The Chessboard Queen Read online

  It was Cei. He had gone to his corner by the fire, a traditional place of rank, although Lydia did not know that. He thought he would be left alone to lick his wounds. His side ached terribly and he hoped he was not bleeding internally. He had seen a man die that way once, from nothing more than a bruise, it seemed. But, of all people, he didn’t want Lydia to see him this way. He tried to rise and gave a quick gasp as his muscles failed to respond.

  “No, you mustn’t get up.” Lydia’s voice was soft and caring. “They’ve left you here all alone after you were so brave and strong today, all for their silly entertainment. Please, let me get you something cool to drink. Do you think someone should tend to your side?”

  Cei was flustered by her attention and understood little of what she was saying. He had had no experience of the type of woman who cares most about the injured and helpless. He would much rather have seen her when he was a victor. How could he know that she would probably not have noticed him as a winner? Champions needed no one. Hawks could find their own meals. Lydia cared for the sparrows.

  She brought him a cup of cool water laced with mint. He forced himself to drink it. She sat by his bed and watched him and then began talking, telling him about her days in Armorica, the family there. Before he knew it, he was sharing his childhood with her, talking about his parents and foster brother, Arthur. By the afternoon they knew each other as if they had been friends all their lives.

  • • •

  Guinevere had said that she would not watch, but she found that she couldn’t bear to hear the crashes of sword and shield and not know what was going on. She stood at the balcony door, where she was in shadow, and bit her fingernails as the match progressed.

  It seemed to her that it would go on forever. Both the men had lost their lances in the first encounter. Now they circled and feinted and swung their swords over and over. She saw no variation in the pattern. She wondered if Arthur had remembered his mail shirt or at least a leather jerkin. Constantine and Agravaine were watching intently. Gawain seemed to be explaining something to Gaheris. Geraldus had joined them and was talking and waving his arms around, too. But whether he was commenting on the match or directing his singers, she couldn’t tell.

  She was starting on her thumbnail when, with no warning, Arthur lunged at Lancelot with his sword. His shield dropped by the merest fraction, but Lancelot was there and caught him with the flat of his sword. Arthur tumbled over.

  There were cheers from those watching. They raced over to the two men. Arthur was apparently not hurt, for he was standing now and pulling off his helmet. He wiped his brow and grinned up at Lancelot. Guinevere spit out her thumbnail and cursed the lot of them for the worry they caused.

  Arthur was glad it was over. Lancelot had missed one opening he had given him and he did not think he could have lasted long enough to give him another. He rubbed the sweat off his neck. This was insane. Autumn was the only sensible time to fight anyone. All other seasons were either too hot, too cold, or too slippery. No wonder the Saxons almost always mounted their major offensives in late September.

  “Well, Sir Lancelot. Will you come with me now and have a cold bath and a good meal, or do you insist on carrying this on until we all die of sunstroke?”

  Torres dismounted and gratefully removed his helmet. He greeted Arthur.

  “Thank you, sir, for saving me. Lancelot and I thought you might be someone important when you first arrived, but we never thought it would be the King. You have my respect, both for your brilliant swordplay and for your diplomatic and unselfish ability in stopping the thing before I was boiled alive.”

  “You are more than welcome, Torres. Have you come to be made a knight, too?” Arthur asked.

  “No, indeed. I will let Lancelot do that. I just came with him to look around and be of service whenever I might be needed. I have no ambitions.”

  “That is a refreshing change,” Gawain said. “Do you think we can get your friend off his horse in time for dinner? I fear we have already missed breakfast.”

  “I will talk with him,” Arthur said. “You all go on up. We will follow soon.”

  The others went willingly. The day was indeed already too warm for exercise. Arthur walked over to where Lancelot still sat. He lifted his visor as the King neared.

  “Well, Lancelot of the Lake, how much of an invitation do you need? I have said that I think you will be a fine knight and have proved it with my body.” He rubbed his hip, where he had landed. “What more do you want?”

