The Chessboard Queen

by Sharan Newman

  He had already left the table. Cei ran after him.

  “Arthur, what will you do?” he asked.

  “Raise an army and drive Aelle back into the ocean with the rest of the slime. Every man who owes me allegiance must be here—no, at Camelot—in two weeks’ time. Send out riders at once.”

  “No, Arthur. I won’t have time. I’m leaving now. I must go to Lydia.”

  Arthur stopped. “Don’t be foolish. We have work to do. This is no time for romantic nonsense.”

  Cei stood firm, blocking the way. “Arthur, since you became King, I have never questioned an order of yours. I have done whatever job you set me. But now I must go to Lydia and I will do it, no matter what you say. If you still want me, I will meet you at Camelot. Otherwise I will challenge Aelle alone.”

  “But I need you here!” Arthur began. Then he stopped. He had not seen that look on Cei’s face since they were boys. “All right, go to her. I’ll find someone else. But be at Camelot or I’ll have you. . . .” He couldn’t think of a punishment. “Be off, then. Bedevere! Agravaine! Gawain! Come here! And where is that horsemaster? Briacu! You’ll have to come with us. Prepare the horses. We are leaving at dawn!”

  Guinevere had made a sleeping draught of hot wine and herbs for Cador who refused it scornfully. She gave it to Constantine, whose grief for his mother broke through all his training in self-control. She put him in bed in the anteroom next to Arthur’s. As she tucked in the blanket, she realized that her hands were shaking. She couldn’t stop them. Something, a scent, the sound of feet upon the rush-strewn floor, brought back to her vividly her years at Cador castle, the smell of the sea and mold, the dogs, the people, the chaos, and Sidra, drab, plain with her pock-marked face. She had been everywhere, soothing, chiding, chivvying, smoothing over the transition the young Guinevere had had to make between her home and the reality of life in Britain. Sidra, left alone to face the invaders.

  Trembling, Guinevere sank to the floor and cried as she never had before. She wept out her sorrow, her guilt, and her forgetfulness. She had never told Sidra how she felt, had never thanked her, never apologized for all the thoughtless, snobbish things she had done, for her total selfish absorption in her own very special person. Now she never could.

  It was only a flash of insight, a moment of humility in the midst of sadness, but it was the first. Guinevere had never before doubted her own wondrous worth. She shrank from the idea, but the question now existed and would hide within her until it was faced.

  Arthur did not come to bed until the early hours of the morning. He found Guinevere asleep in a chair, her face drawn and stained, a scroll of devotional essays on her lap. He was filled with pity and remembered his past sharp words to her. He wondered if Cador was regretting his last words to Sidra or all those which had been left unsaid. He woke her gently and guided her to bed.

  “I think you should go to your family as we planned. You can set out tomorrow, when the rest of us leave. In the morning . . . Guinevere, are you awake?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she grunted. “I will go home in the morning with Geraidus.”

  “Yes, I’ll tell him . . . tell Geraidus . . . oh God!” he choked. “I feel so cold, Guinevere. Come closer to me. You are all the warmth I have.”

  • • •

  In the raw dawn Arthur woke her and bade her good-bye. Before the rest of Caerleon was stirring, she and Cei departed. He had promised to escort her on his way to find Lydia. For the first time, when Guinevere looked back, Arthur was not there. Today there was no time for a lingering farewell. Arthur was not working on a leisurely creation of an ideal world, but embarking on an ugly, necessary war. Once he had seen her safely off, Guinevere and her worries could have no place in his thoughts.

  Cei had little to say during the trip. It rained the first night, but they were able to take shelter with a farmer and his family. The next night they reached Cirencester, which had an inn most honored to accommodate the Queen.

  The innkeeper and his family fluttered about them the next morning as they prepared to leave. Did they have everything they needed? Would they like some fresh bread, meat pie, ale to take with them?

  The obsequious service made Cei uncomfortable, but Guinevere accepted it without question. It was tiresome, but to be expected. She would be glad when she reached home and could dispense with such ceremony.

  After the cataclysms that had been roiling about her for the past few months, Guinevere expected that her home might be somehow changed, too. It was with some hesitation that she crossed the stream and waited for the gate to open.

