The Chessboard Queen

by Sharan Newman

“Lydia, help me find that midnight-blue silk with the silver trim. Gawain, on your way out, send one of the maids up to do my hair. Lydia, which box do you think she put my gold earrings in, the ones with the lapis in the center? Don’t bother to open your things. One mess is enough. We don’t want to repack everything. Take one of my robes. There, the red silk one. That will be fine for you; it will bring out the auburn in your hair. Gawain, why are you still here?”

  Gawain jumped. “Sorry. I’ll tell Arthur you’ll be right down.” He grinned at them.

  “That’s the way! You two will knock them out! We’ll show that imitation, upstart, so-called king what a real court looks like! He has nothing that can compare with Camelot!”

  Guinevere waved him off. She frantically pulled material out of boxes, rummaging through them for ointments and perfume vials. Lydia stood with the silk gown in her arms, staring at it as if it might fly away.

  “You want me to wear this?” she breathed.

  “Yes, if you would. I know you don’t like ostentation, but I think we ought to overdo a bit for this. Make Meleagant think we dress this way all the time. I know I have a necklace to match that gown, gold and rubies. Where could it be? These packages all look alike. Come help me, please. We have to hurry.”

  • • •

  Meleagant’s party was given a very thorough tour of the earthworks that wound around and around the hill up to Camelot. Merlin made sure that they noticed every detail of the defenses, especially how people in the mazelike paths could neither see out nor up to the city, but men in the watchtowers could spot and aim at them perfectly. It took half an hour to arrive at the main gates at the top. Arthur had stationed guards there with horns, which they blew loudly if with little skill. These were both to salute Meleagant and to warn everyone that he had appeared. Cei greeted Meleagant’s party formally and led them to the Hall of the Table, where Arthur awaited them.

  The room was brilliant with torches. The Table shone in the glow. Arthur was seated at one end of the room in a great, carved throne. He did not intend to ask Meleagant to seat himself at the Round Table and there were no chairs anywhere else. As they entered, he rose and came forward to greet them, arms outstretched, as if their visit had been long awaited and desired.

  “Meleagant!” he cried. “We are honored that you have taken the trouble to travel so far to see our new capital. Did my messenger not reach you? Your neighbor, Lord Craddoc, has invited us to stay with him in only a few weeks. We certainly planned on visiting with you, also. There was a matter of a village that Craddoc wished us to mention.”

  Meleagant was taken off guard. “That village is mine. It always has been. Craddoc only wants it because there is a pond there that is supposed to make all animals which drink from it produce twin offspring.”

  Merlin laid a hand on his arm. “You haven’t greeted the King yet,” he said calmly.

  Meleagant felt the warning beneath his words, the slight emphasis on the title. He shuffled his feet a bit and finally made a perfunctory bow.

  “We beg your hospitality, King Arthur.” The bile rose in his throat at the words. This so-called son of Uther! What gave him the right to be Overlord?

  “We plan to stay only a night or two and then return to our own lands. If you intend to honor our dear neighbor, Craddoc, with your company, we hope you will also spend an evening at our castle. I am sure you will find my defenses as interesting as your own.”

  Arthur smiled graciously. “My knights and I will be delighted to inspect your castle. Your secure defense system there is well-known. Now, fortunately, you have arrived here in time for our evening meal. Will you give us the honor of sharing it with you?”

  Meleagant had not considered doing anything else.

  Lydia and Guinevere were waiting at the door of the dining hall as they approached. Arthur could tell from the quick intake of breath from the man beside him that Meleagant truly had no one at his court to compare with his Guinevere. He allowed himself a smirk of complacence. Whatever awe he might still feel toward her, it was nothing to the wonder of those who saw her for the first time. But what had happened to Lydia? Good Lord! The mouse was beautiful! The red silk gleamed against her pale skin, accenting the fragility of it. Her hair had been looped and curled and was bound with a red-gold cord. The curls suited her far better than the simple braids she usually wore. Well. That was unexpected, but certainly a bonus. Arthur began to feel more comfortable about the prospect of an evening with this uninvited guest.

