The Chessboard Queen

by Sharan Newman

  At Camelot the autumn muster had begun. Arthur intended to take his men on a circuit of the kingdom, stopping only now and then to let the people know that there were strength and order in Britain at last. He meant to pay special attention to those places near the Saxon settlements and, in the west, to the tribal kings, like Meleagant, who had no intention of relinquishing their power. It was at this time of year that Guinevere usually stayed at her parents’ old Roman villa. Because of the settling at Camelot, Arthur was later than usual at starting out and Guinevere was more than ready to go.

  “When can Geraldus take me?” she asked Arthur one afternoon when she was able to catch him alone for a change.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. Geraldus has to take Lydia to Cador. I thought you could have Lancelot escort you home.”

  “Lancelot! But why, Arthur? Couldn’t someone else go? Agravaine would, I know, or Cei, if you can spare him.”

  “I can’t spare either one of them. Cei already asked to escort Lydia and I told him I needed him here.”

  “But why must it be Lancelot? I thought you wanted to take him with you especially, to show him off.”

  Guinevere’s voice twisted as she spoke. Arthur looked at her sharply.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he is your perfect knight, isn’t he? Strong, just, honorable, owing allegiance to no one but you.”

  “Yes, he is. He is all I dreamed of. But he is not being accepted as completely as I had hoped, even by those here. You, for instance. You don’t like him. Why not?”

  Guinevere had wondered when he would notice it. It was true. She didn’t like Lancelot. She had tried to hide it, but not successfully. It was a new sensation for her. Normally she either enjoyed someone or ignored him. But Lancelot wasn’t enjoyable and he couldn’t be ignored. Those haunting, lonesome eyes of his seemed to follow her everywhere. But what could she tell Arthur? He was waiting for her to answer. His look was patient, loving, but mildly disappointed. She took his hand.

  “I don’t really know why, Arthur. Maybe it’s because he is so conspicuously perfect. He doesn’t play games or tell stories. He drinks only water. And the way he is always going off to pray at the chapel site! It’s as if he’s reproaching you for finishing the living quarters first. Why should he pray there? It’s not even consecrated yet. And, Arthur, he’s always staring at me!”

  Arthur laughed at her exasperation. “But everyone stares at you, my love. You are radiantly beautiful. Aren’t you used to it yet?”

  Guinevere flushed. She knew she was beautiful; she had heard it all her life. She accepted the gapes and gasps as natural and hardly noticed them. However. . . .

  “Lancelot is hard to ignore, Arthur. I try to talk with him, but he has such strange ideas of conversation. What do I care about the true nature of the Trinity? Geraldus is a saint and he doesn’t worry about such things. Please send someone else with me.”

  “I can’t, Guinevere,” he replied. “I’m sorry. I must take everyone else with me. It is important that we appear in force on this journey. Also, I can’t bring Lancelot with me this time. I am learning that from his reception here. He is the perfect knight, the one I want all the others to become. But I am still hunting for more recruits. The very sort I want, those who are capable but modest about their talents, would hesitate to measure themselves against Lancelot. I want them with me at Caerleon or Camelot when they meet him, after they have committed themselves to my cause. Do you understand?”

  Guinevere did, but she was still not happy about it. “I will allow him to accompany me if it will make you happy, husband. But only to please you. It will certainly be the most boring trip I have ever taken.”

  “Thank you, my dearest.” Arthur kissed her and held her a moment. He wondered for the hundredth time if it would ever become easier for him to part with her and if it would ever matter to her if he were there or not.

  • • •

  Guinevere wandered back across the courtyard, still full of rebellion. Four days with Lancelot would seem like years. He was pompous and pious and generally impossible. How could Arthur be so taken in by him? All he ever did was strut around in that outrageous costume. Why, since the day he arrived, he had not fought at all, not even for practice. Perhaps he had just been lucky in unhorsing Cei and Arthur. Guinevere smiled as a plan came to her. What if Lancelot could be beaten? But whom could she get to challenge him? Most of the men were so taken in by his posturing, they might lose through lack of confidence. Whom could she get who would be sure to win?

