The Chessboard Queen (39 page)

The room was silent with anticipation as she entered, as if the air had suddenly been drawn from it. Torres’ jaw dropped when he saw her. He knew Morgause must be at least ten years older than Arthur, but she looked fifteen younger. Where was the powerful witch that Gawain, even Gawain, feared so? Morgause was tiny, almost frail, with big, dark, trusting eyes. Those eyes roved about the room, sliding over Torres as if he did not exist. He came to with a shock. God! To think he could have been taken in by a pose after being raised under the Lake! This was a woman he would not wish to cross! He mentally apologized to Gawain.

Morgause stood in the center of the room, her guards beside her, and Elaine, with Galahad in her arms, trailing behind. She waited in absolute stillness to be announced and for Arthur to rise and greet her. There were several men at the high table, but she knew him at once.

“Yes,” she gloated. “He is Uther’s scum, no one could doubt it. He has the same air, the same arrogant tilt to his head. Not quite as dissipated, but that will come. Perhaps I can hasten it a bit.”

As Arthur stood, he felt her gaze riveted on him and a great weariness seized him. His hand grasped the back of his chair. His head spun.

“I must be catching Guinevere’s ague,” he thought in alarm. Involuntarily, he glanced up toward her rooms, as if his thoughts could pass through the walls to her. The dizziness passed.

“Welcome, sister.” He held out his hands to her. “It is to my sorrow that we have lived so long unknown to each other. I welcome you to Caerleon with great gladness.”

Morgause bowed. “It is I who am to blame for not coming to you sooner. If you are King of all Britain, then I am your subject and owe you my allegiance.”

Arthur ignored her qualification as he came to her and led her to a place of honor at his side. The guards took their places at the table behind her and that left Elaine exposed to the eager inspection of the court. She clutched her child to her in a gesture that seemed to be more for her protection than his. She was small and dark and pretty in a garden-violet sort of way. More than one heart felt pity for her, so clearly lost and frightened. Morgause seated herself, accepted some wine, and then seemed to remember the girl.

“Oh, yes,” she said as calmly as if continuing an older conversation, “I wrote to you about Elaine, but received no satisfactory answer. So, I brought her with me. We should settle this soon. Elaine, give Arthur the baby.”

Holding the baby even more tightly, Elaine crept forward.

“He is not going to hurt it, my dear. Just show him,” Morgause coaxed. She added to Arthur, “We want you to see how much he resembles his father. There really should be no doubt about it, especially under the circumstances. Poor Elaine has been much wronged. Look at them both. Then I want you to see that your Sir Lancelot legally recognizes his son.”

Cups were set down carefully and whining children hushed as Arthur took the bundle into his arms. Before looking at it, he gestured for Lancelot to stand beside him.

Lancelot held out his arms. “I will hold him, Arthur, so that you may see us together and judge.”

“It won’t make any difference,” Arthur muttered. “No child that age can name his sire.” But he gave Lancelot the baby.

Gingerly Lancelot lifted the blanket from over Galahad’s face. Being moved from arm to arm had caused him to stir and he yawned mightily and woke. He stared in solemn wisdom at Lancelot for a full minute while the hall held its collective breath and then Galahad opened his mouth and gave a resonant belch.

Lancelot broke into laughter and everyone else joined him. Her cheeks flaming, Elaine rushed to take him back.

“He fell asleep as I fed him,” she explained, “and he usually needs to—”

Lancelot gave her a hard stare that stopped her chatter. He looked from her to the baby and back again. Then he shook his head.

“How could this wonder have come from such as you?” he said in disgust.

She recoiled as if struck and snatched Galahad away. Morgause’s face had shown no emotion during the episode. She turned to Lancelot.

“Do you deny the child, sir?” she asked.

The laughter halted. Gawain leaned forward. Couldn’t someone keep Lancelot from speaking? “Don’t!” he pleaded silently.

Lancelot drew himself up. “I do not deny him, Lady.” He spoke so firmly that even Morgause was astonished and somewhat daunted. “But I do deny that woman. You and she bewitched me and I will not acknowledge her. You say this is my son. Then give him to me. I will see that he is raised far away from your evil.”

