The Chessboard Queen Read online

  She was surprised at herself. There was a catch in her voice which was totally uncontrived. She must be careful. It wouldn’t do for Lancelot to know how very much she wanted them to return.

  Torres laughed. “I imagine I will miss you all very much. But I’ll stay as long as Lancelot needs me. Someone has to remember to feed his horse.

  “After all,” he added in a lower voice, “the poor beast has done nothing to repent of.”

  Lancelot wasn’t listening. He was seeing himself defeating one opponent after another, disarming them and then politely returning their weapons with such grace and skill that all who saw him wondered and admired. Suddenly he stopped himself in shame. The sin of pride! How often Meredydd had cautioned him against it. He pushed his plate away and left the table, retreating into the woods to pray for forgiveness and humility. Torres frowned as he watched him go.

  “Oh Lord, I wonder what dreadful thing he managed to do while simply eating his bread. Do you think there will be others like him at Camelot?”

  “I hope not,” the Lady replied fervently. “This compulsion of his has to be cured. If I could stay and help you, I would, but I have already been too long away from my Lake. Take care of him, Torres. This whole enterprise frightens me. For the first time in centuries, I have no idea of how it will end.”

  Chapter Six

  Cei was astounded to hear that he had been made champion for Arthur. He immediately stopped drinking and retired to his corner to rest and prepare for the morning’s encounter. He worried a little, though. He was confident that he could hold his own against any man he had ever met, except Gawain at noon. But what if this Lancelot had some magic? Was he human? They said he came from a lake. He had heard a tale once when he was a boy about a forbidden lake in the woods that lured travelers to their deaths. What if Lancelot were the ghost of such a wayfarer? Could ghosts be seen in the daylight? He wasn’t sure. He decided to double-check his gear. If the man was a man, he must be prepared to defeat him.

  As Lancelot approached the field the next morning, his only thought was to be permitted to win and yet be spared from hurting anyone or inflicting humiliation upon them. In spite of his night-long penance for pride and overconfidence, Lancelot could not deny that he had never been beaten in practice combat. Torres rode behind him, feeling like a child sent out for the first time without his mother. The Lady had been gone when they awoke, along with all her paraphernalia. Lancelot had not been surprised or concerned, but Torres did not have his serene confidence. His armor did not feel grand today, only clanking and silly.

  Lancelot was relieved that the Lady was no longer with them. She did not exactly represent the goals he had set himself. He also feared that anything he won in her presence might be because of her help and not of his own doing. He was eager to stand before the crowd and face his opponent as a man alone.

  When they reached the field, he was surprised and crushed. There was no crowd. Hardly anyone was there. Nine-tenths of Camelot was still abed, sleeping off the effects of the celebration. Lancelot thought it was another punishment for his pride. He tried to accept it meekly, telling himself that the only reason for an audience was to pander to his own ignoble desire for glory. But the deflated feeling remained.

  Cei, waiting at the other end of the field, knew who was there and, far from being disappointed, was honored and therefore far too nervous. As he compared Lancelot’s gear and build with his own, he began to feel terrified that he would make a fool of himself. Gawain and both his brothers were watching. He saw Constantine, wrapped in a brown and yellow striped cloak, lead his sister to one of the seats. And Arthur was there, hunched down in an old blanket to keep warm.

  “Please,” Cei whispered. “Don’t let me look an ass in front of them all.”

  Despite his lack of education, his prayer was just as fervent as any Lancelot had ever made.

  Torres was reassured by the lack of people. He trotted over to Cei.

  “Good morning!” he beamed. “I suppose you are the champion Lancelot will fight today?”

  Cei nodded.

  “Fine. If it’s all right with you, I’ll give the signal for you both to begin. We don’t know your rules, but we always count points if you stay on your horse, keep your shield, or manage to nick the armor of your opponent. We allow no blows to the face. We end the contest when one man is down or disarmed.”

  “That matches our rules well enough.” Cei’s voice was stern.

