The Chessboard Queen (2 page)

“My name is Briacu,” Caet answered. “I am from Armorica.”

The other man held out his hand. “Gawain,” he said, “of Cornwall.”

They shook hands solemnly. Then Gawain yawned.

“This rabbit must be done by now. Would you care to share it with me? The sun is getting low and I am ready for my dinner.”

Caet, now Briacu, was more than ready for his and they spoke little as the small animal was split between them. Gawain leaned back on the log, picking his teeth with a bone splinter. He stared curiously at Caet.

“You don’t have the look of one from Armorica,” he decided. “You seem more like the oldest ones, the Britains who were here before the Romans.”

Caet seemed surprised. “Do I?”

Gawain yawned again. “Autumn is coming. Darkness falls earlier every day.” He pulled out blankets from his pack and wrapped himself in them.

“If you want to keep watch tonight, it’s fine with me, although there isn’t much around to bother us,” he murmured tiredly. “We’ll talk again in the morning. Good night!”

“But the sun has barely set!” Caet exclaimed. “Do you not wish to share the fire and talk?”

There was no answer from the blankets. Caet knelt by him and tried to shake Gawain into a response, but got nothing but a soft snore for his trouble. He moved to the other side of the fire. Whatever was being said about the old ones and their gods dying out, he was sure from the oddness of the man across from him that there were still many strange creatures left in Britain. He began to wonder if his decision to return had been wise, after all.

Caet awoke early the next morning to find Gawain already about and loading his own horse for travel. He scrambled up, annoyed that this vagabond was going to leave him with no word. Gawain heard the movement and turned to him with a wide smile. The look on Caet’s face betrayed his suspicions. Gawain laughed.

“I have stolen nothing from you, friend Briacu. As a matter of fact, you seem to have nothing to steal. And, if you don’t mind making a meal of cold meat and stale bread, you are more than welcome to share them and to accompany me to Caerleon.”

“Caerleon?” Caet echoed, still not fully awake. “What is there? Do you have business there?”

Gawain laughed again. “I may be given some when I arrive. My aunt and uncle live there and I intend to visit them for a while. When the days grow short, I prefer to make my bed by a warm hearth, tended by friends. And if you still mean to submit yourself to Arthur, then that is your direction, too. He keeps winter court at Caerleon.”

Caet pulled himself up and realized that his horses had been loaded and were ready to leave. What an irritating fellow this Gawain was! Why should he assume that Caet would go with him? Still, Caet wasn’t sure that he remembered the roads in this part of Britain and he had never been as far west as Caerleon. He could look on the man as simply a guide. He had a few coins sewn into the belt of his trews. When they reached Caerleon, he could pay the man off and that way end the relationship. If the man truly had family at Caerleon, he wouldn’t need to presume upon the acquaintanceship. Oh, how Caet’s body ached! Fortunately, the muscles used in riding were not the ones he had exercised aboard ship. But his legs were still weak and his insides raw from retching. He took the food Gawain held out and ate it quickly, then wrapped up his meager pack and climbed onto his horse. The familiarity of the mount beneath him eased his anxiety, but he longed to reach the court of Arthur, to place his gift before the Queen and, this time, to serve her with honor.

• • •

Guinevere loved Caerleon. It was old, Roman, and comfortable. It had been the permanent headquarters of the Second Augusta for two hundred years and the legion had wanted the best when it was home. But all the soldiers had been called away, almost a hundred years before, withdrawn by a terrified emperor to help support his crumbling throne. Or had they gone with one of the British generals who claimed the purple, like Macson Wledig? Guinevere could never remember. But they had gone and the fortress at Caerleon had lain empty, lonely, haunted, perhaps. Until Arthur had remembered it and set to work to restore it as his winter capital, it had been just another enigmatic relic of a greater age. Arthur had seen it with the same military viewpoint the first centurions must have had. The strategic reason for building it had not changed. It lay at the mouth of the Usk river, cloaked by hills and fog. The Usk valley drifted farther west to Brecon, should retreat become necessary. One of the finest of the Romans’ roads stretched almost intact to the east and the heart of the Saxons’ territory. Caerleon was easily defended and well built.

