by Kris Owyn
“Oh no, it’s not that no one’s... I mean I’m not...” He sighed. “Merlin has his own little window on the world, and Sir Ector another. Everyone I meet tells me about their slice of Camelot, but I still don’t know...” He shook his head, like he couldn’t find the word. “I don’t know why.”
“Why what?”
“Why this? Why any of this? I hear about fees and orders and shipments and security, but what does it accomplish? What did Pendragon see that I don’t?”
Guinevere though for a moment, as Arthur watched expectantly. What did Pendragon see that he didn’t? It was almost a laughable question, except here, now, she had a chance to shape the future of the kingdom, if she could find the right words. She just wasn’t sure what they were. Never mind her plan with Council, she could stop his charity-work before it started, and prove to him how valuable she was, as a confidant and ally.
And Gawain would be neutered, without ever knowing why.
“My father liked to tell the story of the man who killed a thousand foes,” she said, as the memories washed over her like a warm tide. “The invading warlords, they sent wave after wave through the valley at the steps of his village, and wave after wave, those invaders fell. The townspeople loved him, called him a hero. The baker, he gave food to keep the man fed; the weaver, he gave clothes to keep the man warm; the builder, he made the man a home of his own, overlooking the valley where his enemies came looking for loot, and found death instead. All by the hand of this solitary man.”
“Pendragon,” said Arthur, voice a reverent whisper.
“No,” Guinevere said with a kind smile. “The man was a farmer, tired of seeing his crops overrun by thieves and poachers and scoundrels, so he bought himself a crossbow and he defended what was his. And what was truly remarkable was not that one man killed a thousand... it was that, despite this village facing a thousand enemies, the baker was still a baker, not a soldier; the weaver was still a weaver, not an archer; and the builder was still a builder, not a widow’s memory. With the right tools, life need not churn us all apart, at the whims of tyrants.”
Arthur sat back, stunned into silence. He looked at his hands, like he was imagining taking up arms, just like in the story, to defend his village. He clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and nodded solemnly.
“Camelot makes those tools,” he said, voice croaking.
“Yes, sire. That was Pendragon’s vision. To focus the power of his kingdom into forging something better. Forging tools that would change the world.”
“Defending the farmer’s food from thieves.”
“And more, sire. To defend against tyranny.”
He opened his eyes, curious. “But how does one battle tyranny if the tyrants have the same weapons? And in greater numbers?”
Guinevere’s face froze. “M-milord?”
“I’m not saying Pendragon was wrong,” he said, like he was confessing a sin he couldn’t quite articulate. “I’m not saying Camelot is wrong, but I...” He was trying to touch something that wasn’t there, with his hands. “Thieves steal food because they’re starving, not because they’re tyrants or warlords or what have you. There’s a difference between evil and desperation.”
Guinevere took a moment to consider her next words. None seemed to fit. She folded her hands on her lap, summoning all her civility as she said: “You can engineer defences against the one, sire, but not the other. You can make a machine to thwart your enemy, but not God’s plan.”
This seemed to land, because he flinched, half-turned away. Religion always worked well with monarchs and peasants; noblemen were made of sterner stuff.
“And yet,” he sighed, and rocked his head side to side, like he was still grappling with something immense. “And yet I think we can.”
“We can what, sire?” she asked, cautiously.
“Maybe not thwart God’s plan, but soften its edges.” She started to reply, but he held out a hand. “Camelot came into being around this notion that the rules of... of order... that those rules could be re-shaped with the right tools, yes? A farmer can save his village with a crossbow that — as I understand it — was never imagined before a would-be King set quill to paper.” He looked pained, the truth almost out. “That was the challenge of Pendragon’s time. Light in an age of violent darkness. But I...”
He took hold of her hands, held them tight. “I don’t think God’s plan is for thieves to choose between starvation, and a crossbow’s bolt. I think we’ve solved half the problem, and I’m here... I’m King because He wants me to finish what Pendragon started.”
