The Chessboard Queen

by Sharan Newman

  Geraidus had to walk carefully to avoid stepping on Britain’s future and facing its mothers’ wrath. It took him some time to cross the hall to the corner by the fire, where Guinevere and Arthur were seated. Arthur stood to greet him and cupped his hands, yelling over the din.

  “Geraidus! What took you so long to climb down the mountain? And what is the new one, a niece or a nephew?”

  “A girl, Arthur, wrinkled, screaming, and bald. They wanted to name her Arthura, but I convinced them that it would be a mistake. She is sure to become better-looking later.”

  Having reached them, Geraidus lowered his voice.

  “However, they really did want to do you some honor. For your friendship and their love of you both, they have decided to name her Igraine, after your mother. Alswytha hoped you would not be offended.”

  Igraine! Poor sad queen whom Arthur never saw, who was told he had not survived his birth. He realized that Mark had met her several times when he was a child and could have told him about her. How like them it was to remember her, who had no other namesakes.

  “Tell Alswytha that I am not offended, but proud. But tell them also, the next time you climb to their aerie, that I am offended that they will never visit us. Can’t you make my brother-in-law understand that I need him? Geraidus, of ail my lieutenants, Mark was the one who was most my friend. For the love that Guinevere and I have for him, if for nothing else, we would want him with us. No one will shrink from the scars on his face. They were honorably received. We would not ask him about the past. There is too much planning for the future that must be done to care about old sorrows.”

  Geraidus noticed with a sudden clear vision how much Arthur had aged in the past five years. There was gray in his moustache and his forehead was beginning to be crossed by lines.

  “My God!” Geraldus thought. “He’s past thirty now. I know men his age who are grandfathers. The task he has taken on will kill him if he doesn’t have some help. There is still so much to be done. What could we do without him?”

  This passed through his mind so quickly that Arthur didn’t notice the brief look of shock that he gave.

  “Do you think you can convince him to come down and advise me?” Arthur finished.

  Geraldus sat down wearily. “No, Arthur. You know how often I have tried. They will never leave their home again. Each time I visit, I find it harder to leave, too. There is such peace there and they found so little here. But you could come to them, both of you. It would be good for you, Arthur. Don’t you agree, Guinevere?”

  Guinevere stretched out her arms to him. “First,” she said, “I think you should kiss me nicely, because you have been away so long and I have missed you.”

  As she embraced him, Guinevere whispered, “We can’t make him rest. He won’t. Don’t try to convince him now. Ask him about Camelot.”

  But Arthur did not wait to be asked. Camelot was all he wanted to talk about. He gestured broadly as he described it, sweeping cups and plates from the table as he tried to make diagrams in the air. And his face had the look of a man who sees visions.

  “There are problems. Always. Thousands of problems. No one remembers how things were done in the old days. No one wants to try to find a new way. Sometimes we have been reduced to studying pictures on the walls in the old forts to see if they show how the stones were laid or the land cleared. But it is growing, taking shape at last. We sweat and curse and fall in the mud, dragging the walls with us. I begin to think it will never work, that I must be content with a lesser dream, that I will have to be satisfied with clumsy, unsure work. J ust when I despair, something happens. Someone appears who knows how to fire the tile, to make the floors lie even. Someone has an idea for building a hall that will be a fit place for the Round Table. And it’s working! Geraldus, as soon as the roads are clear again, you must come with me. The Hall is almost finished—a great open room supported by enormous pillars and beams of wood. I have walked through it, sat on the floor where my chair will one day be, and imagined it all.”

  Geraldus was aware that Arthur could see it all and wished that he himself were not so blind. “When will it be ready?” he asked.

  “What? Ready? I don’t know. It may never be exactly the way I have planned it. But I do know that I intend to spend the next summer there and properly begin the Round Table. We have waited far too long to set that in motion.”

  Guinevere’s heart sank. She had hoped to spend the summer with her parents again while Arthur went from one place to another, busy with mustering soldiers for defense and recruiting knights for his government. “Perhaps,” she thought, brightening, “Arthur will not be able to get that awful table from the cave on my parents’ estate. Then he will have to forget the whole idea and settle here in Caerleon.”

  She rose from the table. “I am going to my rooms, to rest. Geraldus, will you come and dine with us tonight? Constantine, Cador’s son, has just returned from Armorica. He has brought back his sister, Lydia. She was fostered for years at the home of Hoel, Arthur’s cousin. Constantine is leaving again soon. But she is going to stay with me. Do you remember them?”

  “I know Constantine well, but Lydia was gone before I ever visited Cador and Sidra. I will be delighted to meet her.”

  Geraldus noticed with amusement that Guinevere had directed her explanation of the relationships not at him, but at something apparently hovering over his left shoulder. Being around people who could see what he could only hear was a great comfort to him. They kept him from continually doubting his sanity.