  As the first crack appeared in the gate, Guinevere heard a shout and then started laughing. Letitia was racing down the hill to meet her, barefoot and scruffy, just as she herself had run so many times to meet Geraldus. Relief flowed through her. It was wonderful to be home.

  Cei rode to the courtyard with her, but refused to take a meal with them.

  “A cup of water is all I need, Lady Guenlian,” he assured her. If he hurried, he could be with Lydia by nightfall.

  Guenlian understood and did not press him. “Give our love to Lydia and tell her how much we share her grief. Go on! You needn’t worry about protocol here.”

  “Thank you, I will tell her.” And Cei leaped back on his horse and was gone.

  “He has certainly changed since I saw him last,” Guenlian said in amusement. “Do you think Lydia will marry him?”

  “Of course,” Guinevere answered. “She loves him too much to say no.”

  Guenlian gave her a sharp glance. The tone was light, but there was an undercurrent that unsettled her. She sighed.

  “Are you happy to be back, darling?”

  “Oh, yes! It’s so comforting to be here with you all again, away from the pettiness and troubles of court. Poor Arthur! I wish he could take the time to come here and hide!”

  “So do I, darling. It has been so long since we have seen him. But your father has gone to the muster. At least Arthur will have his support.”

  “Father! But he’s too . . . I mean. . . .”

  “He took forty men with him. I did not try to stop him. Geraldus was our dear friend and Cador is kin. Your father is not too old to fight for those he loves.”

  Guinevere could see that her mother did not want to pursue the discussion.

  “It has been a long ride, Mother. I need to change and wash before dinner. It will be nice to eat in peace and quiet again!” She kissed Guenlian and hurried to her room.

  She entered the dining hall relaxed, clean, and ready for a simple evening at home. How lovely not to be always on display! As she took her place at the table, she noticed a man seated in the corner. He was playing a children’s game, rolling balls across the floor, making them hit each other. Guinevere turned to her mother with a puzzled expression.

  “Who is this?” she asked. “Why is he hiding in the corner?”

  “I forgot to tell you, dear,” Guenlian answered. “It’s a poor madman who wandered in. He’s quite harmless. We let him go where he wishes. Don’t worry. He won’t bother you at all.”

  Guinevere nodded. As she turned away, one of the balls rolled across the floor, stopping by her foot. She picked it up and held it out to the man with a polite smile. He looked up at her as he reached out to take it. Suddenly she felt as if her stomach had been rammed up into her throat and then dropped. She tried to speak, but all that came out were choking sounds.

  “Guinevere!” Guenlian rushed to her, pounding her back. “Here, lean forward. Are you all right?”

  Slowly Guinevere regained her breath. The man was staring at her in bewilderment. She met his eyes and instinctively turned away. Then she looked back. The look he gave her was dull and empty. There was no fire, no passion, no compulsion. There was no reason for her to fear this man. Why did she feel as if someone had just torn out her heart?

  She took a step toward him and held out her hand. “Lancelot?” she whispered. There was no recognition.

  Guenlian
caught her hand. “Lancelot? It can’t be! This man is nothing like him! You are mistaken, dear.”

  Guinevere paid her no attention. “Lancelot,” she said a little louder. “Lancelot, please listen! It’s Guinevere.”

  She knelt down so that her face was level with his. Guenlian watched her with a growing sense of alarm. Behind her, Rhianna and Letitia watched her with fascination.

  Guinevere had forgotten about them all. Somewhere inside this creature who stared blankly at her was the Lancelot who had trod upon sharp steel for her sake, who had terrified her with the force of his love. She had to find him. Gently she reached out and touched his face, outlining the features hidden by the wild beard. He shrank at first from the caress, but then endured it with a puzzled expression. Guinevere cupped his chin in both her hands and forced him to look at her.

  “Lancelot,” she pleaded softly. “Lancelot, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do this to you. Please forgive me! Come back! I’m not afraid anymore. Look at me! I won’t ever deny it again. I promise. Lancelot?”

  There was nothing, not a flicker of understanding. She let him go. He slipped away from her at once and began rolling the balls again. Guinevere looked to the others for help.

