by Kris Owyn
“Betrothed in secret, against her father’s—”
“She’s with child,” said a raspy whisper. “But by whom, he cannot tell...”
Guinevere laughed, and the gossiping stopped. She was the centre of attention once more, and intended to keep it that way. She motioned for Adwen to join her at the front, next to Eleanor and Lady Enid.
“Let’s start small, shall we?” she said with a warm smile. “Maidservants. Any volunteers?”
This was the key to their plot: of all the household duties, maidservants were the only ones likely to be allowed in the presence of the King with any regularity. Other members of Court had it better, but maidservants had freedom of movement. If Guinevere couldn’t attend the Council’s meeting with the King, she could at least spy on those involved, and stay in the loop. She and Eleanor had to be given this job.
There was a long silence, and then, as if jolted by the same lightning, every hand in the room shot up at once. Some of the women were even pushing the others aside, so their hand would be closer to the front.
“Wh-what do maidservants do?” asked Adwen, still quiet as a feather, wondering if she’d got the wrong job, given all the fuss.
“Oh, it’s not a spot for you, milady,” said Guinevere. “Lighting fires, wiping down tables, emptying chamber pots, that sort of thing. Even the laundress has a better time of it.”
The hands started drifting downward.
“At my old station, the maidservants were the first to get the pox, each and every time.” She sighed, as if reminiscing. “Never the same maids, obviously. The disfigurement — oh!”
Suddenly, no one was volunteering anymore. Guinevere frowned at the sight, then shrugged to Eleanor. “I suppose it’s us, then, Lady Eleanor.”
“Alas,” Eleanor sighed, barely containing a giggle.
“Now, as for the rest of you,” Guinevere said, holding her chin in mock thought, “we’ll need to place you based on abilities. I believe seniority is generally judged by, what, the steadiness of the curtsy, is it not?”
Eleanor nodded, with a wink, and Guinevere grinned back. She made a sloppy curtsy, almost falling over, and silently cursed herself. “Ah, I’ll never be a lady-in-waiting at this rate,” she sighed.
The room erupted into a bizarre showcase of all the best-born women in the kingdom trying to out-curtsy each other. Their faces held in perfect civility, necks preening, pinkies out, they bowed over and over to each other; showing off, or studying the competition. Some started dipping their heads, and soon that, too, spread around the room like a disease. A batting of the eyes, or a little sigh that — when multiplied dozens of times — sounded like waves hitting the shore.
Guinevere stood next to Eleanor, arms crossed, and smiled. “Sometimes I feel mercifully alien in the world.”
“I still say you should’ve put it down to a wrestling match,” Eleanor sighed.
“Don’t be cruel, Ellie.”
Adwen, mouth hanging open in awe, nudged Guinevere’s arm. “I... I fear I’m not qualified for this job, milady. I can’t curtsy nearly so well.”
Guinevere wrapped a kindly arm around her. “Oh, nonsense. That’s what makes you perfect. Be the odd duck in a room of daft hens, and you’ll get endless opportunities.”
Adwen smiled at her, like she’d found a friend for life. “Thank you, milady.” She flinched like she had an idea: “Are you staying in Em... Emlyn...”
“Emlyn House?”
Adwen’s face brightened even more. “Yes! I’ve a corner room by the garden, and they say we can change roommates if we—”
Just then, a distinctly male voice squeaked from behind: “What in the blazes is this?”
They turned to see a portly man in lavish robes and a heavy gold livery collar, watching the gaggle of noblewomen flailing about like lunatics. His face was screwed up like he’d just eaten rotten meat, and his left hand was grabbing at thin air, like he expected something to be there that might save him from the madness.
“I didn’t order a dance troupe!” he said, voice full of agony. “Why is there a dance troupe here?”
“They’re not dancers, milord,” said Lady Enid. “These are the ladies of Court, waiting instru—”
“Oh, well, this is just...” He spun in a circle, looked like he wanted to scream. “Is nobody sane in this place but me?” He squeezed his cheeks between his hands like it would help relieve his stress, but all it accomplished was to make him look just as foolish as the rest of the room.
