The Chessboard Queen (17 page)

“And to whom would you atone, me or God?” she snapped. "Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You have done nothing evil as far as I know.”

She tried to pull ahead, but he grabbed the reins of her horse and forced it to stop.

“Then what is it?” he insisted. “I cannot go on living so near you and enduring your disdain.”

She stopped herself from suggesting that he move somewhere else. Arthur wanted him and needed him, even if she didn’t understand why. But what could she say, that she found his piety offensive? That his striving for perfection was an insult to others who felt no such need? Those things would sound idiotic and make her seem either irreligious or a prig. What right did he have to upset her like this? What difference did it make if she liked him or not? What was she to him? He was Arthur’s man, not hers. She could feel him staring at her again with those haunting eyes. She felt trapped by his eyes when she met them, forced into an intimacy that frightened her. She glared back at him, concentrating her gaze on his slightly cleft chin rather than meeting those dangerous eyes.

“I would prefer that you not stare at me,” she announced. “It makes me uncomfortable to be so scrutinized.”

That took him aback. He blushed with guilt. He had not realized that she had been aware of him.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to disconcert you. Under the Lake there are no women like you. When you are in the hall, there is nothing else worth looking at. Please forgive my boldness. I will try not to turn my glance in your direction so much.

“It will be,” he added in wonder, “a more difficult atonement than many I have undertaken.”

Now she felt a fool. It seemed overbearing to deny him the pleasure of watching her. But there was something about being caught in his gaze that made her feel dizzy, compelled somehow to be aware of him. He must not be allowed to do this to her or to know what effect he had on her. She forced herself to smile.

“It would be even odder if you constantly turned away from me, Lancelot.” She laughed shakily. “Can’t you do as the others? No one else has any trouble looking away from me.”

Without thinking, she met his eyes again. Her lip trembled. “You see? When you are looking at me, I feel as if you see no one else, that I can never escape you.”

She had not meant to say that.

He let go of her reins. Gratefully, she moved ahead, pulling up the hood of her cloak.

Lancelot went white. He could feel the blood draining from his face. “This can’t be!” he thought in terror. “My God! What have I done? I cannot be in love with her. Not like this. My life is dedicated to mankind. No one person should ever mean this much to me!”

But he knew that she did.

Meredydd had assured him that all men had wicked sexual longings and he had promised to overcome them. It had not occurred to him that he could feel something more. He had never met a woman before who could not be ignored with a little self-discipline.

The rest of the journey was made in polite silence. Lancelot rode behind Guinevere, totally enmeshed in the ramifications of his discovery. His first impulse was to run, not back to the Lady, but farther away—across the sea, if necessary. He had to get away from her before she became an obsession. Perhaps it was already too late. Almost bitterly he watched her riding before him. She was tranquilly unaware, he assumed, of what she had unleashed. She did not even like him. What right had she to shatter him so?

But his martyr’s soul would not allow him to flee. He knew he would stay, do for Arthur what he had meant to do, and fight his spiritual battle until he won. It did not occur to his pride that the decision was not certain.

Both of them were relieved when they rounded the bend and the villa of Leodegrance appeared, softly lit in the twilight, waiting for them.

They crossed the stream. It was low this time of year and did not even wet the horses’ legs. As they approached the gate, it swung open. Guinevere’s parents were there to greet her, their arms open.

Gratefully she fell into them. Lancelot sat at attention, waiting to be introduced.

Guenlian held her daughter close. She had been proud to give her to King Arthur and had never doubted that he would love and care for her. But it was such a comfort to hold her again and be sure that she was well.

Guinevere was astonished to find herself weeping as she embraced her parents.

“My darling!” Guenlian asked, “What is the matter?”

“I don’t know,” Guinevere sniffed from her father’s arms. “I’m happy to be home again, I suppose. And I’m very tired.”

“There isn’t any news, is there, dear?” Guenlian hinted. In her parlance, the question meant only one thing.

Guinevere shook her head. “No, Mother, I’m only tired. I’ll be fine as soon as I’ve washed and changed.” She wished they would stop hoping. It would be so much better if they gave up their dreams of a grandson of theirs ruling Britain.

Hastily she wiped her eyes. She realized that Lancelot had not been introduced.

