The Chessboard Queen (16 page)

“I will miss you, too, my dear.” She spoke her lines. “But it will only be for a few weeks. I will be waiting for you at Caerleon. You will be much too busy to think of me.”

He held her more tightly. “I will always think of you and yearn for you. I will send word wherever I am. You will write me?”

“Of course I will. Don’t I always? Tell me everything you are doing and I will praise you.” She did not have to pretend that. It was amazing how much she enjoyed hearing from him when they were apart. It was only when he was this close to her that she was nervous.

“Guinevere?” he breathed.

“Of course, Arthur,” she sighed.

Chapter Eight

After the evening with Meleagant, even the prospect of four days with the self-centered Sir Lancelot did not seem so awful to Guinevere. It was such a treat for her to get away from Camelot and home to her parents that she felt a bit guilty for leaving Arthur. Why should he have to stay and tend to all the problems? When she had married him, it had not occurred to her that being a king meant that you could no longer do whatever you wanted. That was not the way Uther was supposed to have behaved.

They said good-bye in the early morning. The mist of night still hung in the air and wove around the trees and buildings, making mundane Camelot look magical. After waiting as Arthur kissed his wife, Lancelot assisted her to mount her horse. Normally women rode pillion, but both Lydia and Guinevere had insisted on having their own horses for the long trip. Sitting sideways for so many hours was too uncomfortable, they explained. But Guinevere had an ulterior reason: she had no intention of spending four days with her arms wrapped around Arthur’s new protege.

Arthur walked with them all the way down the hill, to the end of the earthworks. He smiled and waved as they set out. A few minutes later, Guinevere looked back and saw that he was still there, waving shakily, as though he had forgotten to stop. Against the wall of earth he looked so small and frail that she ached with pity for him. She thought with a flash of surprise, “He should have had a different sort of wife. I’m not what he needs.”

The path went down an incline and she could no longer see him. Her moment of introspection passed and was forgotten.

Although Lydia and Geraldus were going farther south, to the coast, they would not leave Guinevere and Lancelot until the next day. The ride was beautiful. The woods were cool and fragrant and the road smooth. Guinevere chatted happily with Lydia and Geraldus as Lancelot rode stiffly behind them. Sometimes Geraldus would suddenly break into fragments of song and the two women would join him. Finally he complained that it was too confusing hearing voices from two worlds. They laughed and stopped. But even the quiet was companionable.

From behind, Lancelot watched them and longed to be like them. They had that ease of long friendship which allows periods of silence. When they spoke, there was no need for them to explain themselves, to justify anything they might say. He felt that way only with Torres, who had chosen to stay at Camelot and help with the moving. He doubted that he could ever feel so at ease around Guinevere.

He tried not to stare at her, but everywhere he looked it seemed that she was there. As he watched her riding before him, he felt that the very air sparkled in her presence. She radiated a sense, not only of beauty and position, but certainty. She had never doubted her faith or the rightness of her actions. In all the people Lancelot had met in his weeks at Camelot there had been at least a trace of self-doubt. Even the most bombastic old soldier had a slight undercurrent of uncertainty.

But not Guinevere. If she had been old, ugly, and poor, Lancelot would still have been fascinated by the sublime solidity of her self-assurance. But she was young, beautiful, and a queen. Lancelot’s fascination was soon complicated by other feelings. He was not stupid; he knew quite well how she attracted him. He could only add this torment to his other penances and pray that his soul would overcome it, too.

They were all too tired for talk when they camped that night. Lancelot and Geraldus took alternate watches and the two women slept in a lean-to hung with curtains which they had brought on the pack horse.

The next morning was foggy and chilly, but Geraidus insisted on getting an early start.

“We’re heading for the coast, anyway, Lydia,” he teased. “We won’t see the sun again there until next April. We might as well become used to it now.”

Guinevere hugged Lydia with affection as she said goodbye. “You must promise to come to Caerleon this winter,” she begged. “Make Sidra come, too. It will be lonely until you get there.”