Adwen leaned closer to Guinevere: “Who is this strange man?”
The strange man snapped his fingers and pointed at Adwen, menacingly. “No, who are you, you little tart—”
“Lady Adwen of Gwynedd,” Guinevere interrupted, and the man froze, mid-sentence.
“And who doesn’t love tarts?” he exclaimed, bowing deeply. “Apple tarts — so delicious! The sweet flavour and the sensual texture on the tongue is so—” He paused again, realized what he was saying, and quickly changed course: “I mean I am so honoured to make your acquaintance, milady. I am Sir Ector, Master of Court, and your most humble servant.”
Adwen put her hands to her skirts to curtsy, but then, with a sly nod to Guinevere, she didn’t curtsy. She just raised an eyebrow to Ector and said: “I see.”
Guinevere defeated her laugh before it happened, but just barely.
“Ladies,” Ector said, wringing his hands, “I am in desperate need of maids. Do you have any in here, at present? I’ve a terrible disaster unfolding — well, several, to be honest, but one thing at a time — and I need a pair of competent—” he observed the curtsying devolving even further into absurdity, “—and sane maidservants to, you know, exist.”
Eleanor looked nervous: the plan was to be generally assigned as maids, not to actually perform maid-like duties. A terrible disaster in their line of work might be horribly unpleasant. And smelly. Guinevere tried gentle tact:
“Sir Ector, while my friend and I are maidservants, we—”
“Excellent, come along!” he said, grabbing them by the arms and dragging them away. Guinevere’s feet scrambled to keep pace as he hurried down a long hall, through a pair of heavy oak doors, and deposited them, roughly, against the wall.
“Whatever you’re asked to do, you do it,” he said, desperate. “Without hesitation, just follow instructions. I don’t care what you’re asked, you do it.”
Guinevere winced. “Sir Ector, we—”
He held a silencing finger out to her, then to Eleanor, then back to Guinevere. “Tut tut tut!” he hissed. “Mouths shut at all times.” He thought a bit further, then added: “Unless they need be open. I don’t want to assume.”
Eleanor looked ready to bolt.
“Your lordship, I think—” Guinevere said, but before she could finish, Ector grabbed them both by the waist, and shoved them through the doors—
—and into the throne room.
They made just enough noise to attract every eye in the place, and some audible gasps. The full Council was there, positioned just below the dais. Bors, at the far side, was amused, but not surprised. Gawain, who was stopped mid-sentence, was surprised, and not amused.
And at the throne, surprised and amused, with a happy grin on his clean-shaven face, was King Arthur.
Eleven
Bors had it half-right: Arthur was a twig compared to the guards all around, but there was no frailty about him. He was pure, lean muscle beneath a shaggy top of dirty-blond hair. His beardless face, while an odd fashion choice, only served to make him look younger. If you were looking for the personification of “beautiful innocence,” this would be it.
Hanging from his oversized belt was the mythical sword from the stone. It was easy to see, since its sheath wasn’t much of a sheath at all, just a pair of long, twined strips and a bracing cup at the bottom to keep it steady. The ef
fect was simple yet effective: anyone who looked could tell this lad held Excalibur, and that made him the King.
And yet, for all that, his gaudy blue tunic hung off him like a boy wearing his father’s clothes. He looked painfully out of place. It was clear by their expressions that the members of Council were having a hard time taking him seriously.
And that was before, without warning, he bowed to Guinevere and Eleanor. Bowed to them.
In an instant, the entire room bowed, too. Most had no idea what they were bowing for, but the King could not be the lowest head in the room, whatever the reason. Arthur seemed to sense this, after a moment, and straightened, nodded politely.
The way he was looking at Guinevere, she knew he was smitten. The quick glances back, like he wasn’t truly sure he’d seen what he’d seen, and needed to be sure... she knew it well. A great many men had mistaken her confidence for beauty, and she was wise enough not to disabuse them of that confusion. She flashed him a smile, and she swore she saw him tremble.
