The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  Uneasy chatter. Bors broke through it: “What sort of demonstration?”

  “An assortment of peasants, paid for the day to, shall we say, illustrate the level of anarchy that would come of the King’s policies? A small protest at the back of the cathedral, but loud enough to make our point clear. To put things in perspective in a way he will understand.”

  Bors was not amused. “A riot funded by Council.”

  “Voices, not fists,” Gawain corrected.

  “It’s not fists I’m worried about, with you,” Bors said.

  Rhos stood suddenly. “The coronation is a sacred event, overseen by God Himself, and to be sullied in such a way is to—”

  “The coronation will proceed unmolested,” Gawain said. “They’re to wait for his speech. I’ve heard it’s an impassioned thing, fighting wars with love, not swords, and the like. By all accounts, he’ll surely agitate a large portion of the crowd on his own. The only difference is some of those in attendance will be able to speak their minds.”

  “Your mind, you mean,” Guinevere said.

  Gawain just shrugged. “The King will see his people react, and when he does, Council will be ready to guide him to a more sensible position.”

  “And who represents Council?” Rhos said, wary. “Lady Guinevere?”

  Wiglaf laughed. “Oh, she’d love another session with the King!”

  There was some laughter, until Cornwall held up his hand. “Lord Lothian has the best handle on things,” he said. “I vote he bring the King our petition.”

  Wiglaf raised his hand high. “Seconded!”

  It took no time at all to see the defections were complete: it was only Guinevere, Rhos and Bors against the rest. Gawain nodded to the scribe taking minutes: “Two opposed,” he said.

  “Three,” Guinevere countered.

  “You’ve no vote here, remember?”

  Wiglaf snickered, but that wasn’t the worst reaction in the room. The worst was that, as far as she could tell, the rest of Council had decided that she wasn’t worth a reaction at all.

  Twenty

  The moon was obscured by oak leaves. When the wind blew, fragments of pale blue light danced across Guinevere’s vision, like shards of ice pouring over her. She shivered, hugging her knees tighter, and rested her head back on the tree trunk. The rest of the forest rustled around her, but she refused to contribute a sound herself.

  This tree was named Lyonesse, from which all other identities stemmed. The original abbey, three hundred years gone, now, was built in its shade, trying to ignore the all but the limestone foundation of the pagan heritage they were trading on. Her ancestors were keen patrons; small renovations became a kind of accidental assimilation, until the abbey was the private chapel for a nobleman who borrowed the name with a shrewd eye.

  That lord’s sons became kings, and the chapel’s cornerstone became the roots of a castle that would be burned to the ground a more than once, as they overreached again and again. The tree survived it all, somehow. Some said thanks to God’s grace. Some remembered the older ways, and knew better.

  Her grandfather took that foundation, that cornerstone, and built a modern estate out of it. The tree’s roots had already churned up the ground beneath the old castles, but cutting it down was out of the question; not out of reverence, but symbolism. He planted heavy stone slabs into its tendrils, and crushed it into submission. He was the first king of Lyonesse to die of natural causes.

  And the last, after her father’s great gamble.

  By chance or design, the tree’s lower branches were perfectly aligned with the balcony at the west side of the estate; come out the third-floor parlour and you could step straight onto a stem big enough to sleep on. And that’s what Guinevere did, when she needed to be alone.

  It was harder than it had been, when she was little, because Lyonesse-the-tree had defied her grandfather and broken its way through those mighty stones, until the balcony was warped and cracking, bent to the will of a spirit far older than her bloodline.

  The wind blew again, and the moonlight cut through, and she closed her eyes to block out the fact that, if she wasn’t careful, she could feel the tree coming to undo her, too.

  She heard the shuffling of feet, and looked over to see Ewen coming through the skewed doorway, stepping over the broken doors at his feet. She gave him a half-committed smile, and shivered.

  He undid his cloak and wrapped it over her, tucking it behind her neck to be sure. It was warm inside, and only made her realize how cold she’d been, these last hours.

  “Finding your answers?” he asked, sitting at the edge of the branch by her feet.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know that there are answers, anymore. Not good ones. Every path I take ends in disaster.”

  He looked around as the wind blew, rustled the leaves. “You’re a poor judge of disasters.”

  “Don’t you patronize me, too.”

  “I’m not patronizing you at all. You’re upset, and it’s making things seem darker than they are. But a disaster is when everything goes wrong, and all avenues of escape are cut off, leaving you with only one bad option.” He shrugged. “I don’t think you’ve ever been in a situation you couldn’t spin to your advantage.”

  “So because I’m resourceful, I can’t be broken? It’s one or the other?”

  He half-laughed. “If it’s pity you’re after, you’ll have to find another ear to bend. You trained me too well for that.”

  She pressed her hands into her eyes, felt like she should be crying, but couldn’t seem to make it happen. Her head was burning with pain. Or anger. Or something else entirely.

  “Why am I not allowed to feel wronged?” she sighed. “Everyone else lives through the heart, but not me. Never me.”

