The Chessboard Queen

by Sharan Newman

  Gareth wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I was waiting for you to come back to Caerleon. Lancelot said I could come with him to rescue the Queen. I want to be a knight, too! But I did everything wrong. I was no help to him at all. And now he’s gone away. He left me his horse, but I don’t want it! I want him to come back! This isn’t what I thought it would be like. Agravaine, I think I’d rather go back home to Mother.”

  Arthur sighed. Was he the only one here who could not run home? He almost felt like laughing at himself and at Agravaine, so clearly torn between wanting to cuff his brother to make him shape up and keeping his own dignity before his peers.

  “You needn’t take him back now, Agravaine. I imagine that this brother will end up staying with us, too. Find out tomorrow if he has any other clothes. For now, put him up behind Gawain. Can we expect any more of my nephews to appear soon?”

  Gareth rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “No, sir,” he sniffed. “There’s only Modred left and he wants to stay with Mother.”

  “Then I trust we can go? Gawain, Gawain! Your brother will be responsible for seeing that you arrive safely tonight at our camp. We will rest on Lord Craddoc’s land tonight and set out again at dawn. Guinevere? Are you ready?”

  She was standing next to his horse, shivering in her woolens and furs. Her face was bleached by the twilight. Arthur steeled himself against his love for her as he lifted her up behind him. Her arms crept timidly about him, but she did not speak. She held her body away from his back, fearing rejection. When she had settled herself, he made a curt gesture to the rest of the party and they started off.

  The group plodded along the narrow pathways. There was no conversation, no song. The growing darkness served to complement their depression. Guinevere felt the animosity surging about her and cringed further into her hood. She was confused and adrift. What had she done? How could they not realize that what had happened to Lancelot was his own fault? He was an idiot, self-righteous, priggish. . . . She had only told him the truth about himself.

  The image came back to her of Lancelot’s face as he stared up into hers, of his hands pulling at her, climbing up her skirts, demanding. She closed her eyes. She had almost carried the scene further, finished it in another way. What might have happened next if she hadn’t found the strength to push him from her? She bowed her head with a soft whimper and brushed against Arthur’s shoulder. Her arms tightened about him and she felt him exhale and relax his muscles a fraction. Briefly he let go of the reins to cover her right hand with his. Gratefully she laid her cheek against his back. No, that was one explanation she could never use. It would hurt Arthur. And anyway, there was no danger now. Lancelot was gone, perhaps forever. Even if by some chance he should regain his senses and return, by then she was sure she would have learned to protect herself from the sorcery in his eyes.

  • • •

  The shepherd, Cloten, hurried through the dank wood, anxious to be home. His winter traps had garnered three foxes and a stoat so far, which was not bad. The fifth trap had caught what might have been a rabbit, by the traces left, but the gate had been pried open and the animal removed. Cloten did not like that. It was not the work of a beast. The few people who lived this deep in the mountains respected his territory. That left only thieves and cutthroats. Cloten had no illusions about his ability to deal with them.

  He occupied his mind on the way by totting up what he could expect to have by spring to trade at the market in Clynnog. With the pelts and the wool and perhaps a few piglets, he could make a good deal with the metalworker and maybe even have enough left over to bring something frivolous home to Edra. That would delight her. A brooch, perhaps, from Ireland. She would enjoy that; it would make her feel like a grand lady.

  With a start, Cloten realized that while he had been daydreaming, someone or something had emerged from the dark woods and was following him on the path. He had only his short knife with him and that had been notched near the tip. He wished that the skins on his back were already traded for a new knife. He could feel whatever it was gaining on him, could hear it panting. There was nothing else for it but to turn and fight. Snatching the knife from his belt, Cloten whirled around to face his pursuer. He froze in amazement, his knife hand still raised to strike.

  There on the pathway was what looked to be a man. He had no weapon. His body was covered with cuts and scratches, and his hair and beard were so tangled and matted that only his nose could be seen. Only his nakedness assured Cloten of his humanity.

