The Chessboard Queen (31 page)

Guinevere stamped her foot in annoyance. “I know who this is! Why can’t you see it? We can’t leave him like this. Rhianna, Pincerna, don’t you see?”

There was a pause as Guinevere challenged her family to help. Pincerna would not reply without guidance from Guenlian, but Rhianna slowly nodded her head.

“I think that it doesn’t matter if this is Lancelot or not. We have assumed that this man cannot be cured, but we haven’t tried. If we can find out what to do, I will help.”

“Mother?” Guinevere made one more appeal.

“Rhianna is correct,” Guenlian admitted. “It is our duty as Christians to try to restore this man, whoever he may be. But I have no experience with madness.”

Pincerna coughed deferentially. “There are many books on medicine still in Tenuantius’ room. We were going to give them to St. Docca, but no one has yet arrived to collect them.”

Guinevere was relieved to find that there was something concrete for her to do. “Rhianna, Letitia, will you help me go through them?”

“We will all help, Guinevere,” Guenlian interrupted. “But only after we eat.”

No one ate very much, though. Their thoughts were all on the ragged man, contentedly playing in the corner.

Tenuantius, Guinevere’s ancient tutor, had died during the winter. His large collection of books, many of which he had copied or edited himself, had been wrapped and left for the monks to collect. Rhianna sighed as they started to search them.

“There must be a hundred of them and some have four or five different treatises in them.”

“There must be something here that can help us!” Guinevere stated firmly. “We can’t give up before we start.”

Letitia was sent to bed after a few hours, but, goaded by Guinevere, the others stayed up until after midnight, carefully unrolling ancient scrolls and opening more recent and heavier codices bound in wood. Finally Rhianna set one down on the floor with a plop.

“I can’t do this anymore, Guinevere! My eyes are as dusty as my fingers and the letters keep dancing around. I must get some sleep. I’ll help again tomorrow. Why don’t you come, too?”

“No, we must find it. It must be here!” Guinevere was taut with exhaustion also, but she couldn’t give up yet, even though she knew she had been staring at the same page for the past ten minutes without taking it in. She blinked hard and tried to concentrate.

“‘A translation from the Greek physician, Soranus, by the most learned Caelius Aurelianus, with a discussion on the causes and treatment of deranged minds. Scribed by me, Tenuantius, in the fortieth year from the departure of the Legions.’”

She mumbled it out loud and started to close the book. Tenuantius had certainly copied anything that had come his way. The treatment of. . .

“Mother!” she shrieked. Guenlian awoke with a start, knocking over the scroll she had been trying to read.

“I found it! Listen. It tells everything! Let me see. ‘. . . madness often caused by brooding or the imbalance of some passion, such as love or. . . .’ Well, we don’t need that. We want to know what to do now. Here it is. ‘The patient should be put into a light room, with only soft colors in view. Nothing sharp should be allowed near him. He should wear light, padded clothes, so that he might not injure himself. Warm sponges should be applied to his eyes. He should be well fed but given no intoxicating drink or herbs which would further inflame his mind.’ What else? Oh, music is supposed to help, too, and the afflicted should be ‘reminded of his former occupation as much as possible through conversation.’ That doesn’t sound too difficult. We can try, can’t we, Mother?”

Guenlian rubbed her eyes. “We can try anything you like, my dear, if it will wait until morning. We must get some sleep.”

Guinevere allowed herself to be taken to her room, but how much she slept that night is not known.

Chapter Seventeen

“Guinevere, darling, you can’t continue in this,” Guenlian warned. “We have tried everything the book recommended and he is no better. You will do him no good if you go on and you will make yourself ill.”

Guinevere refused to listen. “I must keep trying, Mother. How can I bring him back to Arthur like this? They will blame me even more.”

She gestured toward the garden before them, where Lancelot, clean and shaven, was reclining. His eyes were open, staring, perhaps, at the clouds or, more likely, at nothing. Nearby, Letitia dutifully was humming as she hemmed a new robe. In the past three weeks, they had employed every art they knew, pampering Lancelot in a way which would have horrified him if he had known. But he didn’t. He was docile and gentle, but gave no indication that he understood anything said to him or that someday he might recover. Guenlian’s heart ached at Guinevere’s discouragement. The poor child had never before encountered defeat. But remembering the way Lancelot had watched her, Guenlian was secretly grateful that the danger from him was now past. She chided herself for being more of a mother than a Christian, but the fact remained that she much preferred this Lancelot as a guest to the one who had visited before.