  The wine was not the best. That had already been sent ahead to Caerleon. But it made no difference to Meleagant. He only knew that the wine was wet and potent and that was all that mattered. Arthur had planted him firmly between Merlin and Guinevere, where his determination to cause trouble could be checked. His men were also well spaced among the tables. Cei had taken one look at Lydia and seated himself next to her, regardless of his duty as seneschal.

  Even before the meal arrived, Meleagant was boasting about his impregnable castle. No army could broach its walls or besiege it with success.

  “We have our own water inside and are well-stocked with fish and fowl. We trade only for bread and ale and, in time of war, we could make the sacrifice and do without. Great as your Camelot is, I don’t think you could do as well.”

  “Perhaps Arthur will never need to withstand a siege,” Merlin said smoothly, reaching for a slab of bread. The bracelets gleamed on his wrists.

  Meleagant was reminded that Arthur had access to powers which were other than human. He changed the subject.

  “What about these ‘knight’ fellows of yours? I see that you have Lot’s oldest boys here or, I should say, his wife’s.” He broke into a loud guffaw, which turned into a belch.

  Agravaine, quick to feel a family insult, reached for his knife. As his hand went to the dagger, it was covered by that of Geraidus, who shook his head.

  “A knight, Agravaine, must learn not to fall into such simple traps. Ignore him. He is baiting us all.”

  Meleagant appeared not to have noticed how nearly he had come to being spitted as he ate. He continued, “What is so special about these men of yours? They don’t look like anything to me. Faugh! Most of them are still boys. The men who fought with you before, such as myself, have all returned to manage their lands. Do you propose that these unweaned calves are to tell us what to do? I’ll bet that not one of them could manage to penetrate my castle. Not one!”

  He glared around the room, waiting for the uproar. All was polite silence. Arthur smiled.

  “I think you might be wrong, sir. I have chosen my men for their intelligence. I assume that they will be able to employ it as well as their military prowess should they ever need to enter without your invitation. But, naturally, it will never be necessary to test them on you. We are allies, are we not?”

  His voice was so silken that even Merlin could not be sure the threat was intended. Meleagant set down his cup with a clatter.

  “Of course we are!” he boomed, and everyone released their breath. “But let’s just say, for a wager, an amusement, that my men and I can take something of yours and keep it hostage at my castle. I’ll bet that not one of your so-called ‘knights’ or all of them together can get it back. Come on, Arthur! If I can do it, I get to keep whatever it is until, say, Easter. If you can retrieve it, then I’ll acknowledge your overlordship and back you against the other kings. I’ll even send you my second son for fostering. How would that be?”

  He lolled back in his chair, the picture of a drunken lout. Arthur knew better. His father-in-law had told him once that Meleagant was known for being able to drink steadily all night while never missing a target at stick-knife or needing to leave the table. An hour of wine would hardly have dented his capacity. There was no doubt that he had come all the way to Camelot for the purpose of making this “wager.” Arthur tried to catch Merlin’s eye. Damn! He wouldn’t turn. Merlin had told him that the time had come when he would have to make his own decisions, but a lit
tle advice was not so much to ask for. Arthur took a sip of wine and leaned back on his cushions. Torchlight flickered on the walls and on the faces of all those waiting—waiting for him to act. Gently he set down the cup. Foolish as it might seem, this was the sort of test that would be understood by all the kings and lords in their various holds and kingdoms. The native Celtic lore was filled with many such contests. He could only hope that he had not overestimated his knights.

  “Very well, Meleagant.” He spoke softly, drawing out the name until it sounded like a pagan curse. “It is heard and witnessed by all here that if you are able to steal something from me and hold it in your castle until Easter, you are free to be independent of my laws. But if any of my men can enter your castle and recapture the thing, you will henceforth consider yourself my loyal subject.”

  He emphasized the last word. Meleagant squirmed, but it was pretense. He was totally confident, as he proved at once.