  “And also,” Torres smiled again, “we want to join you and someday fight at your side. So do your best, but remember that he isn’t an enemy and his weapon someday might be needed to protect you. Do you understand me? Why are you looking so fierce? All I mean to say is, he doesn’t want to hurt you and I would rather that you didn’t hurt him. It’s just a formality, this match, you see?”

  He held out his hand. Cei stared at it for a second, then clasped it. He did not trust himself to make a speech. He just wanted the whole thing done.

  “Begin it,” was all he could say.

  Torres returned to the center of the field. When the two men signalled that they were ready, he raised his arm and then dropped it. The contest was begun.

  The hardest part of fighting from horseback was keeping one’s seat. To do that, the rider had to be able to remain almost motionless below the waist, with his knees and thighs gripping the sides of his mount tightly. In battle against warriors on foot, the main idea was either to throw a javelin from a safe spot or to thrust into the unit with a lance or sword, jabbing quickly and accurately, so that the man attacked had no chance to grab at the weapon and pull down both lance and rider.

  When facing an enemy on horseback, the strategy was even more complex. Each man would be armed with lance, shield, sword, and perhaps a short dagger for emergencies. The shield, on the left arm, was kept up at all times. As the other rider neared, one had to throw the javelin with such force as to hit the shield and break the other rider’s arm. This was almost impossible. The lack of stirrups meant that any attempt to throw a javelin with force might result in overbalancing and being left in the dirt. So the most one hoped for was to hit the other rider hard enough to knock him off his horse, leaving him to the ground troops to handle. If the lance did neither of these things, then the sword must be drawn quickly and another attempt made to throw the opponent to the ground.

  It was generally agreed that, in this sort of one-to-one combat, a man who could keep his shield and his horse was nearly invulnerable. All he needed to do was block sword thrusts. Even if he had lost both his own weapons, it might still be possible, through careful maneuvering, to unseat an armed challenger.

  In a practice meet, strategy was more complicated, as one did not want to kill the other man. Therefore, the aim of the lance had to be nearly perfect, throwing the other rider from his horse through swift, skillful action to unbalance him, instead of violent hacking to maim and kill.

  In any case, everyone tried to avoid hurting the horse, as it was a highly valued prize of combat.

  Lancelot studied Cei as they neared each other. He was holding his shield too far to the right to give him room to throw. He was a good horseman, though, guiding his mount by varying the pressure with his knees. Even if he caught the shield and jerked it away from the man’s body, he didn’t think it would unseat him. Lancelot raised his own shield as Cei aimed to throw. Just before the lance left Cei’s hand, Lancelot threw his. Without waiting to see where it had hit, he drew his sword. He felt a thud as Cei’s lance struck his shield straight on and was embedded. He had to waste precious time snapping it off. It was a fine throw, utilizing the speed of Lancelot’s charge to add to the force. But in making it, Cei had let his shield swing wide and Lancelot’s lance had struck him in the side. It had not penetrated the chain mail, but it was clear that Cei was bruised and winded by the shock. He had not drawn his sword.

  Lancelot reined in his horse and waited.

  Arthur nudged Constantine. “What’s he doing? He ca
n’t think he’s won already?”

  “I’m not sure,” Constantine muttered. “You don’t think he could be waiting for Cei to draw, do you?”

  Arthur considered. “I think he is! Now, if he can still win after giving Cei that edge. . . .”

  He did not finish. Cei’s sword was out and they were circling each other, waiting for a miscalculation.

  Lydia grabbed Gawain’s arm. “Why didn’t he end it when he hit Cei?” she wanted to know. “He may be hurt!”

  Gawain paid little attention to her. He was fascinated by the action. He didn’t notice the concern in her voice.

  “He’s not hurt much. He shouldn’t have let his shield out like that. I hope they remember to swing wide of the horses. Wait . . . he’s down! Damn! I missed it! Lancelot was between us. What happened?”

