The Chessboard Queen (12 page)

Rubbing his hands in delight, Arthur returned to his rooms.

“Did you see it, Guinevere? He not only beat Cei, but gave him an advantage, too.”

“It was too windy out to watch, Arthur, but I heard the shouts. I don’t like to see those things. No one was hurt, were they?”

“No, dear. Cei may have a bruise on his side, but he’ll be fine. Lancelot wasn’t even dented.”

“That’s good. It seems a very silly way to judge people’s ability, anyway.”

Arthur gave her a kiss and left. He was not going to try to explain the principle to Guinevere. Every time he got into similar discussions with her he ended up wondering if they were speaking the same language.

He waited in the Hall for several minutes. Sounds from the various other buildings indicated that Camelot was beginning to rise. A head poked through the opening of the door. It was not Lancelot, but Lydia.

“Gawain says to tell you that he won’t come.”

“He won’t come! Why not? I thought that was why he came to Camelot in the first place!”

She entered a little way. “I don’t know, Arthur. Gawain told him that he would welcome him as a knight. But then he and this Lancelot and Constantine started arguing and waving their arms about and I was told to tell you that he felt it was too easy a test and he won’t enter the gates until he has proved himself. What do you want me to do?”

Arthur was not sure. The more he heard of Lancelot, the better he liked him. This man certainly had the right idea. After all, the whole point was that the knights should be a select few of proven ability. Perhaps Lancelot feared that Cei had not been the best man or that he had not been feeling well this morning. He chewed the corner of his lip, a sure sign of perturbation. There was simply too much to do today to waste time sending out one man after another until Lancelot decided that he had shown them what he was worth. Unless. . . . Arthur’s eyes lit up. Why not?

“Lydia, run and tell Constantine that I will send out another man to challenge this stubborn applicant. Then why don’t you go back to bed? You seem a bit pale.”

Lydia went out. When the door closed, she furtively pinched her cheeks. She was a little tired—the aftereffect of the wine—but that was not the reason for her paleness. Cei had been limping when he left the field on Briacu’s arm and no one had as yet bothered to find out if he were all right. If Lancelot had not been so skillful, Cei might have been killed and yet those
men
just sat there commenting idly on the finer points of lance-throwing. As soon as she delivered her message, she was going to put her pride in her pocket and search out someone who could tell her how he was.

• • •

Guinevere heard Arthur again, rummaging around in his old-clothes chest. He looked up when he heard her enter, a guilty, mischievous grin on his face. Then he went back into the huge oaken coffer, tossing cloaks and boots out over his shoulder.

“Arthur, what are you looking for?” She sounded very prim. “You are making a terrible mess.”

“Fidelo can clean it up; he won’t care.” Arthur continued burrowing. “Aha! I knew it hadn’t been discarded!”

He drew out a battered sheath from which emerged an old sword. The hilt was a bit rusty, but the blade was still clean and shining. Arthur cradled it gently with loving remembrance.

“This was my sword before Excalibur. I won it by beating old Ector in a training bout. I don’t know which of us was the more proud.”

“What do you want it for?” Guinevere had seen Lancelot still waiting out on the practice field and she was becoming suspicious.

“Because it has no magic and no fame. Its only power comes from the arm of the man who wields it. I have waited so long to be able to use it again.”

Guinevere felt a chill. “You are not going to meet him yourself!” she exclaimed.

He stared at her, prepared to fight. “Why not? It’s the perfect answer. I can’t risk having my men invalided with broken limbs or shattered lances until Sir-Lancelot-that-will-be decides that he has done enough to finally be worthy of us. However, if he defeats me, he certainly can’t call for a more worthy opponent. At least, I hope not.”

“If he defeats you? Why should he? And what do you think will happen to Britain if you should spend the next six months waiting for a broken leg or a broken head to heal?”

“Thank you, my love. I appreciate your concern. It’s very flattering. Even if I let him knock me down, why should I be hurt? After all, I am a famous warrior. How many men was I supposed to have killed at Mons Badon . . . a hundred? Five hundred? That was eight years ago. Even if I struck down only ten or twelve then, I should be able to hold my own against one man today.”

