The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  Arthur looked round the room for agreement from all parties: Lancelot, begrudgingly; Rhos, cautiously; Guinevere, reservedly. He smiled. “I’ll tell Merlin to prepare. Move quickly, everyone, if you please. I don’t want to be here a minute longer than necessary.”

  Rhos bowed again, then noticed the paper still held in his hand. He held it up, shaking fingers perched at the top of the page, side by side, and said: “Your Majesty, if you don’t mind...”

  Arthur nodded, and Rhos ripped the contract in two. He threw the halves on the floor, and spat on them.

  Arthur seemed moved by the gesture, tears in his eyes. Lancelot, too was impressed with the old man’s fortitude.

  Guinevere, meanwhile, was already figuring out the next steps to her plan.

  Thirty-two

  By the time they reached the outskirts of London, Guinevere had switched to the second carriage, with Eleanor and Adwen; she had grown tired of Arthur’s constant overreactions to every bump or shimmy along the tortuous Essex roads. Even after he stopped audibly yelping, he would still seize up, cringing like he thought a dozen assassins were about to pounce from all directions. It was infuriating to watch. As Lancelot had pointed out the first night of the journey, the King was unused to wheeled transportation, so of course he was on edge; but Guinevere saw the look in Arthur’s eyes, every time he thought the world was ending: he was afraid for her more than himself. It grated on her until she asked for time alone with her female companions. Even that took an hour of mulling before her request was granted.

  Not that the second carriage was any better. Eleanor was still smarting from her abject failure in organizing the riot; every other thing she said was a passive-aggressive comment about her inability to perform simple tasks. If Guinevere hadn’t already been in a foul mood, she might’ve consoled her friend, told her not to worry. But the act quickly wore thin for her, and she resorted to rolling her eyes whenever Eleanor spoke, and doing her best to ignore the situation at all. Poor Adwen, stuck in the middle, gave up on small talk, after a while, and peeked out the window like she thought it might be better to walk to London.

  “We’re going to be late,” said Eleanor, halfway through the third day. “We’ll never make it on time, like this.”

  Guinevere smiled, thinly. “It’s the caravan,” she said. “They’re too heavy to move fast.”

  And it was worse than she’d anticipated, too. The wagons trailing them, carrying loads of Merlin’s magical tubes, were built primarily for Camelot-made roads, or at least Camelot-approved routes. But there was next to no direct trade with Essex, which meant the going was bumpy and rough, and the wagons were constantly in danger of losing their cargo. After an early spill, the shipping engineers decided it best to cut their speed in half, and ride through the nights to make up lost time. It didn’t quite work out the way they wanted; they had to slow down even more in the dark. Guinevere worked hard to stay patient, because as far as Arthur and Lancelot were concerned, she had no reason not to be patient.

  But then Eleanor kept needling her...

  “If we’d left by horse, we’d have made it there by now,” Eleanor sighed.

  “We’ll get there when we get there. There’s no use fretting.”

  “But the schedule is so tight now. I don’t see how we can make it on time, at this rate.”

  “They won’t let us take horses to ride ahead, so we have to make do.”

  “No, I mean—”

  “I know what you mean, Eleanor,” Guinevere snapped. “What do you want me to say? That I hate you? That I’ll never forgive you? Is that it?”

  Eleanor straightened her spine, looked ready to fight. Badly. “Well do you hate me?”

  “You were conned, Ellie. You were up against men more savvy than you, and they conned you. I can’t blame you for that.”

  “But I made a horrible mistake, and—”

  “You didn’t make a mistake. I made a mistake, sending you there.”

  Eleanor froze. She seemed to recoil. “You don’t think I’m capable.”

  Guinevere glared at her. “You’re plenty capable. You’re just not experienced at those things. You don’t ask a tanner to bake you a cake, and when you’re hard-dealing with scum, a pretty smile is a liability.”

  “So that’s all I am? A pretty smile?”

