by Sword Stone Table- Old Legends, New Voices (retail) (epub)
Her fit of passion subsiding, her fingers stroked the velvet gown. “I wear it with this gown. The gemstones match its color. I did not notice its absence until my husband, the king, inquired. I did not expect an answer from my maid.”
The current switched again, sharp and galvanic between them, until Yusuf reined himself in. He had used his full battery of tricks. And this queen of the Franks was no longer undisturbed. That in itself would tell him something, but for now he made to withdraw.
“The question should never have been asked,” she said bitterly.
He disagreed. “Someone has to answer it. Consider the pain inflicted on a king weaving to the end of his years, betrayed by a much-praised wife and a knight whose skill and renown would seem to outflank his own.”
But his plea failed to soften the queen’s outrage.
“If the king did not consider me then, why should I care for him now?”
Yusuf shook his head. Bitter seeds had been sown here, poisoning the idylls of the king. But this queen, too, deserved some of his consideration.
He was ready to take his leave when she said, “I am not like your Prophet’s beloved. I would not agree to be sent from his side in silent, long-suffering rebuke.” Her sensuous mouth firmed. “I will not allow others to vilify me in silence.” Her hand touched the pin at her breast.
A smile quirked Yusuf’s lips. “I fear you misapprehend the story of the necklace.”
She raised her eyebrows, waiting, and cleanly he delivered the rest.
“The lady Ayesha spoke up.”
* * *
—
They broke bread together at a long table set some distance above the fabled Round Table, where Arthur’s knights were held as equals to the king, a tradition that pleased Ayaan, echoing as it did the teachings of the Prophet on the inherent dignity of man. He considered this as he remained in attendance at the Qadi’s side. Here, men and women dined in company with one another, displays of chivalry mannered but sincere. A hush of laughter and appreciation rustled down the table, while, released from her confinement, the queen sat at one end like a marble figure carved for deployment on a chessboard. She wore the same gown, and the gem-studded swan blazed between her breasts—a fiery finger pointing, but at whom? The graying king or Lancelot?
The Qadi was very much on his dignity as a noble at a foreign court, and Ayaan strove to imitate his manner, trying not to peer like an uncouth juvenile at these tall, fair knights of such repute. He was not without his share of attention, complacent in his good looks, the thickly curled lashes and drowning eyes that he used with artful aplomb. He was young and virile; why should he not turn the heads of these ladies and their knights? Still, his behavior would reflect on the Qadi, so he stifled his desire to flirt and seduce and tried to sit like his mentor, dignified and gracious, taking an interest in the conversation of the court.
Many of these knights had been on the Crusades, and now they traded genteel barbs with the Qadi. Mention was made of the great Saladin and his unmatched superiority in tactics: a general wise and brutally accomplished, though known as much for his tolerance. Homage was paid to the Prophet, and salutations were offered for the Christ. But through the thread of mutual courtesies, the presence of the queen, who from time to time would meet the eyes of the king and his court, cast a pall on a convivial gathering. Ayaan kept darting quick little glances at her. Though the brooch she wore blazed like an accusation, he was more intrigued by the delicate construction of her face, the features regular, the skin like spoiled milk dashed with tiny flecks of brown. She caught him at it once and pursed her lips and looked away.
The Qadi touched his arm, and the two men excused themselves to pray in an alcove away from the altar positioned in the center of the hall. A curious altar made of broken stone, it was overgrown with brambles, a pair of splendid antlers poised above it.
Ayaan gave a delicate shiver. These Franks and their strange practices! There was a little of the pagan about them, despite their avowed interest in the search for the Holy Grail.
He laid out the Qadi’s prayer rug in the alcove, which looked out over a tranquil lake with a twilight mist upon it, an image composed of ghostly grays and blues. But for all its serenity, he missed the luxuriant palms of al-Andalus, and the gleaming orange orchards of the capital. The fare of the Franks was plain, their gardens cool and unscented.