  “What do you want?” Cloten demanded gruffly. “Where did you come from?”

  The creature grunted and held out his right hand. In it was a piece of raw meat with rabbit skin still clinging to it. The man quickly switched the meat to the other hand and continued to extend the right.

  “What is it? Can’t you speak?” Cloten backed away. It occurred to him that this might be a spirit or demon native to the mountains. Everyone had heard stories of the slaves carried far underground to serve the dark gods. Or could this man be one of those slaves, somehow escaped? Either way, it would not be safe to be around him for long. Cloten brandished the knife.

  “Get away from me! Back! Back to your hole! I’ve cold iron here. You cannot touch me.”

  The man stepped back a pace, his head tilted quizzically. He held out his hand again, palm up.

  Cloten was more angry than frightened now. It was getting dark. He was hungry and he wasn’t getting any closer to his home. He tried appeasement.

  “Look, fellow, tell me what you want or leave. You still won’t talk? Good enough, then don’t. I’m going on.”

  Without sheathing his knife, Cloten carefully turned and started on his way again. The hairs on the back of his neck were curling, but he fought the impulse to look back. He reminded himself that the fellow clearly carried nothing to throw at him. If he were inhuman, then he could use his magic any time, whether Cloten ran or not. He continued walking. There was a rush of steps after him and he quickened his pace. The sound continued behind him, but did not catch up. He could bear it no longer. He looked. A few feet away the shaggy man was still trotting along. When he saw Cloten look at him, the untamed growth on his face parted to reveal a hopeful smile.

  “For all the world like a stray dog following me home!” the shepherd thought. He shrugged. Perhaps the poor thing was harmless. He might be nothing more than a madman seeking shelter from the cold. They said it was good luck to have a fool living under one’s roof; the gods protected fools. Perhaps he could be trained to carry wood and water and watch the sheep. But what would Edra say?

  • • •

  Edra had been watching for him for the last hour. She worried when he went to the woods alone. She wouldn’t have him know it for anything. Alternately she feared that he would be eaten by wolves or seduced by some farm girl sent to gather wood. Both terrors were equal in her mind. When she saw him enter the gate with another figure close behind, she did not know whether to be relieved or angry. Where had he been—to meet someone else? Had he gone into a village on his way home to drink and whore? He had never done so, but who knew what a man might suddenly decide upon? Once out of your sight, you could never be sure.

  “Edra!” She pretended to be busy mending. He called again and she came to the door.

  “You must have gone far,” she began as she lifted the bar to let him in. “And you have brought a guest?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Cloten!” she screamed. “What is it?”

  “Hush, dear one.” He guided her back into the house. “I found him in the woods. He’s cut and starving and stark mad, but not dangerous, I think. I didn’t know what else to do with him.”

  “Cloten!” she whispered fiercely. “He’s also stark naked!”

  The madman drew closer to the fire and she watched him as he lifted his hands to the warmth. A half-smile passed across her face. She composed herself quickly and returned to her husband.

  “Are you suggesting that we keep him?”<
br />
  “I could teach him to help you, to do the heavy work. The birthing woman said you worked too hard. That was why we lost the baby. With him to help you, next time it would be better.”

  “Yes,” she agreed slowly. “It is hard for me when you are away tending the sheep or at the markets. But I do not know if I would like to be left alone with him.”

  “I will go nowhere this winter. Let us keep him with us that long. By spring we should know if there is any harm in him.”

  “Well,” she considered, staring at the man, “if it is what you wish, husband, I—oh, no! Cloten! Stop him! Look at what he is doing on my clean floor!”

  Cloten darted forward, but could think of no way to effectively stop the course of nature.

  “He’s not even trained, Cloten. Just a disgusting wild beast! Put him on the animals’ side of the house. He can sleep with the pig. She won’t mind. Get him there at once and then get a shovel and clean this up!”

