The Chessboard Queen Page 2

  Guinevere sighed. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. It was a perfect capital. Why then was Arthur still intent on building another city, where none had ever been before? This was so lovely and so suitable. Why was he obsessed by Camelot? He had tried to explain to her many times. “I must have a place that is mine, that no other lord has set his mark upon. I will not be lost among the hundreds of rulers, names on a list in a saga, nothing more than a row of candles in which, if one be blown out, the light would not diminish. There must be a sign for the ages to come that Arthur ruled here, that my dreams did not simply flow into thousands of others and drown. Camelot will be my city, the symbol of all that I am trying to accomplish in Britain. And it is there that I will set the Round Table.”

  She could hear him now, even above the wind and the calls of the birds. She couldn’t understand it. He was a great king, why should it matter where? Dimly she felt that his need for a visible manifestation of his reign was somehow tied to her and her failure. Five years they had been married and still they had no children. Guinevere did not wish to think of that. It embarrassed her that so many people had such a vital interest in the workings of her body. And it angered her that she had done nothing she knew of to deserve such divine punishment. She knew it was her duty to provide Arthur with children and, though she hadn’t cared much for the process, she had obeyed as best she could. But nothing had happened. They had consulted doctors, witches, oracles, and priests, but no one could help them. Although Arthur swore that they were still young and he had not given up hope, he had become more and more determined to build his city as each month passed. He was at Camelot now, checking plans and inspecting the work with Merlin. They were both probably totally happy.

  Guinevere shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly about her. Then she threw it open and leaned dangerously over the edge of the tower. Had she seen it? Yes! She was sure. A blaze of yellow and an old checked cloak. Gawain was back! At last, someone to play with. She waved to him, but he was too far away to notice her. He and a companion were picking their way through the vendors, leading another horse behind theirs. Who was that with him? Not Geraldus. Guinevere knew his old nag from any distance and this man rode a horse as strong and elegant as any she had seen. Perhaps he was one of those come to try for a place in Arthur’s special cadre. “The Knights of the Round Table” had sounded very silly when she had first heard Arthur explain it. What was a knight, anyway? But she had finally agreed that Arthur had been right. As soon as men heard that it was a select group of the best Britain could offer, they came from all over the island to attempt to gain admittance. Even the sons of some of the lesser kings, who refused to recognize Arthur as overlord, appeared at Caerleon, willing to relinquish their inheritances to become knights. There were even some who came, not from Britain, but from Armorica and even farther east. How they had heard of Arthur, she didn’t know, but they swarmed to Caerleon and to London, begging for a chance to see him. Now Gawain was bringing another. Guinevere wondered idly where he had come from. Odd. There was something familiar about the way he sat on his horse. Could he have visited her family before she married? Oh, well. It didn’t matter. Why was Gawain taking so long? He could have come up the side road, bypassed the town, and been there by now. The riders finally disappeared into the shadow of the fort. Finally he was coming to the gates. Guinevere picked up her skirts and ran down joyfully to meet him.

  • • •

  Caet was becoming annoyed. This man clearly intended to accompany him all the way to the presence of Arthur. He had been grateful for the company on the road, but had tried to let him know when they came in sight of the fortress that his services were no longer needed. He didn’t want to be seen with some craftsman’s son, not when he had spent so long in covering the stigma of his birth. Gawain continued to lead the way through the town. Caet kept hoping that he would stop at some shop or other to greet his relatives. But, no, he ambled through the streets, tossing greetings to the tradesmen and receiving enthusiastic welcomes from an amazing number of pretty women. It was increasingly embarrassing. Caet tried once more to rid himself of his guide. He eased his horse forward until they were nearly parallel.

  “I am grateful to you for taking me so far. Thank you. But there is no need for you to accompany me any longer. You must be eager to see your aunt and uncle.”

  Gawain grinned wickedly. “I am. My dear old aunt especially simply dotes on me. You needn’t worry. You aren’t taking me out of my way at all.”

