The Chessboard Queen (35 page)

“I had forgotten that.” Lancelot looked back through the archway at them, still laughing together as if oblivious to the scene before them. “He doesn’t know them at all, does he?”

“No, but I would rather he never knew them like this.” Agravaine waited.

“I won’t say anything.” It was unnerving, somehow, and sad to think that the same mother who had borne Arthur had also been responsible for those two.

Agravaine left Lancelot in the room he shared with Gawain. Lancelot took off his boots and settled into the warm sleeping furs and blankets provided. He had thought he was exhausted, but now that he was alone and lying down, he found that he couldn’t sleep. The tension at the pit of his stomach was almost unbearable. His thoughts fixed on the image of the shining bodies of the dancers as they moved. To his mind, they were revolting, but tonight his body wouldn’t listen. He reached for the ewer and poured more of the foul-tasting water. He set his teeth. He had often fought this battle before. It was simply another temptation, a test. He gripped the sides of the cot. He would not go back to the orgy, which must now be at its height. He would control his body. If the mind of man were not stronger than the shell God had set it in, then he was no better than the dumb, soulless beasts. His hands dug into the wood rails at his sides.

There was a knock at the door. Lancelot hardly noticed it for the pounding in his ears. Even when he realized what the sound was, he did not answer it. He suspected that Modred was the kind to send a woman to him. Then he heard Agravaine’s voice, soft but insistent.

“Lancelot? Lancelot? Are you asleep?”

With an effort, Lancelot sat up and bade him come in. Two men entered.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Agravaine whispered, “but this messenger just came for you. He says he’s come from the Queen.”

“From Guinevere?” Lancelot tried to pull his thoughts together. “Who are you? I’ve never seen you at Camelot.”

“I am a messenger for King Pellas,” the man explained. “I was told to tell you that Queen Guinevere had arrived at his home tonight and begged to see you on a matter of great importance. That is all I know. I am to return with you at once.”

Agravaine frowned. “Pellas has a home not far from here. I don’t know why Guinevere would go there rather than to us. It’s very strange, but there may be some trouble at Camelot. You had better go with him and find out.”

Lancelot nodded. At the point he had reached, an hour of hard riding would be a blessing. He dressed himself hastily and followed the messenger to the stables. Agravaine went with them.

“In the morning I’ll tell Gawain where you are. He can meet you then unless there is some emergency. If you need me, do you know where my rooms are?”

“Yes. I’ll let you know if anything is wrong.” And Lancelot swung up onto Clades and was gone.

“Odd,” Agravaine thought. “What would Guinevere be doing in Cornwall? Oh, well. At least it gives Lancelot a reason not to return to Tintagel. I hope he doesn’t hold it against us. God, what a family!”

He spat his aggravation upon the stone walls and went to bed.

• • •

Lancelot was met at the door by a maid. “The Queen says you are to go up to her at once. Here, you must be thirsty from your ride.”

He gulped down the water without thinking as the woman led him to a closed door.

“In here, sir,” she beckoned. She opened the door for him and then left, carrying the lamp.

It was completely dark in the room. Only the outline of a window could be made out. Lancelot entered carefully, fearing a trap. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he realized that there was a large bed in the center of the room. Someone was rising from it, her arms outstretched to him. Guinevere!

Reason abandoned him. He could stand it no longer. In two strides he reached the bed and fell into her open arms.

• • •

The gray and dismal dawn slithered through the shutters and alit on the bed. Lancelot moaned. His head was pounding and every muscle hurt as though he had been in heavy battle for weeks. He moved his hands to try to push himself into a sitting position. His left hand struck something soft and alive. His eyes flew open as he slowly turned his head.

Next to him, sound asleep, was a woman he had never before seen in his life.

“My God!” he cried, leaping up. “Who or what are you?”

He was too angry to care that he had no clothes on. He began to dress himself, not out of modesty, but to get away from there at once.

The woman opened her eyes lazily and smiled at him. “Oh, Lancelot,” she breathed. “You are wonderful! When they told me about you, I was afraid, but now . . . now I don’t mind at all.”

She reached up to him.