“I’ll try, Guinevere,” Lydia sniffled. “If I can’t, you will send word to me of . . . what is happening to everyone?”

“Don’t worry. If you don’t come, I’ll see that Cei brings the messages himself.”

She and Lancelot watched them until they disappeared around the bend. Guinevere sighed and steeled herself to be pleasant, as she had promised Arthur. Lancelot had loaded the packs and was waiting to help her. Guinevere faced him and placed her hand on his shoulder, to be boosted onto the horse. He was not wearing armor now, but soft leather riding gear. She felt him flinch as she touched him and deliberately increased the weight, all the while avoiding looking at him directly. He cupped his hands and she stepped up. When she had seated herself, she glanced down at him. He was gazing up at her with such naked adoration that she felt a little sick. Quickly she turned away.

She set a steady pace, keeping him always behind. She had the idea of making it home by the evening of the third day. They ate a quick lunch with no conversation and continued. It was nearly dusk when Guinevere realized that her horse could go no further and she signalled a stop.

Still without speaking, Lancelot set up the lean-to and put Guinevere’s bags and bedding inside. Then he set about finding wood and striking a spark for fire. Guinevere busied herself in organizing the lean-to so that she would have room to sleep and no roots in her back. When she came out, Lancelot was struggling with the fire.

“May I help you?” she asked. “I often have good luck with campfires.”

He handed her the stones. She looked at them and then back at him.

“But these are ordinary rocks!”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t get just any stone to strike a spark. Didn’t you know that?”

Before he could answer, she returned to her tent and searched the pack for her tinderbox. Using the flint, she had a small fire going in about five minutes. She smiled at Lancelot.

“Would you mind fetching some water so that I might wash my hands?” she asked.

He went at once.

As he poured water over her outstretched hands, he tried to explain. “I never had to do that before. Under the Lake, there are always torches lit. I saw the men at Camelot hitting stones and thought that was what one did to light a fire here. I’m sorry you had to dirty your hands.”

“And even more sorry that I look such a fool in front of you,” he added to himself.

Guinevere dried her hands. “It doesn’t matter; I would not have learned, either, if I had not once spent a summer with some friends of my family. They felt that everyone should know how to do many tasks and so they taught me. Would you like me to cook, also?”

She knew that they had only dried meat, bread, and fruit to eat and so there would be no test.

“No, of course not!” He rushed about, getting food and wine for her. He set her plate and cup on a thick piece of bark and presented them to her. He was very clumsy about it. With Gawain or Geraldus, she would have been touched, but, for some reason, Lancelot annoyed her. Perhaps it was the sense she had that he was disparaging her right to have fine silver dishes and silken bedding even while he arranged them for her.

She ate quickly and then announced that she was going to bed. It took some time in the dark to tie up her braids and change into a warm nightdress. Then she realized that she would have to leave the lean-to again, after all. She wrapped a cloak over her nightclothes and crawled out. As she stood, she hit her toe on before the curtain.

“Ow! What is this thing?” She stooped down and found Lancelot’s short sword, unsheathed, on the ground.

“Lancelot!” she called. “You dropped your sword here. You should be more careful. I nearly cut myself.”

He jumped to his feet and bowed jerkily. “I left it there on purpose, my Lady.”

“What?”

He gulped. “Isn’t it the custom? I put it there to show you that I have no dishonorable intentions. It was for your protection.”

“My protection!” She tried not to shout in the still night. “What do you think
you
are here for?”

“I meant, in case I had any intention of . . . bothering you.”

“You leave a sword outside my tent, to rust in the dew, because I might need it to protect myself from you?”

He nodded.

“But what would prevent you from stepping over the sword while I slept? And, if it were lying here, how would you be able to defend me from an intruder who might decide to ‘bother’ me?”

“I didn’t think about that. Something Agravaine said, a story he told, gave me the idea that it was the right thing to do.”

“You don’t mean that old Cornish tale about Tristan and Iseult? If you had paid attention, you would have known that there was no honor in either of them.”

