The Chessboard Queen

by Sharan Newman

  He found the horsemaster, Briacu, currying an elegant white stallion. Gareth whistled in admiration. He had not seen anything so fine before. Most of the horses in Britain were hillbred ones, small, sturdy but not overly graceful of line. He commented on it as he started in on the opposite stall with his shovel.

  “Yes, he is an amazing specimen,” Briacu agreed. “He’s Sir Lancelot’s horse, Clades. There may be a touch of magic in his siring. I never saw his like in Armorica, either. I’d like to try and crossbreed him with my Nera, here, but he’s so much bigger than she is, I’m afraid that he would hurt her or that the foal might kill her. If I can find an old brood mare to test him on, Lancelot has given me permission to try.”

  “Which one is Lancelot?” Gareth asked. “I haven’t been here very long.”

  The horsemaster grew more expansive. “Don’t worry. This fall almost everyone is new. You’ll soon recognize Lancelot, though. He’s the one with all the gold-lined cloaks and jewels in his clothes. He arrived yesterday. The guard says he roared up the side of the hill as if demons were chasing him, but Clades wasn’t even panting when he was brought in.” He gave the stallion an admiring pat.

  “Within the week,” he continued, “they’ll all be here. Then this place will be full of lords and farmers and we’ll have no more time to lean on shovels and listen to gossip.”

  There was a bitterness in his voice that Gareth felt was not directed at him. But he took the hint and went on with his work.

  Caet hid his face against the horse’s flank. He had found that under any name there would be no knighthood for him. To be so near Guinevere and still be nothing but a servant increased the bitterness of his fate.

  • • •

  Merlin stirred softly in the warmth. He was not awake enough to remember where he was. He felt so peaceful and free that he resisted facing the morning, which always brought him tension and worry. A gentle hand slid across his hip and Nimuë’s body pressed against him. With a gasp of joy, Merlin opened his eyes. It was not yet mandatory to reenter the world.

  Nimuë lay nestled in the circle of his arm. She felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek with a kind of awe. The Lady was right. This man was different—rare and wonderful—and she could not let him depart from her life. She clutched him more tightly.

  He tilted his face down to meet hers. “What is wrong, Nimuë?”

  “My power is fading, Merlin,” she whispered sadly. “I cannot stay so long away from the Lake. But I do not want to leave you.”

  He wrapped both arms around her, as if to keep her from escaping. But his voice held little hope.

  “My life has always been so. Whatever I have loved has slipped away from me. I should thank you for staying this long.”

  Her eyes opened wide in amazement. “You love me?”

  His mouth twisted in a self-mocking smile. “In all my human arrogance, I do.”

  “Oh, Merlin. No one has ever loved me before. Please, please, let me stay with you!”

  “But the Lake . . . Nimuë, my dearest naiad, how long could you survive in the human world?”

  “Long enough to love you in return.”

  There were tears in her eyes. They astounded him. He had believed her kind were incapable of caring enough to cry.

  “That would not be long enough for me,” he said, choking. “There must be some world, some other place, where the two of us can exist as we were meant to.”

  She caught his defiance. “There are other places of magic. I do not know how to reach them, but the Lake is full of amulets and spells. I will search them all to find a way. If I do, will you go there with me?”

  “Forever,” he answered.

  It took them many hours before they were able to say good-bye. Merlin had no idea what day it was as he watched her slow departure into the morning mist. They might have been there for weeks. He hoped that the Lady would not scold her much for her long absence. He worried about it. Without her by him, he would always worry now.

  It was not until she was irrevocably out of sight that he realized that he had no way of sending word to her. They had not discussed it. “Who is the dullard now?” he thought. He knew that the Lady guarded the Lake with paths that went nowhere and trees that moved by night. Only those who weren’t looking for it ever found it. He started to run after her, but then realized that she traveled by magic and was now far beyond his reach.

  Merlin arrived at Caerleon in a terrible mood. Cei, who had braved his rancor before, could tell at a distance that this was not a good time to approach him with plans for the winter, but he steeled himself. It had to be done. But Merlin would not listen. He waved Cei away.

