The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  She curtsied — in the old style, too, just for him — and when her head lifted back up, she made sure he kept his eyes on her.

  “Lord Rhos, your family have been a loyal servants of Camelot, even longer than my own. I believe you fought to win my father at seat at this very table, in the first days of the kingdom.”

  Rhos was visibly impressed. His face flushed, and he slammed his hand on the table three times, nodding vigorously. “That I did, my dear. That I did.”

  “I ask, my lord, most humbly, that you extend to me the same graciousness, by helping me find my rightful seat at the table. Before the proceedings begin.”

  At that, Rhos’ gaze shot away from Guinevere, and toward... Gawain. She didn’t dare turn to see, but from the old man’s reaction, she could tell he was being fed orders. And not subtly, either. The rest of Council knew the deal.

  “Lady Guinevere, while we do appreciate your family’s contributions to—” He cleared his throat, stared at the table to avoid her. “You have no standing to join us at Council.”

  The room went silent. Utterly silent. Guinevere scanned the noblemen, one by one, but they were all staring at the table, as Rhos did. Only two gave her any indication of anything beyond obedience: Bors, who looked spitting mad, and Gawain, whose smug grin made Guinevere spitting mad.

  “My lords, Lyonesse—”

  “Lyonesse is not the problem, milady. You are.” It was Wiglaf, from East Mercia. A hair older than her, but always the weakling among his brothers, always looking to stake his ground. Or the ground others promised him.

  “I am my father’s rightful heir,” she said, still containing her anger, for now. Bors gave her a warning look. Behind him, Ewen slid into view; he, too, was warning her not to lose control.

  “You’re steward of his Continental holdings, but that doesn’t guarantee you a seat at the Round Table,” said Wiglaf, channelling Gawain’s self-satisfied swagger. “The men here contribute greatly to the—”

  She laughed at this.

  Bors and Ewen both slumped. They knew what was coming.

  “I bring in more money than the rest of this table combined.”

  “That’s not—”

  “I daresay I bring in a hundred times your annual gross,” she continued, “though it’s hard to be sure, given how sporadically you report numbers of any kind. You do, you know, contribute, don’t you, Wiglaf-the-Lesser?”

  Every man drew in their breaths at once. That was the title Wiglaf’s older brother employed to taunt him, to get under his skin and make him throw very public tantrums.

  It was also the last thing he said before Wiglaf ran him through with a pike.

  “Watch your tongue, you—”

  “What Lord Mercia means is that a place at the table cannot simply be bought,” said Rhos, holding out a placating hand toward the fuming Wiglaf. “It’s a matter of law. You may be steward of the Continental holdings of Lyonesse, but inheritance of lands in Camelot can only be passed to male issue.”

  Guinevere blinked. “Wait, do you mean—?”

  “Your seat is reserved for your future son. Or husband, God willing.”

  Someone at the table snickered.

  “My lords,” Guinevere began, trying to think of a better plan of attack, “I submit to you—”

  “The lady has no standing,” said Gawain, lazily tracing the Lothian crest with his finger. “I move she should be barred from this, our most critical meeting.”

  “Hear hear!” shouted a chorus of sycophants from around the table.

  Guinevere set her jaw. “I may still speak, as proxy for Lyonesse,” she said. “Speak, and vote.”

  “True,” said Gawain, “but you must be named proxy by the steward. And that is me.”

  His smile was driving her mad. “I call for—” she began, but he clapped his hands above his head and cut her off.

  “Eject the lady?” Gawain called out, and the entire table lifted their hands in agreement. All but Bors. His face said: I warned you.

  Wiglaf waved her away. “Back to Paris with you,” he said, and the rest of the table pounded their hands like a merciless thunder, until she was through the doors, and shut out for good.

  Seven

  It took four hours of yelling before the Council meeting adjourned, by which point Guinevere’s whole body ached from the tension of waiting. She heard chairs slide back, footsteps echoing on stonework, until the whole room was just a cacophony of abrasive intrigue. She was leaning towards the main doors, trying to make out a conversation, when someone took her by the arm and dragged her away.