  “Right,” he said. “I agree. Remember that the man must enter the castle and then find the object. I will even allow him to leave without hindrance if he can but lay hands on the thing. That’s fair, don’t you think? No sense in getting him killed trying to fight his way out. Right?”

  Arthur inclined his head. “Certainly. But first, Meleagant, you must be able to take something of mine. I will not insult you by asking your men to be searched before they leave. I know you will not bother with anything as trivial as a spoon or a wine cup.”

  Meleagant grinned and Guinevere realized in horror that he was totally sober. She wondered if Arthur knew. Yes, she could tell he did. She shivered. What an odious man! Thank goodness she was leaving tomorrow. With luck, she might never have to see him again. He looked at her. She smiled sweetly at him and rose.

  “Please excuse us, gentlemen,” she said. “The Lady Lydia and I have to finish packing for our journey. Please continue to enjoy yourselves in our absence.”

  Cei stood when Lydia got up to leave and so, belatedly, did the rest of the men. They waited in respectful silence as the women left.

  Outside, Guinevere took Lydia’s arm.

  “What dreadful people Arthur has to mollify. I didn’t understand half of what they were talking about. It sounded to me like silly games for boys to play. What did you think?”

  “I’m sorry, Guinevere. I wasn’t paying attention. Cei was telling me about his father’s lands and the things he and Arthur used to do before he became King. I didn’t notice what else was happening.”

  Guinevere gave her a sharp glance. “Lydia, are you in love with Cei?”

  Lydia blushed, but the night hid her face. “I don’t know. I only find that I am very happy when I am with him and long to see him again when he is gone.”

  Guinevere did not know if that was love or not. Did Arthur make her feel happy? She was not sure. She missed him when he went away, but did it really matter that he was with her? No, she could not pretend that.

  “How interesting, Lydia. You must tell your mother about him,” was all she said.

  It was late when Arthur came in. The noise from the Hall had awakened Guinevere once or twice, but she was asleep when he carefully climbed into bed. Dimly she felt his arm go around her and she tried to pull herself awake. Maybe if she snuggled in closer, he would go to sleep. No, he wanted her to wake. He was murmuring in her ear. She did not need to make it out. She knew that he loved her and would miss her terribly. Of course he would. She wanted so much just to roll over and stay asleep, but she could not do that to him on their last night together. Why couldn’t she love him the way he did her? She knew it was her job, but . . . if only he would be quick tonight! She forced herself to wake and kissed his cheek.

  “I will miss you, too, my dear.” She spoke her lines. “But it will only be for a few weeks. I will be waiting for you at Caerleon. You will be much too busy to think of me.”

  He held her more tightly. “I will always think of you and yearn for you. I will send word wherever I am. You will write me?”

  “Of course I will. Don’t I always? Tell me everything you are doing and I will praise you.” She did not have to pretend that. It was amazing how much she enjoyed hearing from him when they were apart. It was only when he was this close to her that she was nervous.

  “Guinevere?” he breathed.

  “Of course, Arthur,” she sighed.

  Chapter Eight

  After the evening with Meleagant, even the prospect of four days with the self-centered Sir Lancelot did not seem so awful to Guinevere. It was such a treat for her to get away from Camelot and home to her parents that she felt a bit guilty for leaving Arthur. Why should he have to stay and tend to all the problems? When she had married him, it had not occurred to her that being a king meant that you could no longer do whatever you wanted. That was not the way Uther was supposed to have behaved.

  They said good-bye in the early morning. The mist of night still hung in the air and wove around the trees and buildings, making mundane Camelot look magical. After waiting as Arthur kissed his wife, Lancelot assisted her to mount her horse. Normally women rode pillion, but both Lydia and Guinevere had insisted on having their own horses for the long trip. Sitting sideways for so many hours was too uncomfortable, they explained. But Guinevere had an ulterior reason: she had no intention of spending four days with her arms wrapped around Arthur’s new protege.