Guinevere saw that it would be no more use to argue.

“I wasn’t there at Mons Badon. Mark was and he refuses to fight ever again. I will not watch you now. But I will go and be sure there will be a hot bath for you when you return with your muscles sore and your pride bruised. In this humid weather it seems that only the frigidarium has been maintained. And, Arthur, I wish you would talk to someone about the separate facilities for men and women. There has not been much work done on the wall between the rooms.”

When she was gone, Arthur started whistling. She was upset. Maybe she cared for him more than he suspected. He dug out an old helmet with a visor that would cover his face, not that Lancelot would know it. His hair also had to be concealed. He ran his hands through it. Often men had rallied to him at the sight of his red mane above the fray, but now the gray was dulling it. Even more reason to keep it out of sight. It wouldn’t do to have Lancelot think he was being insulted with an old, retired warrior to challenge him. He put the helmet and visor on and wrapped himself in an old brown cloak. He could feel sweat pouring down his face. He remembered the first time he had put it on, full of excitement, to ride with Cei and Ector. They had gone to a muster meant to choose a leader for Britain. He had found Excalibur that day. They had watched in awe as he pulled that sword out of the stone and then replaced it, over and over, until his arm ached and his scalp itched from perspiration. From then on, he was as much a symbol as the sword. He had accepted it, even reached for it, but now, just once more, he wanted to be that boy again, unknown.

He took Briacu’s mare, Nera. She was not as tall as her brother, but more agile. He did not want Lancelot to think he was winning too easily. He grimaced as he mounted. He hoped he could make it look as though Lancelot were not winning too easily.

On the field Torres was growing impatient. He didn’t see why Lancelot could not be satisfied with his win. Sir Cei had fought as well as any man.

“Lancelot,” he complained, “we don’t want to embarrass them. You don’t have to be perfect. Why don’t you go on in and take the oath or whatever they require and then I can get out of this hot, sticky, uncomfortable costume.”

Lancelot smiled at Torres. “Go ahead, you don’t have to stay in that. It is awfully hot, isn’t it? I would have thought the Lady would come up with something cooler. This silk underwear has plastered itself to my skin. I may never peel it off.”

“Let’s both go then. No one is keeping us.”

Just then Lancelot saw the new man riding toward them. This looked interesting: patched cloak, tarnished helmet, a shield with no markings. But the man was tall and powerful and rode with the air of one who led.

“I think, Torres, that our waiting has been worthwhile. Could you go ask him his name?”

Arthur had forgotten that part of the ritual. He stammered. “Name? Of course, I am . . . I am Ector, of Northumbria.”

Torres seemed not to notice the stammering. He went to the center of the field and again gave the signal. The two men advanced.

• • •

Lydia was furious. No one knew anything about Cei, except that he had bathed and gone out again, presumably to his bed. How was she to find that? Her own rooms were in the same building as Guinevere’s and she had never been in anyone else’s quarters. How could they be so thoughtless? He might be seriously injured. Lydia had never given much thought to Cei, except to note that his eyes followed her wherever she went. But when she saw him this morning sent out like a sacrifice to test a new knight, as if his life were of no consequence, all of a sudden he took on new importance. The unmarried soldiers were all supposed to be in this building. She peered in.

It wasn’t much more than one long room, with a hearth at one end. Lining the walls were tables which converted to beds. There were clothes chests underneath. Swords, shields, and other gear were hung on the walls. She did not see anyone, but sensed that the room was occupied. Nervously she entered. A voice from the hearth end of the room made her jump.

“What are you doing here? Arthur allows no women . . . oh, Lydia!”

It was Cei. He had gone to his corner by the fire, a traditional place of rank, although Lydia did not know that. He thought he would be left alone to lick his wounds. His side ached terribly and he hoped he was not bleeding internally. He had seen a man die that way once, from nothing more than a bruise, it seemed. But, of all people, he didn’t want Lydia to see him this way. He tried to rise and gave a quick gasp as his muscles failed to respond.

“No, you mustn’t get up.” Lydia’s voice was soft and caring. “They’ve left you here all alone after you were so brave and strong today, all for their silly entertainment. Please, let me get you something cool to drink. Do you think someone should tend to your side?”

