinevere clenched her leather-covered fist, beaming at her friend. "The king has acknowledged us, Lancelot. His Majesty."

Lancelot beamed back at her, his blue eyes glinting, and clasping her shoulder, he said, "It has been you all along. You led us to victory and glory. You have validated us in the eyes of the throne."

Feeling the praise was too much, Guinevere shook her head. Camelot was a cesspool of politics. Because the political strength of a lord greatly depended on the number and quality of the troops under their control, the competition to serve all the important lords was fierce. She recalled with conflicting emotions all the years they had spent struggling in the kingdom, trying to prove their worth to the lords and masters.

No position was guaranteed. If your master felt that you added little value to his political standing, then your employment was forfeit. Guinevere and her men had been in that position several times in the past, but things had changed.

Now, they were serving as the king's troops, acting under an imperial order.

"It was all of us. Our hard work brought us here, Lancelot. We will never have to struggle for food, clothes, or shelter ever again."

They stood in the shadow of the great castle, gazing at each other with unshakeable comradery for a few seconds before mounting their horses and making their way out of the grand gates. The stallions picked up speed, and with the wind in her face, Guinevere could not help but smile as she imagined the reaction her fellow knights would have to the news.

It would be wild, to say the least.

***

The western territory was vast. It lacked the mountains of the north, the rivers of the east, and the mines of the south and instead was full of plains. The rich plains made the west the economic centre of the kingdom, full of agriculture. The food produced there fed the entire kingdom, the produce reaching as far as the king's table.

However, the plains, as beneficial and important as they were, made the west very easy to invade.

That was the problem currently facing Duke Lucius. The Lucius Duchy was the closest territory to the border, and as the duke of the region, it fell to him to protect this section of the kingdom. Unfortunately, that did not mean he had the power or the skill to do so.

Currently, his forces were stretched to the limit trying to contain the Saxon incursion. He was out of resources and at his wit's end when he sent his request to His Majesty last week, and the situation had only gotten more severe since then.

He had waited impatiently, hoping the king would send the elite knights of the central army to come to his aid. The king had responded promptly to his call for help. That the duke was happy about, but he had no idea what a woman in a knight's uniform was doing in front of him.

She and her troops had barged into his palace, claiming to be sent by the king. She commandeered his study and was setting up a base of operations. It didn't matter that she had flashed the imperial order in his face, Lucius just could not believe that a woman had been sent as his backup.

Was this a subtle insult from the king?

Shaking with fury, Lucius approached the table where the woman and one of her knights had their heads bowed over a map, deep in conversation.

"Now, see here, woman," Lucius began, spitting the word 'woman' like a vile curse. "I do not know how things are done over there in the capital, but here, women do not lead troops. They sew and knit and tend to the babes. No man in this great duchy will allow himself to be led into battle by a woman. Although, any man who allows himself to be led by a woman deserves whatever comes his way, if you ask me. But I will have you know that—"

His tirade was interrupted by the screech of a sword being drawn. Lucius flinched, but before he could blink, the pointed end of a sword was resting below his chin. Lucius looked at the person who held the sword and held his breath.

Lancelot's blue eyes were filled with a murderous rage. "Would you feel better if you died by my hand, Your Grace?"

The duke whimpered slightly, his heart thumping painfully behind his ribcage.

"Drop your sword, sire," Guinevere said calmly, raising her head from the map of the duchy splayed on the table. The expression on her face was a contradiction: Her lips were curved into a friendly smile, but her eyes…

They were different from those of the knight who held a sword to his neck.

They weren't filled with blind rage and, instead, were piercing and electrifying. If the knight's eyes told him that his throat could be cut at any moment, her eyes promised him pain and suffering beyond anything he could ever imagine.

Duke Lucius felt a cold chill travel down his spine and could not help but shiver. His breaths became shallower, his muscles tensing. And then, suddenly, it was over. Guinevere blinked, and the murder in her brown eyes disappeared. Lancelot obeyed her command, returned his sword to its scabbard, and went back to his original position beside Guinevere.

Despite the threat she had communicated a few seconds earlier, Guinevere's countenance was carefree as she said, "Your Grace, I beg you to bear with us. We will be out of your hair soon, and then your graceful duchy can return to having no man under a woman's leadership. All I ask is that you supply us with food and shelter and stable our horses while we are in your care, as the imperial decree commands."

Returning her attention to the map in front of her, Guinevere pretended not to hear Lancelot scoff beside her. Comments like this were commonplace, and she was used to them all. She had endured them from the very day she stepped foot into the training academy to the day she was officially knighted.

Society seemed to have only one thing to say to her: It was not right for a woman to fight.

They'd had no problem with the fact that she was a knight. After all, there were other honorary female knights. But as their title suggested, they were only knights in name, many of them never lifting a sword or even glancing at one.

Not Guinevere. Even though her father was a lowly baron, one who had to run a blacksmithing trade to keep his barony afloat, his position as a noble was enough to secure her the title of honorary knight. But that was not what Guinevere wanted. She wanted to fight and gain glory for the kingdom with her own two hands.

The desire had sparked in her when her father had taken her to one of the blacksmithing stalls he owned. She had admired the resilience of the blade, the way it became stronger with every strike until it transformed into the perfect weapon, glinting in the sunlight.

She wanted glory, strived and fought for it. It had finally come with the king's decree. She had to execute it flawlessly, and when she did, she would ask that she and her men be included in the king's army. That was her goal, and she definitely would not allow a chauvinist noble to stop her.

Guinevere placed a finger on the map. "Here. Are these caves empty, Your Grace?"

The duke swallowed his fear and shifted slightly towards the table. He glanced at the region she was pointing to and nodded. "They are empty except for the occasional wild beast. What do you want to do with those caves?"

Guinevere used the same finger to trace a line along the border. "This is where the Saxons are invading from. It is the most accessible part of the border. They can easily attack and retreat through this region. And from the last report, it seems that is what they are doing." She returned her finger to the caves and tapped the map twice. "We'll camp out here and set up scouts along the border. Once we get word that they have made their move, we will ambush them, blocking their path to retreat." She looked up from the map. "I expect all inhabitants have been evacuated from this region?"

The duke shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. There is no one of noble blood in the area, only commoners."

So? Did that mean they were not a priority?

Guinevere forced back a sigh of frustration. That was another thing that was commonplace: disregard for the life of anyone whose blood did not run blue.

"We will begin this operation with the evacuation of the villagers." She turned to Lancelot. "Please make the arrangements."

Lancelot nodded and walked out of the room to follow her orders.

Guinevere studied the map for a few seconds, asking the duke a few more questions before nodding to herself and rolling it up. She bowed to the duke and also made to leave the room. Hand on the knob, she was about to let herself out when the duke's shaky voice came from behind her.

"H-how long?"

She turned to glance at him.

"How long will it take to get rid of the Saxons? We'll be done in a week, Your Grace."

Disbelief was apparent on the duke's face. "A week?" he shouted, forgetting his fear. "That's impossible."

It seemed truly impossible for the aristocrat to comprehend. He had been battling these infidels for a month to no avail, and now a woman was telling him that she would be successful in a week.

"You must be crazy if you believe that."

Guinevere did not reply, simply bowing and exiting the room. It was utterly without use to explain the basis of her confidence to the prejudiced noble. Actions spoke louder than words.

And she was a woman of action.