The last was all that concerned Guinevere. It was a wonderful home. Everything was there: living quarters designed for various ranks, granaries, kitchens, workshops, and bathhouses, two of which were still in working order. The rooms were solid and warm. And in the valley below there was a town which had somehow managed to survive the abandonment of the legion. Guinevere leaned over the edge of the tower to admire it again. Just a few streets lay below, but it was neatly planned, with a forum in the center and a church at the far end of the main road. There were even shops there! Guinevere had never been to a town except for her marriage in London, and shops amazed and delighted her. People living down there made pots and pewterware and wove cloth and baked sweet cakes. She could wander through the shops and choose whatever she wanted. On her father’s estate these things had been done to order, often by itinerant craftsmen.

There had been little chance to select. Here whole families worked at their trades and grew in skill from childhood. It was wonderful to go down there and wander through the forum, hearing the sellers’ cries, watching a juggler or tumbler. Since Arthur had brought business back again, the old roadhouse had been refurbished, with public baths behind. When emissaries began to come, they would know that they were not dealing with some upstart general, but a real king.

Guinevere sighed. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. It was a perfect capital. Why then was Arthur still intent on building another city, where none had ever been before? This was so lovely and so suitable. Why was he obsessed by Camelot? He had tried to explain to her many times. “I must have a place that is mine, that no other lord has set his mark upon. I will not be lost among the hundreds of rulers, names on a list in a saga, nothing more than a row of candles in which, if one be blown out, the light would not diminish. There must be a sign for the ages to come that Arthur ruled here, that my dreams did not simply flow into thousands of others and drown. Camelot will be my city, the symbol of all that I am trying to accomplish in Britain. And it is there that I will set the Round Table.”

She could hear him now, even above the wind and the calls of the birds. She couldn’t understand it. He was a great king, why should it matter where? Dimly she felt that his need for a visible manifestation of his reign was somehow tied to her and her failure. Five years they had been married and still they had no children. Guinevere did not wish to think of that. It embarrassed her that so many people had such a vital interest in the workings of her body. And it angered her that she had done nothing she knew of to deserve such divine punishment. She knew it was her duty to provide Arthur with children and, though she hadn’t cared much for the process, she had obeyed as best she could. But nothing had happened. They had consulted doctors, witches, oracles, and priests, but no one could help them. Although Arthur swore that they were still young and he had not given up hope, he had become more and more determined to build his city as each month passed. He was at Camelot now, checking plans and inspecting the work with Merlin. They were both probably totally happy.

Guinevere shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly about her. Then she threw it open and leaned dangerously over the edge of the tower. Had she seen it? Yes! She was sure. A blaze of yellow and an old checked cloak. Gawain was back! At last, someone to play with. She waved to him, but he was too far away to notice her. He and a companion were picking their way through the vendors, leading another horse behind theirs. Who was that with him? Not Geraldus. Guinevere knew his old nag from any distance and this man rode a horse as strong and elegant as any she had seen. Perhaps he was one of those come to try for a place in Arthur’s special cadre. “The Knights of the Round Table” had sounded very silly when she had first heard Arthur explain it. What was a knight, anyway? But she had finally agreed that Arthur had been right. As soon as men heard that it was a select group of the best Britain could offer, they came from all over the island to attempt to gain admittance. Even the sons of some of the lesser kings, who refused to recognize Arthur as overlord, appeared at Caerleon, willing to relinquish their inheritances to become knights. There were even some who came, not from Britain, but from Armorica and even farther east. How they had heard of Arthur, she didn’t know, but they swarmed to Caerleon and to London, begging for a chance to see him. Now Gawain was bringing another. Guinevere wondered idly where he had come from. Odd. There was something familiar about the way he sat on his horse. Could he have visited her family before she married? Oh, well. It didn’t matter. Why was Gawain taking so long? He could have come up the side road, bypassed the town, and been there by now. The riders finally disappeared into the shadow of the fort. Finally he was coming to the gates. Guinevere picked up her skirts and ran down joyfully to meet him.