  • • •

  Guinevere was relieved to be away from the noise of the Hall. Though Arthur had set up a school for the older children, the little ones were still enough to cover the floor on a winter afternoon. The babble of their playing was augmented by the gossiping of their mothers, conversations from which Guinevere was excluded, not because of her rank, but because she lacked the vital credential to join them: there was no warm, sticky toddler pulling at her skirts. She returned to the serenity of her private apartment gratefully.

  Risa, her maid, was waiting for her. She helped Guinevere into a less formal robe and brought her the codex she had been studying the night before. Guinevere settled down with relief, but Risa continued to move about the room, closing curtains, folding linens, and moving things about on the tables, none of which needed to be done. Guinevere looked up from the book.

  “What is it, Risa?”

  Risa dropped the jewelry casket back on the table.

  “I wanted to let you know that I would like to visit my father again next month, if that is convenient.”

  “Oh, Risa, not again! Winter has barely begun. Who is it this time?”

  Risa crossed the room and sat on the furred rug next to Guinevere’s couch. Her dark head rested against it and Guinevere reached down and took her hand to soften the abruptness of her question.

  “It’s Cheldric, Guinevere.”

  “Cheldric? I had no idea you. . . . But, Risa, he has only one arm!”

  “One is quite enough, my Lady. Perhaps you have forgotten how he lost the other?”

  “Of course not. He will want for nothing while I am alive. I simply didn’t realize that he attracted you.”

  “I am very fond of him. He is willing to spend time in talking to me. He tells the most wonderful stories!”

  Guinevere sighed. Risa’s taste was very strange to her. It was true that Cheldric had lost his arm in trying to protect her, but she hadn’t cared for him much before then. He did seem to have become much nicer now that his dreams of military glory were over.

  “I don’t suppose you’d marry him?” she asked.

  “Would it matter if I didn’t? I didn’t marry the other two.”

  Guinevere was uncomfortable with the conversation. Risa had always been more of a friend than a maid, but this was one subject that they generally avoided.

  “No, it will make no difference to me. I thought you might want to. Cheldric would be a suitable match for you.
”

  Risa smiled. “And the others were either too high or too low?”

  “That’s not it exactly. I only thought that you might still be interested in Gawain.”

  Risa’s smile became laughter. “Gawain? To marry? My dearest Mistress, Gawain makes love better than any man I’ve ever known, but no woman in her right mind would marry a man who sleeps from sunset to dawn, and even one who is totally insane wouldn’t have a child by him. My Lady Guinevere, no one knows what his father was and everyone knows what his mother is. Would you want your baby to be part witch and part incubus?”

  She stopped suddenly. She knew she had gone too far.

  “Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I do like him, anyway, but. . . .”

  She scrambled up again and went back to rearranging the bottles and boxes on the table.

  Guinevere was very tired. She wanted to lie on her couch, read her Life of St. Martin, and forget all about other people’s children. She had a wild impulse to let Risa stay at Caerleon and go herself to some quiet little farm away from the clatter and the prying.

  “Never mind, Risa,” she sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever you decide, I will always be happy to have you back or let you go if you wish it. But now I would simply like to be alone.”

  “Of course, my Lady.” Risa was glad to be able to leave.

  Guinevere tried to read and then to rest, but she was too tense. She lay rigidly awhile on the couch, trying to make herself relax. She thought of the view from her parents’ estate, of summer forests, of almost empty skies, but her nervousness increased. She rose and began to pace the floor. It was not Risa that bothered her, or the chaos in the Hall. Something was wrong or missing in her life, something vital, but she could not discover what. Merlin might have been able to tell her, but she would rather suffer than ask him anything. It could not be that she was bored. She had more than she had ever wanted: friends, comfort, security. She could travel when and where she wished. Arthur gave her clothes and trinkets without her even asking and he still loved her devotedly. So what could it be? She kicked a pillow out of her way. A gust of wind rattled the shutters. She sighed again. Perhaps it was the weather.

  • • •

  Winter was a time of lazy pleasure for almost everyone at Caerleon except the kitchen servants and Arthur. While the cooks and scullery workers slaved to feed and clean up after the increased population, Arthur sweated over plans, reports, strategy, and the settlement of the constant petty feuds which the leaders of the old British tribes still engaged in. The Romans had given them a thin veneer of culture and a semblance of unity, but whenever the fighting against the invaders slowed, they remembered ancient wrongs and set out to avenge them. Only their loyalty to Arthur kept them from open warfare against each other.

  “Look at this, Merlin!” Arthur fumed. “Craddoc has sent word that Meleagant has annexed a village that is Craddoc’s by tradition. He wants me to give him the extra men so that he can battle to regain it. A village! Two fields, three cows, and fifteen people. By the time they finish fighting for it, the cows will have been eaten, the fields trampled, and the people either starved or forced into slavery.”

  “You should watch Meleagant, nevertheless. His power is growing and he doesn’t like to have his ‘private’ affairs controlled.”