Guinevere was in a tough spot: argue at such a moment, and she’d make an enemy for life; agree at such a moment, and she’d make enemies of the entire Council, all over again. So she smiled, weakly, and said: “Finish how, sire?”
“Merlin’s plans, they’re so exotic and extreme, and I thought maybe I was dreaming beyond what was... what could be...” He was bubbling with energy now. “But you’re right, Lady Guinevere. To make something better, we need to focus the power of the kingdom into better tools. Different tools.”
He kissed her hands, he was so excited. He had a purpose, finally. She could see it far too clearly.
“The age of the warlord is over. It’s time to bring Camelot in a whole new direction.”
Sixteen
Ewen stopped short.
“Oh no. How bad is it?” he asked, as Guinevere walked past at a furious clip, to the horses he’d left tied by the stables. She checked the harnesses, patted its side, and then, all else failing her, pressed her forehead down and squeezed her eyes shut.
Ewen watched her, wary. “That bad, then. Gawain angled you out?”
“Worse,” she said, eyes still closed, as she thought.
“The King’s against you?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
He moved in close, speaking under his breath: “We can be at the coast by tomorrow night, if we leave now. I’ll send for your things once we’ve cleared the—”
She put a hand on his arm, shook her head. “No, no, this isn’t something we can solve by running. The King’s not against me alone, he’s against...” she sighed. “He’s against Camelot itself.”
Ewen pulled her away from the horse, so she was looking at him, reluctantly. “Fewer riddles, more information. What’s going on?”
“He has it in his mind to use Camelot to, I don’t know, build a better world. A kind of childish utopia, as envisioned by his freakish friend, Merlin.”
“But we knew as much. He wants to expand production into—”
“Not expand. Convert. No more weapons. Camelot as a united front for peace.”
Ewen’s face was blank. “You can’t be serious.”
“I wish I were,” she sighed. “His mind’s set on it. The more I pushed back, the worse it got, until it was all I could do to excuse myself, before he started planning to reform Heaven as well.”
Ewen’s mind was now racing at the same speed as hers. “Council won’t like this.”
“We’ll be lucky if they only stage a coup,” Guinevere grumbled. “Rhos and his cronies might not stomach that, though, so we’ll have ourselves a proper civil war. The kingdom will split, and I can’t see a winning proposition: the King, who will bankrupt me, or Gawain, who will bury me. There’s no winning scenario anymore, no way to avoid ruin.” She pressed a trembling hand to her face, fighting off the urge to scream. “I should have stayed in Paris. I pushed my luck and reached for more, and now I... It’s the end of Camelot, or the end of me. What am I supposed to do?”
“If you’ve got to choose sides, I’d go with the King. At least there, you stand a chance of handling your own destiny. Better a broken lord than a pampered slave.”
Guinevere looked up, and a smile crept across her face. “Exactly.” She mounted her horse took the reins, and nodded to Ewen. “Which way
to Emlyn House?”
They raced down the limestone streets, Ewen’s torch barely lighting the way, until he waved off to the right, through a pair of massive iron gates, and down the lane to the steps of a looming building, covered in stately vines. There were no guards posted; Ewen let go of his crossbow, carefully, as Guinevere dismounted and ran inside.
“What are we—” he asked, but she shushed him.
“Corner room, by the garden,” she whispered.
“The garden’s this way,” he said, guiding her on, through to the east of the building. Down a flight of slippery marble stairs, past a statue of some mythical figure, long forgotten, and finally, to a narrow door at the corner of the hall. Ewen took the handle, hand on the hilt of his sword, but Guinevere waved him off. She motioned for him to stow his torch in the brace on the wall, and then, with a finger to her lips, opened the door herself.
The moonlight helped illuminate the shape of four low beds, one at each corner of the room. Three were occupied, and one—
A brutal snore broke the silence. Guinevere jumped, and Ewen had his crossbow aimed in an instant... at an old woman who seemed intent on breathing in all of Christendom in her sleep. She muttered something that sounded like a dinner order, and then snored again; Guinevere’s ears rattled.
