The Chessboard Queen (33 page)

Arthur’s eyes were widening in the dark. He could make out shadows and spaces. Looking down, he could tell where the practice field met the woods beyond. The evening was starlit and still. He felt himself lulled into a sense of peace by the silence. So when the rider appeared from beneath the trees, silver glinting from his bridle and white plumes waving, he accepted it as part of the magic. Slowly he realized what he was seeing. He froze, wondering if Lancelot had died and come back to haunt him. The rider stopped and signalled to someone behind him. Torres rode out into the field and Arthur knew it was real. There was nothing ethereal about Torres.

“All the same,” he breathed, “it must be a miracle.”

Then, forgetting about the men slumbering below, Arthur cupped his hands and hollered at the top of his voice. “Lancelot! Lancelot!”

The plumes shook as the helmet was removed. Arthur waved with both arms and Lancelot swung the helmet around his head in delighted reply. A moment later he was galloping around to the entrance to the maze and Arthur was racing to unbolt the gates himself. They met forcefully, Lancelot almost knocking Arthur down as he leaped from Clades to greet the King. Arthur did not care. He needed solid reassurance that Lancelot was truly there.

“Where did you come from?” he panted. “Are you all right? Will you come with us tomorrow?”

Torres answered first. “Guinevere found him and sent for me. We’ll tell you the whole story if you’ll only find me a jug of wine.”

Lancelot grinned. “I haven’t missed it, then? Torres told me what happened. Tell me where you want me to ride. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I want you at my left hand, my friend,” Arthur assured him. “You haven’t missed anything. The battle has not yet begun, but, now that you are with us, there is no doubt we will win.”

Chapter Eighteen

More than a week had passed since Lancelot and Torres had left. No word of any kind had come back from the outside world. Guenlian followed the vernal rituals as usual, pausing occasionally in her work to instruct Letitia, always near her. Watching them, Guinevere realized how little she had ever learned of those necessary homely rites and, after the first day, she began to follow the lessons, too. It was comforting to know that some things were constant, even though somewhere men might be dying and killing. She noted that, instead of making the worn cloths into rags, Guenlian ordered that they be rolled into bandages.

They ate without ceremony in Guenlian’s rooms, since Leodegrance was gone. Dinner was followed by sewing and the reading of devotional works. As she took her turn reading, Guinevere had to resist the urge to pause at an unfamiliar word and wait. Tenuantius had always explained them to her. Because he had been a holy man, Guinevere felt no grief for him, only for the change his going had made. He had always longed to ask the definitive question, to read from an uncorrupted text. She had no doubt that God would make him welcome. He had baffled her with his intelligence, but his piety had been simple and certain.

As she read, Guinevere also worried about her mother. She had never before seen Guenlian without Leodegrance nearby. The days of fleeing and fighting in which her father had participated were over before her memories began. One by one, the people she loved were slipping away. What would Guenlian do if she were left here alone? What if Leodegrance did not come back?

“Darling,” her mother’s voice prompted her. “I believe you skipped a passage there. Perhaps St. Ambrose on the Holy Spirit is too philosophical before bed. Letitia has been memorizing some Vergil. Would you like to say it for us, dear?”

Guinevere rolled up the scroll with relief and tied it carefully. Tenuantius’ marginal notes, precise and clear, reminded her of his passing all too vividly—someone else she had not appreciated enough to thank.

She was seized by a need to go to her mother and hug her and she obeyed it.

“Why, Guinevere!” Guenlian was surprised but delighted. As a child, Guinevere had not been demonstrative. Guenlian could say no more, as Letitia was still reciting, but she sat up on her couch and wrapped an arm about Guinevere’s waist, to keep her near.

Letitia finished and Rhianna took her away to prepare for bed. Guenlian released her daughter, laughing.

“You must be missing Arthur, dear.”

“No, Mother,” Guinevere answered. “I mean, yes, of course. I miss him. But I was thinking of you. Won’t you come to Camelot with us this summer? Arthur wants to have proper entertainment this year, not just tumblers and bawdy singers, but real drama and proper historians and poets to tell of the past and write the story of Britain. And there will be all sorts of people there. We get traders from as far as Marseilles now.”

