The Chessboard Queen Page 6

  Lydia looked as if she would like to speak to Geraldus, but did not have the courage. Guinevere smiled.

  “Have you been introduced to Geraldus, Lydia? You mustn’t mind the nonsense people say about him. He is only a little peculiar.”

  She meant this to be a statement of fact and was puzzled when Geraldus laughed.

  “I am honored to meet you, Lydia,” he said and stood to bow to her. His arms flailed in the air as though he were shaking something off them.

  Lydia gave him her hand. “I have heard about you, indeed. They say you are sung to by the angels.”

  Her evident awe made Geraidus uncomfortable. He hastened to explain.

  “I am accompanied by music of a sort as they say, but I am in no way worthy of notice by the angels. I think that if anyone were to deserve a celestial choir, it would be more likely to be one such as you.”

  Lydia blushed and hurriedly asked if they thought there would be snow soon. Guinevere was surprised at Geraidus’ gallantry. He must have been around Gawain too long. Poor Gawain! The best part of the winter was the evening and he always missed it. It was a shame that no one could find a way to cure him. Oh, well. There was always spring. Everything nice happened in the spring.

  Chapter Four

  Adon lay asleep in the Lady’s arms. He murmured softly as she rolled him away from her onto his back, but did not wake. She patted him with fondness, but absently. She had too much to think of to bother with Adon now.

  The time was nearing, she was certain. Lancelot was ready, both in skill and willingness, to be away. They had carefully let drop comments about Arthur and the new society he was creating in Britain. They fostered Lancelot’s ambitions by letting Meredydd continue her preaching to him, although it rankled. He was burning now to enter the world and save it from itself. She could feel the fire in him each time she touched his hand and it maddened her to have to wait until he returned to take him. Soon he would suggest that he be permitted to leave. She would have to appear somewhat reluctant, angry, but not too much. It was a nuisance having to go through all these little dramas. But beneath her annoyance, she was delighted to have something to do, to be released from boredom for another few years.

  The silver curtains parted and Torres rushed in. He shoved Adon awake as he bounded onto the bed beside him.

  “You have to do something about it!” he pleaded. "Lancelot has some crazy idea that he is going to go out there!” He gestured upward, “Not just by the Lake, but off to some place where humans live! He keeps telling me that this Arthur man is just what he’s been looking for. What is he talking about? What in blazes is a ‘knight’? You’ve got to stop him. He’s been down on the cobblestones praying for the last three hours. He says he needs divine guidance, but I would rather he got some from you. Get up, Adon! This is no time to snore. Put on your pants and come help me!”

  The Lady laughed. “You heard him, Adon. See if you can get Lancelot out of the courtyard and I will meet you all in the salon with Nimuë.”

  Adon grumbled and reached for his clothes. “Yes, my Lady. Do you think this is finally the time?”

  “I do,” she soothed him. “And for your help you may have an extra night if you like.”

  He paused to kiss her and caress her breast. “Oddly enough after all these thousands of years, I still do like.”

  Lancelot had worked himself almost into a trance by the time they arrived and it was with difficulty that they coerced him to come with them. He kept muttering so about signs, portents, and omens that Torres was relieved to see that nothing fluttered after them as they half-dragged him to the salon.

  When he saw the Lady, Lancelot threw himself at her feet. He kissed the garnet rings on her toes and begged her to forgive him and let him go. She lifted his face to hers.

  “Lancelot, my dear son, why do you wish to leave us and why do you think we would not release you? Our only bonds on you are those of love. Our only desire is for your happiness and tranquillity. Tell me, my dearest, what is it you wish?”

  Lancelot blinked slowly, trying to bring the room into focus. His eyes shifted from one to the other—Torres, Adon, Nimuë, the Lady—loving faces touched with concern. Meredydd must be wrong. How could he have let her convince him that they would bar him from his ambition, his destiny? He laid his head in the Lady’s lap and let her run her hand along his cheek. Did he imagine that her fingers trembled? His hands fumbled with the thin silk of her dress.