  “You don’t want to be seen right now,” said Ewen, sliding her into an alcove and blocking prying eyes with his cloak. He looked worn and angry, and out of breath, too. “That was the longest afternoon of my life.”

  “What happened?” she asked, at an urgent whisper.

  “Gossip posing as state secrets, mostly,” he said. “Rumours about the new king, and his taste in weapons technology.”

  “He has a taste in weapons technology?” she asked, intrigued.

  “Yes, but apparently it varies depending on who’s telling the story.”

  Guinevere laughed, covering her mouth to be safe. The main doors opened and the noblemen flooded out, their attendants swirling off to carry out orders or fetch more information. None of them noticed her; either they were blind, or she’d fallen so far from their attention that she had become yet another woman to ignore.

  “Are they sending a delegation?” she asked, but knew the answer. There was no way any of those fools would allow the others an audience without them. There was too much at stake to be absent. The Council would send an elite delegation of... the Council.

  “Aye,” nodded Ewen. “And what’s more, they’ve elected a First Minister.”

  “Oh God,” she whimpered.

  “Gawain,” he nodded. “And he has a full agenda to discuss ahead of the coronation.”

  She stamped her foot on the ground, pressing her palms together as she thought: “I need more allies in there. Where was Cornwall anyway? I need his backing, now more than ever.”

  Ewen shook his head, at a loss. “His proxy showed up late, didn’t say a word. I don’t know if he’ll be in attendance with the King, either.”

  Guinevere frowned. “It’s irrelevant, now. No time. When are they meeting? I’ll need to—”

  Ewen was shoved to the side without warning, and suddenly all Guinevere could see was Bors, looming over her, simmering with rage. He leaned down to her, and spoke in a deep, growling voice: “That was world-class foolishness on display.”

  “I lost my temper,” she said, meekly.

  “Oh, I hadn’t noticed!” he boomed, then quieted down again. “You made a damn mess of things, girl. A damn mess. You know you’ve made an enemy for life in Wiglaf, don’t you? He kept circling back to your petty, childish name-calling. Couldn’t let it go.”

  “I can handle Mercia.”

  “Like you could handle Gawain? Yes, I’m sure that will work out just fine.” He sneered at Ewen, too. “And why are you limping? You’re as subtle as an ox at confession.”

  Guinevere snapped her fingers to draw back Bors’ attention. “None of this will matter once I see the King... he has no baggage with Lyonesse to—”

  Bors glared at Ewen. “You didn’t tell her.”

  Ewen just shrugged.

  “Tell me what? What don’t I know?”

  Bors grimaced, like he both wanted to tell her, and wished he didn’t have to. He ran a hand down his beard, nails scraping his cheeks as he worked out one stress or another. “You aren’t meeting the King,” he said.

  “But I—”

  “Guinevere, listen to me. You have no legal standing. You need a husband to speak for you, officially. They might’ve ignored the rules for someone else, in
some other situation, but—”

  “I bankroll this kingdom!” she hissed. “They would have nothing without my—”

  “Without your network.”

  “Exactly! Years of work, between my father and myself, to create near-limitless opportunity for Camelot on the Continent. No matter what petty rules Gawain chooses to put in my way, my network is priceless.”

  Bors set a hand on her shoulder, and she felt like a young girl being lectured, again. “But it’s not your network, is it?”

  She felt her cheeks flush. “It damn well is, and if they think—”

  “They voted to petition the King,” he said, and stopped, like it pained him to speak. Maybe it did, too. “To petition the King to overturn your stewardship. Your overseas holdings, your finances, your network, all rolled back into Lyonesse proper.”