Cei was flustered by her attention and understood little of what she was saying. He had had no experience of the type of woman who cares most about the injured and helpless. He would much rather have seen her when he was a victor. How could he know that she would probably not have noticed him as a winner? Champions needed no one. Hawks could find their own meals. Lydia cared for the sparrows.

She brought him a cup of cool water laced with mint. He forced himself to drink it. She sat by his bed and watched him and then began talking, telling him about her days in Armorica, the family there. Before he knew it, he was sharing his childhood with her, talking about his parents and foster brother, Arthur. By the afternoon they knew each other as if they had been friends all their lives.

• • •

Guinevere had said that she would not watch, but she found that she couldn’t bear to hear the crashes of sword and shield and not know what was going on. She stood at the balcony door, where she was in shadow, and bit her fingernails as the match progressed.

It seemed to her that it would go on forever. Both the men had lost their lances in the first encounter. Now they circled and feinted and swung their swords over and over. She saw no variation in the pattern. She wondered if Arthur had remembered his mail shirt or at least a leather jerkin. Constantine and Agravaine were watching intently. Gawain seemed to be explaining something to Gaheris. Geraldus had joined them and was talking and waving his arms around, too. But whether he was commenting on the match or directing his singers, she couldn’t tell.

She was starting on her thumbnail when, with no warning, Arthur lunged at Lancelot with his sword. His shield dropped by the merest fraction, but Lancelot was there and caught him with the flat of his sword. Arthur tumbled over.

There were cheers from those watching. They raced over to the two men. Arthur was apparently not hurt, for he was standing now and pulling off his helmet. He wiped his brow and grinned up at Lancelot. Guinevere spit out her thumbnail and cursed the lot of them for the worry they caused.

Arthur was glad it was over. Lancelot had missed one opening he had given him and he did not think he could have lasted long enough to give him another. He rubbed the sweat off his neck. This was insane. Autumn was the only sensible time to fight anyone. All other seasons were either too hot, too cold, or too slippery. No wonder the Saxons almost always mounted their major offensives in late September.

“Well, Sir Lancelot. Will you come with me now and have a cold bath and a good meal, or do you insist on carrying this on until we all die of sunstroke?”

Torres dismounted and gratefully removed his helmet. He greeted Arthur.

“Thank you, sir, for saving me. Lancelot and I thought you might be someone important when you first arrived, but we never thought it would be the King. You have my respect, both for your brilliant swordplay and for your diplomatic and unselfish ability in stopping the thing before I was boiled alive.”

“You are more than welcome, Torres. Have you come to be made a knight, too?” Arthur asked.

“No, indeed. I will let Lancelot do that. I just came with him to look around and be of service whenever I might be needed. I have no ambitions.”

“That is a refreshing change,” Gawain said. “Do you think we can get your friend off his horse in time for dinner? I fear we have already missed breakfast.”

“I will talk with him,” Arthur said. “You all go on up. We will follow soon.”

The others went willingly. The day was indeed already too warm for exercise. Arthur walked over to where Lancelot still sat. He lifted his visor as the King neared.

“Well, Lancelot of the Lake, how much of an invitation do you need? I have said that I think you will be a fine knight and have proved it with my body.” He rubbed his hip, where he had landed. “What more do you want?”

Lancelot climbed down. He made a contrast to Arthur, slim and tidy, even after a morning of battle. He was slightly the shorter, but Arthur was not trying to hold himself in military bearing, and they seemed of a height.

“I wonder how old he is,” Arthur thought. “He reminds me of the way I was when I first met Guinevere, so damned unsure of myself that I tried too hard to be correct. Is that his problem?”

Lancelot dropped his gear on the grass.

“Why did you let me win?” he demanded.

“I?” Arthur was shocked. “Why should I let you win? I am the King. Haven’t you been told that I never lose?”

They stood glaring at each other for a full minute and then Arthur’s mouth began to twitch. Lancelot realized that he was being foolish. Here he was face to face with the great King Arthur at last, and he was behaving like a child. He started to grin, too, and all at once they were both laughing and pounding each other on the back as they strolled together up the hill to Camelot.