The Chessboard Queen (24 page)

• • •

Pumpilio kept his word and at dawn showed Lancelot and Gareth the way to the fortress. Lancelot thanked him gravely and gave him a jeweled pin from his cloak.

“What is this for?” the man asked angrily.

“For your trouble,” Lancelot answered.

Pumpilio threw the jewel on the ground. “For your pity, you mean. I want none of it. If you really intend to cross the knife bridge, you will be dead by sunset. In that case, all I ask of you is to search the next world for the god responsible for my creation and give him my curse.”

He gave the reins a pull and the mule started off. Lancelot never saw him again.

They reached the fortress late in the afternoon, just as the dwarf had directed. Long before they saw it, they could hear the river roaring around the walls. The sword bridge was just as they had been told: a great, narrow, shining span stretching high above the water, each end of it embedded in the trunk of a mighty tree. The fortress wall beyond it was thick, bare stone, with the exception of one small window near the end of the sword.

Gareth broke the silence. “Somehow, I didn’t think it would be so narrow. They were right, no one could cross this. There is a wind along there, too. See how the leaves are blown skittering over the river. Why don’t we look for the water bridge?”

Lancelot did not answer at first. He stared in fascination at the length of steel. It had been there all those centuries and it was still gleaming and sharp, pure and clean and smooth. Without taking his eyes from it, he leaned over and began to remove his boots.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Gareth shouted. “No one can do it, not even you. You’ll kill yourself!”

“I can do it,” Lancelot said calmly. “If Guinevere is in there, I can cross on a strand of silk. Hold these for me.”

“I won’t let you. You are sure to die!”

Lancelot smiled. “You won’t let me? What does it matter to you? You are just a stableboy. It is of no concern to you.”

“I never told you I was a stableboy and, even if I were, it would be my concern. What am I to tell Arthur?”

“Tell him I was not afraid of the cutting edge. If I do not return, Clades is yours. Good-bye, Gareth!”

He cast his armor on the ground, slung his belt and scabbard about his neck, and placed his foot upon the sword.

Chapter Twelve

Guinevere was enduring another game of chess and rambling reminiscence with Claudas when the commotion broke out. People hurried from all corners of the hall, pushing and pulling at each other for a turn to look out the small window in the far wall. At first she ignored them with well-bred disdain, but then she remembered that the only reason the window was there was to see the sword bridge. Her heart froze. She dropped her queen with a thump on the board, leaving it open to capture by both a rook and a knight. Claudas pounced upon the piece before she had a chance to finish the move.

“I’ve got you now!” he chortled. “Can’t let your mind wander when you play with me!’

He drooled as he spoke and wiped the moisture off on his sleeve, already stained by the dregs of his last three meals. Guinevere winced. She had to get away and find out what was happening. She picked up a pawn and rolled it across the room. The voices from the window were increasing in excitement.

“Look at him! He’s walking on the sword like a
funambulus
,” the priest shouted, proud that he knew the correct word. “He doesn’t even have his boots on!”

“I’ll lay you odds, five to one, he doesn’t make it,” a guard declared.

“You’re on!” another answered.

“I’ll make that ten to one,” the guard added. “Look, he’s cut himself!”

Lancelot was not aware of the people at the window. He barely felt the lacerations in his feet as he slid along the blade. His chief problem was the fierce wind. It wasn’t steady enough to brace against, but came in gusts, now from one side, now another. If it continued this way, he knew he could not keep his feet for long. The belt and scabbard around his neck swung wide, helping to throw him off balance.

“He’s down!” someone cried.

Guinevere stooped to pick up the pawn and found she could not make her fingers grasp it.

“No,” another voice announced. “He’s caught himself; he’s on his hands and knees now. God! Look at all the blood!”

Guinevere’s stomach seemed to fall and lurch upward again. She swayed and would have fallen if Gilli had not suddenly appeared and wrapped an arm about her.

“Meleagant has commanded that, if he manages to cross alive, no one from here is to attack him. He’ll be all right, Guinevere,” she whispered. “Do you think he’s the one from the cart, that Lancelot?”

Guinevere did not answer. Meleagant had arrived and was tossing the spectators aside as he made for the window.