  Arthur waved Meleagant aside. “Not now, Merlin. The Round Table will see to him. Here is another. Maelgwn has let it be known that he has no intention of maintaining watchtowers against the Irish unless he is paid in horses and wine. He also mentions that he will accept daughters of a family of good breeding for fostering, if they are no older than fifteen and no younger than twelve. Wonderful. He has three sons that no woman is safe near and his own wife died last fall. The citizens of Chichester inform me that they have not seen any Saxons in the last seven years and therefore don’t feel the need to pay taxes to me to protect them any longer. Yesterday a trader from York came to complain that his local priest had raped his wife during confession and it was my duty to see that the church paid for the support of the child. Merlin, will you please tell me again? Why have I spent the last fifteen years fighting?”

  Merlin smiled indulgently. Arthur was like this every winter. When spring came and he could travel, seeing what he had done and what was needed, he would regain his spirits. It was having to deal long distance with the whines and protestations of supplicants that discouraged him.

  “You should be pleased that they come to you, Arthur. It means that your plans are working. You wanted to reestablish central government and you have. Now before they bash each other’s brains out, they appeal to you for a judgment. What we need now is to create an extension of your power. If these children can be taught to look upon a court or an administrator as an arm of your rule, then they will bother you only with a final appeal.”

  Arthur leafed through the mass of papers and vellum. He shook his head.

  “It won’t work, at least not yet. The people who do the fighting are the ones who will want control of their jurisdiction. It’s all the fault of Macson Wledig. Before he went sailing off to make himself emperor, he handed the cities back to the provincial leaders. They simply realigned themselves back into their old tribes and clans, and we have to deal with that. I need outside people who have no affiliations except to me. They must be able to pass a wise and fair judgment and back it up with strength. They must be respected and maybe a little feared. A long while ago, I considered letting the church handle the matter, but that won’t work, either. The bishops and priests are either too wrapped up in God or too venal. All of them are attached to the local kings through birth or friendship. Anyway, they are the seat of as many complaints as the laity. That’s why my Round Table is so important. I must have men who are willing to answer to no one but myself. The honor must be so great that they can’t be tempted by bribes.”

  “If you intend them to be administrators, then why bother with military ability?”

  “You taught me it yourself, Merlin. Because that is what these kings understand. If I sent them weak-limbed clerks, they’d spit in their faces and laugh. But strong men, armed and mounted and bringing justice instead of tyranny—can’t you see them? Men of ability, wisdom, and honor and selected for those qualities alone. It will work.”

  “I believe you, Arthur.” Merlin had been growing in the feeling that Arthur was confident enough to act without him and lately he had felt sure of it. If only his Queen did not try to assert herself and insist that he give up Camelot and the Table! So far she had bowed to his wishes, but . . . it bothered him. From her infancy, he had not been able to think of her without a gnawing dread. If only he knew why.

  “I am getting old,” he thought. “I shall be fifty soon. Too many years have been spent in following unclear prophecies and signs. Sometimes I forget why I began on this road. Soon, soon there must come a time for me to rest. I would like to be able to rest.”

  “Merlin?” Arthur brought him back. “Constantine brings word from Cador that several boats crossed to the Saxon Shore before winter set in. Cador thinks that Aelle might be planning to increase his holdings next spring. Apart from a few raiding parties, he hasn’t done anything since I made such a fool of him when I rescued Guinevere. I think we should set a more careful watch on him. Whom can we send?”

  They spent the rest of the afternoon on matters of state. Arthur pushed the Round Table to the back of his mind. It must wait until spring. He was relieved when Risa came to tell them that the others were waiting to begin dinner.

  He stretched his arms and flexed his shoulder muscles.

  “Have we finished most of this? God, how I hate the pettiness of it all. There are times, Merlin, when I devoutly wish you had never taught me to read. Hardly anyone else we know is able to and they seem to get along fine.”

  “Go fill your stomach, Arthur. You’ve worked hard. I’ll get someone to clear this up and take the messages as soon as there is a break in the weather.”


  “Aren’t you coming to eat with us?”

  “No, but I’ll be along later. Save me some ale.”

  • • •

  Guinevere was having a lovely time. She did not have to be careful of her attitude or speech in this company. They were her own sort and did not think it odd that she missed warm rooms or hearing Roman poets. Constantine and Lydia were family to her by that convoluted network of intermarriage that had gone on for the last two centuries. Constantine had been fostered with her family when she was a child and she remembered him as a noisy ten-year-old. He was eighteen now and showed the effects of his training. He lived up to his august name, and his classical profile would have graced a coin impressively. Lydia had spent most of her life in Armorica with still other relatives, and Guinevere had not met her before. She liked her a great deal and hoped they could convince her to live with them permanently.

  In appearance, she might have been her mother, Sidra, twenty years younger and unscarred by disease: not beautiful, but appealing, with a promise of comfort in her eyes. She was watching Geraldus tapping time for his choir. He was also trying to listen to an argument among Arthur, Cei, and Constantine about the need for a further military buildup along the shoreline. The scene reminded Guinevere of those of childhood, with her father and brothers wrangling over an idea. She gave a sigh of contentment and leaned against Arthur’s shoulder. For a second his body stiffened in surprise and then he shyly put his arm around her. She felt a touch of guilt that he should be so pleased and unused to her touch.