The Chessboard Queen Read online

  “But we can’t just take him to the shore of the Lake and abandon him!” Her pacing was becoming staccato. “We must find a place to send him, or someone to care for him.”

  Adon was starting to get impatient. He enjoyed his turns with the Lady and did not want the evening ruined before it began.

  “What about that man who was here, when was it? Not long before you found Lancelot.”

  She paused to think. “What man? I don’t remember. Oh, wait! Yes. Merlin, the one who so wanted that old sword. There was something about him. I think perhaps he was a blend, one of the others as well as human. Do you think he would still be alive?”

  “If he used the sword properly, he might be.”

  “It’s an idea.” She finally seemed to remember why he was there. She smiled in amusement. “My poor Adon, it’s your night, isn’t it? And you let me neglect you!”

  She bent over him and let him slide her down to the bed. But she had one more request before she waved the lights out.

  “Adon?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Can you send someone to find out what has become of that Merlin?”

  “Certainly, my Lady. In the morning.”

  • • •

  But time was inexact under the Lake. If Lancelot and Torres had not continued to mature, the denizens would not have even noticed its passing. It was more than two years before any information came about Merlin and then Adon sent the messengers out again to find out about Arthur. While they were gone, he forgot the matter completely. So Lancelot passed his twentieth birthday and still no decision had been made about his future. He had been amenable to any lessons they gave him and outwardly showed no more inclination for self-torture. He never went above the surface of the Lake except to hunt, and then always accompanied. He seemed content enough most of the time. But the Lady could see that he had now reached his full growth. She knew she could not delay much longer. Every time she was with him she sensed the tension and wild determination that were consuming him. They both puzzled and excited her. If only he did not lose that magnificent fierceness before he returned. It would be such a wonderful change! She shivered at the prospect. It was so pointless to send him to his own kind first. She hated to risk losing him. If only she could remember who had made all those binding rules. No, it was too long ago. Perhaps she had never known. But she certainly knew what would happen if she broke them.

  She cursed silently as she watched him stride across the yard below her window, barely reined energy in every step. And so beautiful!

  “Where are you going, Lancelot?” she called abruptly.

  "To get venison for your dinner, my Lady!” he shouted back. “Torres and Caomh and Riogh are coming with me. We will return before dark.”

  He waved to her and hurried off to meet the others.

  “Well,” she thought, “if hunting makes him happy, we must let him hunt. But we must do something soon. I am getting extremely weary of venison every night.”

  Lancelot had found a horse whose desire to be active matched his own. It was a fine, tall white stallion with delicate legs. He named it Clades. Today the horse pranced beneath him, eager to be above the water and free to run.

  Hunting mattered very little to Lancelot. He knew the larder was full of meat. It was the wind on his face, forcing him back, the speed of the horse beneath him, the nearindependence that he craved. He had long ago given up trying to explain himself to anyone or even to understand the thing that was driving him. But he was sure that the Lake was not where he belonged. There was something calling him out there, something he must do or become. Even if Meredydd were wrong about sin and consequences, as Adon insisted, there had to be more to life than banquets and bed. Perhaps the immortals were meant to live that way, but he was human and must have a purpose. He no longer tortured his body for imagined transgressions. Now his mind provided the pain unasked for.

  He looked over his shoulder. The others were falling behind. Nothing drove them. They were not hungry. They slowed and Riogh signalled him to stop for a rest. Immediately he pretended to have spotted something just out of their range.

  “A deer!” he yelled to them. “A stag, I think! Can’t lose him now! Follow my trail!”

  He did not wait for an answer, but plunged on, deeper into the forest. A moment later, he thought he did see something. There was a movement, a gleam, from something in the brush. Perhaps it was a young buck or doe tangled in the thicket. Lancelot reined in Clades and turned toward the confusion of undergrowth. As they neared it, Clades became more and more nervous. His eyes rolled and showed the whites and his nostrils flared. About ten feet from the thicket he stopped completely and refused to move.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Lancelot laughed. “What do you think you smell? A bear? Maybe a dragon? That would be fun for a change.”

