The Chessboard Queen

by Sharan Newman

  Before he could answer, she returned to her tent and searched the pack for her tinderbox. Using the flint, she had a small fire going in about five minutes. She smiled at Lancelot.

  “Would you mind fetching some water so that I might wash my hands?” she asked.

  He went at once.

  As he poured water over her outstretched hands, he tried to explain. “I never had to do that before. Under the Lake, there are always torches lit. I saw the men at Camelot hitting stones and thought that was what one did to light a fire here. I’m sorry you had to dirty your hands.”

  “And even more sorry that I look such a fool in front of you,” he added to himself.

  Guinevere dried her hands. “It doesn’t matter; I would not have learned, either, if I had not once spent a summer with some friends of my family. They felt that everyone should know how to do many tasks and so they taught me. Would you like me to cook, also?”

  She knew that they had only dried meat, bread, and fruit to eat and so there would be no test.

  “No, of course not!” He rushed about, getting food and wine for her. He set her plate and cup on a thick piece of bark and presented them to her. He was very clumsy about it. With Gawain or Geraldus, she would have been touched, but, for some reason, Lancelot annoyed her. Perhaps it was the sense she had that he was disparaging her right to have fine silver dishes and silken bedding even while he arranged them for her.

  She ate quickly and then announced that she was going to bed. It took some time in the dark to tie up her braids and change into a warm nightdress. Then she realized that she would have to leave the lean-to again, after all. She wrapped a cloak over her nightclothes and crawled out. As she stood, she hit her toe on before the curtain.

  “Ow! What is this thing?” She stooped down and found Lancelot’s short sword, unsheathed, on the ground.

  “Lancelot!” she called. “You dropped your sword here. You should be more careful. I nearly cut myself.”

  He jumped to his feet and bowed jerkily. “I left it there on purpose, my Lady.”

  “What?”

  He gulped. “Isn’t it the custom? I put it there to show you that I have no dishonorable intentions. It was for your protection.”

  “My protection!” She tried not to shout in the still night. “What do you think you are here for?”

  “I meant, in case I had any intention of . . . bothering you.”

  “You leave a sword outside my tent, to rust in the dew, because I might need it to protect myself from you?”

  He nodded.

  “But what would prevent you from stepping over the sword while I slept? And, if it were lying here, how would you be able to defend me from an intruder who might decide to ‘bother’ me?”

  “I didn’t think about that. Something Agravaine said, a story he told, gave me the idea that it was the right thing to do.”

  “You don’t mean that old Cornish tale about Tristan and Iseult? If you had paid attention, you would have known that there was no honor in either of them.”

  Guinevere picked up the sword and wiped it on her cloak. She handed it back to him.

  "Please keep this to battle Saxons and wolves with. You needn’t worry about my being safe from you. If you should feel like attacking me in the middle of the night, please remember that, like every other woman in Britain, I am well supplied with brooches, hairpins, and, of course, a small bodkin, for carving meat and unwelcome suitors. Good night.”

  She went about her business and returned to her lean-to. something sharp which was lying directly

  Lancelot slunk back to his seat by the fire.

  Guinevere shook her head sadly as she settled down among her blankets. “And Arthur is planning to present this idiot as the perfect knight!” she mused. “Poor Arthur!”

  Lancelot sat all night watching the fire, occasionally adding another log. The Lady had been right in warning him that he would make mistakes. He seemed to do nothing else. How did Torres manage to fit in so comfortably?

  His thoughts tumbled and cascaded as he watched the flames. He slept eventually, his head on his knees. He had a sharp and painful dream of himself standing, naked and bleeding, in the middle of a room full of people, with Guinevere facing him and laughing.

  He awoke with a shiver. It was growing light out, but the sky was still gray. He could not have been sleeping long, for the coals were still glowing. He fanned up the flames and went to get water to heat for morning washing. His dream was becoming blurred, but it had left him shaken and nauseated. The icy water of the stream splashed him as he filled the bucket. On an impulse, he stripped off his clothes and waded in. He swam upstream a few yards and then let himself be carried back. His skin fairly crackled with the cold. An hour of this would be penance enough for anything. But he had to hurry back.

