The Chessboard Queen (25 page)

“If she did remember, that would certainly explain her behavior.”

“Perhaps.” Arthur clenched his jaw. “But it is not enough to excuse what she has done to Lancelot.”

He stood abruptly, knocking soot off the wall. Gilli vainly tried to brush it off him.

“Guinevere must be ready to leave within the hour,” Arthur announced. “I am taking her home with me tonight.”

“But it is almost sundown. We would be happy to lodge all of you here. My husband is embarrassed and ashamed of his part in this. He would be honored if you would forgive him and stay, your . . . sir. . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know how to address you.”

“Arthur is my name,” he said tiredly. “You have the right to use it. You are a queen.”

She swept her hand across her hair. On her wedding day they had placed a crown upon her.

“How odd,” she said. “So I am. In this place I had almost forgotten.”

• • •

When Gilli entered, Guinevere was sitting up. She seemed calmer, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

“Has Arthur come for me?” she whispered.

Gilli nodded. “He wants you to dress for travel and come with him at once.”

Guinevere smiled. “Of course. Arthur will take care of me. Does he know what Lancelot did to me? He must realize now how unsuited the man was to be a knight.”

Gilli said nothing more, but her face was worried as she helped Guinevere change her robe and pack her belongings to take home.

Guinevere ran down the steps and straight to Arthur. She flung her arms about him.

“Oh, my dear! I’m so glad you’ve come for me. I knew you would. Oh, Arthur. It was so awful!”

She stopped. Arthur had not moved to embrace her. His face was turned away.

“Arthur,” she quavered. “Arthur? Is something wrong?”

She turned one by one to the others watching. “Gawain? Agravaine? Bedevere? Cei? . . . Merlin?”

No one would answer her. Their expressions ranged from pity to disgust. A chill alit upon her heart. “Arthur, you aren’t . . . angry with me, are you?”

His lips were stiff. “This is not the place for a discussion, Guinevere. We will talk about the matter when we reach Caerleon. Now, come at once. We have been inconvenienced enough because of you.”

Merlin gave a grim smile of appreciation. That was better. He had not needed to interfere. Arthur was beginning to see through her. Soon he would be free from her spell completely. Then the last danger Merlin feared would be gone and he could leave with a clear conscience.

Guinevere gave Arthur a numb stare that wrung his heart. But he could not relent before everyone, so he turned on his heel and marched out, trusting that she was well-bred enough to follow without making a scene. He gave Meleagant no farewell.

They were mounting their horses when someone shouted, “Isn’t that Lancelot’s horse? Where did he come from and who is that with him?”

Clades was being led to them by a scruffy young man. His clothes were torn and greasy, his face streaked with dirt and tears.

Agravaine gaped at him and then moaned. “Oh, God, not Gareth. What in hell are you doing here, boy?”

Gareth stopped, still holding the reins. They all stared at him. Gawain tried to clear away his tiredness enough to focus. Gareth. Why not? During this day he had kept his feet against a malevolent river, walked through ghosts and been left looking like a fool in front of a roomful of strangers. Why shouldn’t his brother pop up out of nowhere, dressed like a kitchen drudge and leading a horse? It rounded out the whole experience nicely. He let his head fall against his horse’s neck and closed his eyes.

Agravaine dismounted and stomped over to his brother. “Why aren’t you at Tintagel? Where did you get that horse and why are you wearing those disgusting clothes?”

“Agravaine!” Gareth pleaded, looking at Arthur.

“What is it? Oh, yes. Sorry, Uncle. I didn’t mean to overstep myself. I just always . . . I mean, well . . . this is my brother, Gareth.”

“I gathered that.” Arthur was relieved for any diversion from attention to Guinevere. “You are doing fine. Now let him answer your questions.”

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?”

“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.”