  “I must go!” he gulped. “It has been laid on me that I must find Arthur and fight at his side, to help the poor lost humans of this island. He needs me. There are not enough who believe; Meredydd has told me so. You know it is true, don’t you? He needs me! Please, my Lady, don’t hate me. I must go! It is sinful to live here in luxury while those outside suffer. Please, oh dearest Lady! Let me go to him!”

  His tears made the cloth stick to her legs and trickled most disturbingly between her thighs. She tried to ignore the sensation as she answered.

  “Of course, you must go to him if that is what your heart commands. If you believe that this is what you must do, we cannot stop you. But let us equip you, prepare you. You have never been more than a few miles from the Lake. Do you know where Arthur is? What will you do when you find him?”

  Lancelot tried to compose himself. “I . . . I had thought to take my sword and shield and walk until I found him and then offer them to him. That was all.”

  “My poor darling! There is much more to it than that. Why, dozens of men come every month to do just that. He can’t take them all. You must have an introduction so that he knows who you are and then you still must prove yourself. We will all miss you terribly here, but if you must go, then let us give you the proper gear and instruct you in how to behave once you get there. There is so much you don’t know, Lancelot! There is so much you will need to protect yourself.”

  She had said the wrong thing. Lancelot raised his head proudly and shook the tears from his cheeks.

  “God will protect me,” he announced, “if it is His will.”

  “Yes, yes,” Adon assured him. “But I’m sure He wouldn’t mind if you used the skills He gave you in the defense of others, don’t you think?”

  Lancelot did not answer. He appeared to be considering the logic of this, but Adon gave him no time to find an argument.

  “We will give you our finest sword and shield and have a spear made that cannot be broken. And Clole will insist you have new clothes, as fine as she can weave. You wouldn’t want to embarrass us by appearing in rags?”

  Lancelot would not wish to embarrass them if it cost him his life. They knew that and congratulated themselves that they had managed to trick him into doing what they wanted. They could not realize that he perceived them, not as his benefactors, but as errant children who must be pacified and protected for their own good. There was something in his look, though, that made the Lady nervous. Suddenly he smiled at them and her heart turned over. He was more beautiful than the stars! How could she let him go? She stood to dismiss him and felt a chill as the dampness on her dress caught the air.

  “Whatever your intention, you cannot ride unheralded into the house of a king. If you insist on setting off for Arthur’s court, then I must accompany you as far as the gate.”

  “Oh, my Lady!”

  “It is my duty. You will allow me that, won’t you?”

  “Of course, I would be honored.”

  “I should think you would. I have not been to the cities of men for two thousand years. We will see to it that you appear before Arthur with all the trappings of a king’s son.”

  “Thank you, my Lady. But do you think it would be—”

  “Yes, Lancelot, I do.”

  That ended the matter.

  Lancelot was so excited that he did not know what to do first. The sight of Torres reminded him.

  “Come with me, brother. Wait until we tell your mother the good news.”

  Torres clapped him on the back. “She won’t
believe it. Wait until I tell her that I’m going with you.”

  Lancelot stopped. “What?”

  “You will need someone to burnish your armor after you return from your battles, you know. Fighting and praying don’t leave much time to clean up.”

  “But, Torres.”

  “Don’t you want me?”

  “Of course.” Lancelot paused. He studied Torres closely. He had known him since they suckled together, playing with each other’s toes. He took him as much for granted as he took his shadow. But now he really looked at him. They might be brothers, after all, if hair and coloring were all one counted. Both had golden brown curls and hazel eyes in faces that easily tanned. But Torres’ face was open and humorous as though he had no thought of deception or fear of guile. He was gentle and kind and if he cared too much for the pleasures of the table and the bed, what else could one expect under the Lake? Yes, he did want Torres, very much. But what would Meredydd say to that?

