The Chessboard Queen (34 page)

“I should not go with you, Arthur. I cannot see through a pretense of piety. How can this man have become an abbot if he is so full of worldly desires?”

“In this case, he inherited the office from his father. He’d have been better off becoming a merchant. He is a good administrator of the abbey, though, and leaves much of the religion to his prior. But don’t worry. You need only to listen when the abbot gives his demands. You exude such forceful silent outrage at moral degeneracy that it might help discourage the man from insisting on too much for too little. Also, until Cei returns, I need someone to be with me and sit at my right when I hand out judgments.”

“When is he coming back?” Lancelot was clearly nervous in the role of seneschal.

“Lydia wrote that her father had agreed to their marriage after the mourning for her mother is over. Now that he has won that battle, I expect him to be here soon. They would like to be married in the chapel as soon as it is finished. That seems an appropriate consecration, don’t you think?”

Arthur was not sure if it was Lancelot who had changed since his return or if it was the attitude of others toward him that was different, but he was glad of it. While personally as devout and serious as before, Lancelot no longer made others uncomfortable about their own wayward lives. He was admired by all now, although he had few true friends. He seemed not to need them; it appeared that he had found some inner contentment. Arthur wondered, a bit wistfully, if it took madness to bring a man peace. Whatever the reason, Lancelot was now being treated as Arthur had always wished. And, as Merlin drew further away from him, it was necessary for Arthur to have a friend whom he felt to be his equal in ail things, including respect. Even Guinevere had finally understood Lancelot’s worth. She often asked him to join them to go riding or to sit with them in the evenings. He played chess with her, a game that was too rigidly structured for Arthur to tolerate.

Not many people noticed that Guinevere did not play well against Lancelot or that occasionally their hands would meet over a disputed piece and then tremble and recoil as if in panic at the touch. Risa did, but for once said nothing, even to Cheldric. And Gareth, who still served Lancelot with a steadfast worship, noticed. It frightened him and he went to Gawain for advice.

“The Queen is disturbing Sir Lancelot,” was how he put it.

“You are overwatchful, brother,” Gawain told him. “Guinevere is doing nothing to him.”

“She may not mean to,” Gareth was willing to allow, “but she is. He does not sleep well and sometimes at dinner he will look at her and she will look at him and then he doesn’t eat anymore. He leaves the table. I have followed him. He goes to the chapel site or some other place away from everyone. He becomes frightening then. Sometimes he pounds the earth or grips a piece of wood so hard that his hands come away filled with splinters. It is all her fault. She has no right to make him suffer.”

Gawain grasped his little brother’s arms tightly enough for Gareth to flinch.

“You have too great an imagination, Gareth. You see things that are not there. And what you are saying is vicious slander. If you repeat a word of your idiot’s tale to anyone, I’ll have you packed home to Mother and see to it that she sends you to spend the rest of your life mixing potions for Aunt Morgause. Do you understand me?”

“What’s the matter with you, Gawain?” Gareth exhaled as he was set free. “I wanted help from you, not threats. I think someone should talk to Lancelot, warn him of what she’s doing.”

Gawain glared at him. “Gareth, I can’t believe you grew up in the same home I did. Or maybe the problem is that you did. Do you think that every woman is like our sweet mother? All right, stop charging at me. I’ll take away part of the reason for your worry. I had planned already to ask Lancelot to come to Tintagel with me this fall. The journey will give us a chance to talk and I can see what nonsense has started your panic. I’ll sort it out. Until then, remember what I said. Not a word to anyone!”

Gareth rubbed his arms ruefully. “You never were a bully when we were little,” he muttered.

• • •

As summer waned and Camelot was being closed for the winter, Lancelot and Gawain set out for a few weeks in Cornwall. Guinevere watched them go with a mixture of sadness and relief. It was harder, she had found, to be friends with Lancelot than to hate him. It made her angry at herself. What was wrong with her? She had always taken her friends for granted. If they were with her, that was nice; if they weren’t, she would see them later. Why, then, did a room brighten and seem more welcoming if Lancelot were in it? Why did it matter if he liked what she wore, if he greeted her the moment he saw her? Why did it hurt her when he avoided her? Some instinct had warned her to keep her confusion to herself, but her hands were very cold as the two horsemen left the maze and she had to fight a terrible urge to run crying to her room. Arthur put his arm around her and she took his comfort gratefully. If she had bothered to look at him, the anguish on his face would have stopped her self-pity.

