by Kris Owyn
She winced at that. “I’m sorry, uncle, but I’ve none to offer.”
“And they won’t let me bring any in,” he said, like a conspiracy was afoot. “You’re that low on funds, are you?”
“Worse than you can imagine,” she sighed. “All my assets in Lyonesse are frozen, under Gawain’s watch. I can’t bring anything from Paris, lest he seize that, too. And my other investments—”
Bors raised an eyebrow. “Other investments?”
“That’s why I needed those mercenaries,” she said. “That’s why I need to escape. Because, God help me, I cannot do this alone.”
“Do what, exactly? And go where?”
“London,” she said. “I’ve—”
“Oh no, lass, no,” he sighed, running a hand over his eyes like a headache leapt at him out of nowhere. “You’d be playing right into their—”
“I can’t stay caged forever, dammit!” she shouted, and was shocked by her own outburst. Her nostrils flared, blood rushing through her ears as deafening fury overtook her.
Bors looked over his shoulder at the door, then at the other door, then slowly, back at her. She was almost panting with anger, but all he did was shake his head “no,” very calmly. That, too, was infuriating.
“Do you know what they say about you?” he asked. “About why you’re here? About why you’re kept here, these last months?”
“The King’s concubine,” she sneered. She didn’t know that for certain, but it was an easy guess. The new King installs a beautiful young woman just down the hall from his private quarters, and keeps her away from the world?
“Concubine is the kinder theory,” Bors said. “If the King’s lover took flight, the gossip would swell, but die down eventually. But Guinevere... the more common rumour is you’re under house arrest.”
Guinevere was genuinely shocked by this. She’d never heard a hint that she might be a suspect. How could anyone believe that, given how much ink was being spent, documenting thinly-source threats against her life, and...
She lost all colour in her face.
“The bastard,” she gasped. “He’s played this better than I thought.”
Bors nodded. “Every time a rumour swells, Council presents another reason why you must stay detained for your own safety. To the King, it’s authentic and true; to Court and the hangers-on, it’s fuel to their gossip. The more Council pleads your case, the less believable it becomes. It starts—”
“It starts to look like they’re covering something up.”
“They think you hired the assassins,” he laughed, like it was too absurd to believe.
She had to play along: “To what? Assassinate myself?”
“Yes, well, once you start disbelieving the facts, anything’s fair game.” He took her hands again, made sure she heard him: “But if you run, now — especially to a lawless hellhole like London — it will all but certify your guilt. And then Gawain’s just one good meeting away from convincing the King you’ve something to hide, too.”
She wanted to scream. Again. She curled up, head to her knees, hands digging into her scalp, trying to comprehend how she got here, how it went so wrong. “You don’t understand, Bors. If I don’t... if I stay here much longer, it won’t just be the end of me. It’ll be the end of Lyonesse. Maybe Camelot itself.”
“It feels that way sometimes, lass, but—”
“But it is that way!” she snapped. “I gambled with everything I had, and I...” She looked up, grabbed at him, desperate in a way she had never been before. She’d never begged, but she... she fell to her knees, pleading: “A dozen coins. A dozen coins is all I need. Call it a loan, say I stole it, I don’t care. Just please, uncle. I can make it to London with twelve coins. Just please let me make it to London before it’s too late.”
He rested a hand on her cheek, nodded to her, kindly. She was having trouble catching her breath, so overwhelmed by—
“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is your Carlaw Cross, girl.”
“No, it’s—”
“And if I help you now, however you might need it, you’ll—”
“Bors, please!”
“—you’ll never outrun the consequences.”
He stood, and she grabbed at his legs, trying to stop him. She’d seen the action before, from the other side of the equation, and it shocked her to be doing it, yet she couldn’t stop. Pitiful desperation, with no hope of success. She clawed at him, clawed.
“I’m sorry, Guinevere,” he said, pulling free and taking his cloak off the desk. “I swore to your father I’d protect you always—”
“You don’t understand! I have debts, Bors! I can’t—”
Something in that pushed at him, pushed him into a place she’d never seen. His eyes narrowed, and a low rumble grew out of his chest. “I warned you, didn’t I?” he growled at her. “I told you, the very first day, not to push your luck. And now you want me to feel sorry for you when it all blows up in your face?”
“I’m the one who’s been wronged, Bors. I was only doing what was best for—”
“You were doing what was best for your—” he stopped, laughing as he shook his head. “No, not even. You were doing what made you feel powerful. It’s not the same thing at all, and I wish you could see that.” He turned to go, but came back for more: “I mean: the world’s unfair? Of course it’s unfair! You’re fighting for the things others take for granted? It’s a travesty, a crime, and it won’t get any easier. Not in this lifetime. You just don’t see what you do, do you? You use people like tokens, risking their lives to give you a little leg up. Poor Eleanor could have died thanks to you, and you’re not upset about it, really... you’re already on to the next thing. To the next plot or scheme.”
He pointed at her, warning. “You’ve a gift, girl. Whether by words or actions, you can make people want to serve you, even if it costs them all they’ve got. Use them wisely, because they won’t live forever. And Guinevere, remember... there’s a difference between setting things right, and setting things on fire. They feel the same in the moment, but if you get it wrong, you’ll lose everything.”