  Lancelot climbed down. He made a contrast to Arthur, slim and tidy, even after a morning of battle. He was slightly the shorter, but Arthur was not trying to hold himself in military bearing, and they seemed of a height.

  “I wonder how old he is,” Arthur thought. “He reminds me of the way I was when I first met Guinevere, so damned unsure of myself that I tried too hard to be correct. Is that his problem?”

  Lancelot dropped his gear on the grass.

  “Why did you let me win?” he demanded.

  “I?” Arthur was shocked. “Why should I let you win? I am the King. Haven’t you been told that I never lose?”

  They stood glaring at each other for a full minute and then Arthur’s mouth began to twitch. Lancelot realized that he was being foolish. Here he was face to face with the great King Arthur at last, and he was behaving like a child. He started to grin, too, and all at once they were both laughing and pounding each other on the back as they strolled together up the hill to Camelot.

  “Before you do anything, Lancelot, you must meet my wife. She is the greatest treasure in the entire realm. Come up with me. Guinevere!”

  He bounded into the room with such exuberance that she knew he was unhurt. He hugged her tightly and she didn’t mind the sweat and dirt he got on her dress. She sighed and whispered to him, “Why must you worry me so? Isn’t it enough that you must fight real battles?”

  He didn’t answer, but held her hand and extended it to their visitor.

  “Guinevere, this is the man who has worried you so. He will be staying with us for a long while, I hope. Lancelot, this is my wife.”

  Lancelot had been staring at her since he entered the room. He had not been prepared for this. Who would have thought that this man had married a goddess? He touched the hand offered to him and bowed over it. He raised his eyes to hers.

  Guinevere caught her breath. She nearly cried out. His eyes! Something about them was familiar. But that was nonsense. She had never seen him before. She controlled herself and greeted him civilly. He only stared at her the more.

  Arthur laughed. He was used to Guinevere having that effect on people the first time they saw her. He guided Lancelot out of the room. At the door he turned and winked at her.

  “He’ll be worth it, Guinevere, wait and see. Come along, Lancelot, your destiny waits!”

  Chapter Seven

  “But, Mother, everyone else is at Camelot!” Gareth pleaded. “Modred and I are missing all the excitement. Why can’t we go, too?”

  Morgan Le Fay did not look at her son. She was having her hair arranged for the day, carefully layered in tiers of curls gently touched with a saffron compound to enhance the shine. It was a laborious process and one sudden twist of the neck would ruin it. Gareth knew that very well, which was why he had chosen this time to beg her once again to let him go. When dealing with Mother, it was always better if one could avoid her eyes.

  She sniffed and delicately touched her nose with a scented cloth. “Would you leave me here all alone, bereft of my children, my only joy in life?”

  Gareth was perfectly aware that her children were only a by-product of her only joy in life, but he did love her and hated to have to quarrel.

  “You could come visit us,” he coaxed. “After all, Arthur is your brother. You took all of us to see his wedding and you haven’t been to see him since. They say that his courts are the most splendid this side of Constantinople! Just think how you would shine there! There is nothing here at Ti
ntagel. I can’t understand why you stay here.”

  The tower of curls trembled dangerously as Morgan fought with her anger.

  “I stay here because it is my home as it was my father’s and his before and on as far back as our line reaches. And . . . there are other reasons not of your concern. Perhaps I will visit Arthur one day, although we hardly have any happy childhood memories to share.”

  She laughed. The memory Arthur had of her was not one he would like recalled. He had been such an easy conquest, a boy left for the summer in the care of a group of dour monks. It was all the more amusing that he had turned out to be her brother. Even better, Arthur was ashamed of the whole episode and frightened of what she could say if she wished. She would attend to him one day. But she was not going to let him get control of all her sons.

  “I will not listen to your whining any longer, Gareth,” she continued. “I have sent my three eldest sons to Camelot. Arthur has bought them away from me. I will give him no more. You and Modred are staying here. Now leave me!” She picked up her hand mirror, ostensibly to study the effect of the maid’s work, but really to be able to watch as Gareth stomped out.