  Guinevere shook her head, anger boiling up. “You really want to have it out, don’t you?”

  “I lost the last of your money. I possibly lost all your money, if we don’t get to London on time. And you’re so frustratingly calm about it all!”

  “Because I’m on to the next steps, Eleanor. If I let myself get weighed down by every petty grudge that came my way, I’d never get anything done. You lost my money, but I’ll get more. We’re running late, but I’ll adapt. Don’t obsess over what’s already happened. It makes you seem dull.”

  “Dull,” Eleanor said, bitterly.

  “Yes, dull,” Guinevere snapped, and looked out her own window, too. Adwen was keeping conspicuously to herself, sneaking worried glances back here and there. But now she was staring straight ahead, a frown on her face, pulling the curtain back to get a better view.

  “There’s something on the road,” she said, and Guinevere angled to look. “Someone’s blocking the—”

  The carriages stopped, abruptly, almost throwing Eleanor out of her seat. Guinevere pushed the curtain all the way back, but couldn’t see anything. Cursing under her breath, she shoved the door open and dropped out into the mud.

  “Milady,” said a guard, “please stay in—”

  “Come,” she replied, waving him into her service. After a moment of hesitation, he followed, obediently.

  The road up ahead was blocked. A long tree was felled across it, but propped up on either end so it was just too high for a horse to clear easily. She could count at least six men there, crossbows in hand, posturing like they were ready for a fight. Mercenaries, probably. Demanding ransom. As she got closer, she saw Lancelot arguing with what appeared to be the leader, a weaselly-nosed man with a weathered cap and a sneering face.

  “And I’m saying the King of Camelot does not need to pay a levy,” Lancelot growled. “Get out of the way before I have my men clear the road for — and of — you.”

  The leader shook his head, holding firm. “I’m sorry, are you threatening me? The King’s representative?”

  “I am the King’s representative,” said Lancelot.

  “Yes, but not my King’s. Over there, behind me, back there, that’s London. London is in Essex. Essex is not, as it happens, Camelot. So your threatening me is a punishable offence, whereas my threatening you is merely an exercise in royal prerogative.”

  Lancelot bore down on the littler man. “So you’re threatening me?”

  The weasel-man swallowed, loosened his collar, smiled politely. “Never. However, I still cannot let you pass without the levy paid.”

  “Kings do not pay levies,” said Lancelot. “Especially not kings of Camelot.”

  “Alas, the levy applies to all, milord,” said the little man. “Excepting couriers or clergy, everyone pays the fee. Especially wagons. Wagons especially.”

  Lancelot pointed back at the wagons, and caught sight of Guinevere. “Back inside,” he snapped, but she ignored him, took a position to his right.

  “These wagons carry gifts for King Rufus,” she said, calm and composed. “Surely that makes them exempt of any levies or—”

  “Taxes apply to all,” sighed the man. “I’m sorry, milady, but I spend half my day hearing how this hog or that ream of fabric or that young maiden are gifts for the King. My orders remain the same: no passage without payment. You’re free to turn around if you disagree to the terms, but—”

  “The road’s too narrow to turn around,” snapped Lancelot. “Excellent place to extort travellers, by the way.”

 
The leader just shrugged, like it hadn’t occurred to him before.

  Lancelot pulled Guinevere aside, whispered urgently: “Get to the back and stay low. There’s only six of them and—”

  “No,” she said, trying to counteract his intensity with a jovial smile. “We can’t start this trip with a diplomatic row. Killing Essex’s tax collectors—”

  “If they are tax collectors. How do we know they aren’t clever thieves? I’ve never seen a checkpoint into London before, and I highly doubt—”

  “No violence,” she said, patting his chest lightly. “We use words.”

  She turned back to the leader, and folded her hands together, the picture of patience and pleasant behaviour. “Do you know who I am?” she asked.

  The man looked very much like he didn’t care, and didn’t expect to care, once he found out. “No, milady.”