  “Alas!” she shrieked when they told her. “Oh, woe! It’s that evil woman, that witch! That serpent! First she lured you away from my arms to the iniquity of her house and now she wants to send you God knows where! How can you do this to me?”

  Meredydd was only beginning. Torres knew her too well to let her go on, although Lancelot tried to reason with her until she ran down.

  “Now, Mother,” he broke in. “Think about it. This is just what you always wanted. We’re going back to the world we came from to scourge it of its wickedness.”

  “Huh! With Torres it’d be more likely to add to the wickedness, you slothful boy!”

  “Mother,” Lancelot remonstrated while Torres struggled to hide his laughter. “Torres is going to help me, just as you taught us. He had no need of the world or interest in it. He goes only to take care of me. And I promise to watch over him. Is that not the love between brothers you have always wished for us?”

  Meredydd eyed Torres skeptically. “Yes, I suppose I have. But I don’t believe that one would remember it if he didn’t think there was some fun in it for him.”

  Nevertheless, she supplied them both with amulets, potions, and charms twisted into odd symbols that she vaguely remembered and fondly hoped were Christian.

  At last they were ready. Adon privately wondered, from the little he had seen of human society, if sheer silk and cloth of silver were what warriors were expected to wear beneath their armor. And had anyone in Britain ever seen a material like the Lady’s gown, shimmering green and gray like the ocean in the wind? She had, after much consideration, decided on aquamarines and diamonds set in gold for jewelry—only rings, necklace, earrings, and a fillet about her hair. “One must have restraint.” The metal for Lancelot’s armor she had salvaged from the Great Flood, after all mortal life on earth seemed to have perished. It was, as she had promised, the finest ever made and he did not think that anything they had in the world now could dent or splinter it. They had made him a visor of pure silver, in the form of his own face and so light that he hardly noticed it. It fit onto his helm and could be removed for fighting, when peripheral vision was essential. The helm was crested with ostrich feathers. Adon had thought that too much, but it was Meredydd, oddly enough, who had insisted that they remain.

  “My Granny told me stories about the soldiers before they all rode off, and she remembered the feathers well. Maybe not that sort, but feathers, certainly, and he should have them, too.”

  So there were feathers and soft doeskin for his surcoat and riding trews, with heavier leather for his boots. Nothing had been overlooked, down to the trim on the horse’s bridle.

  Lancelot showed no interest in the physical preparations. He had his own sort to make. It was with great trouble that Torres finally convinced him that fasting and keeping vigil would not fit him for proving his strength on the practice field.

  “They say that Arthur wants men who can fight, as well as the pure of spirit,” he argued. “How long will you last in the field if you haven’t eaten or slept for a week?”

  “All right, Torres. Give me the plate of pheasant. Yes, I see it. It’s hard to hide a platter behind your back.”

  Lancelot resented the interruption, but would not hurt Torres by showing it. Torres could not help it if he did not understand. Lancelot sometimes wondered if the true sacrifice he was being asked to make was simply to live with those he loved. Sometimes, in the far reaches of the night, when he felt the weight of the stars on the Lake just before dawn swept them, glittering, from the sky, sometimes he knew that he could almost touch what he sought. If only he could escape just a little bit further. He would reach out until the pain in his muscles recalled him. Another moment . . . but it never happened and he wept for his unworthiness and resolved to be kinder and more considerate to those around him.

  So he ate what Torres brought and slept when they told him to and allowed the Lady to arrange things as she thought best.

  The day they were to depart, Adon’s bird brought the message that Arthur was no longer in Caerleon, but had moved his entire household to a new fortress-city he was building at Cadbury, which he had named Camelot.

  “Where is that?” the Lady asked. “Has he already settled there? I don’t want us lost in a chaos of wagons and furniture.”

  “He has been there about a month now, the goose says. He also tells me that it is an old place of magic, but I cannot put too much weight on that. He is a good enough spy, but not at all versed in history.”