  He dismounted and drew his sword. His heart was thumping erratically. Never before had he been allowed to face danger alone. The brush had accumulated in a small hollow and he had to bend to push it aside. The depression itself was covered by vines which had been torn, perhaps by something which had fallen among them. He heard a sound coming from beneath, a scuffle as of something trying to escape without success. Still holding his sword, Lancelot carefully lifted the vines with his left hand. He gasped as the sudden light blinded him. He threw his arm over his eyes and then steadied himself to look again.

  The light was dimmer now, flickering occasionally. He could bear to look at it. Poor beast! Where could it have come from? What must it have endured to arrive at such a state! It was nearly starved and there were scratches and welts all over its body.

  Lancelot bent over the dying animal. He had no name for it: horselike but smaller, with tiny cloven hooves and a silky white beard. The radiance about it frightened him, but he also felt drawn to it in pity and wonder. He gave a cry of amazement when he saw what was upon the animal’s forehead. An opalescent spiral of lavender and blue arose from the center. It was obviously a natural part of the creature, but now it seemed to be too much for the frail thing to carry.

  He stretched his arm toward it slowly, longing to caress it. The animal made a futile attempt to pull away, but it was far too weak. Lancelot waited and began to speak to it soothingly as he would to any hurt thing.

  “Easy, all right, don’t worry,” he hummed. “I won’t hurt you. Let me help you, old . . . .” He searched for a word, but none came. Suddenly, as he reached out again, there was a bright flash in his mind and he felt a strong deep voice command him to move away.

  “Go!” it thundered. “You can give me no help. You may not touch me! I have broken too many rules, but that one I will not challenge. Kill me, if that is your nature, or let me die in my own way, but touch me not!”

  Lancelot dropped his sword with a rush of guilt and fell back, shaking. As he did, the creature lifted its head with a mighty effort and their eyes met. For a minute, Lancelot felt lost in endless darkness and then a flood of relief poured over him and light returned. Startled, he realized that the feeling was not his own, but came from the animal before him.

  “You are the one!” the voice sang. “At last! I give to you my place in her heart, but have no fear, for you will find your own way there.”

  It seemed that the very air about him shimmered joyfully and then the voice died as the glow about the creature faded. Its shape blurred and, for an instant, Lancelot thought he saw something else lying before him. But before he could be sure, it vanished, leaving him alone beneath the trees.

  • • •

  “Lancelot!” Torres’ voice was nearby and sounded as if he had been calling for some time. Reluctantly Lancelot turned away from the emptiness where the animal had lain. He pulled himself up and returned to his horse. Clades was calm now and Torres was waiting for him there.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “Did you fall? What’s wrong?”

  Torres couldn’t place the emotion he saw in Lancelot’s face and it unsettled him.


  “What? Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t fall. I never fall. Nothing is wrong. I didn’t catch the deer. Let’s go home. I’m very tired.”

  Caomh and Riogh were less easily pacified than Torres. They rode behind as Lancelot and Torres trotted back to the Lake.

  “He has encountered some enchantment not of our making,” Caomh worried.

  “You don’t think that the Lady sent something of her own to amuse him?” Riogh was trying to reassure himself.

  “After all this time, don’t you think I know the feel of the Lady’s magic?”

  “Well, then. Do you think we should tell her of this?”

  Caomh groaned. “You know what that would mean. No one among us would have any peace for the next year while she kept us busy trying to discover what it was. He seems recovered now. Whatever it was doesn’t appear to have harmed him. You and I can turn about watching him for a few days to be sure that there are no lingering effects.”

  “You’re right,” Riogh agreed with relief. “It’s probably nothing. There are many harmless beings left over from the old days. They have little power now. He may have run into one of them. It would be useless to worry the Lady with it.”

  “She may notice it, herself, though.”

