“What does this Lady eat?” she asked Torres.
• • •
Pincerna, the old butler, had seen many strange and horrible things in his long life. He had survived the loss of his family and the death of two of Guinevere’s brothers. He remembered the years of Vortigern and the slaughter of the kings. But during the past few years he had lulled himself into a comfortable, quiet routine. The last forces of magic, as far as he was concerned, had died with Flora, Guinevere’s old nurse. It eased his final years to think that the inexplicable was vanishing from the earth. Therefore, he was outraged to witness the arrival of the Lady of the Lake, Adon, and Nimuë in a slow, shimmering manifestation in the center of the courtyard. It was with furious dignity that he announced them to Guenlian.
“Some people, my Lady, have arrived.” He gave the statement every shade of doubt he could.
Guenlian smiled. “Thank you, Pincerna. They will wish to see Sir Lancelot at once. Conduct them to his room. If they wish to see me later, I shall be in my chambers.”
The Lady did indeed want to see Lancelot immediately. Since word had come of his disappearance, she had been impossible to live with. Guilt and worry made her exceedingly intolerant of anything but finding him. She was furious with herself. How could she have let him go among such beings, poor innocent child? What had they done to him? What kind of beasts were they?
Lancelot was sleeping in his room when they arrived. The long afternoon had almost gone when they entered and only his outline could be made out.
“He seems the same,” the Lady whispered. “Are you sure he knows nothing of himself at all?”
“So all my sources say,” Adon replied. “He is like a child again, simple and unaware. Can you cure him?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I’m not sure, though, that I should.”
She knelt by the bed. “Lancelot,” she called, “Lancelot! My precious.”
His eyes opened, but no recognition brightened them.
The Lady sighed. “Not even me. I somehow hoped he would at least remember me. Nimuë! Fetch the herbs and some wine. Hurry, girl. Don’t forget you’re here on sufferance!”
She busied herself in the preparations. A brazier was brought and placed near Lancelot’s head. The wine soon bubbled, sending out its alcohol. As the steam rose, the Lady threw herbs into the liquid, all the while chanting arcane rhyme. Lancelot coughed and shook his head, struggling to free himself from the fumes.
“No!” he cried. “I didn’t mean that! Stop it! Don’t laugh at me! No!” He clapped his hands over his ears.
The Lady covered his hands with hers. “Lancelot? Do you know me, dear?”
His head sank back onto the pillow. The muscles of his face tensed, as if he were straining against some great force. His eyes opened. He blinked several times, unable to focus. Then he saw the Lady.
“Lancelot?” Her voice was tremulous. “It’s all right now. I never should have sent you away from me. I never will again. I’ve come to take you home.”
His eyes filled. He closed them again. A long moment passed before he spoke. “Do you know all of it, Lady? I have failed in everything. I tried to be perfect and showed myself a pompous fool, instead. I could not make her like me. They all laughed at me, all but Arthur.”
“They are not worth your regret,” she snapped. “If I had remembered how wicked humans are, I would have kept you with me no matter how you begged. Forget them all. Torres is here, and Adon and Nimuë are with me. All of us will take you back home.”
Lancelot took a deep breath and sat up. The Lady took his hand, smiling possessively. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He glanced over her shoulder and his face lit up as though reflecting the dawn. At first the Lady thought the look was for her and her heart leaped. Then she twisted around to see what had caused him to react so.
There in the doorway stood Guinevere. She hesitated at the sight of the strange people. One look at Lancelot and she knew he had been cured.
“He will be angry with me,” she thought. “But he has the right. I must face him before he goes.”
When she saw him smile, she returned it without thinking. He didn’t blame her! On an impulse, she reached her hands out to him. As if the Lady had vanished, he brushed past her and went to Guinevere. She took a step back, but he caught her hands and pulled her toward him. She had meant to apologize, to welcome him back, but all the speeches were washed away as she gripped his hands and gazed straight into his eyes.
“I’m not afraid anymore,” she said.
“I’m glad,” he answered.
They stood, smiling idiotically at each other, and they might have remained there indefinitely if the Lady had not interrupted. Outraged, she grabbed Guinevere’s arm and yanked her away. Lancelot tried to restrain her.
“Lady, please! This is Guinevere. You mustn’t treat her like that!”
“I know very well who she is,” the Lady said angrily. “This is the spoiled, scheming little bitch who nearly sent you to your death. I’ve heard a lot more about her than she’d care to have known. Certainly her looks aren’t what I’d expect from the tales, but age does mount up on a human. Don’t waste your Christian claptrap forgiveness on her. She has no soul, nor heart, either. Send her back to her poor husband for him to deal with, and forget her. Come along!”
The moment she had completed her speech, the Lady realized that she had made the worst mistake of her limitless life. Guinevere and Lancelot were holding hands again and staring at her, mouths agape. Guinevere’s cheeks were red and she was breathing quickly, but her demeanor was not of guilt, but rather dumbfounded confusion. The same emotion was on Lancelot’s face.
“I never knew you could be so vitriolic, Lady.” He spoke with sorrow. “Forgive her, Guinevere. She is not like us.”