  Most of the men were working or training in one way or another and gave her no more than a glance as she passed them. She tried to study their techniques and concluded that they all looked clumsy next to Lancelot. They were panting and sweating in the hot sun, often stopping to mop their brows. No. It must be someone who could appear elegant also. Guinevere shook her head. This was becoming more difficult than she had first thought.

  She paused at the sound of her name and footsteps behind her. Gawain caught her up from behind and swung her through the air as if she were a child.

  “Stop it!” she laughed. “Gawain, I’m getting dizzy! Stop! What’s gotten into you?”

  He put her down reluctantly. “It’s the summer. On a day like this I could race to Land’s End and back or topple a giant. But there is nothing for me to do.”

  “Why don’t you practice your swordsmanship with the others?”

  “What good would that do?” Gawain grumbled. “I spend most of my time trying not to hurt anyone. I broke a man’s arm once. I wasn’t even fighting with him, just playing.”

  “You know, Gawain”—Guinevere’s eyes lit wickedly—“what you need is someone of your own ability to spar with. That Lancelot, for instance. I understand he has the same problem you do.”

  “Lancelot?” Gawain considered. “He’s not that good. I saw his match with Arthur and I’m sure Arthur let him win.”

  “Really? Lancelot doesn’t seem to think so. He says he won’t practice with anyone here for the same reason you won’t; he is afraid of the damage he can do.”

  Guinevere waited. She was not sure it would work. Gawain was so easygoing, he might just laugh. But, oh, if he would do it! He was a fine one to put Lancelot in his place. Gawain was at his best in the summer: golden, vibrant, strong. He could look the part as well as play it.

  Gawain was thinking it over. Guinevere could see the idea appealed to him. But. . . .

  “If he’s that good, Guin, I might forget myself and kill him. Damn! Just once I’d like to face a real opponent.”

  “You could ask him to meet you in the afternoon, when you’re not quite as strong. That would be fair, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. This time of year I do very well until almost sundown. Still . . . you say he believes he is the greatest fighter at Camelot? A man like that should be knocked down for his own good.”

  Guinevere nearly clapped her hands for joy. That would take care of him. Once Arthur saw that Lancelot was no better than any of the others, surely he would not insist that she endure his company on her trip home. Lancelot could ride along with Arthur and the other knights without intimidating anyone.

  • • •

  Lancelot was not aware that Guinevere disliked him. When he was around her, he was not aware of much of anything. There was something about her, something beyond her obvious beauty, that drew him against his judgment. When Arthur told him that he was to be her companion and guard, alone on a four-day journey, he was both honored and frightened.

  “You would trust me with your wife?” he blurted.

  “Of course. You won’t let anything harm her. And between here and there I don’t expect you to have any trouble. If I did, I wouldn’t send her there at all. You won’t have any problems. And you’ll enjoy meeting her parents. They can tell you a lot more of what has happened in Britain in the last thirty years than anyone here can. They were at the center of it all. Apart from Merlin and them, I don’t kn
ow of a soul who really knows what life was like then.”

  Lancelot wondered if Arthur had purposely misunderstood him. Meredydd had often told him that no sane man would allow his wife to be left alone with another, even for an hour. Arthur, however, seemed not to consider proximity a matter of concern. Lancelot was deeply moved by this evidence of Arthur’s faith in him.

  “I will be greatly honored to escort the Queen,” he said, then bowed deeply and hurried out of the room.

  Arthur gazed after him. What an odd man he was. Of course, his background must make it hard for him to feel normal anywhere. But of all the knights, Lancelot was the only one who had come simply because he understood and believed in what Arthur was trying to do. At last, here was a man who could share the vision, who could be a partner in it. This winter they would take all the younger sons and adventure-seekers, and, together, they would shape them into knights. By next spring they would be ready. His eyes glowed. It was coming nearer. He could almost grasp it. The fulfillment of his dream—why was it always so close and yet unreachable? This time it would be true: a city of God and a city of man, a benevolent and strong rule for Britain. Soon there would be no more need for him to dream.