  “You can, if you like,” he said. “But you know where that gets you. Those people are your pawns. I don’t think you’ve the stomach to be a pawn.”

  She rested her head back on the tree trunk, stared at the sky. “And yet here I am. Worse than a pawn, with no friends left to back me.”

  He nodded, gravely. “You’ve heard about Cornwall.”

  “I saw it for myself,” she said, bitterly. “Betrayed me when it mattered the most.”

  “Do you know why?”

  She flinched, fury bubbling to the surface like molten iron. “Same as all the others. There are just some things that cannot be bought by me.”

  He shrugged, unconvinced. “I’d say otherwise. Cornwall was very much for sale.”

  This caught her attention. “Was?”

  “The couriers couldn’t find him because Gawain got to him first. From what I hear, they met while we were on the road to London. Struck a deal to secure his safe return home.”

  She looked up, mind racing through situations and scenarios. “So he was bribed?”

  “Not exactly,” Ewen said, leaning closer. “He named Gawain steward of Cornwall.”

  “Steward of...” she echoed. “A clever way to buy an ally. All the influence, without paying a penny from his own pocket.”

  “That’s what’s strange, though. He is paying from his own pocket. Word is, he’ll cover any legitimate debts. In writing, or with witnesses. The noblemen seem keen to forgive their portion, but half the mercenaries in Britain are flocking to Lothian to collect their due.”

  She couldn’t help but grin at Gawain’s cunning. “He’s building a ledger. A documented grievance he can use to bludgeon Essex into submission.”

  “Rufus can’t afford it, though. He can barely afford shoes, from the looks of it.”

  “Which is exactly why he’ll trade his sovereignty for forgiveness. Or would, if it were still his to trade.” She sighed a frustrated sigh, curling forward.

  “You can still back out of this, you know. The stewardship’s not binding.”

  “It’s not t
hat,” she said, voice trembling. “It’s what to do. Win or lose, negotiating over debts won’t matter if Gawain stays in control of Council. He’s dangerously close to treason, but has just enough sense not to cross the line. And with Cornwall there to smooth over his coarser actions, I don’t see how I can push him over the edge anymore. Even his little protest at the coronation will be excusable, because—”

  “Wait, what protest? He’s staging a protest?”

  “At the King’s speech,” she said, nodding. “He’s paying peasants to get riled up by the notion of a charitable Camelot. To scare the King into behaving.”

  Ewen laughed. “Well that’s your angle, right there, isn’t it?”

  She didn’t understand. “What angle?”

  “Convince the King to deliver a boring speech. Something simple and traditional. If the protest happens anyway — while the King is talking about the majesty of Camelot and his being chosen by God — Gawain will look dangerously disloyal.”

  She wasn’t convinced. “And if they’re waiting for his signal? If the protest never happens?”

  “Then nothing happens, and you’ve bought yourself a little more time. And you plan your next move.”

  “But without any gain. Fighting the status quo, as ever. The King intent on dismantling my livelihood, Gawain in command of a hostile Council, and every last penny I have, tied up in a high-stakes gamble that might fall apart at any moment. No further ahead, just holding my ground.”

  He sighed. “Sometimes that’s the best you can hope for. Living to fight another day.”

  “But I don’t want to fight. I want to win.”

  He stood, rested a hand on her knee. “Not every skirmish can be won. Or even should be won.”

  Her voice trembled with fury, barely contained. “I’m not allowed to lose.”

  “Maybe it’s time you tried,” he said. “Just a little.”

  He patted her knee, and moved quietly back inside, leaving her alone with the rustling of the leaves and the cold wind biting at her cheeks.

  She closed her eyes, tight, and tried imagine a way through this mess without having to give up what she’d fought so hard to earn. But no matter how she approached it, no matter how she factored all the pieces into her plan, she kept coming back to the notion that this skirmish was one she had to sacrifice. There was no way to turn it around, to come through victorious.

  She had to lose.

  Now she had tears in her eyes. Not sadness or bitterness, but anger. She wiped, sniffled, and squeezed her eyes shut as she turned her head up, trying to catch her breath.

  “You needn’t come out here to cry,” said her father, from the balcony door, in a memory half-forgotten. She remembered the expression on his face; hollowed out and exhausted from too many days without sleep. No tears on his face, but not for lack of trying. He held on to the door like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

  It was her seventh birthday, but she didn’t want to say it. Aging felt like a curse.

  “Dafydd is...” she said, trying to keep herself from breaking into sobs.

  Her father nodded, chewing at his lips like he was fighting the same battle himself. “God rest his soul,” he croaked, and walked over to her, sitting at her feet, on the branch. “God keep them all.”

  She wiped her nose on her sleeve, but couldn’t stop the tears. After a few deep breaths, she finally found the stability to speak again: “I’m fine, papa. You can go back. Dafydd needs you.”

  He smiled, brushed her cheek with his heavy hand, wiping tears away. “No, lass,” he said. “Not anymore. He’s... he’ll be...” He choked on the words, shook his head. “They’re preparing him for—”

  He couldn’t say it. He just stared into the distance, unmoving.