“What are you talking about?” he shouted. “Who in hell are you and how did I get here?”

He stumbled backwards to avoid her and his foot hit something metallic. A water cup rolled across the floor. All at once he knew what they had done to him. He felt sick. He managed to make it to the window, threw open the shutters, leaned out, and retched his stomach empty. Then he returned to the bedside and stared at the woman as if she were some new and loathsome insect he had found.

“You have ruined me,” he stated solemnly.

She gaped at him. “You! What about me? Until last night I was a virgin!”

“Oh? If that is true, which I doubt, I am sure it was not through your own vigilance. I admit that I must have sinned with you. But my sin was that of weakness and stupidity. You are far more evil; you are the serpent, with a malicious love for corrupting the pure. My penance will be long and hard. I fear God must see to yours.”

He left her without a backward glance. In a fine white rage, he found his way through the halls to the stables. Gawain’s horse was already there. As he finished saddling Clades, Gawain came rushing out of the main hall. He leaped on his horse and they galloped out without a word.

When they were far enough away for Gawain’s peace of mind, he reined in.

“Lancelot, what happened back there? When I woke, there was a note from Agravaine saying Guinevere had summoned you here, which is impossible. I came straight over to ask Pellas about it. I routed him out of bed. He insisted that you had come to meet the Queen and, upon finding that she wasn’t there, had forced yourself upon his daughter, Elaine, instead. He said you were too much for him or his men to stop. When I left, Elaine was up in her room screaming that you had seduced her and then run off.” He paused. “I thought the matter might be better settled somewhere else.”

Lancelot wiped his forehead. “Gawain, you must believe me. Before I even reached the age of reason, I vowed a life of frugality, temperance, and chastity. I have always kept that vow. I swear I did not take that woman to bed by force.”

“But you did have sex with her?”

Lancelot shook his head, trying to clear it. “I must have. I don’t remember.” He closed his eyes. “Gawain, I could have resisted, I know it, even drugged, but they told me it was Guinevere!”

“Christ’s teeth! Do you know what you just said? Good Lord, man, don’t ever tell that to anyone else.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Are you happy to be back at Caerleon?” Arthur asked, putting an arm about Guinevere’s waist. Below them, the courtyard was noisy with the bustle of preparations for the winter. Guinevere smiled up at him and drew closer to his warmth.

“Yes,” she said. “This is my favorite home. But Camelot is becoming very beautiful to me. That artist from Iberia draws very well. Don’t you think we could let him do a mosaic in the small courtyard by the dining hall and maybe another on the floor of the chapel?”

“I have already sent traders to Gaul to find the tiles.” Arthur was pleased with himself for anticipating her. “In the meantime he is going to work on a fresco on the west wall of the guest quarters. What do you think?”

It made him happy to know that she was learning to care enough about Camelot to be interested in the embellishing of it. Guinevere had indeed stayed near him all summer. She had sat beside him patiently, listening to the news and complaints brought to him, and often made suggestions for resolving them. She had helped to plan ceremonies and taken a kindly interest in the throng of hopeful applicants for knighthood. She had been busy and happy and the tight worry he had felt in the spring had relaxed. Guinevere had shown no signs of missing, well, anyone inordinately.

For Guinevere the summer had been peaceful and reassuring. There were no more sudden irritating jolts of her heart at the realization that he was watching her. She did not walk into any rooms with trembling anticipation, wondering if he would be there, waiting. No one upset her sense of balance. People were kind to her; they brought her gifts—silks, jeweled cups, stories. Even Merlin was more pleasant since she had given him that ring. It was not hard to keep her vow to pay more attention to Arthur’s life. The affairs of Britain were more interesting than she had supposed. And it was little enough effort for the joy it seemed to give him. Now winter was creeping in again. She could retreat to her rooms during the cold weather and not arouse comment. How lovely that would be.

She noticed Cei arguing with a messenger just arrived at the gate. His voice could not be heard, but his stance was severe. It was apparent to everyone that the honor of being promised to Lydia had raised him far above common humanity.

Arthur was delighted. “You see him?” he pointed. “That man won’t get up to me unless he has an earthshaking story to tell. Cei always had that authority, but he wouldn’t take it before. I only hope his confidence lasts beyond the wedding.”