“Mother, Father, this gentleman is Sir Lancelot. He has been kind enough to escort me here. Lancelot, the Lord Leodegrance and the Lady Guenlian.”

Guenlian smiled. When Guinevere used formal titles, one knew that she did not approve of someone. This Lancelot seemed all right. In the growing darkness, she could not see his face well. He was quiet. Guinevere usually became annoyed by the more brash of her escorts. Well, there would be time to find out at dinner.

“Welcome to our home, Sir Lancelot. You will want to wash and change for dinner. Rogan will show you to your room and the baths. He will be happy to attend you there. We ring a bell at the dinner hour and he will show you the way. Don’t worry about your horse. He will be taken care of.”

Lancelot bowed and followed the servant, who had already unstrapped his belongings and was carrying them to the villa.

“Not very conversational, is he?” Leodegrance put his arm around Guinevere as they walked to her old room, always ready for her return. "Who is he?”

“One of Arthur’s new acquisitions,” Guinevere answered. “If you mean his family, no one knows. He was raised by some enchantress who resides under a lake, I gather. They say he is human, though.” Her tone indicated that she had some doubt of this. “Certainly his companion, Torres, is. I really don’t know much about it. You could ask Cousin Merlin. They say he recognized the Lady when she brought Lancelot and Torres to Camelot.”

“And they say there is no magic left in Britain!” Guenlian said in amusement. “I always thought the Lady of the Lake was simply a nursery tale to keep children from straying too far into the forest. How very interesting! Do you think Lancelot will tell us about her?”

“He’s rather shy, I think.” Guinevere searched for the right phrase. “I don’t know if he would like to. But tell me about things here. Your letters never say enough. Where are Rhianna and my niece? Why wasn’t Pincerna waiting for me outside? Is he ill?”

“Hardly,” Leodegrance assured her. “He has been terrorizing the kitchen servants since dawn to make sure that your welcome-home dinner was perfect. As for Rhianna and Letitia, I believe they are waiting for you in your room.”

Guinevere opened the door and felt for a second that she had been delivered back into her childhood. It was just as she had left it: the narrow bed, the dressing table, the clothes press with the chipped corner, and the woodland mosaic covering the floor. But now her sister-in-law and niece were there, too, eager to hug her and tell her all the vital things that had happened in the year since she had last seen them. They never asked about Guinevere’s life away from them and for this she was grateful. It was then even easier to imagine she had never left.

“Letitia has already been fed,” Rhianna was explaining.

“But she wanted to see you so badly that we thought she might be allowed to attend dinner for a while. Do you mind?”

Rhianna was still shy and beautiful, with an added serenity which came from knowing that she was safe and loved. Letitia was a delicate child of nine who showed that love and total devotion need not produce a spoiled brat. She was bright and curious and more aware of those around her than Guinevere had ever been. She resembled her mother, but she had something of the fighting spirit of Matthew, Guinevere’s dead brother. She seemed content to live in this tranquil haven, but she also seemed to have no fear of what lay beyond. Guinevere loved her dearly.

“I would be happy to have Letitia at dinner with us,” she assured Rhianna. “At her age all of us were at the table with the adults except on the most formal occasions. I have heard that Mother was criticized by her friends for being so lax, but I was glad she paid them no attention. You two can observe the escort Arthur sent with me this time and tell me what you think of him.”

“If we are to do that, we had better leave you to bathe and dress,” Rhianna said. “Come, darling, I’ll let you wear your new yellow gown.”

“I told you Aunt Guinevere wouldn’t mind.” Letitia kissed Guinevere again. “Please hurry, Aunt. We have heard so many stories about this Lancelot. Is it true that he wears armor made out of silver and diamonds?”

“I haven’t noticed the diamonds,” Guinevere told her, “but I think that part of the armor is silver. How did you hear about that?”

Rhianna grinned. “You should know your father well enough to realize that he gets all the news from wherever you are. Now do hurry! I’m starving!”