The prayer finished, the Qadi turned to ask him what he’d learned, and Ayaan was eager to oblige. Gossip abounded at court. Ladies and knights were caught up in pleasurable scandals of varying degrees of seriousness, though all professed to share in a fulsome regard for the queen.
“You didn’t find anything out of place? No hints from their dialogue with you?”
“My lord,” Ayaan said with dignity, “they may have professed admiration, but I have learned a trick or two from you.”
The Qadi thumbed his string of turquoise prayer beads, some part of his spirit always seeking a state of grace. “Continue, habibi.”
Flushing with pleasure at the endearment, Ayaan told him, “This Lancelot is provocative, Qadi. He teases the maids and is known to trifle with their affections, for all that he is considered the most honorable of knights. Jealous entanglements abound. And of late, the ladies of court have come to resent his gallant attentions to their queen.”
Ayaan had not been able to resolve these inconsistencies in Lancelot’s character in his own mind, but he was certain of the Qadi’s greater skill.
“Do any stand out in terms of wishing to dispose of a rival?”
Ayaan was never disappointed by his mentor’s acumen. “Yes, Qadi. The lady who found the brooch in Sir Lancelot’s bed had just tumbled from it herself.”
“Ah.” The Qadi looped his beads around his wrist, stroking the silk tassel. “And what of this knight Lancelot?”
Ayaan settled himself more comfortably on his prayer rug. It was often a source of bafflement to him that his mother had sent him off to join the Qadi with a blue-and-ivory carpet of Esfahani silk purchased from the markets of Baghdad, while the Qadi performed his prayers upon a simple mat of reeds. The offer to exchange carpets had been met with a gentle rebuff; Ayaan had felt the need to apologize for his mother’s extravagant taste.
“Did she pray on it before she gifted it to you?” the Qadi had asked. Indeed, his mother had done so. So the Qadi had told him with the smile that heightened his dangerous allure, “Then you are all the more blessed for praying in your mother’s footsteps.”
The Qadi was always surprising him with his regard for women.
Now Ayaan hastened to enlighten him about the whispers that surrounded Lancelot.
“These knights consider themselves a brotherhood of equals, but that does not mean envy and resentment do not simmer beneath the surface. They admire Lancelot’s courage and his devotion to the king, but they also see in him a narcissistic bent. He is one who enjoys being stroked by the praise of men and women both.”
“Is it merely praise he enjoys?”
Ayaan pretended to be shocked. “Qadi!”
On an undercurrent of laughter, the Qadi said, “My boy, I am trying to determine whether Lancelot is so dissolute in character that he would seduce his queen. Have there been witnesses to episodes of lust?”
“None,” Ayaan answered at once.
“Ah.” He waited as the Qadi gathered his thoughts toward a simple conclusion. “You should have seen her, Ayaan. She was seething with outraged pride. I thought she might be timid and ashamed; instead she was hurt and angry. It is difficult to conceive of how this queen could have let herself become the victim of suspicion, or the quarry of a conspirer.”
“You think her innocent, Qadi?”
“I think it strange that the king should say of his lady wife: ‘You have not seen her with my knights.’ A noble king wronged, a favored knight an adulterer
, a jealous, deceiving handmaid, and an ice-queen overcome by lust. The puzzle must yet be worked. I will see this maid in due course but will speak to Sir Lancelot first. Ask him where he would prefer to speak, or whether he wishes to testify in the matter of his own honor.”
Silence would speak to guilt, but consent could also function as a form of deception, this one conjured by vanity.
