The Chessboard Queen

by Sharan Newman

  “Gawain!”

  Gawain had been leaning against the opposite wall, watching in amusement.

  “Yes, Uncle?”

  “Stop that fight and bring those men up to me—after they’ve been washed.”

  A broad smile filled Gawain’s face. “I’d be happy to, sir!”

  The winter sun was watery and weak, but it was enough to make Gawain the equal in strength of any ten men at Caerleon. Happily he waded into the melee and bodily lifted the two combatants out. He held them dangling at the ends of his arms as they glared and struggled.

  “The King wants to see you, such sterling examples of knighthood that you are,” he told them. “But since he wants to recognize who has been disturbing him so, a trip to the baths is first in order. I myself will escort you there and see that you receive full benefit of the water.”

  As the group laughed and shouted advice to Gawain, he dragged the two discomfitted men to the huge antique baths, where they were helped out of their clothes and into the water by several of their companions.

  Arthur watched as they made their way across the yard. What a mess! He wasn’t thinking of the mud.

  “That’s the third fight this week. Can’t we find anything else for them to do?”

  The four men at the table were silent. Arthur turned back to them. “Well, what is it? You obviously have an opinion. Tell me.”

  Constantine looked to his father, who cleared his throat. “Master Merlin?” he asked, hoping he would take the initiative.

  Merlin seemed to have been paying no attention. He started up as if he had been sleeping. “Eh, what now? Fighting? That’s your business, not mine. Solve it yourselves.”

  Abruptly he got up and left. Arthur sighed.

  “He’s been like that more and more lately. I can’t get out of him what the problem is, only that it has nothing to do with me. But you don’t need him to tell me what you think. What is this continual friction among the knights?”

  Cador rubbed his fingers in his palms nervously. “Arthur, that is not my business, either. I’m no good off a battlefield. But I have heard things, hints. I could be completely mistaken.”

  “Constantine, will you tell me what your father is too diplomatic to say?”

  Constantine coughed and then swallowed. “You see, sir, as he said, we might be wrong, but the feeling is that some of the men are upset about what happened to Sir Lancelot.”

  “Of course they are! Don’t you think I am? It’s been three months and no one can find a trace of him!”

  “I know, but it’s more than that. Some of them—not all, of course—seem inclined to blame the Queen. I know that’s a lie,” he added quickly, “but it has caused bad blood among some. They say that she should have been reprimanded.”

  “What! Who dares to tell me what I should do with my own wife?”

  Cei intervened. Constantine was too young to stay firm in an argument like this.

  “No one tells you what to do in private, Arthur, but you have forgotten that this is not a family matter. Lancelot is an officer of Britain. If you had sent him away, no one would have spoken, but Guinevere had no authority, no right, to speak to him in such a way. The younger men, especially, looked up to Lancelot. Some of them are very bitter.”

  “What do they say?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Arthur. They are angry and don’t truly mean their words. I suspect that there may be only one or two people who start the others off, who whisper lies until the truth is forgotten. They take advantage of the winter and the men’s resentment. I will discover who they are soon. But something must be done now.”

  “What do you suggest? I can’t very well announce to the world that my wife has the power to drive men mad, but she is very sorry and will not let it happen again. Is that what they want? If they suggested that I burn her for a witch, would you agree to that, too? Who is ruler here?”

  Cador began rubbing his hands again. “You were planning to move to Camelot at the beginning of April, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. This summer I will stay in one place. I had planned to send some of the more experienced knights out to deal with the complaints and demands. I thought they might each take one of the new men as a sort of apprentice. It’s time we began. What has that to do with Guinevere?”

  Cador’s fingers were warm with the ferocity of his nervousness. “It might be a good idea, just for the summer, to send Guinevere somewhere else.”

  Arthur exploded. “What are you saying! The first time I’ve managed to plan a year with her, you want me to send her away. I thought you were one of those so eager for the two of us to have children. It won’t be easy with me at Camelot and her—where?”

  Cador shied away from the subject of children. There was no point in it. “She might be seized with a longing to see her parents. She is very attached to them. Hear me out, Arthur! We might mention Lancelot, not that she is to be blamed for what happened, but that she is grieved for your loss of such a friend. She can go on a retreat to pray for his recovery. That would quiet those who slander her and give her defenders something to point to. It might work.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Arthur muttered.

  “Wait, Arthur, let me finish. With her gone, there would be no reason for most of the other women to stay. We need some time for intensive training and discipline. You can see how unruly the men are now. How can a man be at his best when he’s got a woman pampering him or after listening all night to a baby screaming? That’s what I think. You asked me and there it is.”

  Arthur had to laugh, even through his anger. Ten years ago, Cador had been his leader, had given all the orders. Now he hesitated to give a simple difference of opinion. Nothing brought home more strongly Arthur’s position in Britain.

  “And what would your wife say to a suggestion like that, Cador?”

  Constantine chuckled. “I’m sorry, Father. But I can just hear her, agreeing with you and then ignoring everything you had said. She always has followed her own mind, you know.”