  Riogh considered. “No, I don’t think so. He’s coming back to normal already. Look at him. The traces of the encounter will be gone before we return home.”

  When they arrived, they soon learned that they had no need to worry about the Lady noticing anything. Adon was hurrying to see her. He was closeted with her in her room all evening. The information on Arthur had come.

  “It would be perfect, my Lady. My informant says that he is an amazingly moral young man with an uncanny ability to win battles. It was for him that our Merlin wanted that sword.”

  “Do you think he has discovered the secret of it yet?”

  “It would be odd if he hadn’t. Few men can endure many battles without being wounded at least once. But I have heard nothing about it. At any rate, this Arthur has somehow managed to bring a kind of peace to the island and is trying to organize some form of humane government. He would be a perfect leader for someone like Lancelot, full of fiery causes and ideals.”

  “It sounds too good. Are you sure your informant can be trusted? Whom did you send?”

  “A bird I know. A wild goose, but very reliable. He’s been migrating here for years.”

  “I hope you’re right. So far, Arthur sounds a perfect human for Lancelot to begin with. One more thing: he’s not celibate, is he?”

  “No, my Lady. He is married—though quite recently, I understand.”

  “Well, married is better than nothing. No doubt there will be others to teach our Lancelot the ways of humans in that. If only we could do it ourselves. Who knows what strange practices they have up there!”

  “Shall I make arrangements to send him?”

  “Don’t be foolish, Adon.” The Lady spoke sharply. “This will take time. He must think that leaving is his own idea.

  And when the time comes, it must be done properly. I may even decide to take him to Arthur myself. The last time I left the Lake, men were wearing animal skins and hitting each other with stones. It would be interesting to see if things have changed at all.”

  “From what I have seen, my Lady, I don’t think you will find much difference today.”

  “All the same, I think I will allow Lancelot to convince me to take him to join Arthur.”

  Chapter Three

  Geraldus had almost forgotten how much he liked living in the mountains. Somehow, among the sheep and wildflowers where he had first heard them, his invisible voices did not seem so constant or intrusive. It was easier here for him to understand how he could have let his family convince him that his discordant choir could possibly be from heaven, come to prove him a saint on earth. With few trees and fewer people and the clouds often close enough to mist one’s hair, it did seem more likely that God would send down some accompaniment for a lonely musician. He laughed to remember it, but tenderly.

  Alswytha heard him from her bed and called to him. Her children had come too quickly and the last one had been the hardest. Even a month after the birth, Alswytha was still not strong enough to help Mark care for the others. That was partially why Geraldus had remained, though autumn was fast approaching and he had promised Guinevere that he would winter in Caerleon.

  “Can we not convince you to stay with us?” Alswytha pleaded. Her Latin was still slightly stilted despite almost six years away from her Saxon family. “I am already much stronger and soon I will be able to cook for you again. I have been a fine hostess, to invite you to stay and then make you cook.”

  “I enjoyed it, although I am not so sure your family did.”

  Geraidus held her hand, thinking how pale it had once been. Now it was a dark ivory tan. She did not have the skin which turned brown in the sun. And a month of rest had not softened the calluses.

  “You should have another woman up here to help you, Wytha.”

  “Someday perhaps we will. There are already Sextus, from Mark’s old unit, and Trevelyn, the shepherd that Gawain sent from Cornwall. At first Mark wanted no one but ourselves up here, but now that ‘ourselves’ are six people instead of two, he is glad of their help. Still I don’t think I want to share my children with another woman, not yet. Except your green lady, of course.”

  Alswytha smiled over Geraidus’ shoulder. He didn’t bother to turn around. Long and bitter experience had taught him that he would not see her. He sighed and then started and blushed. She had nipped him on the ear. Alswytha laughed.

  “You must tell her to be more circumspect on her next visit. I think that Eadwynna and Matthew can see her, too, and I am not ready to start explaining such behavior to them.”