  “Very well, show us the way and we will go there. Torres! To Camelot!”

  • • •

  Camelot! Guinevere heard nothing magic in the name. And when she arrived, she saw only mud and buildings of raw wood unpainted and courtyards half tiled. She saw at once that the traditional heating system, with hypocausts sending warm air under the floor, would be impossible with all that timber. Arthur assured her that the construction was solid and sturdy, but she did not like her upstairs rooms any better because of that. Her distaste and despair showed so in her face that Geraldus felt obligated to pull her aside and point out to her that Arthur would never be truly happy there unless she was, even though his heart was set on the place.

  “I’ve known you most of your life, Guinevere, and I know how much you hate change of any kind. But try to see it as Arthur does. It is fresh and new, untainted by the past. When it is finished, I think it will be startlingly beautiful because there will not be another place like it on earth.”

  Guinevere grimaced, but acknowledged that he was right. “I know. I have heard it many times. I try to remember how important it is to Arthur, but I feel uneasy away from what I know. He asks only that we summer here, thank goodness. We would freeze in the winter, even if the roofs don’t leak, and I suspect that they do.”

  “Is it Arthur’s fault that so much lore has been forgotten? He has accomplished a miracle here. The planning is brilliant and the craftsmanship painstaking. Have you seen the carving on the pillars in the Hall where the Table is to be set?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “It is incredible, a miniature forest on each one and painted so that each branch and leaf has its own color as well as shape. And there is a glass window at the pinnacle of the roof so the sunlight will pour down upon the table, leaving all else in shadow. There is not a villa in Britain that can boast of such splendor.”

  “Yes, my dear Geraldus, I know.” She enjoyed his enthusiasm. Arthur needed people like that around him and she had not done her part. “I admit that I am an old hedonist for wanting every home to be as comfortable and familiar as that of my parents. You are right. I will try to see the beauty of Camelot as you do and encourage Arthur all I can in his dreams, if only you will grant me a warm corner for the winter.”

  “Now you are teasing, Guinevere.” Geraldus smiled at her. “You know very well that you would be perfectly happy in a dripping cave if Arthur were there.”

  She did not know that, but allowed him to think so. She was very fond of Arthur. She would go wherever he wi
shed and try not to complain, but as for being happy? That had not occurred to her. Content was the most she had ever been. Except once, long ago. She tried to remember where and why. Sometimes it almost came back to her. A dream? No, but not quite reality, either. She recalled something silver and lavender, something both cold and warm, a touch, and within the halo of its love she had indeed been very happy, with that piercing joy which is almost pain. Some nights she woke without cause, thinking it still called to her, but the sensation faded before her mind grasped it and there was only her room around her and Arthur sleeping by her side. Then she would remember who and where she was and settle down again among the pillows, with a sense of loss which she could not explain.

  She and Geraldus climbed to her rooms. The maids were busy there, hanging the arras and arranging the bedclothes, so they retreated to the balcony.

  “Arthur knows how I love to stand high above and watch what is happening, and since there are no towers at Camelot, he made this for me. Look! You can see the gate from here and, on the other side, the practice field. I can sit here with my cup of wine and not only watch all the warriors trying to best each other, but also see who is coming to visit us.” Her laugh was genuine now. “When we are sure that this will hold more than a few people, I can bring the other ladies here with me and we can observe and comment on the knights without our talk disturbing them.”

  “It seems strong enough,” Geraldus commented, “and very practical. Arthur may like to use it himself. Up so high, we can not only see everything, but also be seen by anyone across the courtyard.”

  He pointed across the yard to the Hall. Merlin was standing in front of the doors, beckoning to them. When he had caught their attention, he cupped his hands and called to them. “Can you see Gawain from up there? We need him!”

  Geraldus yelled back, but he was not sure he could be heard. The breeze seemed to blow the sound back at him.