Us! In that one word, the Lady knew she had lost. How could she have blundered so! She had come so close. All the years of trouble and patience ruined! He was in love with that woman. How could she have been so stupid! It was Lancelot’s capacity for loving that had endeared him to her and yet she had not even considered it in her plans for his sexual education. Oh, why could he not have been like Torres! She knew the answer to that. If he had not been what he was, she would not have wanted him so badly.
The Lady looked down. Lancelot still held Guinevere’s hand. When they saw how she was staring, they each dropped the other’s hold and put both hands behind their backs, like guilty children. She clenched her teeth in exasperation. It was hopeless for now.
“Twice, Lancelot, I have given you life.” She confronted him. “You will have only one more chance from me. That is three more than I have ever given anyone. When you see me again, it will be for the last time in your mortal existence. Don’t forget.”
She swept out of the room with an imperious gesture, followed by Adon and Nimuë. Guinevere stared after her.
“What in the world was she talking about? Why was she so angry? She didn’t even give me a chance to thank her!”
Lancelot started to take her hand again and then thought better of it.
“I have hurt her,” he tried to explain. “I wish I could be what she wants. I love her dearly. She is the only mother I ever knew.”
Guinevere did not think that “mother” was a word anyone would use for a woman who managed constantly to look a sultry twenty-four. But she was oddly pleased that Lancelot thought of her that way.
Lancelot wanted to know what had happened to him, where he had been, and for how long. But there was no point in spoiling his reunion with Guinevere in unhappy discussion. Someone else would help him fill in the unaccounted-for time. His body felt good, stronger than before. Someone had taken care of him. He cringed at the thought of how helpless he must have been.
Guinevere smiled at him again, a trifle shyly. “Will you ever forgive me for the way I have treated you?” She stumbled over the words. She meant them and that made them harder to say.
Lancelot winced. He w
ould rather not be reminded of his pride and how foolish he had been. Guinevere misinterpreted the movement.
“Of course not. I understand. I had hoped . . . but it is too much to ask. I have been very selfish and stupid. But please, don’t abandon Arthur on account of what I’ve done to you. He needs you very much.”
“Oh, no! I mean, I would never leave Arthur, as long as he wants me.”
“That’s good.” She turned to go. “I would never want my childish behavior to hurt him.”
“Wait.” He caught her by the shoulder and spun her around. Tears made her eyes seem as gray as the winter sea. “I can’t forgive you because there is nothing to forgive. It was my own stubbornness and idiocy that caused me to . . . to be hurt. I wanted to be a perfect man. That would drive anyone mad, I suppose. That’s not the way to be human, is it?”
Guinevere knew as little about being human as he did, but she nodded agreement.
“We could try to forget the mistakes we made with each other,” he continued. “We could try again and this time perhaps we can be friends?”
“Oh, yes,” she agreed.
If anyone had pointed it out, they might have thought it odd that dawn came so soon after sunset that day. Anyone with an observing eye might have doubted then that friendship was the extent of their feelings. Fortunately, the only person who saw them was Torres.
“Lancelot! I passed the Lady thundering out to the courtyard. From her face, I assumed that she had failed to cure you. What did you say to her? Never mind. You can tell me about it later. It’s good to have you back!” He stopped talking long enough to give Lancelot an exuberant slap on the back. “Anyway, we have to get the Lady to have Clades brought here at once. I gather we’re going to fight with Arthur. She could probably transport us directly to him, but from the look on her face, I’d say we’d be safer on horseback. How are you feeling? You look all right. Well, come on. If we want to be in this, there’s no time to waste.”
He pulled Lancelot off with him, too bewildered to protest. As Guinevere was about to follow them, she was distracted by a hissing sound from behind the door.
“Psst! Here! Over here!”
Nimuë had not left with the Lady, after all, but had hidden behind the door to Lancelot’s room. She had thought they would never stop talking. It had been her hope to catch Lancelot or Torres alone, but she would have to make do with this woman. The Lady would be looking for her soon.
“You, girl, ma’am, whatever you are, come here!” She beckoned frantically to Guinevere.
“What do you want?”
Nimuë drew her back into the room. Her voice lowered. “Do you know a man named Merlin? He is tall and beautiful with a brown and gray beard.”
“Merlin?” Beautiful? Guinevere was afraid she had another lunatic on her hands.
“Yes, Merlin. You don’t seem very bright. It’s a pity and I’m sorry for you, but I don’t have time and I must get help. Can you take a message to him?”
“To Merlin?”
“Yes! Why do you keep repeating what I say? Oh dear, there must be someone more intelligent around. It’s not your fault, I’m sure, but can you direct me to Torres?”
“No, wait.” Guinevere was more than annoyed at being called half-witted. “I know Merlin very well; he is my mother’s cousin. I have no idea why you want to contact him, but I will see that he gets your message. What is it?”
Nimuë had no choice. She still doubted Guinevere’s mental ability, but she would have to take the chance. Quickly she removed a large emerald ring from her hand and thrust it on Guinevere’s middle finger.
“Give him this,” she said carefully, trying to be as clear as possible. “Let no one else have it. Tell him . . . tell him that Nimuë has found a way. That’s all. I have found a way. Can you remember that?”