  “Tell Arthur about it when he comes. It is his problem now and yours. My job is almost finished. Only a few loose threads are left. Don’t bother me with trivial nonsense.”

  “But, Master Merlin, I don’t know. . . .”

  It was no use. Merlin had spotted Lancelot and, with a cry of delight, was advancing on him, leaving Cei and his problems behind.

  “Sir Lancelot.”

  Lancelot bowed. “Master Merlin.”

  “Do you still communicate with the Lady of the Lake?”

  “Oh, no, sir!” Lancelot was shocked. “I have joined King Arthur!”

  “You mean there is no way for you to contact them? Don’t you care anything for the people who raised you?”

  Lancelot drew himself up proudly. “I care very much, sir. But I made it clear to them that I did not wish to rely on their influence for my position here. Torres sends word of how we are, every so often, I believe.”

  Merlin sighed in relief. “Why didn’t you say so at once? Where is he?”

  “Traveling with Arthur, sir.”

  “Damn! All right, all right. Never mind.”

  And Merlin strode off again, oblivious to Lancelot’s quick movement of the fingers to ward off evil spells. He had learned something from the others at Camelot.

  Cei came over to him.

  “What’s wrong with Merlin?” he asked. “I’ve known him all my life and I’ve never seen him this bad.”

  Lancelot shrugged. “He wants to contact the Lady for some reason. I told him I couldn’t help.”

  “You told him that to his face?” Cei stared. “You must be awfully powerful or an awful fool. No matter. I don’t meddle. Look, Lancelot, I need your help. Guinevere should be along in a day or two. She promised she’d be back before Arthur, and I have word he’s at King Dubric’s and should be back within the week with who knows how many people. He’s been picking them up like maggots in meat all summer long. The old-timers are already arriving for the winter. I rank here, but I’m too busy to see to them all. Can you act as the official host here for a bit, just until Guinevere comes? You only need to be here at the gate, greet them, and tell them you’re glad to see them. If they were here before, they’ll go to their old quarters. If they weren’t, get Cheldric to assign them some. All right?”

  “I . . . I suppose. I’ve never done anything like that before.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You look the part. Find Cheldric or Risa. They’ll know what to do. Hey, you!” he yelled to a passing workman. “Where are you going with that ladder? Thanks, Lancelot. Arthur likes to have everything in order when Guinevere arrives and we’re not nearly ready yet. I hope she’s delayed a few days more.”

  • • •

  Guinevere would not have minded a delay. She felt set free when she was home again. It was an idyll from another era and she had now seen enough of the rest of Britain to know it. The colors were brighter here and the days softer than anywhere else. She sat high in the watchtower as she had as a child, but now her niece sat with her. They watched the peasants working in the fields below, reaping the grain that would sustain them all in the coming year.

  “Do you know, Letitia,” Guinevere reminisced, “I would sit here for days on end when I was your age, watching the road in the hope that your father and uncles would come galloping dow
n it.”

  “What was he like, my father?” Letitia asked nervously. “I don’t like to bother Mama; she starts crying and Grandmother only says what a lovely baby he was.”

  “I don’t know if I can tell you what you need to know,” Guinevere answered. “He was ten years older than I and my memories are mostly of riding on his back and running away when he teased. He loved to tease me. He was the one who dragged me down into the cave to touch the Table and he called me a coward because it scared me. Oh, but I loved him! He was strong and brave and he protected me from everyone else. He could be very thoughtful. He once spent a night alone in the forest hunting for an herb Flora wanted that would bloom only on a moonless night. He thought it was exciting. I think that’s why he loved being a soldier—not for killing, but for setting himself against another, testing himself. That was life to him. You see, I can’t bring back what he really was. So much of his being was in the way he lived. He was wonderfully alive, Letitia. I’m glad you are part of him. I hope, of all the qualities he might have left you, that you have his joy in living. He was never afraid. He must have seen even death as a new adventure.”