Morgause rose in her chair, ready to fly at Lancelot. Her nails seemed to grow longer as they reached for his face. Lancelot watched her without interest. As she lunged at him, he caught her and spun her around, into the arms of Agravaine and Gareth.

“There, Aunt Morgause,” Agravaine soothed. “You’re in Arthur’s court now. Please don’t embarrass the family here. Gareth, perhaps our aunt would like to go to her room. The journey was a long one and she must be tired.”

Gareth took her arm with a frightened smile. Morgause swore under her breath at them, but allowed herself to be escorted away. Elaine and the guards, who hadn’t moved at all, went after them. Quickly the hall emptied as people decided to take their discussions of the matter elsewhere. When they had gone, Arthur exhaled in relief and motioned Lancelot to sit beside him. He poured himself some more wine.

“Do you really think the boy is yours?”

“Yes.” Lancelot could not get over his amazement. “He has my chin, I think.”

“The cleft is unmistakable. But that is not proof.”

“There is more. I was afraid to look at him at first; I could not stand to see my features blended with that woman’s. But, Arthur, he shows no sign of her. Do you think it could be possible? It might be her punishment. God would not let a child suffer for its mother’s wickedness.”

“I don’t know, Lancelot. Theology is beyond me. You could ask the bishop when you see him again. It doesn’t sound likely.”

“I want to get him away from Morgause. How can I do that?”

“I could offer to take him on as a fosterling, but not for some time yet. He is not even weaned. I take it you will not marry Elaine.”

Lancelot pounded his fist on the table. “Never. That’s what they want. Would you foster him?”

“Gladly, if Guinevere doesn’t object. Do you want me to ask her?”

Their eyes met for a moment and Lancelot’s dropped.

“Thank you, Arthur. But Galahad is my son. I will have to ask her myself.”

“Wait, then. She is not well now. You know how this will hurt her?”

“Arthur?” He could not read the King’s face. “Yes, I know. I will be very careful of her.”

“I expect you to be. She is my wife and I love her.”

When Arthur had gone, Lancelot eased himself onto a bench. His knees were shaking. Had Arthur just told him to stay away from Guinevere or given him permission to be near her? What had he said? He pondered it all afternoon before he was forced to conclude that Arthur had simply told him that the decision was his own. He was not to hurt Guinevere, but how was he to keep from hurting Arthur?

Contrary to Risa’s prediction, Guinevere did not recover at once. Her fever left soon, but she stayed in bed. Risa, who had to bring her meals and untangle her hair, soon grew tired of it.

“Are you going to keep Christmas from your bedroom?” she demanded one day. “You mean to hide in here until the woman and her baby are gone, don’t you?”

“Don’t be silly,” Guinevere snapped. “Can’t you see that I’m sick?”

Risa had long since abandoned any pretense of servile behavior with her mistress. They had been together too long for that.

“I see it very well and you won’t get any better until you face up to it. Lancelot has claimed the child, not the mother. She means nothing to him. And it shouldn’t matter to you in any case. How do you think Arthur feels? He’s had to eat all of his meals with that awful sister of his. It’s time for you to stop this moping and think about him for a change.”

“Risa!” Guinevere screamed, throwing a cushion at her. “Get out of here! Leave me alone! Don’t come back until I send for you!”

By herself, Guinevere wept into her pillow and admitted that Risa was right. She could not face Elaine, who had at least had Lancelot, however she had got him. But most of all, she did not want to see the child. They didn’t understand. It was not just that Lancelot had fathered him—although that didn’t make the situation any easier—but that he had done so without even trying, without even a modicum of love or caring. She could not bear it: the pity, the stares, the renewed whispers. She yanked the pillow over her head. She was being a coward. What must Arthur be feeling? Everyone, it seemed, had a son but them. What was wrong? If neither love nor perseverance nor honesty were needed to produce offspring, why had this been denied them?

Finally, she got up and dressed. She had to be sure. Perhaps Arthur had been right the first time and this infant was the product of a liaison of Elaine’s that had nothing to do with Lancelot. It was nothing but a hoax. The sun was almost gone for the day and everyone would be in the hall eating. Arthur had wanted to put Morgause and Elaine far from them, but the only rooms appropriate to their station were beneath hers. This was the only time she might get in unseen. She had to try.