  Cador smiled sheepishly. “Yes, but Sidra is different. Don’t laugh. You know it. She keeps everyone on their toes doing what she wants and they never know how it happened. There isn’t a wiser manager in the whole of Britain.” He stopped, again aware that he had implied insult to Guinevere.

  Arthur ignored it. Guinevere had her own ways of dealing with people. But was Cador’s suggestion reasonable? Arthur tried to consider it without counting his own desire to have her stay with him. He dreaded broaching the subject to her, partially because she might not mind being away from him all summer. What would he do if he saw relief on her face when he told her?

  “Yes,” he said at last. “There may be some sense in what you say. If I can get Merlin to attend to what is happening around him, I will discuss it with him. Then I’ll take it up with Guinevere. She must agree also. Now, what are we going to do about Aelle?”

  • • •

  In her rooms, Guinevere was happily sorting some new cloth that had been sent to her by Alswytha and Mark. The tightly woven wool shone with bright and cheerful patterns.

  “I don’t know where Alswytha finds these colors!” she exclaimed to Risa. “Look at that red! The patterns are a new design, too. How does she manage!”

  “They are beautiful,” Risa agreed. “Does she have anyone to help with the dyeing and weaving?”

  “I don’t see how. I can’t imagine my brother steaming over a dye pot and the children are still too young. What can we send her in return? They are so contemptuous of most of our possessions.”

  Risa thought. She hadn’t seen them since the day Alswytha and Guinevere’s brother had eloped. They had taken little more with them than their clothes and showed no apparent interest in acquiring anything more. They made their own food and shelter.

  “Perhaps some wine?” she guessed. “And something for the children—toys or baubles. That could not offend.”

  “How smart you are, Risa. You know what children like. Find s
ome things for them in town. Here are some silver pieces. Will that be enough?”

  Risa looked at the old coins, remnants of the vanished empire.

  “The wine merchant will take these. They still use them in Gaul. But the toymaker would rather trade. He would take a chicken or a strip of this cloth for his wife.”

  Guinevere was losing interest. “Well, I know you can see to it. When you get everything, bring it here and I’ll write them a note to go with it.”

  Risa could tell when she was being dismissed. “Certainly, my Lady.” She curtsied and left.

  • • •

  Arthur had not gotten much help when he consulted Merlin. The gist of Merlin’s advice was to forget the matter and try to get along without Lancelot. He seemed to think that it was just as well that the man had vanished. After sounding out some of the older knights, including his foster father, Ector, just down from the north, Arthur had climbed the narrow steps to Guinevere’s room with sad determination. Everyone had agreed that a summer without her would be less decorative but more productive.

  “For everyone but me,” he thought ruefully. “I should be like Merlin and announce that I’m resigning. Then let them all do as they like.”

  But he knew he would never do that—too proud, too stubborn, maybe too stupid. He was left with the task of trying to convince Guinevere to do the one thing he wanted her not to do. Only a fool would want to be a king.

  Guinevere was warming her hands over the coals in the brazier when he entered. She greeted him with a wistful smile.

  “I’m glad you’ve come. I was lonely here.”

  “Were you? I’m sorry.” He sat on the mat next to her, leaning against her legs. Automatically, she began to massage his neck.

  “You’re very tense,” she said. “Was it a bad morning? Everyone comes to you with problems. I heard you tell Gawain to break up a fight. He must have enjoyed that. They laugh at him, you know, because of his affliction. It’s good for the men to be reminded of how powerful he can be.”

  “Mmmm . . . that feels good. You always know just where it hurts the most. No, it wasn’t worse than any other morning, but I have come especially to talk with you. How would you feel about spending the summer away from Camelot? I know you don’t care for the place much. St. Docca has started a convent near his school, specifically to promote education among women. Would that interest you?”

  He had looked away from her as he spoke, afraid of the response, but he was completely dumbfounded by her reaction.

  She threw herself on the floor beside him, wrapping her arms about him, her nails cutting into his tunic in her panic.

  “No, Arthur, please!” she cried. “Don’t put me away. I’m sorry about Lancelot. I’m sorry I haven’t given you children. I’ll do anything you ask, but don’t send me to a place like that! I can’t bear to be locked up! Please, Arthur, forgive me! I didn’t mean to destroy your plans. I will say nothing if you take a mistress; I will love her children as your heirs! Only don’t, don’t send me away!”

  “Guinevere! What are you talking about? I’ve never seen you this way. Who has been frightening you so?” He tried to pry her loose, to smooth her hair and calm her down. She was so terrified that she was gasping, unable to catch her breath.

  “I promise you,” he insisted. “I will never send you from me. I don’t blame you for Lancelot anymore and I don’t want a mistress. Good God, woman, don’t you know yet what you are to me?”

  “Oh, Arthur,” she sniffled, which made him laugh through his fears.

  “Here,” he said, handing her a handkerchief. “Wipe your nose and tell me why you could ever imagine that I would let you go.”

  She sniffed some more and blew her nose. When she spoke, her voice was still wobbly.

  “I hear all the rumors, the troubles you are having. It’s my fault, they think. Some of the women say I’m cursed and . . . barren. That I’m not really a woman at all. Meleagant thought I was a witch. No, he didn’t say so, but I found out. No one can keep a secret when everyone lives almost in the same room. One of the boys had a wart on his rear and even the scullery maids knew of it and offered cures.”