  He pulled his shirt and trews back on over his wet skin. He felt clearheaded again and free of the taste of his nightmare.

  Guinevere did not wake until he purposely rattled a spoon and pot near the lean-to. She had said she wanted to start early. He left a clay jug of hot water outside the curtain and called to her. A hand slipped out and pulled it in.

  She put a few drops of perfume in the water and bathed her face and arms. Arthur must have given Lancelot very clear instructions. She put on clean clothes and wound her braids about her head. Tonight her mother’s maid would comb them out for her. She wrapped up her mirror and nightclothes and stepped out of her lean-to.

  Lancelot was standing by the remains of the fire. He turned when he heard her, and then he smiled.

  Guinevere’s heart turned over. She grasped the curtain behind her for balance. Resolutely she looked away from him. She was not going to let the strange reactions she felt from him affect her common sense.

  “Good morning,” she muttered as she stretched her arms. “Is there anything warm for breakfast? No? Never mind. I’ll get it myself while you pack our things. If we hurry, we can at least eat a hot dinner tonight with my parents.”

  While she ate, Lancelot loaded her lean-to and bedclothes on the pack horse. She avoided meeting his glance this time as he assisted her into the saddle.

  As they rode, Lancelot wondered if this day, too, would pass in silence. Why could he not speak to her easily? He had never stumbled over his words with the women of the Lake. Every time he tried to start a conversation with her, she replied politely but with a minimum of words. It was almost as if she didn’t like him. Lancelot blinked mentally. Could that be it? He reviewed his meetings with her and her behavior on this trip. She certainly was distant. That must be the reason. But why? What could he have done to offend her? He had to know.

  He reined Clades in near her. She glanced at him quickly and then looked straight ahead as if the road were too treacherous to watch anything else. Actually, it was one of the better Roman thoroughfares, still in good repair and as smooth as one could wish. Lancelot would not be put off. He continued to ride even with her. Finally his presence at her elbow was too much to ignore. She faced him.

  “You wish to say something, Sir Lancelot?” All her superior haughtiness was in her voice.

  Lancelot suddenly discovered that he had a temper, too. It surprised him.

  “Yes, my Queen.” He emphasized the title. “Why are you treating me this way? What have I done that you should so dislike me?”

  Guinevere started. She could not remember anyone ever taking that tone with her before. He was not supplicating; he was demanding.

  “When have I said that I disliked you?”

  “You have never needed to. You treat the potboys and scullery maids with more courtesy than you do me. What horrible sin could I have committed that you should act so? Tell me what it is and I will atone.”

  “And to whom would you atone, me or God?” she snapped. "Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You have done nothing evil as far as I know.”

  She tried to pull ahead, but he grabbed the reins of her horse and forced it to stop.

  �
��Then what is it?” he insisted. “I cannot go on living so near you and enduring your disdain.”

  She stopped herself from suggesting that he move somewhere else. Arthur wanted him and needed him, even if she didn’t understand why. But what could she say, that she found his piety offensive? That his striving for perfection was an insult to others who felt no such need? Those things would sound idiotic and make her seem either irreligious or a prig. What right did he have to upset her like this? What difference did it make if she liked him or not? What was she to him? He was Arthur’s man, not hers. She could feel him staring at her again with those haunting eyes. She felt trapped by his eyes when she met them, forced into an intimacy that frightened her. She glared back at him, concentrating her gaze on his slightly cleft chin rather than meeting those dangerous eyes.

  “I would prefer that you not stare at me,” she announced. “It makes me uncomfortable to be so scrutinized.”

  That took him aback. He blushed with guilt. He had not realized that she had been aware of him.

  “I’m sorry. I did not mean to disconcert you. Under the Lake there are no women like you. When you are in the hall, there is nothing else worth looking at. Please forgive my boldness. I will try not to turn my glance in your direction so much.