  “He doesn’t know me! We must help him! Mother? What can we do?”

  “Guinevere, how can you be sure it is Lancelot? This man is so different. The coloring is similar, but that is all. He is so gaunt, his eyes so empty, his face—no, you’ve been brooding too much.”

  Guinevere stamped her foot in annoyance. “I know who this is! Why can’t you see it? We can’t leave him like this. Rhianna, Pincerna, don’t you see?”

  There was a pause as Guinevere challenged her family to help. Pincerna would not reply without guidance from Guenlian, but Rhianna slowly nodded her head.

  “I think that it doesn’t matter if this is Lancelot or not. We have assumed that this man cannot be cured, but we haven’t tried. If we can find out what to do, I will help.”

  “Mother?” Guinevere made one more appeal.

  “Rhianna is correct,” Guenlian admitted. “It is our duty as Christians to try to restore this man, whoever he may be. But I have no experience with madness.”

  Pincerna coughed deferentially. “There are many books on medicine still in Tenuantius’ room. We were going to give them to St. Docca, but no one has yet arrived to collect them.”

  Guinevere was relieved to find that there was something concrete for her to do. “Rhianna, Letitia, will you help me go through them?”

  “We will all help, Guinevere,” Guenlian interrupted. “But only after we eat.”

  No one ate very much, though. Their thoughts were all on the ragged man, contentedly playing in the corner.

  Tenuantius, Guinevere’s ancient tutor, had died during the winter. His large collection of books, many of which he had copied or edited himself, had been wrapped and left for the monks to collect. Rhianna sighed as they started to search them.

  “There must be a hundred of them and some have four or five different treatises in them.”

  “There must be something here that can help us!” Guinevere stated firmly. “We can’t give up before we start.”

  Letitia was sent to bed after a few hours, but, goaded by Guinevere, the others stayed up until after midnight, carefully unrolling ancient scrolls and opening more recent and heavier codices bound in wood. Finally Rhianna set one down on the floor with a plop.

  “I can’t do this anymore, Guinevere! My eyes are as dusty as my fingers and the letters keep dancing around. I must get some sleep. I’ll help again tomorrow. Why don’t you come, too?”

  “No, we must find it. It must be here!” Guinevere was taut with exhaustion also, but she couldn’t give up yet, even though she knew she had been staring at the same page for the past ten minutes without taking it in. She blinked hard and tried to concentrate.

  “‘A translation from the Greek physician, Soranus, by the most learned Caelius Aurelianus, with a discussion on the causes and treatment of deranged minds. Scribed by me, Tenuantius, in the fortieth year from the departure of the Legions.’”

  She mumbled it out loud and started to close the book. Tenuantius had certainly copied anything that had come his way. The treatment of. . .

  “Mother!” she shrieked. Guenlian awoke with a start, knocking over the scroll she had been trying to read.

  “I found it! Listen. It tells everything! Let me see. ‘. . . madness often caused by brooding or the imbalance of some passion, such as love or. . . .’ Well, we don’t need that. We want to know what to do now. Here it is. ‘The patient should be put into a light room, with only soft colors in view. Nothing sharp should be allowed near him. He should wear light, padded clothes, so that he might not injure himself. Warm sponges should be applied to his eyes. He should be well fed but given no intoxicating drink or herbs which would further inflame his mind.’ What else? Oh, music is supposed to help, too, and the afflicted should be ‘reminded of his former occupation as much as possible through conversation.’ That doesn’t sound too difficult. We can try, can’t we, Mother?”

  Guenlian rubbed her eyes. “We can try anything you like, my dear, if it will wait until morning. We must get some sleep.”

  Guinevere allowed herself to be taken to her room, but how much she slept that night is not known.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Guinevere, darling, you can’t continue in this,” Guenlian warned. “We have tried everything the book recommended and he is no better. You will do him no good if you go on and you will make yourself ill.”

  Guinevere refused to listen. “I must keep trying, Mother. How can I bring him back to Arthur like this? They will blame me even more.”