Guinevere had gone on speaking. “Letitia has been working there all morning. She has been such a help, considering she is barely ten. I’ll tell her to go and play and I’ll read him something. Ovid is cheerful enough, don’t you think? I could read the part about Aeneas. That has battle in it.”

Guenlian gave up. “I’m sure it doesn’t matter, dear, for all he knows. Read what pleases you. I must see to dinner.”

Letitia was willing enough to go, but promised she would be back at her post the next morning. Guinevere settled herself on a stool near Lancelot. Sunlight fell across the scroll, an old piece of vellum, commissioned by her grandfather from a scriptorium in Gaul. The poetry was accompanied by graphic illustrations which had always fascinated her. Even eighty years in damp Britain had not dulled the colors. She began reading in a drone, which faded as she forgot the man beside her and wandered again with Aeneas as he descended into Hell and out again on his way to founding Rome. When she emerged from the story, she discovered that Lancelot was sleeping.

The spring sunshine, not yet high overhead, shone upon his face and traced the contours and lines of it. Guinevere tried to remember if the wrinkles around his eyes had been there the year before. She wasn’t sure. Until now she had feared to study him too closely. Without thinking, she ran her finger along the curve of his jaw to the cleft in his chin. Pincerna had complained at the impossibility of shaving it properly and vowed that any man with such a chin should remain bearded. Guinevere disagreed. Now that she saw it well, she found his face pleasing. It would be a pity to hide it. She brushed back a lock of his hair. The golden-brown curl was silky and warm. The texture surprised her. She had not thought that any part of him could be soft. She knelt beside the couch and leaned over him, bemused by all she was discovering. She held his head in both her hands and gently turned his face to hers.

“Guinevere!” Her mother’s shocked tone so startled Guinevere that she sat down on her heels with a thump.

Guenlian tried to check herself. Anything she might say would only make matters worse. Guinevere might have been doing something innocent. She wished Leodegrance had not insisted that Arthur must have his support in trouncing the Saxons. She needed his advice. Guenlian cursed the Saxons, swallowed, and modulated her voice.

“Guinevere,” she began again. “We have a visitor. He gave his name as Torres. He says he is Lancelot’s foster brother. Do you know him?”

Guinevere rose, brushing her hands across her skirts. “Yes, I sent a messenger for him. I thought he might help. Where is he?”

Guenlian led her to the main courtyard, where Torres stood leaning against a statue and contentedly eyeing the maids at work. He straightened up when they approached and greeted Guinevere without any of the coldness he had shown her all winter.

“I can’t believe you have found him!” he exclaimed. “Is he all right? I sent word to the Lady at once. She should be here soon. Has he spoken yet?”

“The Lady of the Lake!” Guinevere had heard only that. “She can’t come here!”

“Why not? She won’t mind. This place is much nicer than Caerleon. She will feel much more at home here. But she won’t stay long, in any case. If we have Lancelot ready when she gets here, she will probably take him and go.”

“Mother!” Guinevere pleaded. “Say something. We can’t let her do that!”

Guenlian was trying to take it all in. She did not believe in the irrational. Of course, Geraldus had always brought his singers with him, but she had never seen or heard them. And if the food left for them was gone in the morning, well, it was the same as when children leave a bowl of milk for the fairies. It was always empty by dawn, but who was to say that the cat hadn’t drunk it? But how was she expected to play hostess to an unnatural thing, posing as a woman? Guenlian took a deep breath. This sort of thing did not happen in civilized society. She exhaled. Civilization did seem rather tenuous these days. It was better to prepare for the impossible.

“What does this Lady eat?” she asked Torres.

• • •

Pincerna, the old butler, had seen many strange and horrible things in his long life. He had survived the loss of his family and the death of two of Guinevere’s brothers. He remembered the years of Vortigern and the slaughter of the kings. But during the past few years he had lulled himself into a comfortable, quiet routine. The last forces of magic, as far as he was concerned, had died with Flora, Guinevere’s old nurse. It eased his final years to think that the inexplicable was vanishing from the earth. Therefore, he was outraged to witness the arrival of the Lady of the Lake, Adon, and Nimuë in a slow, shimmering manifestation in the center of the courtyard. It was with furious dignity that he announced them to Guenlian.