  Geraidus tried to cover his embarrassment by batting futilely at the air. As far as he knew, he was the only one who could hear his voices and only Alswytha and Guinevere could see them. Why they were so honored was something Geraidus never tried to explain.

  “She can hear you,” he said in annoyance. “And she is much more likely to pay attention to you than to anything I might tell her. Neither she or any of her friends have listened to anything I’ve told them since they first started singing to me. If they had. . . .”—he glared around him—“we would be doing polyphony and fugues instead of rounds and simple harmony.”

  There was complete silence, not even a hum. Alswytha laughed again.

  “They all just disappeared! I think you insulted them. Oh, Geraldus, it would be so much fun to have you with us this winter. Will you not change your mind?”

  “I really can’t. I promised Arthur and Guinevere that I would stay with them. And, I admit, I’m curious to know what has been happening to everyone while I’ve been here. Don’t you ever wonder?”

  “Sometimes I would like to know how Guinevere is and dear Lady Sidra, but otherwise, no. We never found much joy down there.”

  They were interrupted by a flurry of small bodies covered with an amazing variety of grime.

  “Mama, you’re awake now,” Eadwynna announced. “Why didn’t you call us? We’ve been waiting for you. Matthew pushed Allard in the mud and pulled my hair and Allard cried, but I didn’t. I got mad. And Father won’t Jet us play with the sheep anymore because one stepped on Allard and he cried again and we were supposed to watch him, but I’m tired of watching him. Will you tell us a story?”

  They piled onto the bed and over Alswytha, shoving each other to get to the favored spot in the circle of her left arm. Over the commotion, she caught Geraldus’ eye and grinned. The new baby woke and began wailing. Soon she had joined the tangle on the bed. All of them were talking, wiggling, crying at once when Mark came in. He surveyed the scene with his hands on his hips and then waded in, tossing Matthew up and catching him until Allard began tugging at his robe to be thrown, too.

  Geraldus watched them all: dirty, rumpled, somewhat patched, and indelibly loving. Suddenly he felt that h
e must be with Arthur and Guinevere. They needed him infinitely more than this so-complete family could.

  All the same, it was hard to leave them and the wind had begun to chill and the frost to touch the morning leaves before he actually departed. Once he was on his way, his only desire was to reach Caerleon before he was buried in ice and snow. Although they never seemed to be affected by the weather in his world, the singers with him tended to get little comfort from the cold and to be as happy as he when they were indoors again.

  It was early on a gray and biting afternoon when Geraldus rounded the bend in the road and saw the lights of Caerleon above him. He spurred his long-enduring horse, Plotinus, to something resembling a trot. The chorus must have noticed the lights, too, for they suddenly broke into a powerful hymn of thanksgiving. The music, itself, was warming and Geraldus thought with justified annoyance that they might have started sooner, before he was half frozen.

  • • •

  After the cold of the air outside, the warmth of the main hall nearly overwhelmed him. This was the time of year when Caerleon was most populated. Men who had small holdings throughout the west of Britain came there with their harvest to share both food and friendship. They brought their entire households and moved into the old officers’ quarters. For these people who spent ten months out of twelve in continual back-breaking work, interrupted only by attacks from Saxon invaders and greedy neighbors, winter was a joyous time. The seas were too stormy to cross and the ground was mire or ice upon which no man, Saxon or Briton, would dare set an army. In the warm conviviality of Caerleon these people were more than ready for a few weeks of stories and singing; of mending harness, armor, and plows; of drinking and dicing at night and teaching, scolding, and spoiling their children by day.

  For Caerleon in winter was bursting with children. The prosperity Arthur’s victory had brought was so new that there was still a serious shortage of citizens to repopulate his reborn society, but those who were there were trying mightily to make up the deficit. They joked that the best summer crop was that planted in the dark at winter court. It was true that the majority of babies of the last five years had been born at summer’s end. In spite of his anguish at having none of his own, Arthur welcomed them with delight, planning a Britain twenty years in the future, when those grubby, cacophonous, beautiful beings would carry on with his dream.