Ewen eased, reluctantly... as the bed to their left wobbled. Guinevere squinted in the darkness, and saw, faintly, the shape of a young woman trying to cover her ears with a pillow. She had long, black hair, splayed across the sheets behind her.
Guinevere bent down and touched her shoulder; the woman jerked around, angry and desperate, but then brightened when she saw it was Guinevere. “Milady!” whispered Adwen, and then caught sight of Ewen, and shrank back, using the pillow to shield herself. “Who’s that?”
“My man,” Guinevere said, simply.
“Your lover?” Adwen asked, eyes wide.
Ewen chortled, looked away.
Guinevere leaned in closer. “Can we speak somewhere a little more—” the old woman snored again, choking on her own noise this time, “—private?”
Adwen nodded. She led them out through the double doors by the dresser, to a courtyard lined by tall trees and immaculate hedges. Ewen checked the perimeter, cautious, as Adwen tucked herself into a robe, sitting on a bench next to Guinevere.
“What’s wrong, Lady Amice?” she asked, voice still hushed like she was afraid of being overheard.
“Nothing yet,” said Guinevere. “But first, I must be honest with you, Adwen. I am not Amice of Cornwall. That was a disguise imagined to ensure my safety, because—”
Adwen covered her mouth with her hand and hissed: “You’re a spy?”
Guinevere shrugged at this. “Not far off. My name is Guinevere of Lyonesse. Have you heard of me?”
Adwen nodded yes, eyes even wider now.
“As you can imagine, I have enemies at Court. And those enemies are—”
“Trying to kill you?”
Guinevere looked to Ewen, who raised an eyebrow.
“That’s my fear,” she said, quietly. “I find myself in a difficult situation, with enemies on the inside and spies at Court, every time I—”
“I can help!” Adwen said, leaping to her feet, then dropping to her knees in front of Guinevere. “Please, Lady Guinevere, I can help you! What do you need? I can spy! I can report back all the gossip I hear, and— oh! One of the ladies-in-waiting is—” She looked at Ewen, nervously, leaned even closer to whisper: “—having an episode with Lord Rhos, as we speak.”
Guinevere paused. “Well. That’s... I see.” She cleared her throat. “But no, I require your assistance with another matter entirely. You see, the Carolingian kings are on the verge of an all-out war across the Continent, and their orders are proving taxing, even for me.”
She knew Ewen was watching her, now. Carefully watching.
“But every time I place an order through the proper channels at Council, my enemies find ways to make the paperwork disappear without explanation.”
Adwen’s face twisted into righteous indignation. “Without explanation,” she said, bitterly.
“My buyers are growing anxious, and if we don’t go into production soon, they may take their business elsewhere, which would be a blow to the whole of Camelot, and—”
Guinevere’s hands were squeezed tight in Adwen’s. “Fear not, Lady Guinevere. I have a plan.”
“Do you?” Guinevere asked sincerely, ignoring Ewen’s eye-roll in the background.
“Yes, you see my brothers, they are the Production Masters for all the biggest factories in the realm. It is they who receive and fulfill the orders sent by Council.”
“Yes,” said Guinevere, as convincingly innocent as she could be, “but I don’t see how—”
“Give me the orders, milady,” Adwen said, urgently. “I will send your request to my brothers directly, on your behalf.”
“And cut out Council in the process!” Guinevere said, feigning amazement. Ewen glowered at her. “I don’t want to impose upon their—”
“Oh, fear not,” said Adwen. “Things are already chaotic with them, preparing this livery float for the King’s coronation...”
Guinevere gave a bemused smile. “What’s a livery float?”
“Part of the royal procession,” said Adwen. “Highlighting the King’s family crest, accomplishments and history, with his Majesty at the tail of it. But since the King—”
“—has no crest, accomplishments or history...”