* * *
—
Lancelot, the prince of knights, was altogether unexpected. Pride, conceit, and a seductive arrogance had been suggested to Yusuf by Ayaan’s tales. Lancelot in person was comely beyond description, personable and warm, with a convincing air of frankness. Following the king’s example, he treated Yusuf with courtesy. Tall, handsome, dark haired, and well formed, his physical beauty was staggering. Pale skin, black hair, blue eyes—an entrancing violet-blue better suited to a maid, the irises large, the pupils crisp, the whites untainted and clear. He was so stirring an example of male beauty that Yusuf marveled at the Creator who could fashion such a man. No wonder jealousies and intrigues roiled beneath the surface of the court. And if the knight was as good as he was brave, there would be many jealous of his stature. And what of the noble king? Could he be oblivious to the impact of such beauty on his wife? The Prophet be honored, why were these Franks so keen to let other men praise their wives?
Another thought came to Yusuf’s mind as he watched expressions chase across the handsome face. Lips so lush they belonged on a bride on her wedding night, eyes that were vivid with self-mockery and intelligence, hands that were shaped to be anointed with jewels, though he wore only a plain silver band. Could a man of such unmistakable allure be tempted by a cold-eyed queen who, though fair, made no more of an impression than a hundred other women? Or was it her unattainability that made her desirable to men?
“You have been accused of adultery.” Stark words, but a gentle opening.
They had been walking in the gardens leading down to the lake, and now Lancelot came to a halt, his lips parted as he thought of a response. Obligingly, a bower of lilacs dropped its blooms on his head, petals like tiny flowered stars scattered through the silk of his hair.
The violet-blue eyes were dazzling in the moonlight, but a hint of calculation appeared beneath his charm.
“I regret that the accusation was made against the queen. As in your own lands, I am certain, the penalty is harsher for women.”
Yusuf chose not to enlighten him otherwise. The knight’s approach was intriguing, all tender concern for the queen, so little thought for himself.
Yusuf issued another salvo. “Have you been conducting an iniquitous affair with the queen of Camelot? Has your behavior dishonored the noble court of your king?”
Lancelot’s brows drew down. In anger he was even more striking, passion mottling his skin. A vibrant color to his voice, he said, “You seek to provoke me into self-betrayal.”
“I seek the truth. Can you offer an explanation of how the gift of the king—the gemstone pin—came to be found in your bed?”
Through his strong white teeth, Lancelot said, “ ’Tis a plot against Camelot. You see how it has weakened the king.”
A strange remark to make before an Andalusi who would soon return to the Crusades.
Yusuf studied Lancelot’s costume. His armor was absent, his tunic elegant, his sword sheathed at his side. His remarkable appearance required no other adornment, and yet—
“I am told by many that you chased the favor of the queen, wearing her tokens into battle. I see that you do not wear them now.”
Lancelot offered a mannerly reply. “It would hardly be appropriate given recent events.”
“Yet the queen wears her pin so boldly it cannot be mistaken.”
His comment could have been taken as censure of the brave knight’s courage, but Lancelot passed the insult over. Instead, he countered, “She always wears it with that gown.”
The pool of silence expanded, the pale arc of the wings of sparrows flashing as they drove down to the lake. Yusuf let Lancelot consider his previous statement a moment or two longer, then he said, “Your admiration of the queen is causing comment. Forgive me for saying so, but in the court of our Caliph, the queen would attract no more notice than a serving girl.”
“You offer an insult to your hosts,” Lancelot snapped. “Guinevere requires no defense, but since you find her plain, know that her true beauty lies in the grace of her soul.”
Yusuf resumed their walk, Lancelot at his back. Only when they had reached the lake did he cast a glance to his side. “Then you have seen into Guinevere’s soul.”
“You are impertinent, sir, to refer to the queen of Camelot by her name!”
“My apologies. It is not a custom of your court, then?”
A terse shaking of Lancelot’s head.
“Then why, may I ask, did you call the queen Guinevere? To speak the queen’s name, to peer into her soul—these are signs of intimacy between the queen and yourself.”
Lancelot gave a meaningful sigh, his elegant hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His fingers tightened on the grip. Making nothing of it, Yusuf took a step away.