  That did make Arthur laugh. Then he gently cupped his hand under her chin and tilted her face up to him. Her eyes shone like emeralds beneath her tears.

  “Would it make you so sad to live without me?” He had never dared to ask it before. “Do you love me that much?”

  She kissed his palm. “There is no one on earth whom I love more than you. If there is some reason that you want me absent this summer, I will do as you wish. But not to Docca’s, not even for a small number of days. They are too rigid there and grave. On fast days, they not only abstain from meat, but also bread, wine, and cheese. I will not survive on onion tops. And it is very far away. Which one of your advisers wants me to go apart from you to redeem my soul?”

  “You are right. There are no secrets.” He held her tightly. “But it is more that you might appear to be praying for the recovery of Lancelot’s soul. I shouldn’t have said that. Do you think anyone can hear us?”

  She considered this. “No, I think our room is a good place to talk. We can hear if someone comes up the stairs. The wood creaks no matter how quietly one walks. I can hear voices clearly, though, from outside and the rooms below us. People say many things there, forgetting that I am above them.”

  “And is that how you found out about this?”

  “I wish I had. I would like to be warned before, getting news like that. I had heard only rumors. You frightened me terribly, Arthur. If I must go, I would rather go home. If I must do penance, it is a more comfortable place to do it.”

  “No one said anything about penance, my love. You have nothing to atone for. I’ve already told you that. However, it might be well for you to still the clucking tongues of Britain. But if I let you go there, would you come back in the fall?”

  “Of course! I would run all the way!”

  At the end of such a dreary day, Arthur could not believe how happy he felt. It never occurred to him that Guinevere’s answer about her love for him had been completely equivocal.

  • • •

  Edra set down her carding comb to stretch her arms. She smiled in contentment at the scene before her. Cloten was busy repairing his traps and the madman sat watching him, his eyes following the deft movements as the shepherd knotted and strung the cords. One of the sheep dogs lay nearby and the stranger would now and then absently scratch its ears. It seemed odd to her now that she could have ever been afraid of him. He was gentle and sad, like a newly weaned puppy. And he had brought the luck that Cloten had foretold. She patted her stomach. The child had quickened last night, she was sure of it. Cloten was so happy and so careful with her. This one, she knew, would live.

  The dog’s ears pricked up and he ran to the door, growling. Cloten put down his work.

  “Who could be out in all this snow?” he wondered. “Anyone with sense is under shelter.”

  “It may be some traveler who has lost the trail,” Edra answered. “But before you unbar the door, ask who it is.”

  As if in answer a sharp rap hit the wood and echoed through the small house.

  “What do you want?” Cloten called over the wind.

  “A warm fire and rest, good sir!” a voice answered. “I am a messenger of King Arthur. Let me in, I am near frozen!”

  “Open the door,” Edra counseled. “We cannot let him freeze on our doorstep. If he is dangerous, we have you and the dogs to protect us.”

  Cloten opened the door, letting in the messenger and a blast of icy wind and snow. The shivering man stumbled to the fire as Cloten replaced the bar.

  “Thank you, good man, and my thanks also to your wife. I am Sir Bedevere, a knight of King Arthur, on a mission to find another knight of my group, Sir Lancelot. He suffered an . . . accident some months ago and disappeared. We think he may be ill or may have lost his memory and be unable to find his way back to us. I have been hunting him
since fall. Will you allow me to break my journey for the night here by your fire? I can pay you in coin.”

  “My Lord,” Cloten spoke shyly, for the man’s manner awed him and his language was almost incomprehensible. “I do not understand much of what you are asking. We are poor people and know nothing of kings or coins. But you would honor our house with your presence and we would be pleased to offer you a share of what we have.”

  “Thank you,” Bedevere replied as he shook the snow from his cloak. “Is your weather always like this? It is nearly spring in the valleys.”

  Edra hastened to help him with his wraps and to fetch a bowl of soup. In the commotion, Lancelot had at first retreated to the sheepfold, but now his shaggy face appeared over the partition. Bedevere, glancing idly about, noticed him with a start.

  “By the saints!” he cried. “What is that?”

  Cloten was about to answer when Edra spoke up. “Only my brother, sir. Don’t be afraid of him. He’s quite simple and understands no more than a child, but he would not hurt anyone.”

  “Oh, your brother. Excuse me. For a moment I thought . . . but that is ludicrous.” Bedevere checked himself, hoping he had not offended his hosts. “I have a horse outside. Is there any place I could stable him tonight, away from the wind?”

  “Yes, certainly.” Cloten bustled into the fold as Lancelot’s face disappeared. “Bring him through the gate here and we can put him in with the other animals, if you would not mind.”

  “Mind? It looks perfect. Warm and dry, very fine. This is much superior to many places we have been forced to lie since I began this quest.”

  Worn out from his journey, Bedevere ate and slept almost immediately. The storm had abated by morning and he went on his way again with many thanks. When he was safely gone, Cloten turned on Edra.

  “What made you say that the madman was your brother? What was wrong with telling him the truth?”