by Kris Owyn
He shook his head. “The point isn’t—”
“Sire, please, indulge me.” She plucked the paper from his hand, cracked the seal, and unfolded it for him, and put it back in his hands. “Read it, and really think of how foolish it sounds, said aloud.”
Arthur looked down at the paper, mouth slightly open, then back at her. “I...” he said. “Y-you read it. Aloud. And we’ll...”
He tried to hand it over, but she couldn’t help but notice a panic in his eyes. He turned away, ostensibly to get more stew, but she refused to back down.
“Sire, forgive me... but you can’t read, can you?”
He stood, suddenly, and started to walk away.
“Sire!” she called, and he stopped, shoulders slumped. He still didn’t turn.
“You musn’t...” he said, voice a hollow sound. “You musn’t tell anyone that—”
“Never,” she said, moving to his side. “Sire, I would never—”
He looked at her, sideways, a sad smile on his face. “My father taught me,” he said. “When I was a lad, he said he’d teach me a new letter every night, after a good day’s work.” He laughed. “All I managed was to write my own name.”
She smiled, too. “No patience?”
His demeanour went from happy reminiscing, to uncomfortable memories. “No, he... uh... he died. Killed. It’s...” He sniffled, shook his head as if it dislodge the memory, let it fade back into the abyss. “We never got to reading, so—”
“I’m sorry,” she said, gently. “I didn’t know.” She realized she didn’t know a lot about her king. A farmer’s life hardly seemed worth learning in-depth, but suddenly she was faced with a story she didn’t even know the bounds of. What of his mother? Did he have brothers, sisters? She’d assumed not, but knowing him, maybe they all decided to stay at the farm, where they were needed?
“It was a tax dispute,” he said, distant. “I never much understood it, but the sheriff said they had cause, so...” He smiled, trying to hide his tears. “The first time I signed my name was on my father’s death certificate.”
Guinevere rubbed his arm — already a grave overstepping of bounds, for a nobleman and her king — but she could tell he needed it. Needed someone to be there with him, instead of being there for him, from a distance.
He sniffled again, said: “The sad thing is, my signature hasn’t changed at all from when I was eight years old. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t make it look regal.”
Guinevere’s expression froze. “You’ve been signing things?”
Arthur was surprised by her reaction. “Well, yes. They said—”
“What things?”
“The odd proclamation, here and there. Thanking the citizens of Lothian for their support, I recall. Uh... a handful of military commissions?”
“Do you have copies? They’re meant to leave copies.”
“Are they?” He asked, dumbfounded. She let out an angry sigh, tried to think of— “I’ve one on my desk now, if you’re interested. I was going to sign it after dinner.”
In his study, under just-lit candlelight held with a shaking hand, Guinevere read the proclamation given to Arthur earlier that day. It took her seconds to skim to the meat, and seconds more to start swearing.
“What? What is it?” Arthur asked, so innocent it was painful.
“It divests the Crown of its land holdings within Camelot City.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, if you sign it, that you will be a King without a territory. It means you’ll be giving your kingdom to Council, without so much as a thank-you in return. It means you’ll be a tenant on their land.”
Arthur blinked, shocked at not only the revelation, but the sheer malice that must’ve made it possible. It was as if he was seeing the world as it really was, for the first time.
“What should I do?” he croaked.
Guinevere got a small smile on her face. “This will sound mad, sire,” she said. “But I think you should sign it.”
Thirty-one
Rhos would not sit, despite the chair waiting for him. He had a look about him, in the sweltering heat, like he was on the verge of collapse, like his muscles would just give way and let his bones clatter all over the floor. But still, he stood, because he had to stand when in the presence of the King.
Guinevere and Lancelot, flanking the throne, watched as the ancient man finished his bow, and slowly lifted himself back to standing height, such as it was.
Arthur seemed stuck on a thought; he wanted to speak, but wasn’t sure how to begin. Rhos waited, patiently, though his eyes betrayed a kind of curious fear... he didn’t know why he was here, and he strongly suspected the reason would not be good.
“Lord Rhos,” Arthur said, finally, staring at his palms. “The document is signed, as requested.”
Rhos couldn’t help but show his confusion. “Document, sire?”
“Yes, the...” he pulled the rolled paper from beside him, on the throne, and handed it over. Rhos bowed, respectfully, when accepting it. “The proclamation from Council.” He nodded, giving permission to go ahead and read. “You’ll see it’s all in order.”
Rhos smiled, weakly, and unrolled the paper enough to glance at the—
He nearly dropped the scroll. “Sire, I...” He kept reading, eyes widening, breathing stopped until he got to the bottom and let his arms sag beside him. “Sire, I... we... I do not—”
“So you didn’t know,” said Lancelot, hand conspicuously on his sword. His tone was halfway between accusatory and a statement of fact, and made Guinevere shiver.
“I had no idea that—” Rhos was trying to sort things out. “The Constitution expressly prohibits—”
“Unless signed away,” Guinevere said.
“Aye, but... even so, I...” Rhos put a trembling hand to his forehead. “Sire, I swear upon my wife’s immortal soul, I was not a party to this document. I would never—”
“And the other documents?” Guinevere asked.