• • •

“Morgan!” Morgause interrupted her sister’s work. “Put down those beastly accounts and pay attention. Gawain is bringing that Lancelot boy to Tintagel.”

“Yes, I know. Agravaine told me yesterday.” Morgan tried not to look at Morgause. She had no right to still be so beautiful. She was past fifty.

Morgause in turn wondered if her sister really enjoyed being such a frump. It didn’t make her personality any more pleasant.

“Agravaine also mentioned that Gareth thinks Arthur’s wife is trying to seduce him.”

“Gareth! How ridiculous!”

“Not Gareth! Who would look twice at him? You really must have been bored the year he was conceived. Lancelot is the one! Agravaine thought it was all a lot of nonsense, but I put my spies on it.”

“Since yesterday? What kind of spies are they?”

“My dear sister, you don’t really want me to tell you. You’re much too squeamish.”

“All right, never mind. Have you had a report?”

“Yes, and I think there is something to it—at least, there might be. This may be our chance. Arthur is growing far too powerful, Morgan. We have to stop him soon. That fiasco with Meleagant didn’t help matters.”

“It was perfectly designed. How was I to know that Lancelot would be able to cross the sword bridge?”

“That wasn’t nearly as bad as your neglecting to tell me that Gawain isn’t bothered by ghosts. Your own son! Lord knows you have enough here to curdle anyone’s blood.”

Morgan bridled at that. “Did you ever try getting Gawain up at midnight? A legion of headless specters could wage a battle on his bed and he wouldn’t stir.”

“You see what your promiscuous procreation has brought us to? If you must traffic with the Devil, why can’t you bargain for something more useful than children?”

“Morgause, we have had this argument a thousand times. We each have our own pleasures and our own ways. Now tell me what you have in mind. I want to go over these figures this afternoon.”

“Now you’re a clerk,” Morgause sniffed. “Very well, it was actually the sword bridge that made me think of it. Only a man in love would attempt such a thing. I think it’s time that our dear brother, Arthur, got a taste of what his father gave ours. Do you think that a cuckold’s horns will sit any better on him?”

Morgan put down her papers. “I think he will look magnificent in them. But can you arrange it so that everyone knows? Do you think they are already sleeping together?”

“No, damn them, too moralistic and prim, I suppose. Also, this Lancelot is some sort of religious ascetic. They say the Lake woman is furious with him. He won’t touch a woman.”

Morgan smoothed her hair. “I, of course, have had some experience with that sort and—”

“Far too much, my dear. No, don’t get your claws out. I’m not going to chase him, either. But there is a way. I have a fosterling. Lord knows how I got her. Pretty enough, but overromantic and not at all bright. Now, listen. She is staying with her father, not far from here. He owes me for several past favors. It will be very simple. First, give a dinner here for Gawain’s good friend.”

• • •

Lancelot did not care much for Tintagel. It was drafty and bleak, with wall hangings and floor coverings dusty or etched by mold. There was an air of impoverished decadence about the place. He was more intrigued by the tiny community of monks who survived in the caves in the rocks below the castle, enduring the full force of the restless ocean. He had climbed down to speak with them on his second day, but most of them only grunted and turned away. Visitors from “up there” were not welcomed, one finally told him with a scowl. So far, he had spent this third day admiring Modred’s collection of knives and listening with polite boredom to Modred’s tales of his feminine conquests.

Finally Gawain interrupted. “That’s enough, little brother,” he said firmly. “Lancelot doesn’t care whom you’ve bedded or how often. I imagine he believes you even less than I do. One of mother’s maids was looking for you a while ago. Why don’t you go see what she wants?”

“Was it the dark one or the one with red curls?” Modred wanted to know.

“She had a cloth over her head, but I’d say she was rather fair,” Gawain replied.

“In that case,” Modred replied, “I will have to leave you. It would seem I am being called upon to prepare some more lies.”