  “He’ll be buried by the poplar? With Aled, Bryn and maman?”

  He just nodded, like he heard the words, but couldn’t make sense of them, completely.

  “I’ll pick flowers in the morning,” she said, straightening her back and flattening her hair. “Dafydd likes pansies. I’ll pick him pansies.”

  There was a creak as the door opened further; Guinevere looked over, as her father didn’t seem capable. One of the spindly men was there, with his red robes, looking cross. He opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it. He glared at Guinevere, sending a shiver through her body, and backed away.

  She sat forward, taking her father’s hand in hers, and tried to put words to the thoughts swirling around in her head. Inside the house, she heard a bang as the doctors struggled to cart away their wares. So many chests, so few answers.

  “You can marry again, papa,” she said, softly.

  He blinked, like woken from a dream. Looked at her, confused. “What?”

  “You can marry again,” she said. “Have other sons. I won’t mind. I’ll...” She put on a smile, as best she could. “I will be a great older sister.”

  He kissed her hands, shook his head. “You would be, lass. But that’s not for me. Not for us.”

  “But you need sons,” she said, wondering why he didn’t see what she clearly did. “And I won’t mind. Really, I won’t.”

  She pulled her in, wrapped his arms around her, and she was warm for the first time in what seemed like forever. She heard his heart beating, slow and steady, like a war drum. His hands brushed her hair from her face, and she closed her eyes, ready to sleep.

  “It’s just you and I, now,” he said, softly. “We’ll find a new home. A new beginning.”

  “Where?” she said, and then yawned.

  “I’m not sure,” he said, holding her tight. “But I’ll tell you this: it’ll be different. Bold moves are needed.” He rubbed her back softly. “I’m done with losing.”

  And on that same branch, so many years later, Guinevere opened her eyes, looked up from Ewen’s cloak, moonlight on her face, and knew what had to be done.

  “I’m done with losing.”

  Twenty-one

  She had better dresses, finer dresses, but none that let her move as quickly as this one did. She’d traded her shoes for slippers upon arriving at the palace, so she could rush through the halls without making a sound, if she liked.

  Not that it made much of a difference: the were red petals everywhere, lace and streamers hung from the walls, and courtiers of every rank were running this way and that, trying to prepare for the day’s festivities. An hour until showtime, and so much to be done!

  Ewen caught up with her, narrowly avoiding a collision with a young woman with flowers. He nodded, sidled up close so he could keep his voice low:

  “They’re waiting in the cook’s quarters, off the south wing.”

  “Good,” she said, touching his arm in thanks. “Keep watch until I arrive. Did you—”

  He nodded, made sure no one was listening: “Attached to pedestals draped with green cloth. Near the doors. Are you sure you should be—”

  “And the other? Could you—?”

  He stewed at the interruption, but subtly handed her a folded-up paper, full of scribblings.

  “No one knows it’s gone?” she asked, sliding it into her pocket.

  “I plucked it out of the fire. No one saw a thing.”

  She winked at him. “No one ever does, with you.”

  “But I still don’t—”

  “In due course,” she replied, quietly, as a pair of knights walked past, polished armour gleaming in the mid-morning sun. When she was sure they had privacy again, she paused, whispered: “How many guards at the ceremony?”

  “Inside or out?”

  She considered a moment. “Near the King.”

  He frowned, thought, answered: “Two closest, another four within easy reach. A handful behind the throne. Why? You don’t think Gawain would actually—”

  She glanced down at his crossbow. “Stay close,
just in case,” she said.

  Ewen nodded, face darkening. More servants rushed through, so she patted his arm to dismiss him, and continued on her way down the hall, to the doors leading into the labyrinthian set of rooms that surrounded the King’s quarters. The real quarters.

  She knocked on the door, three times, and waited impatiently, until—

  “Come in!”

  After a short breath to steel herself, she put on a frown, slumped her shoulders a bit, and opened the door.

  She found Arthur alone, standing arrow-straight with long crimson robes and a solid gold crown upon his head. His hands were out at his sides, like he was holding an invisible sceptre and sword, awkwardly.

  He caught sight of Guinevere and his face twitched. “Ah, Lady Guinevere!” he said, straining. “I would bow, but I am learning to balance a crown. I don’t want to look foolish, after all the work everyone’s put into today. Did you see the livery float? The Gwynedd brothers created me something out of nothing, and I—” He noticed her expression, and immediately took off the crown, stepped towards her. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, waved him off. “It’s nothing, sire.”

  “That look’s not nothing,” he said, standing right in front of her, ducking to better see her face. “What is it? How can I help you?”

  She laughed, mirthful. “It’s not me who needs helping, sire. It’s...” She sighed. “It’s you.”

  “M... me?”

  “Yes, sire. I fear I underestimated the animosity harboured by... by...” She sighed, pulled the paper from her pocket, unfolded it carefully. “While I was away, Lord Lothian has been urging Council to present you with a petition that... well...” She held it out to him. “See for yourself.”

  He glanced down at the paper, full of Rhos’ writing and Gawain’s furious dictations, and took a sharp breath. “How bad is it?”