  Arthur was standing and applauding. “It was classic! He let Cei see an opening and then pulled back so that he reached too far and went right over! He almost kept his grip, but he was putting too much force behind the thrust and off he went! Magnificent! Gawain, go tell him we’d be happy to have him here. Send him to me at the Hall. If he speaks as well as he fights, he shall be made a knight today!”

  Rubbing his hands in delight, Arthur returned to his rooms.

  “Did you see it, Guinevere? He not only beat Cei, but gave him an advantage, too.”

  “It was too windy out to watch, Arthur, but I heard the shouts. I don’t like to see those things. No one was hurt, were they?”

  “No, dear. Cei may have a bruise on his side, but he’ll be fine. Lancelot wasn’t even dented.”

  “That’s good. It seems a very silly way to judge people’s ability, anyway.”

  Arthur gave her a kiss and left. He was not going to try to explain the principle to Guinevere. Every time he got into similar discussions with her he ended up wondering if they were speaking the same language.

  He waited in the Hall for several minutes. Sounds from the various other buildings indicated that Camelot was beginning to rise. A head poked through the opening of the door. It was not Lancelot, but Lydia.

  “Gawain says to tell you that he won’t come.”

  “He won’t come! Why not? I thought that was why he came to Camelot in the first place!”

  She entered a little way. “I don’t know, Arthur. Gawain told him that he would welcome him as a knight. But then he and this Lancelot and Constantine started arguing and waving their arms about and I was told to tell you that he felt it was too easy a test and he won’t enter the gates until he has proved himself. What do you want me to do?”

  Arthur was not sure. The more he heard of Lancelot, the better he liked him. This man certainly had the right idea. After all, the whole point was that the knights should be a select few of proven ability. Perhaps Lancelot feared that Cei had not been the best man or that he had not been feeling well this morning. He chewed the corner of his lip, a sure sign of perturbation. There was simply too much to do today to waste time sending out one man after another until Lancelot decided that he had shown them what he was worth. Unless. . . . Arthur’s eyes lit up. Why not?

  “Lydia, run and tell Constantine that I will send out another man to challenge this stubborn applicant. Then why don’t you go back to bed? You seem a bit pale.”

  Lydia went out. When the door closed, she furtively pinched her cheeks. She was a little tired—the aftereffect of the wine—but that was not the reason for her paleness. Cei had been limping when he left the field on Briacu’s arm and no one had as yet bothered to find out if he were all right. If Lancelot had not been so skillful, Cei might have been killed and yet those men just sat there commenting idly on the finer points of lance-throwing. As soon as she delivered her message, she was going to put her pride in her pocket and search out someone who could tell her how he was.

  • • •

  Guinevere heard Arthur again, rummaging around in his old-clothes chest. He looked up when he heard her enter, a guilty, mischievous grin on his face. Then he went back into the huge oaken coffer, tossing cloaks and boots out over his shoulder.

  “Arthur, what are you looking for?” She sounded very prim. “You are making a terrible mess.”

  “Fidelo can clean it up; he won’t care.” Arthur continued burrowing. “Aha! I knew it hadn’t been discarded!”

  He drew out a battered sheath from which emerged an old sword. The hilt was a bit rusty, but the blade was still clean and shining. Arthur cradled it gently with loving remembrance.

  “This was my sword before Excalibur. I won it by beating old Ector in a training bout. I don’t know which of us was the more proud.”

  “What do you want it for?” Guinevere had seen Lancelot still waiting out on the practice field and she was becoming suspicious.

  “Because it has no magic and no fame. Its only power comes from the arm of the man who wields it. I have waited so long to be able to use it again.”

  Guinevere felt a chill. “You are not going to meet him yourself!” she exclaimed.

  He stared at her, prepared to fight. “Why not? It’s the perfect answer. I can’t risk having my men invalided with broken limbs or shattered lances until Sir-Lancelot-that-will-be decides that he has done enough to finally be worthy of us. However, if he defeats me, he certainly can’t call for a more worthy opponent. At least, I hope not.”

  “If he defeats you? Why should he? And what do you think will happen to Britain if you should spend the next six months waiting for a broken leg or a broken head to heal?”