  She gestured toward the garden before them, where Lancelot, clean and shaven, was reclining. His eyes were open, staring, perhaps, at the clouds or, more likely, at nothing. Nearby, Letitia dutifully was humming as she hemmed a new robe. In the past three weeks, they had employed every art they knew, pampering Lancelot in a way which would have horrified him if he had known. But he didn’t. He was docile and gentle, but gave no indication that he understood anything said to him or that someday he might recover. Guenlian’s heart ached at Guinevere’s discouragement. The poor child had never before encountered defeat. But remembering the way Lancelot had watched her, Guenlian was secretly grateful that the danger from him was now past. She chided herself for being more of a mother than a Christian, but the fact remained that she much preferred this Lancelot as a guest to the one who had visited before.

  Guinevere had gone on speaking. “Letitia has been working there all morning. She has been such a help, considering she is barely ten. I’ll tell her to go and play and I’ll read him something. Ovid is cheerful enough, don’t you think? I could read the part about Aeneas. That has battle in it.”

  Guenlian gave up. “I’m sure it doesn’t matter, dear, for all he knows. Read what pleases you. I must see to dinner.”

  Letitia was willing enough to go, but promised she would be back at her post the next morning. Guinevere settled herself on a stool near Lancelot. Sunlight fell across the scroll, an old piece of vellum, commissioned by her grandfather from a scriptorium in Gaul. The poetry was accompanied by graphic illustrations which had always fascinated her. Even eighty years in damp Britain had not dulled the colors. She began reading in a drone, which faded as she forgot the man beside her and wandered again with Aeneas as he descended into Hell and out again on his way to founding Rome. When she emerged from the story, she discovered that Lancelot was sleeping.

  The spring sunshine, not yet high overhead, shone upon his face and traced the contours and lines of it. Guinevere tried to remember if the wrinkles around his eyes had been there the year before. She wasn’t sure. Until now she had feared to study him too closely. Without thinking, she ran her finger along the curve of his jaw to the cleft in his chin. Pincerna had complained at the impossibility of shaving it properly and vowed that any man with such
a chin should remain bearded. Guinevere disagreed. Now that she saw it well, she found his face pleasing. It would be a pity to hide it. She brushed back a lock of his hair. The golden-brown curl was silky and warm. The texture surprised her. She had not thought that any part of him could be soft. She knelt beside the couch and leaned over him, bemused by all she was discovering. She held his head in both her hands and gently turned his face to hers.

  “Guinevere!” Her mother’s shocked tone so startled Guinevere that she sat down on her heels with a thump.

  Guenlian tried to check herself. Anything she might say would only make matters worse. Guinevere might have been doing something innocent. She wished Leodegrance had not insisted that Arthur must have his support in trouncing the Saxons. She needed his advice. Guenlian cursed the Saxons, swallowed, and modulated her voice.

  “Guinevere,” she began again. “We have a visitor. He gave his name as Torres. He says he is Lancelot’s foster brother. Do you know him?”

  Guinevere rose, brushing her hands across her skirts. “Yes, I sent a messenger for him. I thought he might help. Where is he?”

  Guenlian led her to the main courtyard, where Torres stood leaning against a statue and contentedly eyeing the maids at work. He straightened up when they approached and greeted Guinevere without any of the coldness he had shown her all winter.

  “I can’t believe you have found him!” he exclaimed. “Is he all right? I sent word to the Lady at once. She should be here soon. Has he spoken yet?”

  “The Lady of the Lake!” Guinevere had heard only that. “She can’t come here!”

  “Why not? She won’t mind. This place is much nicer than Caerleon. She will feel much more at home here. But she won’t stay long, in any case. If we have Lancelot ready when she gets here, she will probably take him and go.”

  “Mother!” Guinevere pleaded. “Say something. We can’t let her do that!”

  Guenlian was trying to take it all in. She did not believe in the irrational. Of course, Geraldus had always brought his singers with him, but she had never seen or heard them. And if the food left for them was gone in the morning, well, it was the same as when children leave a bowl of milk for the fairies. It was always empty by dawn, but who was to say that the cat hadn’t drunk it? But how was she expected to play hostess to an unnatural thing, posing as a woman? Guenlian took a deep breath. This sort of thing did not happen in civilized society. She exhaled. Civilization did seem rather tenuous these days. It was better to prepare for the impossible.