  “It will be,” he added in wonder, “a more difficult atonement than many I have undertaken.”

  Now she felt a fool. It seemed overbearing to deny him the pleasure of watching her. But there was something about being caught in his gaze that made her feel dizzy, compelled somehow to be aware of him. He must not be allowed to do this to her or to know what effect he had on her. She forced herself to smile.

  “It would be even odder if you constantly turned away from me, Lancelot.” She laughed shakily. “Can’t you do as the others? No one else has any trouble looking away from me.”

  Without thinking, she met his eyes again. Her lip trembled. “You see? When you are looking at me, I feel as if you see no one else, that I can never escape you.”

  She had not meant to say that.

  He let go of her reins. Gratefully, she moved ahead, pulling up the hood of her cloak.

  Lancelot went white. He could feel the blood draining from his face. “This can’t be!” he thought in terror. “My God! What have I done? I cannot be in love with her. Not like this. My life is dedicated to mankind. No one person should ever mean this much to me!”

  But he knew that she did.

  Meredydd had assured him that all men had wicked sexual longings and he had promised to overcome them. It had not occurred to him that he could feel something more. He had never met a woman before who could not be ignored with a little self-discipline.

  The rest of the journey was made in polite silence. Lancelot rode behind Guinevere, totally enmeshed in the ramifications of his discovery. His first impulse was to run, not back to the Lady, but farther away—across the sea, if necessary. He had to get away from her before she became an obsession. Perhaps it was already too late. Almost bitterly he watched her riding before him. She was tranquilly unaware, he assumed, of what she had unleashed. She did not even like him. What right had she to shatter him so?

  But his martyr’s soul would not allow him to flee. He knew he would stay, do for Arthur what he had meant to do, and fight his spiritual battle until he won. It did not occur to his pride that the decision was not certain.

  Both of them were relieved when they rounded the bend and the villa of Leodegrance appeared, softly lit in the twilight, waiting for them.

  They crossed the stream. It was low this time of year and did not even wet the horses’ legs. As they approached the gate, it swung open. Guinevere’s parents were there to greet her, their arms open.

  Gratefully she fell into them. Lancelot sat at attention, waiting to be introduced.

  Guenlian held her daughter close. She had been proud to give her to King Arthur and had never doubted that he would love and care for her. But it was such a comfort to hold her again and be sure that she was well.

  Guinevere was astonished to find herself weeping as she embraced her parents.

  “My darling!” Guenlian asked, “What is the matter?”

  “I don’t know,” Guinevere sniffed from her father’s arms. “I’m happy to be home again, I suppose. And I’m very tired.”

  “There isn’t any news, is there, dear?” Guenlian hinted. In her parlance, the question meant only one thing.

  Guinevere shook her head. “No, Mother, I’m only tired. I’ll be fine as soon as I’ve washed and changed.” She wished they would stop hoping. It would be so much better if they gave up their dreams of a grandson of theirs ruling Britain.

  Hastily she wiped her eyes. She realized that Lancelot had not been introduced.

  “Mother, Father, this gentleman is Sir Lancelot. He has been kind enough to escort me here. Lancelot, the Lord Leodegrance and the Lady Guenlian.”

  Guenlian smiled. When Guinevere used formal titles, one knew that she did not approve of someone. This Lancelot seemed all right. In the growing darkness, she could not see his face well. He was quiet. Guinevere usually became annoyed by the more brash of her escorts. Well, there would be time to find out at dinner.

  “Welcome to our home, Sir Lancelot. You will want to wash and change for dinner. Rogan will show you to your room and the baths. He will be happy to attend you there. We ring a bell at the dinner hour and he will show you the way. Don’t worry about your horse. He will be taken care of.”

  Lancelot bowed and followed the servant, who had already unstrapped his belongings and was carrying them to the villa.

  “Not very conversational, is he?” Leodegrance put his arm around Guinevere as they walked to her old room, always ready for her return. "Who is he?”