“You make it sound very appealing, dear. I don’t mind tumblers and bawdy singers. It has been some time since I have been to an entertainment that made me laugh. Yes, I would enjoy that. But I cannot decide anything until your father comes home. He is busy here in the summer. There are only a few of us in the house now, but more people are coming back to the lands about here and they look to him for advice and judgment. It may not be possible for us to get away, but it is kind of you to ask.”

“Mother, we have heard nothing all week.” Guinevere bit her tongue.

“No, dear, we haven’t and it is unlikely that a message will come tonight, so we may as well go to sleep. Don’t worry. I learned years ago that there is no point in it. You may, however, pray.”

“Yes, Mother. Good night.”

Two days later the messenger arrived, almost breaking down the gate in his impatience. It was Aulan, one of the horsemen Leodegrance had taken with him.

“Hurry!” he cried to the guard. “They are just behind me!”

The guard let him in at once. Guenlian came running.

“Who is behind you? Are the Saxons upon us? Letitia, have someone fetch Aulan a cup of water so that he can tell us.”

“Lord Leodegrance!” Aulan panted. “He was hurt in the fighting. He insisted on being brought home. He follows with Sir Gawain.”

Aulan pointed down the road. There were two horses past the bend, pacing slowly, almost touching. One rider was slumped over and held up by the other. Guenlian did not wait to give orders. She raced down the hill, wading the stream without even lifting her skirts. Guinevere started to go after her, but was stopped by Rhianna.

“We must get bandages and potions and herbs from the cupboard. Help me, Guinevere. We must have it ready for him. Fiona!” she called to a maid. “Fetch warm water and cloths!”

Gawain and Guenlian eased Leodegrance to the ground and carried him to his bed.

“It is not as bad as it looks,” Gawain reassured her. “He has a deep slash on his hip and leg and he is worn from too much exertion and loss of blood. The others have gone to Camelot, but he would go nowhere but home.”

“Of course,” Guenlian answered. “Where else should he be?”

She knelt over her husband. He seemed unconscious but his breathing was deep and even. She removed the bandages from his leg. The wound was long and ugly, but had bled freely, the blood taking any poison with it. He would survive.

“Gawain, help me undress him and then see to yourself. I know what to do. This is not the first scratch he has brought for me to tend.”

Gawain hunted up Guinevere, who gave him a better welcome. She hugged him despite his coating of dust and gave him food and wine before she asked any questions. When he had eaten, she demanded that he tell her everything.

“Everything? Guinevere, for the first time in my life, I am tired before sundown. Do you know how many nights I have slept on horseback to be able to join this expedition? To tell you the truth, I’m not sure anyone knows all that happened, except maybe Arthur or Merlin. We were divided into groups, you see, and attacked Aelle from all sides at once. It was too thick to see what was going on elsewhere. We had to keep fending off the swords and axes, so we couldn’t look much farther than our own horses. God! I hope never to have to do that again! It’s no way for a man to fight. I could stand anything but the screams of those horses as their legs were chopped from under them.”

He shuddered. So did Guinevere.

“I don’t need to hear about that, Gawain. Is Arthur all right? Is . . . is Lancelot?”

“Them? Oh, yes!” Gawain grinned. “What a team! I wish I could have sat and watched them. No one will ever laugh at those feathers of Lancelot’s again. He can wear the whole chicken on his head if he always fights like that! Amazing! We did well enough. Aelle got away somehow, though, and Cissa. I suspect they stole horses. Not all Saxons fear them. Ecgfrith is dead, and good riddance. Now, have I told you enough? May I go and play in your baths?”

“Yes, Gawain, but this time do it alone. Mother was terribly shocked by all the giggles she heard when you were here last.”

“Guinevere, your mother has never been shocked in her life. But I’m far too tired to do anything more than soak. See that dinner is early tonight and very filling.”

By evening Leodegrance was awake and more comfortable. Guenlian refused to leave him. He tried to laugh at her solicitude.

“You needn’t hold on to me so, my love. I’m not going anywhere. You were good to let the old warrior have one more battle, but I assure you it is my last. That leg cut doesn’t bother me half as much as the ache in my shoulder muscles. I had forgotten how wearying swinging a sword was. Didn’t I once say we should find time for philosophy? It is a good hobby for an old man, since the ultimate answer will arrive soon.”