Rhos looked ill. “Other... documents?”
“The King’s signed more,” Lancelot said. “We’re not sure how many, but if they’re anything like this, the damage could be—”
“Substantial,” Rhos nodded. “Catastrophic.”
“How long have you known?” Arthur asked. His eyes were downcast, his voice all but a whisper. He was embarrassed. Angry, perhaps, but the shame was dripping off him. “How long has Council known that I can’t... that I’m unable to—”
“After the Coronation, sire. You... you signed an itinerary, instead of a commission. It aroused suspicions, but it was agreed—”
“No one thought to tell me?” Arthur asked, voice cracking.
Rhos swallowed, slowly. “We thought, to avoid embarrassment to your Majesty, a better course of action was to...” He shook his head, got down on his knees, with great effort. “We agreed, sire, as Council, that any legal documents would be read aloud, with at least three members present to verify, and that all documents would thus be co-signed by those members to ensure the spirit was conveyed effectively. Once it was guessed that your Majesty was unable to—”
“So you all knew,” Arthur said. “The whole Council.”
Rhos tried to think of how to respond. His mouth was testing the words before his voice let them out: “There’s no shame in it, sire. Literacy rates in the villages are—”
“We need to know what else was signed,” said Guinevere, mercilessly leaving Arthur’s ego hanging in the wind. “What other deals he’s made without knowing.”
Rhos was getting back to his feet, but it was a long process. “Any... any contract signed without... full understanding would... it could be voided—”
“You mean tell the world I can’t read?” Arthur asked. “I—”
“No, that’s the trap,” said Guinevere
. “They’ll have grounds to appoint a steward. The King would be deemed unable to discharge his duties to the levels expected of him.”
Lancelot laughed. “There are minimum requirements for kings?”
“Same as having a knight fight his battles,” Rhos said. “The King would remain in control, but any matters of state in written form would be executed by his steward, on his behalf.”
“And you can be sure all matters of state would be on paper, from that day forth,” said Guinevere. “But the other contracts may hold worse trouble than just land rights to the Capital.”
“The Treasury...” Rhos gaped.
Lancelot nodded. “Without a doubt. First thing I’d do.”
“I don’t control the Treasury?” Arthur asked, panic seeping into his voice. “But I’ve had no restrictions with money. Maybe—”
“They won’t tip you off, while they’ve still things to be signed,” said Guinevere. “Not until you’re done giving them what they want. The money, the land—”
“The army, soon, I’ll bet,” said Lancelot, stunned by the scope of the betrayal.
“If they haven’t got that, already,” said Guinevere, and all three men held their breaths. She winced, like a memory was surfacing that she found particularly painful.
She would have to play this next part very carefully, if she were to succeed.
“What do you mean?” asked Arthur.
“I’ve reason to think they might already have control of the army. Of the Palace guard, specifically.”
“Nonsense,” spat Lancelot, though his face looked far less confident. “They’d never—”
“Never what?” Guinevere challenged. “If the King’s re-assigned their loyalties to Council, they’ve new masters now. Why would they disobey?”
“They swore oaths to the King,” Lancelot said, bristling. She was, after all, suggesting that he would turn on Arthur at a moment’s notice.
“And if Council ordered them elsewhere, at a critical moment, would they question it? Could they question it?”
Lancelot sneered at her. “I don’t believe it. You have reason to believe this? How do you have reason? The only people you see are servants and women.”
She shifted uncomfortably, like she was afraid to betray a trust. “I don’t—”
Lancelot’s face went blank. “Bors.”
She knew it would come to this. Either they’d assume Eleanor had overheard something her father had said, or they’d remember that Bors had visited her just a few days earlier. Whichever one they landed on, she would have to run with, to the end. And she was fine with that.
“I don’t think he’s—” she began, but let herself be cut off.
“Sire,” said Rhos, urgently. “I cannot believe, of any of your loyal servants at Council, that—”
Lancelot snarled. “He doesn’t have to have to be a party to it, to know about it.” He looked over at Guinevere, something approaching pity in his eyes. “And Lady Guinevere won’t implicate him lightly.” He sighed. “I think we need to assume the Guard are compromised.”
Arthur slumped back in the throne, ashen. “What do we do?” he asked. “What do we do now?”
Lancelot was formulating battle plans, escape routes, tests of loyalty for his troops; Rhos was imagining going to war with Gawain with no idea how much of Council was on his side; Guinevere, meanwhile, knew exactly what to say.
“We need information, first and foremost,” she said. “Lord Rhos, return to Council and find out how many other contracts have been signed, and their contents. I trust your eyes more than anyone’s to grasp the full situation. We’ll need those insights to plan a counter-attack and—”
“Counter-attack?” whimpered Arthur.
“Legal, sire,” she said, with a comforting smile. “But on that note, I suggest you vacate to Heath Dormie Castle, in the north. It’s an old estate of my father’s, and I—”
“No,” said Lancelot. “Not a chance.”