• • •

Caet was becoming annoyed. This man clearly intended to accompany him all the way to the presence of Arthur. He had been grateful for the company on the road, but had tried to let him know when they came in sight of the fortress that his services were no longer needed. He didn’t want to be seen with some craftsman’s son, not when he had spent so long in covering the stigma of his birth. Gawain continued to lead the way through the town. Caet kept hoping that he would stop at some shop or other to greet his relatives. But, no, he ambled through the streets, tossing greetings to the tradesmen and receiving enthusiastic welcomes from an amazing number of pretty women. It was increasingly embarrassing. Caet tried once more to rid himself of his guide. He eased his horse forward until they were nearly parallel.

“I am grateful to you for taking me so far. Thank you. But there is no need for you to accompany me any longer. You must be eager to see your aunt and uncle.”

Gawain grinned wickedly. “I am. My dear old aunt especially simply dotes on me. You needn’t worry. You aren’t taking me out of my way at all.”

They were almost at the entrance to the fortress. Caet tried to pull back so that it would not appear that they were together.

“Who’s at the gate today?” Gawain peered up at the watchtower. “Joelin? Yes, it is. Halloo! Joelin! You should keep better watch than that. We haven’t even been challenged!”

They were at the gates. The guard beamed at Gawain and laughed. “If I had missed you, Lord Gawain, I’d be replaced by nightfall. I’ve been watching you since you started up the main road. Welcome back! The King is at Camelot with Master Merlin, but they are expected home soon. The Queen is somewhere about. I’ll have her told you’re here.”

Gawain laughed back and pointed behind the guard at a gold and blue figure streaking toward them. “No need, Joelin.”

Caet looked up sharply. He caught his breath with such suddenness that he nearly choked. Guinevere! She had not aged or changed at all, though her radiance was more intense. And she was running toward him! It was a wonder beyond his dreams. He dismounted and began to move toward her. Then, with an icy shock, he realized that she didn’t even see him. It was Gawain she was running toward. He was stabbed by his bitterness, sharper than ever because he thought he had conquered it. Nothing had changed. There he was standing by the horses, invisible to everyone as she was swept into someone else’s arms. Gawain was swinging her around as they both laughed and babbled like children. Caet felt as sick now as he had on the ship.

“Gawain,” Guinevere was gasping, “put me down now! Show me some respect!”

“Very well.” He set her on the ground, went back several paces, and approached again, bowing and fumbling in the manner of so many of the hopeful knights.

She started laughing again. “Oh, Gawain, it is so good to have you back. Will you stay the winter? Will Geraldus be with us, too? When are your brothers coming? Where did you get those wonderful horses?”

“Yes, yes, in the spring or summer and these horses are not mine. They belong to this man, Briacu. I met him on the road. He has come from Armorica to join Arthur, he says.”

Guinevere turned her gaze from the horses to the man. Caet was startled at suddenly being noticed and made his best bow to hide a moment before he showed his face. She smiled, but there was no recognition in her glance. He was not sure if he was relieved or sorry.

“Briacu?” she asked. He nodded. “Those are magnificent animals. If they are an example of your skill at breeding and raising horses, I’m sure my husband will be delighted to welcome you to Caerleon and will certainly find a place for you here. Please join us. He will return in a few days’ time. I’m sure we can find room for you among the soldiers until he decides your position.”

He mumbled something in reply and hoped it was correct. He stood awkwardly, one hand still holding the reins, not certain what to do next.

“Auntie, would you like me to show Briacu where he can stable his excellent horses and leave his belongings?” Gawain asked.

“Yes. I will expect you both at dinner. Oh, and Gawain, stop calling me ‘Auntie’!”

She turned her back on them and swept away with mock dignity.

Amidst many confusing impressions, it slowly dawned on Caet that he had been made a fool of by his ragged traveling companion. Even worse, he realized that it was partially his own fault for making assumptions. This on top of everything else made him furious and he stomped after Gawain with a firm idea of rubbing his face in the dirt.