The Chessboard Queen (30 page)

She couldn’t put a name to her sense of unease. Everything was well enough. Arthur was kinder than ever. The women had stopped glaring at her as she passed. Merlin was too wrapped up in whatever was bothering him to worry her. The knights were back to being funny and entertaining for her benefit. Even Torres seemed not to be angry with her after it was announced that she was going to spend the summer in religious retreat. Sir Ector had assured her that God would take notice of such piety and not only restore Lancelot but also give Arthur an heir. How nice. Spring was definitely making itself known. The sky was buoyant with sunlight and high clouds, and small flowers were creeping over the rocks and up the walls of Caerleon.

But there was something missing, something not in tune. Could it be in herself? She ought to be relieved that the tragedy of Lancelot’s disappearance had been pushed to the back of life here. It
was
his own fault; it was. A pity, of course, but he would turn up. The Lady of the Lake protected him, didn’t she? Perhaps he was with her now. No point in dwelling on it. There was much to do to build the new Britain.

Perhaps that was it. There was an effervescence about people at Caerleon, a joyous pride in being part of a dream fulfilled. Guinevere did not share it, though she wanted to. Some nights when Arthur held her and his voice went on and on in the darkness, full of hope and promise, she almost got a glimpse of what it meant, almost touched what was so real to him. But in the morning he went away, taking his vision with him. And Guinevere was left behind, puzzled once more.

If Lancelot returned, could she then put her mind to Camelot? Would it be easier to forget what had happened to him if he were there and whole again? Guinevere was unused to mental wrangling and it irritated her. It seemed that Lancelot was destined to annoy her in any case.

All at once she realized that she had been staring for some minutes at Geraidus and his troupe. How wonderful! They weren’t supposed to be at Caerleon this spring! The air must have been exceptional; the singers had never seemed so clear. She waved frantically to them and Geraidus grinned from ear to ear as he waved back. His green lady was standing with him, her arm about his waist. She said something and he looked at her and laughed.

Guinevere turned to the guard. “Go down and open the gate quickly. Saint Geraidus has come!”

The guard started to obey and then glanced at the path. “Where, my Lady? I see no one.”

“He’s right there, almost at. . . .”

But he wasn’t. The guard raised his eyebrows and resumed his post.

“That’s odd,” she wondered. “Where could they have gone?”

Just then, Cei called to her that she was needed in the hall. She hurried down and the guard gratefully relaxed and took a pull off the wineskin under his cloak. That woman should stop sitting about and start producing children. It was unnatural, that’s what it was.

It wasn’t until dinner that night that the boy, Cornelius, arrived with his story. He was muddy and exhausted. He had lost a boot somewhere on his journey and limped as he walked to face the King. But he stood straight at attention as he told of the Saxon attack.

“Lamden and I took the girls to the home of my brother and then we returned with all the men we had.” He faltered as he realized that Cador was there.

“It was too late. A fire had started. There was nothing left but blackened stone.”

His eyes begged forgiveness. “Sidra ordered us to leave. We didn’t know it was so bad. She stayed behind.”

His lip trembled and he screwed up his eyelids. Constantine covered his face with his hands. Cador showed no emotion as he carefully moved his wine cup farther from the edge of the table.

“And my daughter?”

Cornelius took a deep breath. “She is with the other girls. She should have been well away, but she went back. Saint Geraldus was with her.” He crossed himself. “We didn’t know what to do, so we put him on the old horse and brought it back with us. My brother is perplexed. He thinks we should build him a shrine, but will not take it upon himself to do so without orders from the bishop.”

“What are you trying to say?” Arthur commanded.

“I thought I told you. He was dead when we arrived. Lydia wouldn’t let go of him. She sat there, making an awful noise.” Cornelius shivered. “They sent me to ask you. Please, sir, what should we do?”

Everyone began exclaiming, crying, expostulating at once. Guinevere tried to make herself heard.

“But he can’t be dead. I just. . . .”

Arthur patted her hand. “I know. It seems impossible. Please go help Cador, Guinevere. He is much more upset than he appears.”

“But, Arthur. . . .”

He had already left the table. Cei ran after him.

“Arthur, what will you do?” he asked.