  “Stupid child!” she cursed him to herself. “No wonder I have to dye my hair. Any woman would go gray, having to deal with that.”

  She examined her face closely in the polished silver. Another wrinkle? She made herself relax until the skin was smooth and her expression vacuous. No, it was gone. But it would be back. No matter how she fought them, the tiny lines always snaked back. She sighed. Perhaps she would send all the boys away. They made her feel old. Well, older, anyway. She glanced in the mirror again. Certainly she was still as beautiful as ever. But, she admitted sourly, time was passing. Morgause had hinted on her last visit that there were potions one could take. She had not aged at all in the last twenty years, it seemed. But Morgan did not care for the kind of dealings one had to go into to purchase those potions. She preferred her enchantments to be more subtle and less dangerous. Damn! There it was again! Wrinkles! She slammed the mirror down on the table and dismissed the maid. Gareth had upset her more than he intended. Not about going to Camelot; that was natural in a young man, if annoying. But how could he be so insensitive to Tintagel! He must have gotten that from his father. She tried to remember which one he had been. There had been a great many insensitive men in her life. She hoped the other boys didn’t feel that way. Not Modred, at least. Modred must understand what Tintagel was.

  Morgan had been born at the castle on Tintagel. She had been left behind there when Uther Pendragon had taken her mother, Igraine, away with him. He had wanted no part of the daughters of Gorlois. She and her older sister, Morgause, had played and explored unsupervised throughout the dank corridors and tunnels; had watched from the towers as the small community of eremitic monks below went about their silent business. The men had asked leave to suffer in the tiny caves along the coast beneath the castle and Gorlois had agreed, whether from piety or sadistic pleasure, no one was sure.

  It was at Tintagel that Morgan had first learned about men and their uses. Her husband, Lot, had married her to get the castle and for the right to control that strip of Cornwall. He had proved a better husband than she had expected, willing to ignore her constant affairs and to accept all her children as his own. He never expected her to accompany him if it meant she must leave the castle for more than a few weeks. It was here, also, that she and Morgause had discovered the possibilities of magic and deception. Tintagel was where her sons had been born and raised; where she had bound them to her before they were old enough to judge her. Tintagel, jutting out into the ocean like a hand upraised against the storm, was woven into their bones and souls. Even Arthur was part of it. He had been conceived and born there, although he might not yet know it. Morgan had felt that in him when she had first seen him in his sixteenth summer. Even before she knew who he was, she had sensed the common cords linking them and Tintagel.

  She smiled at the thought of what she had in store for Arthur. His touted high ideals and sense of justice would help her to her revenge. In the last few months he seemed to have made quite a start toward this new world he wanted to create. Perhaps it was time that she began work, too. She had to compose a message to Morgause, who would be furious if she missed the fun.

  • • •

  Gareth found his younger brother, Modred, in the main hall, polishing his sword. He was sitting close to the fire, even though it was high summer. At Tintagel, warmth never penetrated the stones. Fire glinted on the metal and the red of Modred’s hair, making him appear to be wreathed in flames. He was, as always, performing the job with a minimum of effort and a maximum of grace and skill. His long, elegant fingers swept the blade as if it were an instrument.

  Gareth did not care about creating an effect. He slumped down into the pillowed chair next to his brother and stuck his chilled feet as close to the hearth as he dared.

  “I presume she said no,” Modred commented lazily.

  Gareth muttered something under his breath.

  “Well, what did you expect?” his brother asked. “After the fuss she made when Agravaine and Gaheris wanted to go, it isn’t likely she’d give you her blessing to follow them.”

  “It’s not right, Modred,” Gareth argued. “I’m almost twenty now and I’ve done nothing with my life but sit here at Tintagel. Don’t you ever worry about what will happen to us? We’re the youngest sons. Agravaine will get Tintagel. None of this will ever be ours. Mother won’t even consider marrying us to families with property and only daughters to get it. What is she holding us for?”