“I never did like Modred,” Gawain confessed when he had gone. “It may be just that he’s so blasted good-looking and can stay awake all night, too. Or maybe it’s that he never cared about me. Look, Lancelot, I know how awful this place must seem to you. We’re leaving tomorrow, but Mother and Aunt Morgause have planned some sort of dinner tonight in your honor. I can’t be there, of course, but I’m afraid you’ll have to go. Don’t worry, just smile and be polite and don’t let them make you angry. I told Mother that you don’t drink anything but water and that you don’t care for late nights. So you won’t offend anyone if you leave early. Poor Agravaine will have to be there for most of it and he’ll see to you. Ignore Modred. He enjoys making people uncomfortable and will do it if you let him.”

The dinner was long. First, a poet recited an everlasting encomium to the glory of Cornwall, accompanied by an occasional harp twang. Then the meat was brought in. Both Morgan and Morgause did their best to be scintillating, coquettish, and charming. Lancelot did his best not to yawn in their faces.

“Tell me, Sir Lancelot,” Morgan asked, “is it true that the Lady of the Lake sleeps with a different consort every night, and sometimes two?”

“I really couldn’t say,” Lancelot answered, alarmed by the closeness of his hostess.

“Really, Morgan!” Morgause snapped. “What a question! Sir Lancelot, they say that the lamps beneath the Lake are ringed in diamonds. How brilliant the light must be, far better than anything we can create here.” She swept her arm out, dismissing the room they were in.

“The light here is very soothing.” Lancelot smiled, wondering how long the dinner would last. He took another gulp of his water. It tasted brackish and metallic. He supposed the closeness to the sea caused the odd flavor. Morgause signalled a girl to refill the cup.

Morgan smiled at him. She wavered a bit in his eyesight; perhaps it was the light. The torches gave off a lot of smoke. The sweets were being brought in now and, with them, a group of girls who began to dance. At least, he supposed it was dancing. There were only the twanging harp and a small drum for accompaniment and none of the dancers was echoing the beat. Lancelot glanced at Agravaine, who gave him a tight, nervous smile in return. Modred, farther down the table, was leaning forward as the girls swept by, trying to catch at their thin robes. He was supported by a group of young men whom Lancelot had not met. The dancers seemed to know the pattern and came nearer to them with each circle until, finally, Modred snatched at a corner of one of the robes and caught it. The brooch holding the cloth together fell open and the robe unwound as the girl spun on until she was naked, still smiling and dancing.

Lancelot’s eyes widened in horror and he looked around quickly for something to cover the poor dancer with. In the meantime the other men had succeeded in unwrapping more dancers. Morgan and Morgause went on sucking their sweetmeats and chatting, occasionally flicking a glance at Lancelot to see how he was responding.

He was angry, although he hid it. He realized what was going on now and wondered if it had been designed to shock him or to entice him. The thought crossed his mind that it might even be a normal entertainment for guests. The behavior of the dancers suggested that they were quite accustomed to the performance of the men. Lancelot moved closer to Agravaine and picked up a bunch of grapes from the table, turning so that he was facing his host and not the entertainment.

“I’m sorry, Lancelot,” Agravaine muttered. “It’s that filthy Modred. Mother gives him everything he wants, however disgusting. As the eldest son, I have to stay a while more, but you don’t. Let me take you to your room; this is going to get worse.”

Lancelot slowly finished his grapes. They were immensely soothing. He could not understand why his mouth was so dry; he had had several cups of water. Maybe it was the smoke. He waved the server to him.

“Another cup, please,” he asked.

Morgan heard him and laughed. When Lancelot had finished drinking, he and Agravaine rose to go. Lancelot bowed to his hostesses. Morgause lifted an eyebrow at him.

“Leaving so soon, Sir Lancelot? Yes, I suppose if you live with Gawain. He can get one up impossibly early. Why don’t you take the ewer with you? You may become thirsty in the night. You won’t deprive us. No one here drinks water.”

Lancelot did not try to decipher the reason for the delighted cackle Morgan made just then. Agravaine was urging him to go. The garments were gone from all of the dancers now and the men were beginning to move in among them. Agravaine all but pulled him away and into the corridor.

“I’m sorry, Lancelot,” he kept repeating. “They don’t know what it’s like at Camelot. They think the nobility all act that way. It wouldn’t have happened if my father had been home, but he prefers to remain in the north most of the year. Please, I would be grateful if you didn’t tell Arthur about it. They are his sisters.”