“It’s old, but it will hold out to any siege. If we bring enough supplies, we can—”
“I’m not worried about a siege, I’m worried about appearing weak at a critical moment,” said Lancelot. “If the King’s position is precarious, running away will only weaken it further.”
Arthur was about to speak, but Guinevere got there first: “But staying in Camelot? If Council catches wind of what Lord Rhos is doing, they might—”
“And if they see us pack up and run, it will only make thing worse.”
“If they arrest the King, things will be over. We can fight the legal aspects with time, but only if we’re free to pursue them.”
Arthur stood like he was about to run for a door. His fingers searched, downward, for the arm of the throne. He was struggling to catch his breath. His lips were pale, trembling.
“Lord Rhos,” he said, faintly. “Which would you choose? Stay, or flee?”
Rhos had, in his time, seen many of the great decisions that had shaped the kingdom. From the earliest deals to the skirmishes and wars, to the architecture of the government and the architecture of the buildings they called home. He had counselled Pendragon himself, and stood on guard at his funeral. He had seen impossible choices before. And this time...
“Sire, staying in Camelot might prove a fatal mistake, at this stage,” he said, and Guinevere let herself smile in victory. “And yet the Captain’s point stands: fleeing will do irreparable damage to your reign. Whatever forces on Council are against you—” He swallowed, slowly, because he knew exactly what forces they were... and they scared him. “—will use the perceived weakness against you and, to whatever extent they can, write you out of the ruling of the kingdom.” He sighed, head shaking solemnly. “In short, you cannot stay and you should not flee. An impossible choice.”
Lancelot shifted, hand tight around the hilt of his sword. He looked like he wanted to cut something down. Someone down. “We’ll prepare the palace for an assault—” he began, but stopped himself, roared in frustration. “It’s no use. It’s not built for that. There’s no way to fortify the thing without tipping our hand.”
Arthur sunk lower in his throne as the weight of all this news pressed on his shoulders.
Guinevere, finally, put her finger to her lips like she’d just had an idea.
“What if we leave, without fleeing?”
The three men looked to her, each with very different perceptions: Arthur was intrigued and desperate for hope; Rhos was dubious but willing to be swayed; Lancelot suspected an angle.
She continued anyway: “Sire, your projects. For the poor...”
“I thought you hated those,” he said, bitterness not even half-masked.
She shrugged. “For the purpose at hand, I can adapt,” she said. “They’ve been in development for some time now, yes? Is it not time for a field test?”
Lancelot grinned, but Arthur was still confused. “A... I’m sorry, a—”
“A field test,” she said. “Let’s let it be known that the first of your projects will henceforth be deployed so as to verify its efficacy under real-world use.”
“Which means...?”
“Which means you load up wagons with tubes and men, and leave Camelot with a purpose,” said Lancelot. “You’re not running, you’re not even looking like you know to run. You’re installing waste systems for the poor.”
Guinevere nodded at Lancelot. “It’s entirely within your character to do so,” she said. “You’ll bring Merlin, of course—”
“And you,” he said, and she smiled.
“If you wish,” she said, with a smile that Lancelot mirrored in a less-friendly way. “And a retinue of guards—”
“Hand-picked,” Lancelot added.
“—and you’ll evacuate Camelot until Lord Rhos can uncover the extent of the plot, and help us figure a way to neutralize it.”
Arthur seemed enlivened again. Not only was his perilous situation largely taken care of (in an immediate sense), he was also going to get to try out one of Merlin’s toys. He clasped his hands together, nodded. “Then let’s do it. Make the arrangements and let’s...” he frowned. “Wait, where are we going?”
“Nowhere within the Capital district,” said Lancelot. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Lord Rhos has an estate in the west,” Guinevere said, and Rhos stirred to attention. “I’m not sure the state of the villages there, but—”
“Alas, milady, they’re few and far between. And the roads are in poor repair, on account of the terrain. I fear any wagons would have a difficult time.”
“Not to mention you need to pass through Lothian to reach it,” said Lancelot. “And if this goes wrong, we don’t want to be pinned by the sea on one side, and Gawain on the other.”
Arthur sank again. He looked to Guinevere, grasping for hope. “You said you have land on the Continent, didn’t you?”
“Aye, sire, but controlled by Lord Lothian, now. I don’t suspect he’ll agree to it. He and I were... not on the best of terms, even before this latest crisis. I’m afraid all my holdings are at his mercy, and—” She paused, mouth opening into an “o” and brow furrowing like she’d just had an idea spring out of nowhere, and it surprised her. With practised precision, she ventured: “However...”
Arthur was desperate. “What? What is it?”
“The King of Essex is a friend,” she said. “And I recall him saying, on more than one occasion, that if I should ever need any assistance, that he would be more than happy to help.”
“Essex?” Arthur asked, trying to place the name.
“London,” said Lancelot, grim. “A dangerous option, sire. Per capita, more thieves, murderers and scoundrels than anywhere on the Isles.”
“But a defensible castle and a friendly, independent monarch on our side,” Guinevere added.
Lancelot ground his teeth. “It’s a bad idea,” he said. “But it’s the best we’ve got.”
