The Chessboard Queen (3 page)

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew the Queen?” he whispered savagely.

Gawain grinned and shrugged. “I don’t like to flaunt my rich relations before my friends.”

Caet refused to be pacified. “Don’t tell me she’s your aunt. You are almost as old as she is.”

“She is my aunt, my irritated friend, because she married my uncle, who is somewhat younger than his sister, my mother. Is that clear enough or must I give you the whole family tree? Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you like that. I apologize. All right? You may as well know that I have no intention of fighting you. It’s too late in the day for me to win and in the morning I might kill you without meaning to. So why don’t we just forget the whole thing and be friends?”

He held out his hand. Grudgingly Caet extended his. He reminded himself that Gawain could not have known how deeply he had been hurt. After all Gawain was not the only one who had been secretive about his past.

Guinevere did not take her dinner in the hall with the rest of the residents, but Gawain took Caet to her rooms. She greeted them eagerly.

“I don’t like to eat in the hall when Arthur isn’t here,” she explained. “It’s noisy and rough there and I think that the soldiers and their ladies are uncomfortable with me watching them. It’s really much nicer to eat in my room, but lonely.”

Gawain sat next to her and squeezed her hand.

“Arthur will be back soon. He can’t continue his building much longer unless Master Merlin has found a way to hold back the winter. Geraldus will be with us in a month or two. He had to go visit Mark and Alswytha first. There was a summons from Alswytha, not to Geraldus, he said, but to his ‘green lady.’ She wanted to borrow her for a while. Does that mean anything to you?”

Guinevere laughed. “Yes, I know the green lady well. I hadn’t thought of her as a midwife, but she is probably very comforting. So, Alswytha is having another baby.”

Gawain remembered too late that Guinevere would not care to hear about other people’s babies. He hastily switched the conversation to stories of his recent travels. Guinevere seemed to enjoy them and asked questions which spun the tales even longer. Things seemed to happen to Gawain, especially when he became involved with women. No one ever seemed to take him seriously enough to get hurt, but his lifelong problem of falling sound asleep from sunset to dawn and then becoming progressively stronger until noon, when he began weakening again, tended to cause confusion among those who did not know him well. Usually stories about him furnished much of the amusement during winter tale-telling.

It was nearly sunset when Gawain rose to leave. Caet had been silent most of the afternoon and thought Guinevere had not even noticed him. He got up to accompany Gawain. But Guinevere held out her hand to him and asked him to stay a minute.

“I did not have a chance to ask you about your horses. Would you mind telling me something about them now?”

Gawain was starting to nod.

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t wait for you. I can almost hear my bed calling. I hope I have time to get there. If you should trip over me on your way out, Briacu, I would appreciate a pillow and a blanket.”

When he had gone, Caet became nervous again. Now that he had had time to study her, he realized that Guinevere had changed. Her body had finished maturing. She had reached her full height and was now taller than he, but she was more beautiful than ever and her eyes held the same innocent joy that had conquered him when they both had been children. She questioned him about the horses: where he had gotten them, how he had fed and trained them. He relaxed as he spoke with assurance on a topic he knew well. It wasn’t until he was ready to leave that she shattered all his hard-earned composure.

“Caet. Why did you run away?” she asked.

He stumbled on a crack in the floor.

“My lady, you have made a mistake.”

She ignored him. “Father and mother were very worried about you. Father couldn’t trace you anywhere and you sent no word for so long.”

“I tell you, I don’t know what you are saying. I do not know your family!”

She drew a chain from inside her dress. “I still have the pearl you sent me, see? Didn’t you get my answer? Arthur made me a chain for it. I am never without it.”

The sight of the lustrous pearl did make him pause. It had cost him dearly in pride and honor and, seeing it again, he felt a flush of shame rush through him. He wondered if she would treasure it if she knew what he had done to get it.

“But she has worn it all this time,” he thought. “It has lain on her skin, near her heart. She has cleansed and redeemed it. I can regret nothing.”