  Guinevere fought the urge to scream. She squeezed her hands together, tightly, binding the fury up while she thought. “I need to find some way into that meeting. If I can debate Gawain in the open, he’ll show his hand. Once the King sees what he’s after, he’ll side with me. There’s no precedent for turning a nobleman into some rank-and-file employee while—”

  “No, girl, you’re not listening. Gawain doesn’t want you as his employee.”

  She gaped at him, trying to understand.

  “He wants you as his wife.”

  Eight

  There were no guards at the station-house, and the gates were unlocked; the crest of Cornwall, emblazoned on the heavy wooden doors, was disjointed, one side knocked askew. Guinevere dismounted her horse, warily, as Ewen creaked one of the doors open, weapon ready. Inside, the long laneway to the estate was covered in leaves and moss.

  “This is a bad idea,” Ewen said over his shoulder, re-gripping his crossbow.

  “I need allies, Ewen,” Guinevere said, leading her horse forward, past the threshold. “If I can’t get my oldest friends to show up on my behalf, I’ll be easy prey for Gawain.”

  Ewen raised an eyebrow. “And Cornwall is an ally?”

  “He’s no Bors, but we do have a history of friendship, between us.”

  “You’ve a very loose definition of friendship.”

  She smiled, handed him the reins to her horse, nodded towards the stables. “Get them food and water,” she said. “I’ll go say hello.”

  Ewen stopped, looped the leather straps around his arm, and caught her hand before she could leave. “You’re not going in there alone.”

  She rolled her eyes. “They’re my oldest friends, Ewen,” she laughed. “What will you protect me from, pleasantries?”

  He slipped a sheathed knife from his belt, held it out to her, face full of grave seriousness. She smirked: “What’s that for?”

  “To parry compliments.”

  She laughed, strolling off with a wave. “Stop by once the horses are settled!” she called, and with a jerk on the reins, Ewen let her be.

  Her first knock at the doors made no sound at all, so she made a fist and pounded. To her surprise, the door immediately creaked open. Her mind raced to remember the name of Cornwall’s doorman, but it had been so many years since she’d been to the house, she didn’t—

  —it wasn’t a servant at the door, it was a young woman in a simple blue dress and a harried way about her. She blinked when she saw Guinevere, like she wasn’t sure if it was real or not. Her eyes kept darting around, like she was expecting an unexpected shock.

  “Eleanor?” Guinevere said, letting her surprise show for a change.

  “I... I wasn’t...” said Eleanor, checking over her shoulder. “Are you alone? Where’s Ewen?”

  “Feeding the horses. Your stable boys must be sleeping. And no guards at the gates—”

  “Guin, it’s not the best time to—”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Guinevere.

  Eleanor leaned forward, whispered urgently: “We need to go.”

  But before she could leave, a rough hand wrapped around Eleanor’s arm and yanked her back into the house. The door started to shut, but Guinevere moved fast, slamming her hands into the wood and sliding through the side before it could close. She stumbled into a stone pillar, turned to get her bearings, and—

  —came face-to-face with a trio of savage men with unsheathed swords.

  The closest one, holding Eleanor by the arm, was clearly the leader: the other two kept looking to him for instruction. He ignored Guinevere entirely, jostling Eleanor around to keep her off-balance. It was easy for him, too; he had a disciplined, muscular body beneath his shaggy exterior. His dark hair was a mess of intentions: close-shaved in places, braided in others, with a ragged scar across his right cheek. He was like a sly and shady fox; bruised from his exploits, but wisened by them, too.

  “We weren’t done talking yet, milady,” he purred at Eleanor, eyes dancing down her body like he was sizing up a meal.

  “Well you’re done now,” Guinevere snapped, stepping forward. “Get your hands off her.”

  He turned his full attention to her, now. Eyebrow raised. “Did I say you could speak?”

  She sneered at him. “Do I look like I care? Let her go, and you may yet survive the day.”

  He laughed. “Oh, may I now.”

  “You stumbled into the wrong estate, sir,” she said. “Lord Cornwall is not a man who forgives transgressions, especially not when his daughter is involved. His security team is second-to-none, and—”

  “Guin...” said Eleanor, but was ignored.