  They were almost at the entrance to the fortress. Caet tried to pull back so that it would not appear that they were together.

  “Who’s at the gate today?” Gawain peered up at the watchtower. “Joelin? Yes, it is. Halloo! Joelin! You should keep better watch than that. We haven’t even been challenged!”

  They were at the gates. The guard beamed at Gawain and laughed. “If I had missed you, Lord Gawain, I’d be replaced by nightfall. I’ve been watching you since you started up the main road. Welcome back! The King is at Camelot with Master Merlin, but they are expected home soon. The Queen is somewhere about. I’ll have her told you’re here.”

  Gawain laughed back and pointed behind the guard at a gold and blue figure streaking toward them. “No need, Joelin.”

  Caet looked up sharply. He caught his breath with such suddenness that he nearly choked. Guinevere! She had not aged or changed at all, though her radiance was more intense. And she was running toward him! It was a wonder beyond his dreams. He dismounted and began to move toward her. Then, with an icy shock, he realized that she didn’t even see him. It was Gawain she was running toward. He was stabbed by his bitterness, sharper than ever because he thought he had conquered it. Nothing had changed. There he was standing by the horses, invisible to everyone as she was swept into someone else’s arms. Gawain was swinging her around as they both laughed and babbled like children. Caet felt as sick now as he had on the ship.

  “Gawain,” Guinevere was gasping, “put me down now! Show me some respect!”

  “Very well.” He set her on the ground, went back several paces, and approached again, bowing and fumbling in the manner of so many of the hopeful knights.

  She started laughing again. “Oh, Gawain, it is so good to have you back. Will you stay the winter? Will Geraldus be with us, too? When are your brothers coming? Where did you get those wonderful horses?”

  “Yes, yes, in the spring or summer and these horses are not mine. They belong to this man, Briacu. I met him on the road. He has come from Armorica to join Arthur, he says.”

  Guinevere turned her gaze from the horses to the man. Caet was startled at suddenly being noticed and made his best bow to hide a moment before he showed his face. She smiled, but there was no recognition in her glance. He was not sure if he was relieved or sorry.

  “Briacu?” she asked. He nodded. “Those are magnificent animals. If they are an example of your skill at breeding and raising horses, I’m sure my husband will be delighted to welcome you to Caerleon and will certainly find a place for you here. Please join us. He will return in a few days’ time. I’m sure we can find room for you among the soldiers until he decides your position.”

  He mumbled something in reply and hoped it was correct. He stood awkwardly, one hand still holding the reins, not certain what to do next.

  “Auntie, would you like me to show Briacu where he can stable his excellent horses and leave his belongings?” Gawain asked.

  “Yes. I will expect you both at dinner. Oh, and Gawain, stop calling me ‘Auntie’!”

  She turned her back on them and swept away with mock dignity.

  Amidst many confusing impressions, it slowly dawned on Caet that he had been made a fool of by his ragged traveling companion. Even worse, he realized that it was partially his own fault for making assumptions. This on top of everything else made him furious and he stomped after Gawain with a firm idea of rubbing his face in the dirt.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew the Queen?” he
whispered savagely.

  Gawain grinned and shrugged. “I don’t like to flaunt my rich relations before my friends.”

  Caet refused to be pacified. “Don’t tell me she’s your aunt. You are almost as old as she is.”

  “She is my aunt, my irritated friend, because she married my uncle, who is somewhat younger than his sister, my mother. Is that clear enough or must I give you the whole family tree? Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you like that. I apologize. All right? You may as well know that I have no intention of fighting you. It’s too late in the day for me to win and in the morning I might kill you without meaning to. So why don’t we just forget the whole thing and be friends?”

  He held out his hand. Grudgingly Caet extended his. He reminded himself that Gawain could not have known how deeply he had been hurt. After all Gawain was not the only one who had been secretive about his past.

  Guinevere did not take her dinner in the hall with the rest of the residents, but Gawain took Caet to her rooms. She greeted them eagerly.