  “One of Arthur’s new acquisitions,” Guinevere answered. “If you mean his family, no one knows. He was raised by some enchantress who resides under a lake, I gather. They say he is human, though.” Her tone indicated that she had some doubt of this. “Certainly his companion, Torres, is. I really don’t know much about it. You could ask Cousin Merlin. They say he recognized the Lady when she brought Lancelot and Torres to Camelot.”

  “And they say there is no magic left in Britain!” Guenlian said in amusement. “I always thought the Lady of the Lake was simply a nursery tale to keep children from straying too far into the forest. How very interesting! Do you think Lancelot will tell us about her?”

  “He’s rather shy, I think.” Guinevere searched for the right phrase. “I don’t know if he would like to. But tell me about things here. Your letters never say enough. Where are Rhianna and my niece? Why wasn’t Pincerna waiting for me outside? Is he ill?”

  “Hardly,” Leodegrance assured her. “He has been terrorizing the kitchen servants since dawn to make sure that your welcome-home dinner was perfect. As for Rhianna and Letitia, I believe they are waiting for you in your room.”

  Guinevere opened the door and felt for a second that she had been delivered back into her childhood. It was just as she had left it: the narrow bed, the dressing table, the clothes press with the chipped corner, and the woodland mosaic covering the floor. But now her sister-in-law and niece were there, too, eager to hug her and tell her all the vital things that had happened in the year since she had last seen them. They never asked about Guinevere’s life away from them and for this she was grateful. It was then even easier to imagine she had never left.

  “Letitia has already been fed,” Rhianna was explaining.

  “But she wanted to see you so badly that we thought she might be allowed to attend dinner for a while. Do you mind?”

  Rhianna was still shy and beautiful, with an added serenity which came from knowing that she was safe and loved. Letitia was a delicate child of nine who showed that love and total devotion need not produce a spoiled brat. She was bright and curious and more aware of those around her than Guinevere had ever been. She resembled her mother, but she had something of the fighting spirit of Matthew
, Guinevere’s dead brother. She seemed content to live in this tranquil haven, but she also seemed to have no fear of what lay beyond. Guinevere loved her dearly.

  “I would be happy to have Letitia at dinner with us,” she assured Rhianna. “At her age all of us were at the table with the adults except on the most formal occasions. I have heard that Mother was criticized by her friends for being so lax, but I was glad she paid them no attention. You two can observe the escort Arthur sent with me this time and tell me what you think of him.”

  “If we are to do that, we had better leave you to bathe and dress,” Rhianna said. “Come, darling, I’ll let you wear your new yellow gown.”

  “I told you Aunt Guinevere wouldn’t mind.” Letitia kissed Guinevere again. “Please hurry, Aunt. We have heard so many stories about this Lancelot. Is it true that he wears armor made out of silver and diamonds?”

  “I haven’t noticed the diamonds,” Guinevere told her, “but I think that part of the armor is silver. How did you hear about that?”

  Rhianna grinned. “You should know your father well enough to realize that he gets all the news from wherever you are. Now do hurry! I’m starving!”

  Lancelot, meanwhile, had left his clothes in the small apodyterium, the dressing room for the baths, and had plunged directly into the frigidarium, despite the fact that the night outside was already growing cool. The water was almost as cold as the stream that morning had been. He emerged blue and chattering to find Rogan waiting for him with a clean towel. Although he protested, he was led to the tepidarium, where he was given the strigil to scrape himself clean and then coerced into getting a massage with fragrant oil. Rogan viewed his fuming with amusement.

  “If you think I am making you too comfortable, I could pour some salt into those scratches on your back. Whoever gave you those must have been a real hellion!”

  This comment shocked Lancelot into silence. He submitted to enjoying the rubdown and finished off with another cold swim to nullify the pleasure.

  His host and hostess were waiting in the courtyard to see him to the dining hall. Lancelot bowed and thanked them for their kindness.