  “—I daresay if you don’t leave now, he will use his considerable resources to make your life a living Hell, and—”

  “Guin!” Eleanor pleaded.

  Guinevere paused, frowning. But before she could address Eleanor, the Fox laughed, waved her on. “No, don’t stop. I want to hear about Cornwall’s resources. Rich, is he?”

  Guinevere suddenly became aware of her surroundings. The walls were bare, though the hooks that would’ve held banners and tapestries remained. Only a single torch lit the grand hall, and the fireplace was barren. Not even logs to light. No servants in sight. Eleanor had opened the door herself and... and her dress was simple, plain, cheap.

  “Very rich...” Guinevere said, quieter.

  “So why is he hiding from his creditors?” said the Fox, letting go of Eleanor and closing in on Guinevere instead. She stood her ground, defiant, but he was still imposing; taller, ripe with sweat and dried blood. Eyes cutting into her.

  “You don’t seem the lending type,” she said.

  “Nor should I be,” he said. “And yet here we are. Sixty gold down, and no Cornwall to be found. Now, I’ve tried to be patient with him, tried to make things work, but when the man flees the district and leaves his poor daughter to face the music alone... well, my patience starts to wear thin.”

  “He would never do such a—”

  “He’s not here. We’ve checked.”

  “I meant he would never deal with a man like you. Guttersnipe.”

  His nostrils flared, and he seemed ready to strike her, but smiled instead, waved a warning finger. “You don’t know him well.” He turned away, back into the middle of the hall, and held his arms out like he was preaching to an invisible congregation. “No gold, no treasures, not even curtains to sell in the market square. The place is barren, which leaves us with two choices: leave empty-handed, or find something else of value.”

  He glared at Eleanor, now in the hands of one of his comrades, and she nearly cried out.

  “If you take her, you’ll be hunted day and night until your head ends up on a pike.”

  He laughed. “And who’ll work for his lordship? He owes half the mercenaries on the isles a small fortune, after his Essex gamble. There isn’t a man alive who’d take his commission anymore.”

  “Not his,” Guinevere said. “Mine.”

  He smiled aga
in, and preened, strolling toward her like an animal playing with its next meal. He put a finger under her chin, lifting her head up so she was looking right into his eyes. She didn’t flinch or waver. She was angry.

  “What’s your relation, then?”

  “Loyal friend.”

  “Loyalty’s a fickle thing,” he said.

  “Not my kind. Nor my vengeance.”

  He let her go, stepped back, hands on his hips. “Make me an offer, then.”

  Guinevere frowned. “Pardon me?”

  “Make me an offer. Think of it as... as streamlined kidnapping. What would you pay to keep your friend here intact? What does your loyalty cover, monetarily?”

  Eleanor was begging with her eyes. The other two men were growing impatient, aggressive. If they turned outright violent, they were finished. Even if Ewen came back now, she had a strong feeling there would be casualties she couldn’t bear.

  She stood taller.

  “A tremis each,” she said. “Three coins, and you leave.”

  He laughed. “Three of sixty? That’s your offer?”

  “I don’t generally negotiate with lowly thieves, so you should take it as a compliment.”

  “Oh, you’ve a tongue, don’t you?” He nodded, paced in a circle as he thought. “We were promised six tremisses apiece by Cornwall. For transport of weapons and four weeks training those blasted Essex drunks. So no: four apiece. Accounting for my whole crew, that’s forty coins. Then we leave.”

  “Essex drunks?” Guinevere said with a smile.

  “Whatever runts they could find in the London alehouses.”

  “And they became an army?”

  “No, they became well-armed drunks,” he said, and his comrades laughed.

  Guinevere nodded appreciation. “Then you didn’t do what you were hired to do, I’d say. One tremis each. However, I will trust your ‘crew’ are not imaginary, and grant you ten, in total. And you leave.”