“I’ll only lose everything if you abandon me now.”
He shook his head. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m saving you. From yourself.”
“Bors!” she screamed, and he opened the door to leave. Whatever she shouted now would echo down the palace, right out into the city itself. Whatever she shouted now would haunt her forever. And she didn’t care at all, anymore. “If you leave me here like this, I’ll never forgive you! Never!”
“I know,” he said, solemnly. “But I can live with that. I can’t live with the alternative.”
And he closed the door.
Thirty
Eleanor stayed clear, either out of shame or fear. Adwen felt like a spy for her brothers, and was afforded as few words as possible, to stay safe. Lancelot came by to see her, but just the once, and only until he knew it was a bad idea. And Bors? She tried not to think about Bors, because plotting revenge was a luxury for the free. The less she thought about him, the better.
She was alone, she knew. But she still had six days to work with. And she might need every last one of them.
On the first day, she watched the comings and goings outside her window. The courtyard was a little beyond her view, but she could see carriages trundling along, their security already standing to present papers to the Palace guards. Down the left side of the street, clergy, accountants and trademasters stepped around puddles on their way to and from meetings with whatever royal administrators had time for them. They had a roof slung over them most of the way, but she could see them talking, laughing, gossiping. Free.
Down the right, workers walked down a narrower trough, exposed to the elements and heads ducked low, lest anyone see them staring. Day-workers, mostly, wearing their hometown clothes before changing into
something more suitable inside. Early in the morning, again at midday, and just before dusk. If they talked to each other, or even looked at each other, she couldn’t see it. Pieces of a machine, moving into place.
The chef’s apprentice stopped by at dinner-time, but she refused the King’s charity, so he left, silent.
On the second day, she broke a goblet by the window. The guards outside called in to her, asking if she was alright; she stubbornly refused to answer, until, at the count of twenty, they burst in, ready to protect her from—
She looked up from her book, made a show of annoyance, and went back to reading. The guards excused themselves, closed the door again. She smiled, turned the page, and calculated.
The chef’s apprentice stopped by at dinner-time, but she refused the King’s charity, and the chef’s charity. He left, wide-eyed and silent.
On the third day, Adwen set a bundle on her desk. Fabric wrapped in twine. She sat on the chair opposite Guinevere, frowning.
“Lady Guinevere, you must eat,” she said.
“When I’m free,” Guinevere answered.
“Lady Eleanor asks if you’re well,” she said, unaware what had happened, but aware something had. “She says if the dress is not to your liking...” she glanced back at the package she’d brought, “she’d be happy to—”
“It’s fine,” Guinevere said, stomach aching at the smell of broth somewhere on or around Adwen’s clothes. But she wouldn’t show it. “Tell her I’m fine.”
The chef’s apprentice stopped by at dinner-time, but she refused the charity offered by the King, the chef, and the apprentice himself. The poor lad left, taking his bread with him, in silence.
On the fourth day, her curtains were a good foot shorter than they had been before, and the satchel by the door seemed stuffed to capacity. Not that anyone noticed, or dared come near. She was in a foul mood that day, yelling at people she only heard outside her room, sounding more and more mad as the day went on. Outside, the servants came and went, came and went, came and went. The mirror by the window reflected the setting sun in a sharp rectangle on the wall, slowly disappearing as the evening approached.
Guinevere held the paperweight in her hand, Eleanor’s old dress hanging off her, satchel slung over her aching shoulder. One throw, and it would all spring into motion. One throw, and it all had to work perfectly. She squeezed the paperweight, tried to catch her breath, but it was hard.
The chef’s apprentice knocked, right on schedule. She tucked into the space behind the tapestry, in the guards’ blind spot, flat against the wall, and waited for him to enter, as he always did. The door opened, footsteps on the stone, and—
“Guinevere?”
She tried to pinpoint what was—
“Where did she go?” Arthur was calling out to the guards, who came in a hurry, scrambling through the room, trying to find where she could have possibly gone.
Guinevere slumped, slid the paperweight into her satchel, and dropped the satchel on the floor. Swords were drawn at the sound of it, but she peeked her head around the tapestry before they could impale her.
“Here,” she sighed, and Arthur’s face was that of sheer relief.
“What were you doing back there?” he asked.
She shrugged, stepped into the open. “I’m sick of being offered dinner.” A feeble lie, especially given what she was wearing, but it was all she could muster. Her mind worked so slow. “I was... I was...”
Arthur stepped toward her, humble like a lad asking a girl to dance, and smiled. “To that end,” he ventured. “I’ve come to invite you to—”
“I don’t want your charity,” she said, stomach arguing otherwise, vociferously.
“It’s not charity. It’s a collaboration.”
She frowned at him. “Collaboration.”
“Yes, a harvest pot. A little tradition in my village. We—”
“Sire, I—”
“It’s not charity. Each person contributes what they can, and then we all enjoy the stew together. All are welcome, who bring something to the mix.”
She sighed, shook her head. “I’ve nothing to offer.”