“Raise an army and drive Aelle back into the ocean with the rest of the slime. Every man who owes me allegiance must be here—no, at Camelot—in two weeks’ time. Send out riders at once.”

“No, Arthur. I won’t have time. I’m leaving now. I must go to Lydia.”

Arthur stopped. “Don’t be foolish. We have work to do. This is no time for romantic nonsense.”

Cei stood firm, blocking the way. “Arthur, since you became King, I have never questioned an order of yours. I have done whatever job you set me. But now I must go to Lydia and I will do it, no matter what you say. If you still want me, I will meet you at Camelot. Otherwise I will challenge Aelle alone.”

“But I need you here!” Arthur began. Then he stopped. He had not seen that look on Cei’s face since they were boys. “All right, go to her. I’ll find someone else. But be at Camelot or I’ll have you. . . .” He couldn’t think of a punishment. “Be off, then. Bedevere! Agravaine! Gawain! Come here! And where is that horsemaster? Briacu! You’ll have to come with us. Prepare the horses. We are leaving at dawn!”

Guinevere had made a sleeping draught of hot wine and herbs for Cador who refused it scornfully. She gave it to Constantine, whose grief for his mother broke through all his training in self-control. She put him in bed in the anteroom next to Arthur’s. As she tucked in the blanket, she realized that her hands were shaking. She couldn’t stop them. Something, a scent, the sound of feet upon the rush-strewn floor, brought back to her vividly her years at Cador castle, the smell of the sea and mold, the dogs, the people, the chaos, and Sidra, drab, plain with her pock-marked face. She had been everywhere, soothing, chiding, chivvying, smoothing over the transition the young Guinevere had had to make between her home and the reality of life in Britain. Sidra, left alone to face the invaders.

Trembling, Guinevere sank to the floor and cried as she never had before. She wept out her sorrow, her guilt, and her forgetfulness. She had never told Sidra how she felt, had never thanked her, never apologized for all the thoughtless, snobbish things she had done, for her total selfish absorption in her own very special person. Now she never could.

It was only a flash of insight, a moment of humility in the midst of sadness, but it was the first. Guinevere had never before doubted her own wondrous worth. She shrank from the idea, but the question now existed and would hide within her until it was faced.

Arthur did not come to bed until the early hours of the morning. He found Guinevere asleep in a chair, her face drawn and stained, a scroll of devotional essays on her lap. He was filled with pity and remembered his past sharp words to her. He wondered if Cador was regretting his last words to Sidra or all those which had been left unsaid. He woke her gently and guided her to bed.

“I think you should go to your family as we planned. You can set out tomorrow, when the rest of us leave. In the morning . . . Guinevere, are you awake?”

“Mm-hmm,” she grunted. “I will go home in the morning with Geraidus.”

“Yes, I’ll tell him . . . tell Geraidus . . . oh God!” he choked. “I feel so cold, Guinevere. Come closer to me. You are all the warmth I have.”

• • •

In the raw dawn Arthur woke her and bade her good-bye. Before the rest of Caerleon was stirring, she and Cei departed. He had promised to escort her on his way to find Lydia. For the first time, when Guinevere looked back, Arthur was not there. Today there was no time for a lingering farewell. Arthur was not working on a leisurely creation of an ideal world, but embarking on an ugly, necessary war. Once he had seen her safely off, Guinevere and her worries could have no place in his thoughts.

Cei had little to say during the trip. It rained the first night, but they were able to take shelter with a farmer and his family. The next night they reached Cirencester, which had an inn most honored to accommodate the Queen.

The innkeeper and his family fluttered about them the next morning as they prepared to leave. Did they have everything they needed? Would they like some fresh bread, meat pie, ale to take with them?

The obsequious service made Cei uncomfortable, but Guinevere accepted it without question. It was tiresome, but to be expected. She would be glad when she reached home and could dispense with such ceremony.

After the cataclysms that had been roiling about her for the past few months, Guinevere expected that her home might be somehow changed, too. It was with some hesitation that she crossed the stream and waited for the gate to open.

As the first crack appeared in the gate, Guinevere heard a shout and then started laughing. Letitia was racing down the hill to meet her, barefoot and scruffy, just as she herself had run so many times to meet Geraldus. Relief flowed through her. It was wonderful to be home.