  “Mother has plans, Gareth. She won’t let us rot here forever.”

  “It looks uncommonly like it to me. There are days when I can almost feel the mold creeping across my skin, sticking me to this castle like the hangings stick to the walls.”

  He lifted his hands from the arms of the chair as if surprised that they would come away.

  “Look,” he continued, “I know she hated Arthur’s father for what he did to our grandparents. But what has that to do with us? It was over thirty years ago. Arthur had nothing to do with it and he welcomes us to join him. Why shouldn’t we?”

  “I don’t care if we do or not, Gareth. I’m content to stay. You know, Arthur has no sons of his own and it isn’t likely that he will. Nephews have been known to inherit whole empires. Mother has never been a fool. Leave it to her to know when the time is right.”

  “While I do nothing!” Gareth suddenly stood. “I won’t. Whomever she is planning her tricks to help, it isn’t me. You know very well that you’re the one she’ll make a king, if any of us. Gaheris will be your archbishop and I. . . what minor post do you think I will step into? I won’t have it. I don’t want some office with no meaning tossed to me. I don’t even want to be king. I want to be a knight, like Gawain. That’s all; nothing more. And I want to do it on my own, not because Arthur feels the need to find jobs for all his nephews.”

  Modred gave his sword one last wipe and sheathed it. He regarded Gareth with fond pity.

  “That is very noble and grand of you, my brother, but unrealistic and unnecessary. We are glutted with family and neither of us can do anything without their knowing and commenting. Since we must put up with the foibles of our relatives, I think we should also enjoy the preference we are due from them, too.”

  A noise by the doorway caught their attention. There was a woman waiting. Gareth could not see her face, but he guessed she was not waiting for him.

  Modred hung the sword again in its niche in the wall.

  “I had almost forgotten that I promised to teach the Lady Avena the finer points of chess. You will excuse me?”

  Gareth waved him away.

  Yes. Modred could wait. Why not? He was sure to get what he wanted in the end. He always did. No one could resist him. Gareth tried to ignore his jealousy. He liked Modred, too. But sometimes it seemed unfair that he should have so much with no effort. He was handsome, strong, skillfu
l, and had a talent for making friends of both sexes. From babyhood, Modred naturally reached out for whatever he desired and it always came to him. Gareth thought ruefully that between the charm and flamboyance of Modred and Gawain he was the one who was always overlooked.

  He was not tall, his build was slight, and his hair, eyes, and skin were all the same dark tan. He was easy to miss in a group, blending in with the background.

  He never asked for preference, never dreamed of immortality, but he longed horribly for some sort of accomplishment, anything to stand against the unusual qualities of his brothers. Even Gaheris had an air of mysticism about him that made others listen on the rare occasions when he chose to speak.

  No! He would not sit here impotently any longer. He was going to Arthur, too. If Mother would not equip him properly, he would do without. He would walk there if he had to.

  Filled with certainty as to the rightness of his decision, Gareth hurried to his quarters and thrust a few extra tunics and trews into a bag. A comb, a knife, a cup, and an amulet from his Aunt Morgause—he didn’t really own much. He slipped out a door cut in the main gate and raced along the narrow spit of land that attached Tintagel to Britain. There were no guards to see him. Lot wasn’t home and Morgan never bothered to set a watch. He wondered if he dared take a horse. No, they would surely go after him. Anyway, it pleased him to walk. As he rounded the tumble of rocks which marked the line between shore and land, he felt compelled to break into a run. With a shock of delight, he realized that he was not running from anything but to it. The whole world lay before him, literally. One foot before the other could take him to Camelot, London, Marseilles, Rome, Jerusalem itself! Gareth was not in a mood to think of obstacles: mountains, rivers, oceans would part before him. He was free. And the most wonderful thing about it was that, until this moment, he had not known himself captive.

  • • •