Lancelot was vaguely aware of the commotion. Part of his mind tried to prepare for battle. He unhooked the scabbard from the belt and held it in two hands to steady himself. When he touched the opposite bank, his sword could be drawn in an instant. As he drew closer, he saw the man awaiting him at the window. Meleagant! It had to be. This was the man who had stolen his Guinevere; the son of the man who had killed his father! He faltered no more.

Inside, Claudas was yelling for one of his grandsons to help him to the window. “No one ever tells me what is happening!” he shrieked. “Do y’ all think m’ brains fell out along with m’ teeth?”

As he shambled forward, Meleagant stood aside. “There, old goat.” He pointed. “The impassable bridge is being crossed. I have sworn that if he makes it, I will give my allegiance to Arthur. And I intend to do it. What do you think of that?”

“What’s that? What are you saying, boy?” Claudas stormed. “Get an archer, lock the girl up, do something! You could knock him off now with one arrow. A child could do it.
I
could do it! Give me a bow!”

Meleagant laid a firm hand on his father’s shoulder. “No, your day is past. I am tired of spending all my energy trying to hold on to the worthless land you conquered. I have my own plans. It may not be such a bad thing to be on the side of such a powerful ruler—for a while, at least.”

He looked out the window. “By Lugh’s thunder! The man has made it across!”

Claudas tried to focus on the man approaching the window. They were almost face to face when the old man’s eyes opened wide. He screamed in stark terror and fell back, tripping on his robes.

“Get away from me! Don’t come any nearer!” he babbled as Lancelot began to climb through the window. “I killed you. I know I did. I ran you through on your own hearthstone twenty-five years ago and more! You can’t come in here! You’re dead!”

He climbed to his feet and tried to take a sword from the belt of the man nearest him. The soldier shrank back in disgust.

“The old dotard is mad!” Meleagant sneered. “Someone take him away and put him to bed.”

Quickly Claudas was removed, still whining for someone to put that Ban of Benoit back in his grave.

Once he was gone, silence gripped the room. Meleagant stepped back as Lancelot entered the hall. He was bareheaded, clad only in his tunic. Blood was running down his shins and dripping from his hands. His face was dead pale and his eyes burned like those of a man staring at Hell. More than Claudas wondered if he were not a wraith.

Lancelot looked about him in confusion. Why did no one challenge him? Where was Meleagant? How could he find Guinevere in all these people? He was growing dizzy from loss of blood. No one moved. Why were they all staring at him? What was the matter with them? He stumbled forward as in a nightmare and then he saw her.

The others had moved away from her, some in fear, some out of pity. To Lancelot it was as if a shadow lay upon everything but her as he dragged himself toward her. Mesmerized by the sight of her, he had forgotten even why he had come there. With a broken cry, he dropped to his knees at her feet, catching at her skirts to support himself.

Guinevere could not move. She thought she had conquered the feeling that invaded her when she was caught in his sight, but she was held now, worse than ever. As he clutched her, his face showed such naked, wild passion that she was terrified.

“I can’t live with this!” she sobbed to herself. “I won’t! He mustn’t do this to me. I won’t let him! No!”

She panicked. She ripped his hands from her skirts, flinging him back onto his heels.

“Get away!” she screamed hysterically. “Look at you! What have you done? Blood all over me!” She brushed at it jerkily. “It will never come out. Why are you here? Arthur didn’t send you, did he? I know he didn’t. Your damned pride! You’ve made a fool of yourself. Whose sins did you dedicate this to? Mine? Arthur’s? You know so much more about that than the rest of us, don’t you? Everyone is laughing at the brave knight of Arthur’s who was driven through the country in a cart, like a common thief. What was the purpose in that? To save me? Save me from what? If you had bothered to ask, you might have been told that I was in no danger. But the gallant Sir Lancelot listens to no one. You’ve embarrassed us all and half killed yourself for a game! A stupid wager! That’s all it was. Now what do you think of yourself?”

She was raging, unable to stop, frightened by the violence of her reaction. Lancelot stared at her in horror. A fool? Only a game? Hide-and-find, like they played under the Lake? His eyes flickered around the room. Dozens of people were watching him. Their faces seemed to shift and grow, coming closer to him, ready to mock him and laugh. It was all a joke and he had made himself the butt of it. Arrogance and pride. They lurked in him like ravenous monsters. He could hear their roaring in his ears.