“Lydia is her mother’s daughter. She will see to it that he knows his own worth.” Guinevere had caught a scent of regret in Arthur’s words. She sighed. What did he want from her?

“It seems that the man has something to say, after all,” Arthur decided as they watched Cei lead the man toward the small audience room Arthur sometimes used. “I suppose we should go down and find out what it is. Do you want to come with me?”

“Of course. I would freeze up here without you.”

Cei met them at the bottom of the stairs, outrage making his face and voice taut.

“This man has been sent with the most insane tale! I don’t believe a word of it, but he swears he came straight from King Pellas. He says that he took Lancelot there himself that night and that Sir Agravaine will attest to the truth of it. I thought you should deal with him yourself.”

“All right, don’t worry.” Arthur tried to calm him. “I want to discover what you are talking about. Guinevere, would you rather wait in our rooms?”

“No, I’ll come.” Guinevere was furious with herself that the mere mention of his name could cause her throat to tighten.

The messenger was both puzzled and dismayed to meet Guinevere. “You weren’t at Corbyne!” he blurted out.

Guinevere stared. “Of course not. What is it?”

“Never mind, dear.” Arthur sat down and drew her next to him. The band of worry was beginning to tighten again. “Now, what is this story you bring?”

“But they told me . . . it wasn’t her . . . ,” the man muttered, looking at Guinevere and shaking his head. He pulled himself together.

“A week ago, sir, I was on duty at the gates of Corbyne, King Pellas’ home. Early in the evening a woman rode in alone. She was veiled, but I could see that she was fair. Her clothes were fine and rich. They told me later that Queen Guinevere had arrived and that I must go at once to Tintagel to fetch Sir Lancelot for her.”

Guinevere started to expostulate, but Arthur stopped her. “Continue,” he commanded the messenger.

“It was very late then, but I left and got Sir Lancelot out of bed. He seemed puzzled, but he came without any argument.”

“But, Arthur, you know I was never—” Guinevere began.

“Let him finish,” Arthur said quietly.

“We raced back to Corbyne. I could barely keep up with him. They let him in at the main house and I went to bed. The next morning he was gone.”

“What of this woman you saw?” Arthur demanded.

“I don’t know what happened to her,” the man admitted. He studied Guinevere. “But it wasn’t you, was it?”

“Of course not!” Guinevere was outraged.

“Well, then,” Arthur relaxed. “Obviously someone was mistaken. Is that all?”

“No, sir.” The man shifted feet and focused on a spot on the wall behind them. “About the time everyone had assembled in the main hall for the morning meal, the Lady Elaine came running in. Her hair was undone and she was still in her nightdress. She was screaming and wailing so that we couldn’t understand what had happened. Finally she managed to tell her father that the night before, Sir Lancelot had forced his way into her room and . . . uh . . .”

“Go on,” Guinevere snapped. “What did Lancelot do?”

“Well, sir—” The messenger fumbled for a term he could use in front of a woman. “He debauched her.”

“What?” Arthur felt inclined to laugh. The whole story was obviously ridiculous. What angered him about it was that, for no apparent reason, Guinevere had been brought into it. He would not tolerate such slander.

Guinevere barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping. If he had accused Gawain or Torres, perhaps, she might have believed him. But not Lancelot. She composed herself. Of course it was merely a joke, or a mistake. Still, she felt her stomach knot.

Arthur had no doubts. “Is any of this recital of yours from Pellas,” he asked, trying to keep a straight face, “or did you manufacture it all on the way here? Who paid you to say all this?”

“Your Majesty, my Lord, sir! I swear I have spoken the truth! Lord Agravaine was with me when I saw Sir Lancelot. He will vouch for me. But I have not delivered King Pellas’ message yet. He ordered me to say that he appeals to you for justice. Lady Elaine was a maid and now she is not, as her servants and her nurse will witness. He wishes you to either Eunish Sir Lancelot fully or, in view of his high birth, require im to marry the Lady Elaine.”

“That is unspeakable!” Guinevere breathed in horror.