Lancelot, meanwhile, had left his clothes in the small apodyterium, the dressing room for the baths, and had plunged directly into the frigidarium, despite the fact that the night outside was already growing cool. The water was almost as cold as the stream that morning had been. He emerged blue and chattering to find Rogan waiting for him with a clean towel. Although he protested, he was led to the tepidarium, where he was given the strigil to scrape himself clean and then coerced into getting a massage with fragrant oil. Rogan viewed his fuming with amusement.

“If you think I am making you too comfortable, I could pour some salt into those scratches on your back. Whoever gave you those must have been a real hellion!”

This comment shocked Lancelot into silence. He submitted to enjoying the rubdown and finished off with another cold swim to nullify the pleasure.

His host and hostess were waiting in the courtyard to see him to the dining hall. Lancelot bowed and thanked them for their kindness.

As they passed into the lighted room, Guenlian gasped, “Leodegrance! Look at him!”

Lancelot stopped and put his hand to his face, wondering if there were a mark of Cain branding him. Both of them were staring at him, their faces puzzled.

“My word!” Leodegrance said at last. “You could be right. The boy is his image.”

“But what was his wife’s name? It’s been so long. The summer before Guinevere was born, wasn’t it?” She broke off, realizing that Lancelot did not understand.

“Sir Lancelot, forgive us.” She laid a hand on his arm. “We were surprised. You bear an amazing likeness to someone we once knew. You wouldn’t happen to know the name of your father, would you?”

Lancelot shook his head, his eyes flickering from one to the other. “The Lady who raised me told me that I was a foundling. I was abandoned alone in the woods and she rescued me.”

“Ah, yes, well. That wasn’t exactly the story we heard, but it happened a long time ago and it may not have been completely true. The poor woman was half mad by then. It may not even have been you. But, wait a minute—wasn’t one of the child’s names Lancelot?” Leodegrance turned to his wife.

“Yes, I remember now, Galahad Lancelot he was named, for both his grandfathers. I don’t know why the mother’s name escapes me. I see her face so clearly. We spent almost a month with them that summer.”

“What are we doing!” Leodegrance reached an arm to steady Lancelot. “Look at the poor boy. We’ve forgotten that this is unknown to him. Come, sit down. Have some wine. While we wait for Guinevere, we will try to explain.”

Lancelot took the cup and drained it, forgetting that he never touched wine. “You are trying to tell me that you know who I am?”

He stared at his hands, almost expecting them to have changed.

Leodegrance began again. “It must have been about twenty-six years ago. We were in exile again, this time at the court of King Ban of Benoit. We thought it was safe, tucked away in the Western mountains. But word came one day that Ban’s old rival, Claudas, had raised an army and was coming to attack Benoit. The reason lay in an ancient feud known only to the genealogists. Ban knew that he did not have enough men to do battle and his castle was circled by only a wood and mud wall. An invader would smash it in no time. We sent Guenlian and the children away for safety at once—to Geraldus’ family, wasn’t it? But King Ban’s wife would not leave him or allow their infant son to be sheltered with them.

“Claudas had over a hundred men to our twenty or so. They broke through the wall almost at once. It was stupid, mindless carnage. At the last moment, I and a few others who were still strong enough to ride took the woman and child and escaped through the broken defenses. She berated us for our cowardice and pleaded to be left to die with her husband. He was dead already. We had the choice of remaining to die or fleeing in the hope of life. We did save the baby.”

His eyes closed. Guenlian took his hand. “You were right, my love. You could have done no more for him than to save his family and no more for me than to save yourself for your family.”

He did not look at her, but squeezed her hand. One could sense the love and strength that bound them.

Leodegrance continued. “We rode hard all that day and far into the night. We finally found refuge at an abandoned villa. Although we posted a guard, he must have dozed, for the next morning, Ban’s wife and son were gone. We thought she had tried to return to Benoit, and searched for her in that direction. It was several days before we found her. She was wandering alone in the woods, lost and starving. She was half-mad with grief and deprivation. Finally we were able to understand some of what had happened. She had apparently lain down a moment to rest. As she slept, the child, Galahad Lancelot, was stolen from her arms by a glittering woman on horseback. To humor her, we searched for a trace of the child or his kidnapper, but none was ever found. We assumed that he had died and the woman, in her madness, had invented the tale of abduction. Now, seeing you and hearing where you have come from, I am forced to believe that it was true.”