“Milady,” he squeaked at Guinevere. “Milady,” he said to Eleanor, more composed. Both curtsied, knowing they were being intensely judged. Arthur sat, and the room relaxed once more.
“M-milord,” Gawain said, glaring at Guinevere with visible rage. “I beg your forgiveness, but these women—”
“You were saying, about transport,” said Arthur, wincing like he was trying to conjure up a memory. “I’m sorry, go on.”
Gawain stared daggers at Guinevere, considering his options. He cricked his neck, turned his charm back on as far as it went: “Yes, milord, transport along the southern highway is—”
“There are bandits,” said Arthur, checking with his page, a scrawny little man with big, dark eyes and a mechanical stature. The page nodded back, ever so slightly. “Thieves and bandits.”
“Yes, sire,” said Gawain, “but rest assured, our shipments are well-protected at all times.”
Arthur scratched the back of his neck, making him seem even more affable than he already did. He kept stealing glances over at Guinevere, lest she somehow disappear. “Hmm, yes, our shipments. Yes. Go on.”
Gawain bowed slightly, continued: “Transport along the southern highway is reaching capacity during—”
“I’m sorry,” said Arthur, shaking his head like there was a noise buzzing around his skull he couldn’t dispatch. “I’m sorry, protected how?”
“Sire?”
“The shipments are protected how?”
Gawain looked over his shoulder at the other noblemen, like they might offer an answer, but none wanted to be part of it. He answered, hesitantly, with: “I believe a Poldare and sword per man. As for ammunition, I will have to check with—”
“No, I mean,” Arthur said, and sprung from his seat. The room bowed again, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I mean how are they protected? How many men?”
Gawain stood straight. “I believe six, your highness.”
“Six men for the entire highway?”
“Six men per wagon, sire. On average, I should say. At the discretion of the servicing district.”
Arthur didn’t seem to hear the rest of the sentence. He was waving his hand in the air like trying to conjure a spell. His page leaned in his ear, whispered something, and he snapped his fingers, excitedly.
“Yes, so, the highway itself is unguarded. No men on the highway, for the highway.”
Gawain shifted, confused. “No, sire. That... is not how it works.”
“Excellent, excellent,” Arthur said, sitting back down. Gawain opened his mouth to speak, when Arthur interrupted: “How far is it?”
Gawain grimaced. “How far is what, my lord?”
“The southern highway. How far from here to... to...”
“Dover,” offered another nobleman, and got a stern glare from Gawain in return.
“Yes, how far from here to Dover, would you say?”
All of Council started to huddle, muttering to one another about routes and measurements, trying to gather some kind of consensus about a fact that they all knew, but couldn’t quite recall. The older men stamped their walking sticks on the ground, adamant they get it right. Arthur gave a bemused look to his page, waiting for the answer.
Gawain shushed the Council, turning back to the King, offered: “Two hundred leagues, sire.”
“But how long to walk, I mean?”
“By foot?”
Arthur laughed. “How else does one walk?”
Gawain checked back with his comrades; some, more accustomed to arithmetic, started doing urgent calculations in their heads. Eleanor raised an eyebrow to Guinevere, curious: did she know?
“I’ve a carriage for that sort of thing,” Guinevere whispered, rolling her eyes for good measure.
“Sire, we estimate in the range of three to four days to walk from here to Dover,” said Gawain, still conferring. “Perhaps two, depending on the time of year.”
“Four days,” said Arthur, tapping a finger upon his lips. “That’s a great distance, now isn’t it?” He looked to Guinevere as if asking her opinion—
—then leapt to his feet! The whole room bowed again. “Goodness, ladies, I’m so sorry! Would you like to sit down?” He gestured to the throne, and now the crowd was scandalized. Guinevere tried to communicate, as best she could without words, that it wouldn’t be entirely appropriate for anyone but the King to sit on the throne.