At the top of the stairs she waited while the nurse spoke a minute with one of the serving women.

“He’s sleeping at last, poor love. I must have walked that room for hours. Teething again, you know. He’s quite worn out now. I’m going to get myself a bite. Coming along?”

Guinevere held her breath as the two women gossiped down the hall. Then she silently slipped into the room.

In the center, elevated like an altar, stood the crib. There was no sound from within it. Was the baby there at all? Guinevere panicked. Was he dead? She forgot her hesitation and rushed over to be sure that the child still breathed. The blanket had slipped over his face, so that only the tip of a finger and a wisp of golden hair shone in the lamplight. She stopped cold, both wanting and fearing to lift the cover. At last her hand inched toward him. Her fingers were hovering above his head when he suddenly jerked in his sleep, his arms flailing in powerless self-defense. His eyes opened wide and he stared at her in uncaring wonder. Guinevere fought the sob in her throat.

“Oh my Lord,” she whispered. A terrible ache filled her soul. “He has Lancelot’s own eyes, his chin! It must be; it is his son.”

She wanted to hate this monster, this intrusion, this flaunting of her emptiness. She wanted to throw him from her. She leaned above him. But he was beautiful, radiant, a golden star blazing at noon. Every irrational part of her begged her to take him in her arms. She bent closer and breathlessly stroked his cheek. It was silky and warm. She waited in fear. He would shriek at her, a stranger. They would hear him and find her there. They might accuse her of trying to hurt him or, even worse, divine her reason for being with him and pity her. But she could not stop herself. With infinite gentleness she gathered him up against her body and pressed her lips to the hollow of his neck. She startled him and he stiffened. She very softly kissed the tip of his tiny nose. A length of her hair fell across his face and he laughed and pulled at it in delight. His tugging reached to her heart as something inside her crumpled and she began to cry hopelessly and steadily.

“You are nothing of Elaine,” she told him fiercely. “Nothing. She may have carried you, borne you. But there is no part of her in your soul. Her dark, weak, sallow body was a clay pot, unfit to hold you. You are my child, Lancelot’s and mine. It was his love for me that conceived you. You have my hair, my skin, and I claim you for my own. However long that woman keeps you, she may never mark your sunlit spirit. Oh, Galahad! You must come to love me, for I am truly your mother!”

Her tears streamed down. Galahad loosed his hold on the tress and reached up to explore the drops falling from her face to his. He grimaced at the bitter taste and tried to brush them away. His fingernail scratched the skin beneath her eye and she flinched in pain. That frightened him. His face screwed up and his mouth opened wide as he began to wail.

Guinevere was terror-stricken. She had to get away before someone came. But what if something were wrong with him? Had she hurt him? He must never be hurt. With a convulsive wrench, she drew the baby from her and, holding him at arm’s length, carefully set him back in the crib. His cries were reaching a crescendo as she fled from the room. She had barely reached her own door before she heard quick steps coming in answer to the cries.

She pressed her cheek against her door and waited until she heard the noise stop, to be replaced by the clucking inanities of the nurse. Then, shaken and numb, she collapsed onto her bed and sobbed until nothing remained in her but a parched, aching darkness.

She knew when Arthur came in> when Risa was called to bring cool, damp cloths to wipe her face and hands. But she didn’t open her eyes. In the morning she would face it, think it out, make a decision. For tonight she wanted to lie close to Arthur, knowing that, with all the distance between them, this was one grief which only he could share.

• • •

Agravaine had been watching his aunt’s behavior with increasing consternation. During Guinevere’s illness, she had almost usurped her role at court. Morgause could be delightfully charming when it pleased her and there was no question that she was beautiful. She already had a cortege of knights who stumbled over each other to serve her. What was she trying to do? It worried him enough that, for the first time since they had joined Arthur’s service, he called his brothers together for a family meeting. In the old days he and Gawain had made the decisions and then informed “the young ones,” Gaheris, Gareth, and later Modred, of what they would do. It was hard for Agravaine to remember that the "young ones” were grown now and not obliged to listen to him. Well, he would have to find a way to make them listen. In this matter they had to present a united front.