He said only, “It is lovely, my lady, but my name is not Caet and I know nothing of such a gift. May I go now?”

She looked puzzled as she put the jewel back beneath the cloth. “I will call you Briacu if that is what you wish. But I do not understand. Yes. You may go.”

Caet walked back to the sleeping area, where he had left his possessions. Snores indicated that Gawain had managed to make his way to bed. It was early, but Caet had no wish to join those in the main hall who were drinking and talking. He unrolled his bedding and lay down. He was awake when the sound of the voices drifted from shouts and laughter to murmurs and then silence. Even when the night was still, he continued to gaze into the darkness, wide-eyed with worry. Guinevere hadn’t believed him. What if she told Arthur? Would the king accept a runaway servant as a knight or even a horsemaster? Would he let him stay at all? He gave the bag of odd clothes he used as a pillow one last punch and settled down. He could only wait.

• • •

Arthur was not one for waiting. It was taking all of Merlin’s persuasion to keep him from setting out for Caerleon that evening.

“I want to see Guinevere!” Arthur complained. “If I start now, I can be there in two days.”

“Only if you kill your horse, Arthur.”

“I can change horses on the way, Merlin.”

Arthur controlled himself with an effort. After all, he was the king now. He could not indulge in anger. He must put duty before his feelings. But he had had enough.

“Merlin, I have been frustrated at every turning all the time we have been here. ‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty, the floors will not lay smoothly. We cannot build the fortifications; we always hit water. We cannot put baths on the top of the tor; the water is too far down.’ No one remembers how to work a pump, how to lay tile, how to erect a building of more than two stories. We don’t even know how to mix mortar! Merlin, how can we have forgotten how to stick stones together?”

“Arthur. . . .”

“And now you tell me to sit here another night and stare at what cannot be done when all I want to do is go home to my wife! I have been gone a month, Merlin.”

Merlin shrugged. “There are many women here, my King. Your father would have made do.”

Arthur slammed the plans he had been holding hard upon the ground. The roll tore across. He began fastening his breastplate and then his cloak, his fingers fumbling in his fury.

“My father did not have a wife like mine, Merlin. No man ever has! You can pack our things and follow me in the morning. I’m leaving now!”

“Arthur!” Merlin called. “You can’t ride alone. You are the King!”

But Arthur was already mounted.

“Not tonight, Merlin. Tonight I am no man and I am going home. I will be King again at Caerleon! Good-bye, Merlin!”

He was gone.

Merlin pounded his fist into the nearest tree, then cursed himself; it hurt. Camelot would never be finished as long as

Guinevere held Arthur’s attention. He could put his mind to work only when she was within reach or when he knew she was safe and away from whatever fighting there might be. And what had he, Merlin, the great wizard, become since Arthur’s marriage? A lackey, picking up the scattered belongings of his master. Savagely he stooped for the torn roll of plans. He had waited and worked too long to have it all ruined by one selfish woman. He was so tired. He would be glad when it was over for him and he could at least rest with a calm mind. He studied a bit of the ripped scroll. It would be built. It was going to be a magnificent fortress, a city in the clouds. Guinevere could not stop it for long.

• • •

It was an hour before dawn two days later. Guinevere slept soundly. Beside the bed a candle glowed. She always had light by her when she slept alone. In a dream she heard the sound of a horse galloping through the town below and racing to the gates. Then there was a rush of air as if the horse had taken wing and flown through her window. She opened her eyes.

There stood Arthur, muddy, sweaty, too tired to unclasp his cloak. He stared at her as if she were the dream. Guinevere smiled and held out her arms.

“Welcome home,” she said. “Let me help you.”

Chapter Two

The Lake was calm; only an occasional ripple crossed its surface. It stretched for nearly a mile in the heart of the forest. It was pristine and beautiful. But no bird lit on its surface; no deer drank from its rim; no man tried to pull fish from its waters. The clouds and stars were purely reflected as they gazed down upon it, but the Lake gave nothing of itself to the picture. What lay below the water could not be seen. Travelers, far lost in the woods, told strange stories of dazzling horsemen who galloped across the surface, but caused no splash or spray, and who simply vanished as they approached the center of the lake.