Cei rode to the courtyard with her, but refused to take a meal with them.

“A cup of water is all I need, Lady Guenlian,” he assured her. If he hurried, he could be with Lydia by nightfall.

Guenlian understood and did not press him. “Give our love to Lydia and tell her how much we share her grief. Go on! You needn’t worry about protocol here.”

“Thank you, I will tell her.” And Cei leaped back on his horse and was gone.

“He has certainly changed since I saw him last,” Guenlian said in amusement. “Do you think Lydia will marry him?”

“Of course,” Guinevere answered. “She loves him too much to say no.”

Guenlian gave her a sharp glance. The tone was light, but there was an undercurrent that unsettled her. She sighed.

“Are you happy to be back, darling?”

“Oh, yes! It’s so comforting to be here with you all again, away from the pettiness and troubles of court. Poor Arthur! I wish he could take the time to come here and hide!”

“So do I, darling. It has been so long since we have seen him. But your father has gone to the muster. At least Arthur will have his support.”

“Father! But he’s too . . . I mean. . . .”

“He took forty men with him. I did not try to stop him. Geraldus was our dear friend and Cador is kin. Your father is not too old to fight for those he loves.”

Guinevere could see that her mother did not want to pursue the discussion.

“It has been a long ride, Mother. I need to change and wash before dinner. It will be nice to eat in peace and quiet again!” She kissed Guenlian and hurried to her room.

She entered the dining hall relaxed, clean, and ready for a simple evening at home. How lovely not to be always on display! As she took her place at the table, she noticed a man seated in the corner. He was playing a children’s game, rolling balls across the floor, making them hit each other. Guinevere turned to her mother with a puzzled expression.

“Who is this?” she asked. “Why is he hiding in the corner?”

“I forgot to tell you, dear,” Guenlian answered. “It’s a poor madman who wandered in. He’s quite harmless. We let him go where he wishes. Don’t worry. He won’t bother you at all.”

Guinevere nodded. As she turned away, one of the balls rolled across the floor, stopping by her foot. She picked it up and held it out to the man with a polite smile. He looked up at her as he reached out to take it. Suddenly she felt as if her stomach had been rammed up into her throat and then dropped. She tried to speak, but all that came out were choking sounds.

“Guinevere!” Guenlian rushed to her, pounding her back. “Here, lean forward. Are you all right?”

Slowly Guinevere regained her breath. The man was staring at her in bewilderment. She met his eyes and instinctively turned away. Then she looked back. The look he gave her was dull and empty. There was no fire, no passion, no compulsion. There was no reason for her to fear this man. Why did she feel as if someone had just torn out her heart?

She took a step toward him and held out her hand. “Lancelot?” she whispered. There was no recognition.

Guenlian caught her hand. “Lancelot? It can’t be! This man is nothing like him! You are mistaken, dear.”

Guinevere paid her no attention. “Lancelot,” she said a little louder. “Lancelot, please listen! It’s Guinevere.”

She knelt down so that her face was level with his. Guenlian watched her with a growing sense of alarm. Behind her, Rhianna and Letitia watched her with fascination.

Guinevere had forgotten about them all. Somewhere inside this creature who stared blankly at her was the Lancelot who had trod upon sharp steel for her sake, who had terrified her with the force of his love. She had to find him. Gently she reached out and touched his face, outlining the features hidden by the wild beard. He shrank at first from the caress, but then endured it with a puzzled expression. Guinevere cupped his chin in both her hands and forced him to look at her.

“Lancelot,” she pleaded softly. “Lancelot, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do this to you. Please forgive me! Come back! I’m not afraid anymore. Look at me! I won’t ever deny it again. I promise. Lancelot?”

There was nothing, not a flicker of understanding. She let him go. He slipped away from her at once and began rolling the balls again. Guinevere looked to the others for help.

“He doesn’t know me! We must help him! Mother? What can we do?”

“Guinevere, how can you be sure it is Lancelot? This man is so different. The coloring is similar, but that is all. He is so gaunt, his eyes so empty, his face—no, you’ve been brooding too much.”