“Of course,” Guinevere retorted. “But a way to what? Don’t you want to tell him more?”
Nimuë shook her head. “He’ll know.”
“Nimuë!” The call was piercingly clear and yet Guinevere seemed to hear it more with her mind than her ears. It was almost painful.
Nimuë thought so, too. She flinched as if struck and immediately began running toward the call.
“Don’t forget!” she pleaded over her shoulder as she ran. “The ring! He must have it. It’s our only chance!” She disappeared outside.
Guinevere looked at the ring. There was a flickering blue fire hiding in its green depths. She stood watching it a few moments. The last few hours had left her feeling rather storm-blown and she needed time to settle herself.
“Guinevere.” Rhianna’s voice was too soft to be intrusive. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Guinevere drew herself back to reality and took her sister-in-law’s arm. “Lancelot is well again. Have you seen him?”
“He and that Torres rushed by me a few minutes ago. I didn’t speak to them. Your mother sent me to find you. Guinevere, who were all those people? Letitia will be talking about it for months. Did you see them appear? It was like a sudden mist that shaped itself into people. And when they vanished! On the spot where they stood there is now a huge white horse with silver trappings and a helmet decked with ostrich plumes across its saddle. You must come with me now. If you don’t see it, you’ll think I’m crazy.”
• • •
Arthur laid his hands upon the Round Table, trying to draw strength from it before he spoke. Around it, in the smudged light from the torches, stood fifty men. Some of their names had already been recorded on the wood and some hoped for that honor. Two spaces remained empty; one was the strange siege perillieux and the other said, sir Lancelot. Arthur looked at the men. They were all good fighters, he thought, or would be. Some had never been tried and some, like Ector and Leodegrance, had not wielded sword or spear for twenty years. He did not like to ask the old ones to force themselves the way they would have to during the next few days, but he knew they would not be left behind. He thought they would endure. Anger and grief would drive them.
Finally he addressed them. “This cannot be a battle as in the early days of the invasions. Then, when no king betrayed us, we could take them by surprise. They had no idea of how to fight a man on horseback. They know us better now and we can defeat them only if they are taken unawares, unable to choose the battle site. Therefore, we must catch them in the open, where they can take no shelter. Aelle is helping us in this. I had expected him to retreat at once to his hall and barricade himself. But our spies say that he is still on the move. The rumor is that his son, Ecgfrith, has been expelled and that Aelle is adopting his nephews, especially Cissa, as his heirs. That means he needs to show them everywhere.”
The faces before him showed little interest. They did not care who led the Saxons or what strange customs they had. They were barbarians who had invaded and murdered and who must be destroyed. Arthur tried to work himself into that frame of mind, too. But sometimes he felt an odd sympathy for Aelle. How much did the old man control the rest of the Saxons? Did they doubt him or question him openly as some of Arthur’s men did? Did Aelle worry about the future of his people? Did he ever imagine them settling down and farming or building towns or was his vision limited to an eternity of conquest? The prospect of spending the rest of his life countering the raids of the invaders made Arthur’s heart sink. But about this battle, there was no choice. His only hope was that it would be over quickly and without too great a loss. The men were awaiting their orders. Arthur continued.
“Therefore, if we are to defeat Aelle, our strength will be in the speed and agility of the horses and in men who can keep their seats no matter what. I won’t take a man who can’t do this. Tomorrow we will set up a trial which everyone, including me, will run. My horsemaster, Briacu, has designed it. Briacu! Where is that man? I thought I made it clear that he was to be here.”
“I am here, my Lord.” A shadow detached itself from the wall and moved into the light.
Arthur beckoned him closer. “What were you hid
ing for? I can never find you. Do the horsemasters in Armorica spend all their time in the stables?”
“No, sir. They are honored and sit at the Lord’s table.”
“Then why have I never seen you there?”
Caet had no answer. It had not occurred to him to take what he knew to be his right. What had he been waiting for? Some glorious moment, he supposed, that would never come.
Arthur had no time for a long explanation. When Caet did not answer, he went on.
“Unless the company of men is offensive to you, I will expect to find you sharing our food at Caerleon this winter. Now, every man here must be responsible for his own horse. If you are unseated, unless you can remount, we must consider you lost. Briacu will bring a few fresh horses for those who manage to get away on wounded animals. Remember, unless we can attack, sweep through them, and be away in a matter of minutes, we will have lost the edge.”
“Sir?” Caet interrupted. “In Armorica, it is also the custom for the horsemaster to go into battle with his lord and not wait in the rear like a snot-nosed stableboy.”
He glared at the men at the Table, expecting a rebuttal, but there was none. With a shock, Caet met the eyes of his old master, Leodegrance. He stiffened, expecting to be denounced as a runaway, a lowborn impostor. But the old man’s face only showed amusement. Leodegrance smiled at him and nodded with pride. Arthur laughed and stated to the group at large, “It seems my horsemaster is finally getting enough oats to make him rear. It’s about time. Very well. Will you ride with me or do you prefer to be in the lead?”
The Chessboard Queen Page 25