  Guinevere trailed off. She was crying. She hadn’t wept for her brother since the day he died. Then it had been for what she had lost. Now it was for him.

  Letitia put an arm around her.

  “Thank you, Aunt Guinevere.” She kissed her damp cheek.

  Guinevere gave her niece an absent hug. She had already lost interest in maudlin grief. A rider had appeared in the road. A middle-aged man on an elderly horse was picking his way across the stream.

  “Geraldus!” she screamed, forgetting her queenly dignity and acting as she had ten years before.

  He waved up at them as the gate was opened swiftly for him. “I’ve come as I said I would,” he shouted. “We haven’t much time, Guinevere. We promised to be back at Caerleon to greet Arthur.”

  Guinevere and Letitia rushed down to embrace him.

  “My dear Geraldus!” Guinevere gushed. “I’m so glad to see you back. But where is Lydia?”

  Geraldus smiled broadly. “Lydia was shaking with nerves when I brought her to Cador, but now you couldn’t pry her away from her mother. She sent her apologies and promised to see you again next spring. Now, don’t be hurt. She has spent most of her life without her mother and they owe themselves the chance to enjoy being together again.”

  Guinevere sighed. “Of course. I do understand. You always let me know when I’m being selfish, don’t you?”

  Geraldus kissed her. “Yes, I do and I always will. But I love you all the same. When shall we set out for Caerleon? My tribe here wants a bath before they will set out once more. I don’t understand it. You would think they could go where they wish and manufacture their own baths, but they never do. I think it’s pure laziness—ow!”

  “You mustn’t criticize them, Geraldus,” Guinevere laughed as they strolled to the villa. “Come!” she called to them all. “Don’t mind your singing master. He would be desolate without you. There is hot water and wine for you tonight. But I am firm: we must go tomorrow!”

  “That will settle them,” Geraldus said with pleasure.

  He was surprised to see how ready Guinevere was to leave. Her clothes were packed and her gear was ready. She smiled at him in a sort of apology.

  “I don’t understand it myself, but this time I feel that I must get back, no matter how much I love to be here. It will always be the place I think of as home, but somehow I find myself thinking more and more of Caerleon and wondering what is happening there and if everything is being done properly. Could it be that I have two homes now?”

  “It is very likely, Guinevere. I am only surprised that it didn’t happen sooner.”

  But it was a hard farewell, as always, and Guinevere’s neck ached from turning to see if her family were all still there at the gate, waving good-bye. When they could be seen no more, she sat disconsolate upon her horse for an hour or two until, creeping insidiously into her mind, came images of Caerleon, of Arthur and Gawain, of Caet watching her with silent adoration, and of Lancelot. She began to be more interested in her arrival there.

  They were but a few hours away, in the last stretch of forest before the town, when it happened.

  Geraidus and his choir had drifted farther ahead than usual, working out a rondelet. Guinevere followed at her own pace, enjoying the stillness of the day. Suddenly they were jolted by a wild shriek as a troop of men leaped out of the surrounding trees. Meleagant rode out from his hiding place as the foot brigades surrounded them. He grabbed the furious Guinevere from her horse.

  For a moment she was so astonished and outraged that there was nothing she could say. Finally she found her breath. She beat against Meleagant’s armored chest, bruising her hands.

  “How dare you!” she screamed. “You barbarian boor! Put me down at once!”

  Meleagant laughed. “I told Arthur I could steal something from him and you are mine until Easter unless he and his lisping ‘knights’ can retrieve you! I hope that pack horse has warm clothing in its bags.”

  This made Guinevere angrier. She kicked so suddenly that he almost dropped her. “Arthur will punish you for this! My father will! If you dare lay a hand on me. . . .”

  “Don’t worry about that, my dear,” he purred. “Not but what you might be fun to tame. Leodegrance is an old adversary of my family, but I respect him. I just want your upstart husband to know that I could have you if it pleased me and there would be nothing he could do to stop me. Now, quit that kicking or you’ll injure my horse. Who taught you such unladylike behavior?”