  “I don’t like to eat in the hall when Arthur isn’t here,” she explained. “It’s noisy and rough there and I think that the soldiers and their ladies are uncomfortable with me watching them. It’s really much nicer to eat in my room, but lonely.”

  Gawain sat next to her and squeezed her hand.

  “Arthur will be back soon. He can’t continue his building much longer unless Master Merlin has found a way to hold back the winter. Geraldus will be with us in a month or two. He had to go visit Mark and Alswytha first. There was a summons from Alswytha, not to Geraldus, he said, but to his ‘green lady.’ She wanted to borrow her for a while. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Guinevere laughed. “Yes, I know the green lady well. I hadn’t thought of her as a midwife, but she is probably very comforting. So, Alswytha is having another baby.”

  Gawain remembered too late that Guinevere would not care to hear about other people’s babies. He hastily switched the conversation to stories of his recent travels. Guinevere seemed to enjoy them and asked questions which spun the tales even longer. Things seemed to happen to Gawain, especially when he became involved with women. No one ever seemed to take him seriously enough to get hurt, but his lifelong problem of falling sound asleep from sunset to dawn and then becoming progressively stronger until noon, when he began weakening again, tended to cause confusion among those who did not know him well. Usually stories about him furnished much of the amusement during winter tale-telling.

  It was nearly sunset when Gawain rose to leave. Caet had been silent most of the afternoon and thought Guinevere had not even noticed him. He got up to accompany Gawain. But Guinevere held out her hand to him and asked him to stay a minute.

  “I did not have a chance to ask you about your horses. Would you mind telling me something about them now?”

  Gawain was starting to nod.

  “You’ll excuse me if I don’t wait for you. I can almost hear my bed calling. I hope I have time to get there. If you should trip over me on your way out, Briacu, I would appreciate a pillow and a blanket.”

  When he had gone, Caet became nervous again. Now that he had had time to study her, he realized that Guinevere had changed. Her body had finished maturing. She had reached her full height and was now taller than he, but she was more beautiful than ever and her eyes held the same innocent joy that had conquered him when they both had been children. She questioned him about the horses: where he had gotten them, how he had fed and trained them. He relaxed as he spoke with assurance on a topic he knew well. It wasn’t until he was ready to leave that she shattered all his hard-earned composure.

  “Caet. Why did you run away?” she asked.

  He stumbled on a crack in the floor.

  “My lady, you have made a mistake.”

  She ignored him. “Father and mother were very worried about you. Father couldn’t trace you anywhere and you sent no word for so long.”

  “I tell you, I don’t know what you are saying. I do not know your family!”

  She drew a chain from inside her dress. “I still have the pearl you sent me, see? Didn’t you get my answer? Arthur made me a chain for it. I am never without it.”

  The sight of the lustrous pearl did make him pause. It had cost him dearly in pride and honor and, seeing it again, he felt a flush of shame rush through him. He wondered if she would treasure it if she knew what he had done to get it.

  “But she has worn it all this time,” he thought. “It has lain on her skin, near her heart. She has cleansed and redeemed it. I can regret nothing.”

  He said only, “It is lovely, my lady, but my name is not Caet and I know nothing of such a gift. May I go now?”

  She looked puzzled as she put the jewel back beneath the cloth. “I will call you Briacu if that is what you wish. But I do not understand. Yes. You may go.”

  Caet walked back to the sleeping area, where he had left his possessions. Snores indicated that Gawain had managed to make his way to bed. It was early, but Caet had no wish to join those in the main hall who were drinking and talking. He unrolled his bedding and lay down. He was awake when the sound of the voices drifted from shouts and laughter to murmurs and then silence. Even when the night was still, he continued to gaze into the darkness, wide-eyed with worry. Guinevere hadn’t believed him. What if she told Arthur? Would the king accept a runaway servant as a knight or even a horsemaster? Would he let him stay at all? He gave the bag of odd clothes he used as a pillow one last punch and settled down. He could only wait.