  “I am Guinevere of Lyonesse.” This next part could be tricky; neither Arthur not Lancelot knew of her arrangement with Rufus; if they caught wind before they got to London, they might indeed find a way to turn around and go back. “A friend of King Rufus.”

  The man shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “The King would want us to pass, unmolested.”

  “Aye, milady, and you can. If you pay.” He scratched his armpit, oblivious to decorum, obviously. “Listen, you may very well be Lady Guinevere, and you may very well be the King’s closest friend in all the world. But I’ve never seen the King before, let alone you, so I wouldn’t know either of you from Adam, and certainly not be willing to stake my career on vouching for a well-spoken stranger in the woods. So unless you carry a diplomatic seal, I can’t just take your word for it, can I? They’ll take it out of my hide if you’re lying.”

  Guinevere was almost amused at his well-reasoned argument. “Diplomatic seal?” she asked.

  “You’d know if you had one,” he said. “Guarantees passage for important shipments.”

  “And how often do you see those?” she asked, delicately.

  “Every few weeks,” he said. “Another due any day now.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “But you’re not one of ‘em. Don’t even think it.”

  “Of course not,” she said, pulling Lancelot aside for a moment.

  “I thought you were better at this,” he whispered. “I think Merlin could do a better job of negotiating.”

  “These aren’t robbers and this isn’t a trick. These are tax collectors. We need to pay them, or things could get messy.”

  “Pay them?”

  “We’ll get it back, in London. Or not, really. They’ve a legitimate claim, and if we don’t start this off on the right foot, it could endanger our entire venture.”

  Lancelot grimaced, nodded at the tax man. “What’s it cost?”

  “A shilling per man, a tremis a carriage, and two for wagons carrying cargo. And before you ask: yes, you pay for the carriage and the people in it. If you refuse to open the carriage doors to us, we count it as a wagon.”

  Lancelot ground his teeth. “What, no administrative fee?”

  The man shrugged. “Gratuities are welcome, if you are so inclined.”

  His self-satisfied grin got a sneer in return. Lancelot leaned in close to Guinevere, whispered: “You’re sure about this?”

  “It’s less than ideal, but better than the alternative,” she replied.

  He sighed, nodded to the weasel. “We’ll pay.”

  They dispersed in their separate directions; Lancelot, to crack open the heavily-guarded chest of coins in the middle of the convoy; the guard, to tell his compatriots to prepare to move the fallen tree aside; and Guinevere climbed back into her carriage, closed the door, and let loose the grin she’d been holding back all this time.

  “What?” asked Eleanor. “What’s going on?”

  “Road levies,” she said. “We’re nearly at London.”

  “Why are you so happy about levies? I don’t understand.”

  Guinevere leaned closer, so only Eleanor and Adwen could hear. “Because it means Rufus has been collecting taxes these last months. With any luck, there’ll be a healthy fund waiting for me when I get there. Which is good, because it sounds like last shipment hasn’t arrived yet.”

  Adwen smiled at this. “That is good news!” She nodded to Eleanor. “We might make it on time, yet, Lady Eleanor!”

  Eleanor seemed less excited than she ought to have been. “But what happens when a massive shipment of weapons arrives at the castle, while we’re staying there? How can you possibly hide that kind of thing from the King? Or Lancelot, for that matter.”

  Guinevere shrugged. “I never said it would be easy, but—”

  There was a knock at the door and they all jerked to attention. Adwen reached to open it, but Guinevere shook her head no.

  “Open up, please,” said the weasel-nosed man.

  “No,” said Guinevere.

  She heard him sigh. “If you don’t open up, I’ll have to count this carriage as a wagon, and charge it as such.”

  “There are three of us in here,” said Guinevere.

  “I need to see it, milady.”

  “Well we’re not opening.”

  Lancelot’s voice cut through: “What’s the hold up?”

  The weasel replied: “She refuses to open the door. I’ll have to charge you—”

  The door opened, and Lancelot glared at her. The weasel peeked in, nodded. “Three occupants.” And the door closed.