  “And then what?”

  He swung around. Who had thrown those hard words at him? The air hung motionless about him. He was alone. He shook himself. It must have been his imagination.

  • • •

  Gawain had found it easier than he had supposed to convince Lancelot to join him in a little sword practice. As a matter of fact, Lancelot had seemed delighted to be asked. Gawain could not decide if the man was that confident or if Guinevere had been mistaken about his attitude. No matter. Gawain whistled as he wrapped cloth around his sword to blunt it. It would feel good to do more than watch for a change.

  Word had gotten out about the match by the time Gawain reached the practice field a few hours after the midday meal. The sun was still high enough for him to feel its strength. It would be several hours yet before he needed to worry; he had plenty of time and energy left to defeat Lancelot. He noticed quite a crowd out. That was good. He had been the butt of too many jokes in his weak state for him not to enjoy the knowledge that they would now see him at his best. The afternoon promised to be very pleasant.

  Lancelot was waiting for him. He, too, had wrapped his sword. He had also discarded his plumed helmet and wore for protection only the common type of mail shirt, leather with pierced metal plates sewn across it.

  They bowed to each other without speaking and raised their swords. Gawain studied Lancelot’s stance as they circled, wondering how to make the fight last a few minutes without causing permanent harm. As he made up his mind, Lancelot lunged. The blow to Gawain’s shield almost knocked him backwards. His eyes lit up with incredulous joy. He stood straight and almost laughed in his delight. Any man who could start with a blow like that needed no pampering. He regarded Lancelot with new respect and set out to enjoy himself.

  Lancelot was astonished at Gawain’s reaction to his opening strike. That blow would have flattened most men. The fellow only looked from the dented shield to Lancelot and back again and grinned at him. A trickle of something that was not so much fear as confusion entered Lancelot’s mind. Had the man asked him to practice only to make a fool of him? Was that why everyone was there? Even Arthur silently watched. Lancelot set his teeth. They could not know that he was bound to win because God protected him. He would have to show them.

  As the fight continued, Gawain became more and more happy. Every blow he gave, Lancelot parried. Each time Lancelot attacked, Gawain turned the sword away. At noon, perhaps, he would have had the edge, but now they were matched so evenly that the betting that had started died out with the conversation as the crowd watched in breathless excitement.

  Agravaine nudged Gaheris. “Did you ever think you’d see that? They’ve been at it for almost three hours and Gawain hasn’t even winded him. Do you think Lancelot is human?”

  Gaheris answered without taking his eyes from them. “If he is, he’s the most remarkable swordsman in Britain.”

  Lancelot was growing angrier as the afternoon wore on. His arms ached from shield and sword, and his whole body was rattled from the force of the blows he had taken, but this Gawain simply stood there, seemingly impervious to anything he could do. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the man didn’t seem happy about the whole thing. The sun was so low that its rays caught the polished surface of Gawain’s shield and blinded Lancelot.

  Without looking, Gawain knew the sun was setting. He could feel exhaustion creeping into him and knew he would not last much longer. He wanted to get out of this gracefully but saw no way to. He would rather be run through than fall asleep at Lancelot’s feet, but he knew there was no chance of beating him now.

  “He’s tiring at last!” Lancelot thought and pressed forward. But he, too, was so tired that it was a feeble lunge. He forced his muscles to stiffen. He would not give up.

  Gaheris was too intent on the fight to notice the passage of time, but a slip of Gawain’s foot caused him to look up in alarm at the darkening sky. He edged over to Arthur and whispered in his ear.

  Arthur nodded. He stepped forward between the two men.

  “Lancelot! Gawain! Hold!” he cried. “Never in my life have I seen such a duel! But it is nearly dark and the dinner hour long past. Let us stop now and call it a draw.”