  He looked over his shoulder and Guinevere followed his glance. With no weapons, Geraldus was doing his best to fight off Meleagant’s men. He was being easily defeated. She was more afraid for him than herself. She yelled at the attackers.

  “Don’t you dare hurt him! He’s a saint! Angels flying all around him. You’ll fry in Hell!”

  Her warning, however, was not needed. Those who slashed their swords at him were startled to see them bend in the air before they ever reached him. A man who tried to pull him from his horse was flipped upon his back without ever being touched. He picked himself up in an instant, however, and was away and down the road without a backward glance. The others soon followed him. They weren’t sure about angels, but there was something protecting the man and they wanted no part of it.

  “Thank you!” Geraldus called. “Can’t you help Guinevere, too?”

  The voice of his alto was so close to his ear that he jumped. She sounded out of breath.

  “There was very little we could do for you. We aren’t used to this sort of work. Anyway, we’re bound to you and she’s far away already. You’ll have to ride for help.”

  “It’s all right,” he reassured her. “Don’t worry, Arthur will rescue her.”

  Geraldus spurred Plotinus to a gallop for the first time since he had owned the horse. His only hope was to reach Caerleon soon. The poor steed had not been pressured to do more than walk for the last twenty years, but he tried to respond, dimly remembering his days in battle. They managed to reach the gates of Caerleon before sunset.

  Geraldus leaped from the almost prostrate horse and straight onto the first person he saw: Lancelot.

  “Guinevere!” he gasped. “Meleagant. He’s kidnapped her!”

  Lancelot caught Geraldus as he fainted. He heard only one word clearly, “Meleagant.” The son of the man who had killed his father. He gripped Geraldus’ arms painfully as he came to.

  “Meleagant! What has he done?” he shouted.

  “Ow, stop that! Guinevere,” Geraldus panted. “On our way here he ambushed us. He captured her. There was nothing I could do. Arthur back yet?”

  “No, not for a day or more, they say. Do you know where Meleagant is taking her?”

  “To his fortress. I must tell Arthur!”

  “But there is no time. Which way is this fortress?”

  “Northwest, through the m
ountains. But. . . .”

  He was talking to the air. Lancelot was halfway to the stables. Geraldus called after him.

  “This is for Arthur to decide, Lancelot! He’ll know how to deal with Meleagant!”

  Lancelot did not appear to have heard. Geraldus grabbed one of the guards who had come running at the shouts.

  “Where is Sir Cei?”

  The guard pointed to a figure coming toward them, and Geraldus, having caught his breath, hurried to meet him. He gave his news as quickly as possible. Cei’s face hardened as he listened.

  “That scum!” he spat. “He thinks it’s all a great joke, ‘stealing’ something of Arthur’s. Arthur is going to be furious. I’ll send a messenger to him at once. This is going to be tricky.”

  Meanwhile, Lancelot had saddled Clades and was halfway mounted before it occurred to him that he might need a cloak, or at least his sword and shield to confront that monster with. There was a young man shoveling out the adjoining stall.

  “You there! Go to my quarters at once and fetch my gear. Hurry!”

  The man stared at him stupidly. “Why?” he asked.

  “What?” Lancelot glared at him.

  “Why should I go? My job is cleaning the stables.”

  “Because I ordered it. Because your Queen has been kidnapped and I am going to rescue her . . . if I get my weapons!”

  At that the man’s face changed. He looked almost intelligent. “I’ll get them for you, Lancelot, but only if you saddle another horse for me.”

  It was Lancelot’s turn to stare stupidly. The man laughed.

  “I want to go with you.”

  “You must be insane!” Lancelot yelled.

  The man shrugged, but did not move.

  “Very well. You may come with me. But hurry!”

  Gareth shook the straw out of his hair as he obeyed. He snatched up his own bag as he grabbed Lancelot’s and was back by the time Lancelot had readied another horse.

  “You won’t regret taking me,” Gareth promised as he handed over the sword. “I will stay by your side whatever happens.”