He winked. “Can you stir?”
“I can, but—”
“Then that settles it. Come along. The others are waiting.”
He strode out into the hallway, and despite all her plans, all her calculations, all her sacrifices, she found herself following. Whether it was hunger or curiosity or just plain stupidity, she couldn’t tell, but she had to follow him. Walking was such an effort, though, that she wondered how she ever planned to escape, like this. She saw dancing lights across her vision, needed to brace herself against the wall more than a few times.
The cauldron in the kitchen was already at a healthy boil when they got there, and all the servants stood in unison, then bowed, as Arthur led Guinevere in. “Come now, we’ve discussed this,” he scolded them, happily. “No more bowing tonight.”
One of the maidservants slid an assortment of wedged carrots into the broth, and caught herself curtsying to Arthur as he approached. He took a long sniff, cracked a smile, and winked at her. “You’re getting hungry, I can tell.”
“Yes, milord,” she said, head bowed.
“Won’t be long now.” He motioned for Guinevere to join him. “Here, take a whiff.”
She couldn’t help but smell it, and it made her ill, she was so hungry. She felt a totally unreasonable urge to scream at him, which she only just fought back. He was acting so pleasant and it was simply maddening.
“Sire, please let me go back to my—”
“Nonsense,” he said. “You’re the spoon-master.” And with that, he handed her a long wooden spoon, shaped more like a paddle, like it was a sword and she was being knighted. He obviously found the parallels entertaining, because his smile got even sillier than before. “The royal spoon-master.”
She stared at the spoon, and at him, unamused. “I can’t—”
“Well the stew won’t just stir itself, will it? Besides, it’s your contribution to the harvest pot. You must do it.”
He stepped closer with the spoon, urging her to take it.
She sighed, accepted it, and plonked it into the cauldron. Arthur laughed.
“I never thought there was much to learn in stirring, but I stand corrected. You’re terrible.”
And, despite herself, she laughed. That made him laugh harder, until she realized she had lost this battle, and was going to do what he wanted, after all. It was hard to argue with him when he was like this. Just like his foolish dreams to remake the kingdom, you couldn’t say he was wrong, just that he was stubbornly askew.
He leaned over, as she began working in earnest, and confided: “To be honest, we usually let the children do the stirring, so they don’t feel left out.”
“Children and noblemen,” Guinevere sighed. “Not as different as you might think.”
And they laughed again, and kept laughing as the food boiled.
When it came time to eat, the chef ladled a healthy serving into one of the King’s golden bowls and, fighting the urge to bow, presented it to Arthur. “Sire,” he said, full of learned deference. Arthur thanked him, and then promptly handed the bowl over to the maidservant who’d added the carrots. She stared at it, dumbfounded, like she was certain this was a life-and-death test she was facing, and she had no idea how to react.
“The bowl’s heavy, so be careful,” he said with a smile. With trembling hands, she reached out, and took it from him.
“Th-thank you, milord,” she said, but he was already reaching for the next bowl to hand out. The chef had one ready, in another gaudy vessel, and carefully put it into Arthur’s hands. The thing cost more than any of them earned in a lifetime. Arthur presented it to Guinevere with the subtlest of bows.
“Milady,” he said.
She star
ed at it and her stomach burned. But she shook her head. “No, I—”
“Lady Guinevere,” he warned.
“I’ll eat when you do,” she said, and after a brief moment of consideration, he nodded, handed the bowl to one of his pages. He kept at it, handing out food (and seconds!) to the servants she struggled to tell apart, and laughed at their stories and asked for more seasoning, and joked at his own expense... until the food was half-gone and the wine was all gone, and the servants excused themselves, one by one, to go off to sleep, or back to work, or just to reflect on what an odd night it had been.
The chef said goodnight, shuffling off to his quarters, after Arthur promised he knew how to douse the fire when they were done. Then, in the dwindling candlelight, he served a plain wooden bowlful for Guinevere, and one for himself.
She took a bite, and... she nearly wept at the flavour. Too many days without eating had created this illusion in her mind, this delusion about the way food tasted, smelled, felt in her mouth; plain and unremarkable, or even bad. But this was like heaven, and she devoured it before he even got to his second spoonful. He refilled her bowl without a word.
“You’re cross with me,” he said, after a while.
“No, milord. I’m... it’s... it’s not easy, being captive for so long. Not for me, anyway. I’ve never had restrictions put on me, and now—”
“But the threats. The threats are—”
“Sire, if you cower at every little creak you hear, you’ll—”
“It’s not that simple. If you heard half the things they’ve uncovered, you’d be terrified, too. They gave me another report today,” he said, pulling a folded-and-sealed paper from his inner pocket. “Another report full of testimony on the dangers you’re facing, and I can’t—”
“And what’s it say?” she asked, setting her bowl down. “What does it claim the newest threats are?”
Arthur frowned at this. “I haven’t read it yet.”
“Well by all means, let’s see what rumours they’ve invented this week. The only reason they are finding new threats is because they know the threats will keep me locked away forever. They’re preying on your generous nature, sire. They’re hurting me with your kindness.”