  Lancelot and Gawain dropped their weapons. Lancelot tried to open his fingers without attracting attention. Gawain made no such pretense. He held his hand out to Lancelot only after massaging it ruefully.

  “No man has ever stood against me under the sun and lasted long enough to parry. I ask your pardon for any doubts I may have had about your ability. I would consider myself honored to have you as my friend.”

  Everyone waited. Arthur stood smiling proudly at him. Slowly Lancelot extended his arm and shook Gawain’s hand. As if on cue, they both winced and then laughed. The crowd surged forward, surrounding them and slapping them on the back enthusiastically.

  From her balcony, Guinevere surveyed the scene with dismay. She slipped back into her room and allowed herself the pleasure of kicking the pillows across it. It was clear that she would be traveling with Lancelot, after all.

  • • •

  Guinevere and Lydia were folding their clothes and choosing which ones to pack and which ones to send on to Caerleon. Apart from the annoyance of having to spend time with Lancelot, Guinevere felt happier than she had at any time since she had first seen Camelot.

  “Arthur will expect me to be at Caerleon when he returns, so I can only be home six weeks or so. But, oh, how lovely it will be!”

  Lydia was more subdued as she looked over her wardrobe, wondering in passing how Guinevere’s clothes could look so like her own in the clothes press and so very different when she put them on. She pulled out a yellow and green checked woolen dress. She might as well take the winter things. It was always cold by the ocean. At least, that was what she remembered. She had forgotten much of her childhood home.

  “Tell me again, Guinevere. What does my mother look like now?”

  “Lydia, stop being so worried. You know very well that you won’t mistake her for anyone else.”

  “But it’s been so long since I’ve seen her!”

  “All right, I’ll tell you how you will know her. She’ll be the little gray-haired woman with her arms around you and tears spilling down her face. Don’t you know how she has longed to see you?”

  “She has always sent me letters and presents, but if she loves me so, why couldn’t I have gone to her at once? I’m sorry. I have loved being here with you and I hope to be back at Caerleon by winter. But I had so hoped she would insist that I come to her as soon as I left Armorica.”

  “I don’t think she was allowed to. Your father wanted you to come here. Sidra hasn’t been well, you know. I always forget that she is not strong, she would never let anyone see a weakness in her. Perhaps he thought
you should wait until she was feeling better.”

  The excuse sounded weak. What was the real reason? Guinevere knew how dreadfully Sidra missed her only daughter. All the fosterlings in Britain couldn’t make up for the one child she had been coerced to send to safety. Lydia was still looking at her questioningly. Guinevere shrugged.

  “I don’t really know, Lydia. I suppose the only thing you can do is ask her.”

  Footsteps clattered up the wooden stairs. Gawain burst into the room.

  “You’ll never believe this. With everything almost packed and ready to leave, who do you think should ride up with ten of his hangers-on? Meleagant! Who does he think he is? Says he’s decided to see this famous city of Arthur’s. Seems he’s never heard of an invitation. Arthur needs you two to come down and be gracious or something. He’s furious, of course, but doesn’t want Meleagant to know it. He’s having the kitchens set up again. Cei is seeing that the hangings are put back on the walls in the Great Hall and the dining hall. Merlin is down at the gates now, holding Meleagant off until we can get things looking regal again.”

  Guinevere looked wildly around the room. Her best robes were already boxed. The maid had just finished wrapping her jewelry in leather and silk. Each parcel was carefully tied and stowed with the clothes.

  “But, Gawain,” she gasped. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning!”

  “I know. Arthur would love to send you now, if he could. It’s just like that bastard Meleagant to pull something like this. Anything to put Arthur at a disadvantage. He’s boasted to half the kings that it’s all nonsense to try to reunite Britain and that even if it weren’t, Arthur isn’t the man to do it.”

  The room could barely hold Gawain’s anger. Even his vibrant curls seemed to shiver with wrath. Guinevere felt the emotion more easily than she understood the reason for it. No one must put Arthur in a bad light! She wrenched open the box which held her summer dresses.