“Some people, my Lady, have arrived.” He gave the statement every shade of doubt he could.

Guenlian smiled. “Thank you, Pincerna. They will wish to see Sir Lancelot at once. Conduct them to his room. If they wish to see me later, I shall be in my chambers.”

The Lady did indeed want to see Lancelot immediately. Since word had come of his disappearance, she had been impossible to live with. Guilt and worry made her exceedingly intolerant of anything but finding him. She was furious with herself. How could she have let him go among such beings, poor innocent child? What had they done to him? What kind of beasts were they?

Lancelot was sleeping in his room when they arrived. The long afternoon had almost gone when they entered and only his outline could be made out.

“He seems the same,” the Lady whispered. “Are you sure he knows nothing of himself at all?”

“So all my sources say,” Adon replied. “He is like a child again, simple and unaware. Can you cure him?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I’m not sure, though, that I should.”

She knelt by the bed. “Lancelot,” she called, “Lancelot! My precious.”

His eyes opened, but no recognition brightened them.

The Lady sighed. “Not even me. I somehow hoped he would at least remember me. Nimuë! Fetch the herbs and some wine. Hurry, girl. Don’t forget you’re here on sufferance!”

She busied herself in the preparations. A brazier was brought and placed near Lancelot’s head. The wine soon bubbled, sending out its alcohol. As the steam rose, the Lady threw herbs into the liquid, all the while chanting arcane rhyme. Lancelot coughed and shook his head, struggling to free himself from the fumes.

“No!” he cried. “I didn’t mean that! Stop it! Don’t laugh at me! No!” He clapped his hands over his ears.

The Lady covered his hands with hers. “Lancelot? Do you know me, dear?”

His head sank back onto the pillow. The muscles of his face tensed, as if he were straining against some great force. His eyes opened. He blinked several times, unable to focus. Then he saw the Lady.

“Lancelot?” Her voice was tremulous. “It’s all right now. I never should have sent you away from me. I never will again. I’ve come to take you home.”

His eyes filled. He closed them again. A long moment passed before he spoke. “Do you know all of it, Lady? I have failed in everything. I tried to be perfect and showed myself a pompous fool, instead. I could not make her like me. They all laughed at me, all but Arthur.”

“They are not worth your regret,” she snapped. “If I had remembered how wicked humans are, I would have kept you with me no matter how you begged. Forget them all. Torres is here, and Adon and Nimuë are with me. All of us will take you back home.”

Lancelot took a deep breath and sat up. The Lady took his hand, smiling possessively. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He glanced over her shoulder and his face lit up as though reflecting the dawn. At first the Lady thought the look was for her and her heart leaped. Then she twisted around to see what had caused him to react so.

There in the doorway stood Guinevere. She hesitated at the sight of the strange people. One look at Lancelot and she knew he had been cured.

“He will be angry with me,” she thought. “But he has the right. I must face him before he goes.”

When she saw him smile, she returned it without thinking. He didn’t blame her! On an impulse, she reached her hands out to him. As if the Lady had vanished, he brushed past her and went to Guinevere. She took a step back, but he caught her hands and pulled her toward him. She had meant to apologize, to welcome him back, but all the speeches were washed away as she gripped his hands and gazed straight into his eyes.

“I’m not afraid anymore,” she said.

“I’m glad,” he answered.

They stood, smiling idiotically at each other, and they might have remained there indefinitely if the Lady had not interrupted. Outraged, she grabbed Guinevere’s arm and yanked her away. Lancelot tried to restrain her.

“Lady, please! This is Guinevere. You mustn’t treat her like that!”

“I know very well who she is,” the Lady said angrily. “This is the spoiled, scheming little bitch who nearly sent you to your death. I’ve heard a lot more about her than she’d care to have known. Certainly her looks aren’t what I’d expect from the tales, but age does mount up on a human. Don’t waste your Christian claptrap forgiveness on her. She has no soul, nor heart, either. Send her back to her poor husband for him to deal with, and forget her. Come along!”