“It went too far,” Lancelot admitted after some while. “I meant to pay her court in order to please the king. But others did so as well, and I confess my pride was stirred. I wanted to outdo them. Greater tributes, dazzling victories, to lay at the feet of the queen, to pay homage. Guinevere mistook me. She was…seduced. Much to my shame, I dallied with her awhile.”
“Dalliance? Is that all there was between you?”
The knight rocked back on his heels, his words edged with discomfort. “Though a great and righteous king, there are some duties that Arthur is no longer able to fulfill. The queen is young and fair. She is not yet bereft of desire.”
“Then you were doing her a kindness.”
“You mock me.” A dangerous note crept into Lancelot’s voice.
The Qadi demurred with a gesture of his hands. “I’m trying to understand.”
Lancelot watched him closely. “No sooner had I given in to my lust than I felt the weight of my betrayal. I was forsworn, my honor tarnished. But the queen could not be dissuaded. Her entreaties grew more insistent. To discourage her, I let her find her handmaid in my bed. I hoped that would end the matter.” He shook his head to himself, a cynical twist to his lips. “Guin believes in timeless love, whereas I am always searching for a new horizon.”
Yusuf sifted through the surprising confession.
“And the pin?”
Lancelot shook his head again, with a gesture of self-contempt.
“She may have lost it in my bed. Or others may seek to discredit either the queen or myself—perhaps both of us. I did not think Guin capable of putting up a front, yet she is the very picture of a grievously injured wife.”
He turned back to the path to the castle atop the hill.
“The harm is done. I will leave Camelot soon on my quest for the Grail. Perhaps my departure will spare her.”
But Yusuf concluded that, in truth, the one the knight hoped to spare was himself.
* * *
—
The Round Table had been deserted by its knights, the lanterns lit, the Pendragon pennant blazing behind the throne. The great hall was quiet, the mood in the chamber dark, a tormented frown engraved upon the king’s heavy brow. He had asked the Qadi for his ruling: the time had come for Yusuf to speak.
Five people were seated at the table in place of the complement of knights. A space between King Arthur and his queen; Lancelot close to the king’s right. And the Qadi and Ayaan seated together across from the other three; the table bare of artifice, as stark as the judgment to come.
“What have you come to tell me?” the king demanded.
“Nothing that will give you peace.”
“Has the queen confessed?”
Yusuf glanced at Guinevere, who stroked the swan at her breast with breathtaking self-possession.
“The queen would not give me an answer. She feels her integrity should never have been called into question.”
The king glanced at his wife, the faint light of hope in his eyes.
Yusuf didn’t tarry; it was cruel to deceive the king.
“Sir Lancelot was more forthcoming. He blames himself for going too far with his attentions to the queen.”
“Going too far?”
Even the king’s great dignity was no proof against revelation. His shoulders sagged, his gaze turning inward, a tremor in his age-spotted hands. The tremor became more pronounced when he shaded his brow with one hand, concealing the turn of his thoughts.
Yusuf prayed the king would not give way to a weakness that would earn him his queen’s contempt.
His tone contemplative, he offered, “Your queen is young and fair, and likely lonely through your long campaigns. If your knight sought to comfort her—”
“Please. Say no more.” The king stood, drawing out his cross-hilted sword. He strode across the hall to the altar, where he placed the sword beneath the pair of antlers. He censured Lancelot with a glance. “Your quest to find the Grail will falter. It is only for the pure of heart, but still I would ask you to go.” He studied the fabled sword he had placed upon the altar. “I would not take up arms against you, as I must if you remain.”
Lancelot threw himself at the king’s feet, a haunting break in his voice. “Forgive my betrayal, my liege! I love no one so much as you!”
The king turned away. “I cannot count myself grateful.”
Guinevere rose, her pale fingers tapping the table. Slowly she said to the king, “You would believe Lancelot’s account in lieu of your own wife’s? What of the innocence of Ayesha?”
“You gave no account, my lady. And it seems this court has forsaken the mercy of the divine. I do not expect revelation to grant me a virtuous queen.”