“It’s a challenge, to say the least. My brothers will be happy for something familiar. We’d all be happy.”
“You would make such a sacrifice for me, Lady Adwen?”
Adwen nodded, solemn. “I’ve no friends in this place. None but you. Whatever you need, I will fight to get you. That, I swear.”
Guinevere hugged her, and Adwen seemed genuinely moved by the action. She wrapped her arms around Guinevere and held tight. When they separated, Guinevere held the younger woman’s chin in her hands, and smiled.
“Thank you so much, Adwen. You have saved my life.”
Adwen hugged her again, sniffling.
She was still wiping her eyes as she climbed back into bed, and they closed the door to her room. Ewen grabbed the torch off the wall, and they slid back through the halls, to their horses. Guinevere was just about to climb up when Ewen caught her arm, stopped her rushing.
“You’ll have to explain this to me,” he said, voice quiet to avoid eavesdroppers. “Which of the Carolingians is planning a war?”
She smiled. “At the moment? None. In the future? Likely all of them. And when they do...”
He caught on. “You’ll have product on hand.”
“And odds are, I’ll be the only one who does, by then. Short supply should make for tidy profits, too. Tell the Gwynedds to deliver as ready. Put in an order based on that Toulouse campaign from last year. But triple it. We need enough to last. Arrange for a two percent bounty to Lady Adwen, and another ten to her brothers.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And why would you want to do that? That’s almost as much as you pay Council, now.”
“It’s to give them a taste of what life will be like in their new factories, as owners.”
He shook his head. “I’m not following. What new factories? In Lyonesse? There’s barely any open land there, and you’d never get the permits without raising suspicions. More importantly, you’ve only got a few hours before Gawain sees the King, hears what you heard, and starts plotting a revolution. What are you going to do about that?”
“I’m going to take a trip,” she said, airily. “But we’ll need Eleanor, too, so—”
He caught her arm, leaned in. “Guinevere, I’m serious. Are you thinking this through?”
She patted his cheek. “All the way through,” she said. “There are two pro
blems at play: Gawain will see the King. The King will recount his vision for the future, which will send Gawain into a rage. If I’m lucky, he’ll suspect I’m behind it, which will make him all the more unhinged.”
“Ah, yes. Lucky.”
“We’ll be gone for few days. In the meantime, Gawain will whip Council into a frenzy, calling for a coup. I’ll send word to Bors to stay neutral, and without a moderating voice at the table, dear Rhos will dig in his heels to defend the constitution he so carefully crafted. The First Line will back him, because to them, tradition trumps all.”
“Council will be split,” Ewen said, nodding, but still not sold.
“The deadlock will infuriate Gawain even more, making him more and more unreasonable. He makes a mess of simple matters, so there’s no doubt in my mind he’ll say something outright treasonous at some point. His tendency to make himself the centre of attention will turn it into a battle of personalities: Lord Lothian versus the newly-crowned King.”
“He has more allies on Council than the King, though...”
“He does... until Lord Cornwall sides with Rhos. And then it’ll be a merciless fall from grace for Gawain. He won’t be able to outrun his own words.”
“Fine, but here’s the problem: why would Cornwall return, when half the mercenaries in Britain want him dead? Your plan hinges on too many improbabilities.”
“Why? Because I’m handling his money problems, too,” she said.
“Guinevere, you don’t have infinite resources. You can’t just pay off his debts and order enough weapons to arm half the Continent at the same time.”
“Cornwall’s problems won’t cost a thing. In fact, helping him will help me, as well.”
Ewen was unconvinced. “And how does that work?”
She winked. “By the same plan that gets the Gwynedds their own factories... a new state of affairs, insulated from the chaos of the impending fall of Camelot. The great redundancy.”
“Sounds lovely,” Ewen grumbled. “But what is it?”
She mounted her horse. “Not what, Ewen. Where.”