  She held her nose and retreated to a corner until her orders were carried out. “You’ll have more to teach him than how to fill a water bucket!”

  The house was a simple stone rectangle divided in half by a partition about four feet high. On one side the people lived; on the other, when the weather was cold or wet, the animals. In the winter this arrangement provided heat and shelter, which was beneficial to all. Cloten pushed the man to the animal side of the gate and shut it firmly behind him.

  “You haven’t started out well for a guest,” he informed the uncomprehending face. “I’ll bring you some food in a minute. Don’t be eating the grass, now. We need it for the sheep.”

  Edra was scrubbing the floor with sand and water. Her energy indicated her feelings and Cloten let her work awhile before he sat down at the table.

  “He’s really no more than an innocent, overgrown babe, you know,” he suggested. “Maybe no one ever tried to teach him better.”

  “You will have to be the one to do it, then. I want no part of him.”

  But he noticed that she didn’t mention sending him away. “You’re a kind woman, Edra. The gods won’t let us stay childless. Do I smell meat in that pot?”

  He handed a bowl of meat and a slab of bread to their guest. The man ate sloppily, but seemed to know that the bread was to wipe the juice from the bowl. Cloten watched him curiously.

  “You know, Edra, I don’t think he was always like this. He may have had a fever or a fall. Recently, I mean. Some of those cuts are too deep to be from brambles. Perhaps he was a trader set upon by thieves. If we care for him, someday we may be rewarded.”

  Edra smiled. “You always have such grand dreams, Cloten. I love to listen to them. But, if this poor fool were a rich man, why would he have been traveling alone? No, I will be content if the gods give us our reward. But,” she added significantly, “we must give them some help. Are you very tired from your journey today?”

  For answer, he grabbed her about the waist and lifted her high as she laughed. Then he banked the fire and washed his feet while she braided her hair. Before he went to join her in bed, he checked on their guest.

  Curled warmly between two ewes, Lancelot was sound asleep.

  • • •

  Far away, in the southeastern corner of Britain, Aelle, the Saxon king, was not sleeping well at all. It was not the snoring from the others which kept him awake, although a stranger would have been deafened by it. He was deprived of his rest by news he had gotten that day about Arthur. Aelle had counted on the natural animosity among the British tribes to pull Arthur’s conquests apart with no help from the Saxons, but it was not working. Somehow the man was bringing them together. Aelle pounded his sleeping furs in anger and then sneezed at the dust rising from them. There must be a way to stop this so-called King of the Britons before he gathered the strength to attack Saxon land.

  Twice before, Arthur had defeated and humiliated Aelle. The first time was at Mons Badon. Then, by all rights, the Saxons should have won easily. Their position was by far the stronger. That was bad enough, but the next time, Arthur had played upon the superstition of the Saxon soldiers and frightened them into giving up that Whynhevere woman they had kidnapped. Then he had married her!

  “She would have made a fine hostage, too,” he muttered to himself. “Even a useful alliance. Something must be done about this soon.”

  He ruminated for so long about it that it was deep into the night before he finally rested and far into the day before he awoke. But, even as dawn was blossoming, Aelle’s nephew, Cissa, was up and outside.

  To those who were native to Britain, it was an old land, familiar and unchanging. But to Cissa, newly arrived from crowded Saxony, it was a raw, unknown, wild expanse, to be tamed or conquered. The forests were rich with game and there were rumors of gold and silver mines in the west. But the Britons had allowed themselves to be sapped and weakened. The slaves here were small and spiritless, fit to be nothing more than chattel. The few free Britons he had met were not much better. They seemed unable to see or use the treasures around them. They had even stopped breeding, it seemed, if the empty farms and towns around were any indication.

  “They are nothing. We could wipe out the whole population with one hand,” he said aloud.

  “Not quite,” a voice behind him answered.

  Cissa jumped. He had not heard his cousin, Ecgfrith, approach. He did not think much of Aelle’s son. Ecgfrith had been part of that night rout when Arthur’s men had made a fool of Aelle. No one paid Ecgfrith much attention these days.