Arthur flinched as he came to the same realization. He looked about, trying to find— aha! He waved to Ector, now standing on the opposite side of the room, and looking like he was either having a stroke, or wanting one badly. Arthur called: “Can we get two chairs for the ladies, please? Two chairs, please.”
Ector’s eye started twitching as he bowed, turned and dashed away in search of someone who could find and transport chairs. His frantic shrieks were mercifully cut off by the door closing behind him.
The full Council was now glaring at Guinevere. At its head, Gawain squared his shoulders, eyes narrow, and cleared his throat. “Sire, if we may move on to other business, there is the matter of the composition of your most loyal Council.”
“My... Council, yes,” Arthur said, still looking around for some sign of the chairs.
“Yes, sire, the composition of Council has changed in the years since your predecessor, and the Round Table—”
“Oh!” said Arthur, suddenly lit up. “I must see the Round Table. Would that be possible?”
Gawain smiled patiently. “Yes, sire. Of course. At your convenience. But as your highness’ time is at a premium, it is customary for a representative of the crown to, in many cases, speak for the Crown at Council, and then communicate those outcomes back to—”
“Yes yes, over there, please,” said Arthur, as two servants ushered chairs across the room to Guinevere and Eleanor.
Gawain licked his teeth in frustration.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, as the chairs were set down and the servants backed away. “Go on, I’m listening.” He motioned for Guinevere and Eleanor to sit... but they were stymied by protocol; no one sat in the presence of the King, when he was standing.
“Sire,” said Gawain, desperately trying to keep control of things, “the Council would like to offer as First Minister—”
“First Minister, yes!” said Arthur, animated again. “I’ve got one for you. Fear not.”
Gawain’s mouth opened and closed without sound. The rest of Council was stunned into silence, too; Guinevere’s grin was irrepressible. She tilted her head so everyone could see very clearly how amused she was.
“Sire, I—”
“Merlin, come say hello,” said Arthur, and suddenly at his side was—
—the gangly page.
Guinevere very nearly laughed aloud.
“Sire, I confess I...” began Gawain, stunned as if he’d been
struck in the head by a battering ram. “I am not familiar with the gentleman in question. Is he... um... a friend from your previous—”
“Oh no,” laughed Arthur. “No, Merlin’s lived his whole life in Camelot City. He’s an engineer’s apprentice, and he has the most wonderful ideas. He’s just...” he nudged Merlin, who was stone-faced staring straight into oblivion like no one else was there. “He’s a little shy, here, but once you get him talking, he’s got quite the plans in mind.”
Gawain pressed his hands together, looking oddly like a priest, for a man without a soul. “Milord, while it is... gracious of you to elevate apprentices so far above their station, the issues of state are more... complex than are likely to be understood by such a young man. Perhaps another appointment, to, say, Chief Engineer of the Realm? Or Advisor to His Majesty?”
Guinevere leaned closer to Eleanor, whispered into her ear: “I can’t tell if I’m appalled or amused. I’m so glad we didn’t miss this.”
Arthur scratched the back of his neck again, shrugged as he looked from Merlin to Gawain. “I’m afraid that’s not quite right,” he said. “After all, the future of Camelot is in its engineering, yes?”
Gawain reluctantly nodded: “Yes, sire, but there’s more to the kingdom than simply designing weapons.”
Arthur clapped his hands together suddenly, beaming. “Yes, exactly! That’s Merlin’s vision as well! We need to... to...” He spread his arms wide, like he was ready to embrace the whole room. “We need to do more.”
Gawain was trying to keep his bearings. Council was chattering amongst itself, because if there was one thing they could all agree on, it was the benefits of more. Gawain cleared his throat: “Does his highness mean opening new markets, or building more factories, or—”
“Yes, yes, and yes,” said Arthur, wrapping a friendly arm around Merlin, who seemed immensely uncomfortable at being touched. “It’s time to do more for the common man.”
The room went silent. Gawain twitched.
“The... common... man, sire?”
“Charity, Lord Lothian!” Arthur beamed. “After all, there’s more to life than just war and weapons, isn’t there? Together, you and I and all of us... we can do good.”