  Guinevere sighed, leaned back in her seat. “Worth a shot.” By way of explanation, she told the frowning Eleanor: “The levies end up in my pocket, after all. No sense being stingy.”

  This got a laugh, and for a few minutes, it seemed like they were back to normal again. Best friends on a trip cross-country, dangerous adventures made bearable by each other’s company. But once the carriage started moving again, and they began smelling the stench of London coming through the windows, all that happiness seemed to melt away, until there was nothing left but a cold anxiety. As if Eleanor was so scarred by her misstep that she was afraid of all plans, altogether. She looked terrified of what was about to happen.

  Into the city they went, down the potholed streets and around countless mud traps; Guinevere heard the shouting and haggling of a market nearby, smelled fish and spices and far too much drink to be healthy. Opportunistic peasants called out for coins, slapping hands on the sides of the carriage until a puddle or obstacle or guard made them abandon the effort. It was chaos, and must have been driving Arthur mad with worry, but Guinevere couldn’t help but notice it was peaceful. It may have been the presence of the heavily-armed men at all points around the caravan that was keeping trouble-makers at bay, but based on her previous foray into London, she expected more... anger in the air. It was like someone had tamed Essex. Or at least silenced its baser creatures.

  It was a bad idea, but she had to know; she pulled the curtains back and looked outside. Things were much the same as they had been: the houses were all shambles, the troughs at the sides of the street overflowing with waste and dead animals, the citizens all watching the carriages with greedy suspicion. Those that noticed her curtain pulled aside, they were squinting to see who or what was watching... mothers urged children to run up and beg; one even tore the sleeves off her son’s shirt and rubbed mud on his face to make him more pitiable.

  But between all that, wandering through the crowds with crossbows and swords at the ready, was something she hadn’t seen before: royal enforcers. The Essex crest was emblazoned on yellow sashes they wore around their right arms, eyes scanning the rabble for anyone stepping out of line. The citizens visibly shrank when these brutes walked by; they’d obviously had more than enough experience getting on the wrong side of the law. The sleeveless boy made it halfway to the carriage before an enforcer caught him by the arm, yanked him back, and him smacked over the head with a
heavy glove. The boy started wailing, scrambled back to his mother, who got a warning glare, too. She bowed, retreated into her hovel.

  Tax collectors and law enforcement. Rufus was following through with his end of the bargain after all. She wouldn’t be able to see if any progress was made on the harbour, or the factories, but even without those features, London was starting to look like a good investment. Maybe the weapons were being stored in the castle after all, and this trip would be far less traumatic than expected.

  That Rufus has managed to do all this without supervision was stunning. She’d obviously misjudged him. All that preening and madness might just be a disguise to throw off his enemies. He clearly had a—

  Guinevere gasped, pulled back from the window.

  “What’s wrong?” Eleanor asked, but Guinevere held out a hand to silence her before peeking out again, very carefully.

  There, across the street, in the shadows between buildings, was Rinwell. Looking directly at her with an unmistakable grin upon his face. Enforcers passed this way and that around him, but he stood there, perfectly still, hand on his sword, yellow Essex sash on his arm, too, grinning at her until the carriage passed him by.

  She ducked back into her chair, back flat to the wall, and fought to catch her breath.

  “What is it, Guin?” Eleanor asked. “You’re scaring me.”

  She swallowed, trying to find her voice: “Rinwell is here,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Something’s gone wrong. The tax collectors and royal enforcers... they might not be...” She tried to sort it out, in her mind. “I don’t know how they knew, or how they took control—”

  “Rufus?” Eleanor gasped.

  Guinevere swallowed. “I pray he’s still alive. But if Rinwell’s running things, if all of London answers to him...”

  “The money’s gone,” Eleanor said, voice dull and empty. “The weapons are lost, the money’s gone, and—”

  “God help us,” whispered Guinevere. “I think we’re walking into a trap.”

  Thirty-three