Guinevere picked up the sword and wiped it on her cloak. She handed it back to him.

"Please keep this to battle Saxons and wolves with. You needn’t worry about my being safe from you. If you should feel like attacking me in the middle of the night, please remember that, like every other woman in Britain, I am well supplied with brooches, hairpins, and, of course, a small bodkin, for carving meat and unwelcome suitors. Good night.”

She went about her business and returned to her lean-to. something sharp which was lying directly

Lancelot slunk back to his seat by the fire.

Guinevere shook her head sadly as she settled down among her blankets. “And Arthur is planning to present this idiot as the perfect knight!” she mused. “Poor Arthur!”

Lancelot sat all night watching the fire, occasionally adding another log. The Lady had been right in warning him that he would make mistakes. He seemed to do nothing else. How did Torres manage to fit in so comfortably?

His thoughts tumbled and cascaded as he watched the flames. He slept eventually, his head on his knees. He had a sharp and painful dream of himself standing, naked and bleeding, in the middle of a room full of people, with Guinevere facing him and laughing.

He awoke with a shiver. It was growing light out, but the sky was still gray. He could not have been sleeping long, for the coals were still glowing. He fanned up the flames and went to get water to heat for morning washing. His dream was becoming blurred, but it had left him shaken and nauseated. The icy water of the stream splashed him as he filled the bucket. On an impulse, he stripped off his clothes and waded in. He swam upstream a few yards and then let himself be carried back. His skin fairly crackled with the cold. An hour of this would be penance enough for anything. But he had to hurry back.

He pulled his shirt and trews back on over his wet skin. He felt clearheaded again and free of the taste of his nightmare.

Guinevere did not wake until he purposely rattled a spoon and pot near the lean-to. She had said she wanted to start early. He left a clay jug of hot water outside the curtain and called to her. A hand slipped out and pulled it in.

She put a few drops of perfume in the water and bathed her face and arms. Arthur must have given Lancelot very clear instructions. She put on clean clothes and wound her braids about her head. Tonight her mother’s maid would comb them out for her. She wrapped up her mirror and nightclothes and stepped out of her lean-to.

Lancelot was standing by the remains of the fire. He turned when he heard her, and then he smiled.

Guinevere’s heart turned over. She grasped the curtain behind her for balance. Resolutely she looked away from him. She was not going to let the strange reactions she felt from him affect her common sense.

“Good morning,” she muttered as she stretched her arms. “Is there anything warm for breakfast? No? Never mind. I’ll get it myself while you pack our things. If we hurry, we can at least eat a hot dinner tonight with my parents.”

While she ate, Lancelot loaded her lean-to and bedclothes on the pack horse. She avoided meeting his glance this time as he assisted her into the saddle.

As they rode, Lancelot wondered if this day, too, would pass in silence. Why could he not speak to her easily? He had never stumbled over his words with the women of the Lake. Every time he tried to start a conversation with her, she replied politely but with a minimum of words. It was almost as if she didn’t like him. Lancelot blinked mentally. Could that be it? He reviewed his meetings with her and her behavior on this trip. She certainly was distant. That must be the reason. But why? What could he have done to offend her? He had to know.

He reined Clades in near her. She glanced at him quickly and then looked straight ahead as if the road were too treacherous to watch anything else. Actually, it was one of the better Roman thoroughfares, still in good repair and as smooth as one could wish. Lancelot would not be put off. He continued to ride even with her. Finally his presence at her elbow was too much to ignore. She faced him.

“You wish to say something, Sir Lancelot?” All her superior haughtiness was in her voice.

Lancelot suddenly discovered that he had a temper, too. It surprised him.

“Yes, my Queen.” He emphasized the title. “Why are you treating me this way? What have I done that you should so dislike me?”

Guinevere started. She could not remember anyone ever taking that tone with her before. He was not supplicating; he was demanding.

“When have I said that I disliked you?”

“You have never needed to. You treat the potboys and scullery maids with more courtesy than you do me. What horrible sin could I have committed that you should act so? Tell me what it is and I will atone.”