Far beneath the water, in a glittering palace of light and flowers, the Lady waited, and schemed.

The Lady had no name that she knew of, no childhood, no family. She had lived with her retinue within the Lake for thousands of years, so many that she had forgotten the order of the humans and others who had arrived, passed by, and gone on. For the most part, she didn’t care. She knew that she and her followers were immortal. Why or what they had once been, whether gods dispossessed or angels gone to seed, concerned her not at all. Eternity had brought only boredom with a few brief interludes of interest. When something happened it was important to the Lady to make it last as long as possible. Now the only important thing was Lancelot.

Twenty-five years before, only a moment it seemed, the Lady had ridden with her men and ladies to hunt an invisible deer, whose skin would have made a most interesting coat. They had ridden far and become separated. The Lady had early lost interest in the chase and had been about to return when she noticed the flutter of some fine cloth on the ground not far away. Curious, she decided to inspect it.

She dismounted and came nearer to examine it. The silk wafted around the base of a tree. It seemed to be attached to something. The Lady circled to the other side, where she stopped. At the root of the tree lay a woman, deeply asleep. Her face was ashen and taut with fear, grief, exhaustion, and starvation. Her clothes were torn and grimy, but finely made of the best materials. Next to her lay a child, the most beautiful creature the Lady had ever seen. He had clearly been kept alive at the woman’s expense for he was round and healthy and his sleep was that of a normal infant.

The Lady was enchanted. What a wonderful discovery! He was so new and unmarked, so full of possibilities. Life for her was terribly monotonous, one century almost the same as the last. The only interesting encounter she had had recently was with a man named Merlin. She had engaged him in a duel of wits, which she was delighted to lose. As a prize, she had given him a sword that had been lying around for centuries. He had been a very attractive young man, more alert than most humans, and she had enjoyed other exchanges with him. But still, one could have that any time. She regarded the baby curled trustingly in the woman’s arms. This was so much more provocative! Who knew what he might become—and she might have all the fun of teaching him and watching him develop. His present keeper looked at the point of death, anyway.

Without another thought for the haggard, sleeping woman, the Lady snatched the infant from her arms and sped back to her horse.

The woman awoke as the Lady was remounting, the child clasped tightly in her arms. For a moment she was confused and that was all the time the Lady needed. She rode off to the sound of the woman’s anguished screams.

“Where are you taking him? My baby! My son! Lancelot! Please, come back! Someone, please, help me!”

She fell on the ground, coughing and gagging on her tears, too spent to follow any further.

The Lady never looked back.

She brought her find to her attendants, who were as delighted as she. They set the child down on the floor and watched it. He was able to sit up, after a fashion, but would fall over if he leaned too far in any direction. He had been crying constantly since the Lady had stolen him, but when he was set down, he stopped. His eyes bulged, his face turned red; he grunted and a pungent smell arose from him. Then he relaxed and lay on the floor, kicking and sucking his thumb.

That was the first of their problems. Once they had cleaned him, they discovered that they didn’t know what to feed him. Babies didn’t seem to enjoy normal food. He choked on bread, threw up wine and ale, tried to put nutmeats in his nose. He did manage to suck a piece of venison white, but it soon became clear to the Lady and her followers that their new toy would die if they couldn’t take better care of it.

It was Adon, one of the retainers, who finally suggested that they break with tradition and go into the nearest town to see if someone there knew about the management of infants. So, he and several men were sent to knock on doors and ask about child care.

Lancelot was howling again, this time with hunger and diaper rash, when they returned. The Lady sent for Adon to report at once.

“Well?” she demanded. “What have you found? Quickly! What must we do?”

Adon shook his head. “You will never believe it, Mistress, the trouble it takes. First of all, we discovered that a child of his age will take only milk.”

“Milk? How odd! Nimuë, send for a cow and a flagon.”