  Arthur walked with them all the way down the hill, to the end of the earthworks. He smiled and waved as they set out. A few minutes later, Guinevere looked back and saw that he was still there, waving shakily, as though he had forgotten to stop. Against the wall of earth he looked so small and frail that she ached with pity for him. She thought with a flash of surprise, “He should have had a different sort of wife. I’m not what he needs.”

  The path went down an incline and she could no longer see him. Her moment of introspection passed and was forgotten.

  Although Lydia and Geraldus were going farther south, to the coast, they would not leave Guinevere and Lancelot until the next day. The ride was beautiful. The woods were cool and fragrant and the road smooth. Guinevere chatted happily with Lydia and Geraldus as Lancelot rode stiffly behind them. Sometimes Geraldus would suddenly break into fragments of song and the two women would join him. Finally he complained that it was too confusing hearing voices from two worlds. They laughed and stopped. But even the quiet was companionable.

  From behind, Lancelot watched them and longed to be like them. They had that ease of long friendship which allows periods of silence. When they spoke, there was no need for them to explain themselves, to justify anything they might say. He felt that way only with Torres, who had chosen to stay at Camelot and help with the moving. He doubted that he could ever feel so at ease around Guinevere.

  He tried not to stare at her, but everywhere he looked it seemed that she was there. As he watched her riding before him, he felt that the very air sparkled in her presence. She radiated a sense, not only of beauty and position, but certainty. She had never doubted her faith or the rightness of her actions. In all the people Lancelot had met in his weeks at Camelot there had been at least a trace of self-doubt. Even the most bombastic old soldier had a slight undercurrent of uncertainty.

  But not Guinevere. If she had been old, ugly, and poor, Lancelot would still have been fascinated by the sublime solidity of her self-assurance. But she was young, beautiful, and a queen. Lancelot’s fascination was soon complicated by other feelings. He was not stupid; he knew quite well how she attracted him. He could only add this torment to his other penances and pray that his soul would overcome it, too.

  They were all too tired for talk when they camped that night. Lancelot and Geraldus took alternate watches and the two women slept in a lean-to hung with curtains which they had brought on the pack horse.

  The next morning was foggy and chilly, but Geraidus insisted on getting an early start.

  “We’re heading for the coast, anyway, Lydia,” he teased. “We won’t see the sun again
there until next April. We might as well become used to it now.”

  Guinevere hugged Lydia with affection as she said goodbye. “You must promise to come to Caerleon this winter,” she begged. “Make Sidra come, too. It will be lonely until you get there.”

  “I’ll try, Guinevere,” Lydia sniffled. “If I can’t, you will send word to me of . . . what is happening to everyone?”

  “Don’t worry. If you don’t come, I’ll see that Cei brings the messages himself.”

  She and Lancelot watched them until they disappeared around the bend. Guinevere sighed and steeled herself to be pleasant, as she had promised Arthur. Lancelot had loaded the packs and was waiting to help her. Guinevere faced him and placed her hand on his shoulder, to be boosted onto the horse. He was not wearing armor now, but soft leather riding gear. She felt him flinch as she touched him and deliberately increased the weight, all the while avoiding looking at him directly. He cupped his hands and she stepped up. When she had seated herself, she glanced down at him. He was gazing up at her with such naked adoration that she felt a little sick. Quickly she turned away.

  She set a steady pace, keeping him always behind. She had the idea of making it home by the evening of the third day. They ate a quick lunch with no conversation and continued. It was nearly dusk when Guinevere realized that her horse could go no further and she signalled a stop.

  Still without speaking, Lancelot set up the lean-to and put Guinevere’s bags and bedding inside. Then he set about finding wood and striking a spark for fire. Guinevere busied herself in organizing the lean-to so that she would have room to sleep and no roots in her back. When she came out, Lancelot was struggling with the fire.

  “May I help you?” she asked. “I often have good luck with campfires.”

  He handed her the stones. She looked at them and then back at him.

  “But these are ordinary rocks!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can’t get just any stone to strike a spark. Didn’t you know that?”