“There is enough to keep you busy without retiring to your books yet,” Guenlian retorted. “I won’t be placed with the aged for some time and neither will you. But if you need mental stimulation, I’ll let your granddaughter bring her studies to you. Now, get some sleep. If you want anything, I’ll be here.”

Leodegrance caressed her shoulder. “That offer, my dear, will keep me young forever.”

Guinevere looked in an hour later to find Guenlian sound asleep, curled up on the floor, her hand still clasped in her husband’s. She stared at them a long time, a queer jealous ache in her heart. Then she gently placed a blanket over her mother and tiptoed out.

The next morning, when she was sure Leodegrance would recover, Guinevere went to Gawain and asked him to take her back to Camelot with him.

“I know Arthur decreed there should be no women there this year, but that was before Lancelot was found. I want to go home, Gawain. When can we leave?”

“Whenever you like, Guinevere. I’ll risk Arthur’s wrath.”

They decided not to send word that they were coming. When they arrived, the guard told them that Arthur and Lancelot were over at the chapel, checking on the building. Gawain went first and distracted them and then Guinevere ran up from behind and put her hands over Arthur’s eyes, laughing.

He whipped around and caught her in his arms, kissing her over and over while she laughed.

“I’m staying here with you, Arthur, all summer and all winter, whether you like it or not,” she stated.

Arthur held her against him so tightly that he nearly crushed her. He knew he should make some sort of banter, but all he could think of was that she was there willingly and that she wanted to stay. He didn’t see her face change as she looked over his shoulder at Lancelot or see him quickly look away, but Gawain did and filed it in his mind as something he must ponder.

With Guinevere’s arrival, all Arthur’s and Merlin’s carefully laid plans for the summer melted. If the Queen was there, other wives saw no reason why they should stay away and many of the richer lords decided that this time of victory was appropriate for them to gather up their households to pay their respects to the High King. There were so many that they had to put up tents between the buildings for the overflow. Flags and pennants fluttering from the tent poles added to the air of continual festivity. The confluence of so many wealthy people also drew an array of merchants, traders, magicians, and entertainers, some from as far away as Iberia. Every evening there was juggling or dancing or storytelling or sleight of hand. Some nights all were performed. Guinevere sparkled among such surroundings. She excelled at being beautiful and gracious. Many visitors left with only a vague idea of who Arthur was or what he was doing, but with a radiant, golden image of Guinevere as the central figure in a renascence of the good life.

Arthur found it easy to arrange his plans and to convince the lords and the leaders of the towns, who were beguiled by the gaiety of Camelot, to support him with tithes and men. He convinced them, too, to allow him to send emissaries back with them. One by one, the knights left to take up their duties across Britain. They were armed with authority from Camelot and primed by Arthur to serve the people they were among as well as to honor his orders. He had chosen them well, he believed, but this was the test. If the plan worked, he could truly say that there was again a central government in Britain and that it rested in him. It was the greatest step he had yet taken toward carving out a society that would endure long after he was gone.

Guinevere was not concerned about the future. She was free to enjoy the summer, to play in the courtyards, to watch the knights practice for her amusement. Lancelot and Arthur stopped to watch her one day before they went to meet a delegation of monks seeking royal protection. She was playing a game with Gawain in which a wooden ball was thrown and caught in woven baskets with long handles.

“Gawain is using less than a tenth of his strength,” Arthur commented. “He always seems to know how much to use so that she isn’t hurt.”

“They have known each other a long time,” Lancelot replied. His eyes were wistful.

“Almost since childhood. They were fostered together.”

“I suppose that is why he can treat her so casually. He never appears to worry about looking like a fool before her.” Arthur nodded. They watched the game in silence for a few minutes. Then Arthur shook himself.

“Never mind,” he said. “What we need to worry about now are those monks. Don’t be put off by their robes, Lancelot. Their abbot is a shrewd man. He has four or five sons and is keen on amassing enough money to leave the abbotship to one of them and still have enough left over to start the others off well. We want him to support his family out of his own purse and not make the honest brothers sweat for him.”