Someone started toward him, to hold him up, but Lancelot did not understand. He backed away, dropping his sword with a clatter. He thrust his hands, palms out, before him. Blood ran down his wrists. Then, so quickly that no one realized what he intended, he leaped back through the window and dived into the water, giving a cry like that of a wild animal as the hunter’s arrow sinks into its heart.

A woman screamed and everyone tried to rush to the tiny window. Meleagant swept them back with a command and in an instant had the view all to himself.

“My God!” he called to the anxious room. “He’s actually swimming the river. He’s across now, on the bank. What is he doing? He must be . . . he’s gone insane! He’s stripped off his tunic and is making for the woods. Naked as a baby, he is. Kinel! Daibidh! Follow him and bring him back here! Hurry! He won’t survive on his own.”

Guinevere was standing in the center of the room, still brushing at the stains upon her skirts. Gilli shook her roughly.

“Guinevere! What have you done? That poor man has gone mad because of you! How could you say such things to him? Good Lord, if any man in the world had ever looked that way at me, I would have gone to Egypt and back slung across his saddle. Guinevere! Listen!”

But Guinevere continued rubbing at the blood. “Blood always,” she keened. “There was blood the other time, too. Flora held the knife to my heart as he did, but then my own love saved me. There was blood, but I felt no pain. Blood hot on the cold stone. Mother washed it off and they told me it was but a dream. Lancelot! Don’t make me look! Mother! I want my mother!”

Gilli was frightened. She had dealt thousands of times with ranting drunks and senile bletherers, but she didn’t understand what was happening before her. All she could think of was to try to get Guinevere to bed and hope she would come to her senses by the morning. They would take her to Arthur if they had to. She couldn’t stand any more of this.

But the day was not quite over yet. As Guinevere was being led away, a hollow pounding was heard at the front gate.

“By the blood of Epona’s mare!” Meleagant cried. “Now what? Have the ghosts at the gate gone mad, too?”

The huge wooden doors were quickly opened and there on the doorstep stood Gawain.

“I come in the name of Arthur the King!” he bellowed. “To fight any man here in fair combat for the release of the Queen!”

But his challenge was met by silence.

Chapter Thirteen

Arthur was furious. What the hell had been happening? From the beginning, it had seemed simple. Gawain had been chosen to rescue Guinevere and he had been delighted. This was his opportunity to prove his worth. The water bridge had posed no problem to his strength. The current could not topple him; the ghosts merely bewildered him, as he had never felt the terrors of the night. Their gibbering and howling roused his pity. He was feeling smug as he banged upon Meleagant’s gate. But instead of a gentlemanly duel and a polite surrender, he found the place in turmoil. When Arthur entered soon after, he was greeted by a mass of hysterical people, a blood-spattered floor, and the news that his finest knight had gone mad and vanished and that his wife had collapsed and been led away, crying for her mother.

It was not the first time Arthur had reflected that there must be someone else who would like to be King. As he started toward Meleagant, Gilli intercepted him.

“Come over here, please. My husband will only roar and argue. I was near her. I can tell you what happened, though I don’t understand it.”

She led him through the chaos to an alcove, dark and sooty, but private. Gilli draped her cape across the filthy bench before motioning him to sit. She wrung her hands nervously. Arthur must hear the story from her first, before gossip made it something worse. She told him what happened as if giving a field report—clearly, but without detail.

“It was the blood that seemed to upset Guinevere most. I don’t think she realized what she was saying to Lancelot. Has she always had this fear? Lord knows, we’ve all seen more than enough blood in our lives.”

She closed her eyes a moment and Arthur noticed the deep lines the years of harsh weariness had cut upon her face. He put his mind to the question.

“I’m trying to remember,” he said slowly. “Geraldus told me a story once, something that happened years ago. They had a servant—a nurse, I think—who went insane and tried to sacrifice Guinevere to her goddess. The story was never clear, but it seems the woman killed herself instead. Geraldus said Guinevere was soaked in the woman’s blood, but that she had been drugged and never realized what had happened.”