  “Thank you, my love. I appreciate your concern. It’s very flattering. Even if I let him knock me down, why should I be hurt? After all, I am a famous warrior. How many men was I supposed to have killed at Mons Badon . . . a hundred? Five hundred? That was eight years ago. Even if I struck down only ten or twelve then, I should be able to hold my own against one man today.”

  Guinevere saw that it would be no more use to argue.

  “I wasn’t there at Mons Badon. Mark was and he refuses to fight ever again. I will not watch you now. But I will go and be sure there will be a hot bath for you when you return with your muscles sore and your pride bruised. In this humid weather it seems that only the frigidarium has been maintained. And, Arthur, I wish you would talk to someone about the separate facilities for men and women. There has not been much work done on the wall between the rooms.”

  When she was gone, Arthur started whistling. She was upset. Maybe she cared for him more than he suspected. He dug out an old helmet with a visor that would cover his face, not that Lancelot would know it. His hair also had to be concealed. He ran his hands through it. Often men had rallied to him at the sight of his red mane above the fray, but now the gray was dulling it. Even more reason to keep it out of sight. It wouldn’t do to have Lancelot think he was being insulted with an old, retired warrior to challenge him. He put the helmet and visor on and wrapped himself in an old brown cloak. He could feel sweat pouring down his face. He remembered the first time he had put it on, full of excitement, to ride with Cei and Ector. They had gone to a muster meant to choose a leader for Britain. He had found Excalibur that day. They had watched in awe as he pulled that sword out of the stone and then replaced it, over and over, until his arm ached and his scalp itched from perspiration. From then on, he was as much a symbol as the sword. He had accepted it, even reached for it, but now, just once more, he wanted to be that boy again, unknown.

  He took Briacu’s mare, Nera. She was not as tall as her brother, but more agile. He did not want Lancelot to think he was winning too easily. He grimaced as he mounted. He hoped he could make it look as though Lancelot were not winning too easily.

  On the field Torres was growing impatient. He didn’t see why Lancelot could not be satisfied with his win. Sir Cei had fought as well as any man.

  “Lancelot,” he complained, “we don’t want to embarrass them. You don’t have to be perfect. Why don’t you go on in and take the oath or whatever they require and then I can get out of this
hot, sticky, uncomfortable costume.”

  Lancelot smiled at Torres. “Go ahead, you don’t have to stay in that. It is awfully hot, isn’t it? I would have thought the Lady would come up with something cooler. This silk underwear has plastered itself to my skin. I may never peel it off.”

  “Let’s both go then. No one is keeping us.”

  Just then Lancelot saw the new man riding toward them. This looked interesting: patched cloak, tarnished helmet, a shield with no markings. But the man was tall and powerful and rode with the air of one who led.

  “I think, Torres, that our waiting has been worthwhile. Could you go ask him his name?”

  Arthur had forgotten that part of the ritual. He stammered. “Name? Of course, I am . . . I am Ector, of Northumbria.”

  Torres seemed not to notice the stammering. He went to the center of the field and again gave the signal. The two men advanced.

  • • •

  Lydia was furious. No one knew anything about Cei, except that he had bathed and gone out again, presumably to his bed. How was she to find that? Her own rooms were in the same building as Guinevere’s and she had never been in anyone else’s quarters. How could they be so thoughtless? He might be seriously injured. Lydia had never given much thought to Cei, except to note that his eyes followed her wherever she went. But when she saw him this morning sent out like a sacrifice to test a new knight, as if his life were of no consequence, all of a sudden he took on new importance. The unmarried soldiers were all supposed to be in this building. She peered in.

  It wasn’t much more than one long room, with a hearth at one end. Lining the walls were tables which converted to beds. There were clothes chests underneath. Swords, shields, and other gear were hung on the walls. She did not see anyone, but sensed that the room was occupied. Nervously she entered. A voice from the hearth end of the room made her jump.

  “What are you doing here? Arthur allows no women . . . oh, Lydia!”