  • • •

  Arthur was not one for waiting. It was taking all of Merlin’s persuasion to keep him from setting out for Caerleon that evening.

  “I want to see Guinevere!” Arthur complained. “If I start now, I can be there in two days.”

  “Only if you kill your horse, Arthur.”

  “I can change horses on the way, Merlin.”

  Arthur controlled himself with an effort. After all, he was the king now. He could not indulge in anger. He must put duty before his feelings. But he had had enough.

  “Merlin, I have been frustrated at every turning all the time we have been here. ‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty, the floors will not lay smoothly. We cannot build the fortifications; we always hit water. We cannot put baths on the top of the tor; the water is too far down.’ No one remembers how to work a pump, how to lay tile, how to erect a building of more than two stories. We don’t even know how to mix mortar! Merlin, how can we have forgotten how to stick stones together?”

  “Arthur. . . .”

  “And now you tell me to sit here another night and stare at what cannot be done when all I want to do is go home to my wife! I have been gone a month, Merlin.”

  Merlin shrugged. “There are many women here, my King. Your father would have made do.”

  Arthur slammed the plans he had been holding hard upon the ground. The roll tore across. He began fastening his breastplate and then his cloak, his fingers fumbling in his fury.

  “My father did not have a wife like mine, Merlin. No man ever has! You can pack our things and follow me in the morning. I’m leaving now!”

  “Arthur!” Merlin called. “You can’t ride alone. You are the King!”

  But Arthur was already mounted.

  “Not tonight, Merlin. Tonight I am no man and I am going home. I will be King again at Caerleon! Good-bye, Merlin!”

  He was gone.

  Merlin pounded his fist into the nearest tree, then cursed himself; it hurt. Camelot would never be finished as long as

  Guinevere held Arthur’s attention. He could put his mind to work only when she was within reach or when he knew she was safe and away from whatever fighting there might be. And what had he, Merlin, the great wizard, become since Arthur’s marriage? A lackey, picking up the scattered belongings of his master. Savagely he stooped for the torn roll of plans. He had waited and worked too long to have it all ruined by one selfish woman. He was so tired. He would be glad w
hen it was over for him and he could at least rest with a calm mind. He studied a bit of the ripped scroll. It would be built. It was going to be a magnificent fortress, a city in the clouds. Guinevere could not stop it for long.

  • • •

  It was an hour before dawn two days later. Guinevere slept soundly. Beside the bed a candle glowed. She always had light by her when she slept alone. In a dream she heard the sound of a horse galloping through the town below and racing to the gates. Then there was a rush of air as if the horse had taken wing and flown through her window. She opened her eyes.

  There stood Arthur, muddy, sweaty, too tired to unclasp his cloak. He stared at her as if she were the dream. Guinevere smiled and held out her arms.

  “Welcome home,” she said. “Let me help you.”

  Chapter Two

  The Lake was calm; only an occasional ripple crossed its surface. It stretched for nearly a mile in the heart of the forest. It was pristine and beautiful. But no bird lit on its surface; no deer drank from its rim; no man tried to pull fish from its waters. The clouds and stars were purely reflected as they gazed down upon it, but the Lake gave nothing of itself to the picture. What lay below the water could not be seen. Travelers, far lost in the woods, told strange stories of dazzling horsemen who galloped across the surface, but caused no splash or spray, and who simply vanished as they approached the center of the lake.

  Far beneath the water, in a glittering palace of light and flowers, the Lady waited, and schemed.

  The Lady had no name that she knew of, no childhood, no family. She had lived with her retinue within the Lake for thousands of years, so many that she had forgotten the order of the humans and others who had arrived, passed by, and gone on. For the most part, she didn’t care. She knew that she and her followers were immortal. Why or what they had once been, whether gods dispossessed or angels gone to seed, concerned her not at all. Eternity had brought only boredom with a few brief interludes of interest. When something happened it was important to the Lady to make it last as long as possible. Now the only important thing was Lancelot.