  He sidled up to Cissa. “I said, ‘Not quite the whole population,’ but there is a way we could do some serious damage to it. Remember how, back in our first days here, Vortigern called our grandfathers to Britain to fight for him? We gave a dinner then, a council, and invited the lords of Britain to it. Do you know what the last course was?”

  “Certainly, a knife in the throat. Over four hundred of them were killed that day. We should have conquered the whole island then.”

  “Perhaps, but our grandfathers made one mistake. They thought only in the present. It was the old ones who died. They were the war leaders, it is true, but they left young sons and sister-sons to carry out their revenge. That is why we lost at Mons Badon. Why should we bother with the old men? What good are they without their progeny, what threat? Leave them to wither and destroy their young!”

  Cissa moved away in disgust. “You are expecting Saxon warriors to slaughter children? You do not deserve to live in your father’s hall.”

  Ecgfrith swallowed, but let the insult pass. “Not children, but soldiers, being trained now to one day lead the Britons against us. And now is the time to stop them. I know how we can do it.”

  Cissa turned away. The glory of the morning was spoiled for him. Ecgfrith’s plans always had a smear of dishonor about them.

  “If you have such grand ideas, cousin, then Aelle is the one you should speak with. He is still our lord.”

  “You know he will not listen to me!” Ecgfrith snapped. It had been his idea to steal Guinevere, and Aelle did not forgive failure. “But he will pay attention if you and your brothers join with me in proposing a raid. My plan is perfect. We will not only destroy those who would one day raise armies against us, but we will also capture one of their watch stations that keep us from bringing the men and supplies we need from the homeland.”

  Against his will, Cissa was becoming interested. “You mean Cador, don’t you, the place where you were held? They say it is impregnable, all stone and sand with no cover. How would you take it?”

  “I know every stone of it. The way I escaped is the way we will enter. It cannot fail. You have heard that only the greatest families send their children there. Our revenge would be greater for the hostage price the women will bring.”

  That was a thought. Gold was the measure of a man here. And Cissa was intrigued by the few British women he had seen, so small and dark, totally unlike the proud Saxon women who stood of a height with the men and looked them in the
eye when they spoke. One always knew what they thought. Perhaps a hostage might be convinced to stay. But Ecgfrith must not be given the satisfaction of knowing that he had finally gotten Cissa’s attention.

  “I have other things to do today. Talk to my brothers, if you like, and to your father. I will not argue against it if it is mentioned in the moot this winter.”

  He strolled away, affecting boredom, but Ecgfrith was content. He was caught. The others would be easy. By spring they would do it and at last Ecgfrith would have his revenge.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Arthur leaned forward in his chair at the council table at Caerleon. He searched the faces before him: Merlin, Cei, Cador, and Cador’s son, Constantine. They stared gravely back, waiting for him to begin. He cleared his throat.

  “I have called you all here today to get your advice. I’ve been hearing over and over this winter that Aelle and his family are traveling from one Saxon stronghold to another. They’ve been seen in almost every one of the villages. There is something going on. Normally they don’t set foot out of doors until the end of March. I have a list here of the places they were known to have been. Even Ecgfrith seems to be taking part in this. I thought he was out of favor.”

  Cador studied the list for a few minutes. It was written on thin, many-times-scraped vellum and at some places the old writing showed through and made it hard to decipher. He squinted at the scratched lines.

  “It could be merely an internal problem, some sort of power challenge,” he suggested. “Aelle never really regained the strength he had before you tricked him so well six years ago.”

  Arthur shook his head. “It might be, but I suspect something more. They’ve been much too docile these past few years. . . . What is all that noise out there!”

  In the courtyard outside the King’s quarters a wild fistfight had erupted. Two men were floundering in the mud, trying to get a clear shot at each other, while the rest of the knights circled them, shouting encouragement or personal insults. Arthur pulled aside the leather curtain and leaned out the window.