The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  Guinevere fell into her chair.

  Twelve

  A goblet hit the ground and sprayed wine everywhere, but no one in Council even noticed. The shouting was blisteringly loud, as dozens of hysterical men flailed for stability in a world turned sideways. Even Bors was bearing down on a trio of assistants, spittle flying as he brainstormed the apocalypse aloud.

  Gawain, surrounded by so much over-the-edge chaos, still found the wherewithal to notice Guinevere’s entrance, and point a savage finger in her direction.

  “Get her out of here!” he screamed, and a handful of people glanced in her direction, before returning to their own matters. She grimaced at him, shuffled through the crowd, to the edge of the room. She wouldn’t be banished, but she also wouldn’t invite more trouble than she already had. She stayed as invisible as possible, watching and waiting.

  Boiling over with frustration, Bors shoved an assistant aside and cupped his hands to his mouth: “Quiet down!” No one seemed to hear him. Or rather, nobody cared to stop.

  Guinevere motioned towards a large metal serving tray and empty wine pitcher. Bors took the hint: he scooped them up, one in each hand, and crash! made a noise no one could ignore.

  “Right,” he said, tossing them onto the table, “let’s have some order, please.”

  “What order?” spat Wiglaf, plunking down into his chair and putting his boots on the table. “The world’s gone mad.”

  “What’s he thinking?” said a voice from the crowd. “Using Camelot for what? Charity?”

  “Chamber pots for the poor!” said another, and everyone laughed. Mirthful.

  Rhos creaked to the fore, stamping his walking stick for effect. “This is madness, pure madness!” he said. “Charity is all well and good, but by God, donate to the Church like you’re meant to! How is this a state issue? The constitution does not allow—”

  Half the room audibly groaned. Rhos did love his lectures...

  “Enough of the constitu—”

  “The constitution does not allow,” Rhos persisted, “for the forced divestment of the member districts without—”

  “Can he force us?” asked Wiglaf, cutting in. “He hasn’t the authority, has he?”

  Bors scratched his cheek, thinking. “It’s never come up. The King dictates policy, but I don’t imagine Pendragon ever imagined it would be to the detriment of anyone’s bottom line. We’ve always wanted the same things, more or less.”

  At that, something tweaked in Rhos’ memory. He sat himself down, pressed his forehead into his walking stick, like he was praying. “The siege engine question,” he sighed, and the room became quiet.

  Wiglaf didn’t understand. “What question? What about siege engines?”

  Guinevere stepped away from the wall, speaking in the most neutral tone she could muster. She couldn’t risk condescension now, or she’d be kicked out for sure.

  “It was the critical question of my father’s generation,” she said. “One camp, insistent Camelot build heavy artillery, armoured carriages and meaner trebuchets, to help conquer cities. The other camp, invested in crossbows, shields, armour.”

  Wiglaf scoffed. “The crossbows won, obviously.”

  “Aye, but not without a feud,” said Bors. “Settled, finally, by Pendragon himself. He decreed—”

  “Decreed that royal prerogative defeats district preferences,” said Rhos, sounding near tears. “The Crown can’t tell us what to make, but it can tell us what to achieve. The lad has the right to his fancies. Chamber pots, wash basins and all.”

  The room went deathly silent as everyone considered their fates.

  Wiglaf pounded the table this time, with an angry fist. “We’re sure it’s the real sword, aren’t we?” Half the room sighed, the other half grumbled agreement. Wiglaf raised his voice: “Because if he’s not the rightful king, I should think—”

  “That’s treason, boy!” Rhos snapped.

  “But is it, if he’s not really the king?”

  Bors and Gawain both tried to calm the growing chorus of shouting, but Bors was louder: “We’ve been over this and it’s resolved! The boy has the sword, which makes him the King—”

  “Unless someone can prove otherwise,” added Gawain, half-warning, half-making an open request. But no one answered. The room was quiet again. “Right,” he said, and strode to the large map hanging from the wall, outlining the whole Kingdom of Camelot. Stitched into it with vibrant red thread were twelve emblems...

  “We’ve twelve factories at capacity now,” he said, pointing from one to the other. “Thirteen by year’s end?”

  “If there’s still a Camelot left, yes,” said Bors, with a grunt for punctuation.

  “Then I propose we allocate one factory to the King’s endeavours. “Bors, yours is centrally-located, I think.”

  Bors’ face twisted with anger. “Oh no you don’t you little runt!”

  “You’d be fairly compensated for the sacrifice!” Gawain said, backing away just to be safe. “But truly, someone will have to sacrifice for the good of the kingdom. We cannot tell the King no, and we cannot conjure his good deeds out of thin air!”

  “Then let someone else take that fall!” Bors roared, and there was more yelling, more cursing, more borderline treason from around the room.

  Guinevere positioned herself next to the map, turned to face the crowd, even as they ignored her existence. She gathered up the serving tray Bors had used earlier, and held it in front of herself like a shield.

  “I won’t give up my production for chamber pots!” shouted someone from the back.

  “Nor I!”

  “The runt can make his own factory!” growled an older man, and others cheered.

  Clang! The sound jerked all eyes to Guinevere, as the tray continued its noisy fall to the floor. She waited until it was perfectly silent, then smiled politely, and pointed to the map.

  “I’ve another approach in mind,” she said. Gawain snorted. “It’s true, we cannot defy the King, And why should we, when he has such noble pursuits in mind?”

  Bors observed her, warily.

  She continued: “Don’t bicker about which district should do the work—”

  “Easy for you to say,” sneered Wiglaf. “Lyonesse has no factories. But some of us depend on that output to survive.”

  “Oh, I agree,” she said, as pleasantly as she could muster. “Which is why the burden should be spread. All districts should volunteer to contribute a portion of their production to the King’s projects.”

  Gawain slammed his hand on the table, and Wiglaf nearly yelped. “And that’s why you don’t invite a woman to Council!” he shouted. “Spread the burden? How does it help us if we’re all suffering together? Bah! Foolish whimsy!”

  Guinevere stomped on the serving tray, and Gawain jumped.

  “How much does it cost to produce a chamber pot?” she asked, glancing over at the Council accountants. They jerked into action, detecting no objection from Gawain. “Roughly, I mean,” she added with a flourish.

  The Chief Accountant jittered forward. “Um, a quarter shilling, milady. Roughly.”

  “A quarter shilling,” she echoed, with a sly smile. “Not so expensive, is it?”

  “It’s not the cost of the thing, it’s what we can’t produce because of it!” snapped Wiglaf. “How many crossbows go unmade because we’re making candlesticks for peasants?”

  Guinevere nodded, as if she was taking him seriously. “Bear with me a moment, if you will,” she said. “Lord Rhos, remind me: what does the constitution say about our feudal duties, as districts? How much must we pay, from our sales, to the Crown?”

  “I can tell you that one,” grumbled Wiglaf. “Fifteen percent of receipts. Monthly. To furnish an empty palace, too.”

  “Fifteen percent, or...” Guinevere said, leading Rhos along.

&nbs
p; He sat forward, understanding. “Or equivalent services.”

  Guinevere nodded, slightly. Bors’ smile took over his face.

  Wiglaf did not see the point, and was realizing he might be the only one. “And what of it? What services?”

  Guinevere played patient once more: “Let’s suppose the Carolingian kings decided to invade Camelot next month.” She drew a finger from Brittany to the south-west of Britannia on the map. “And the King called on, say, you, Gawain, to defend the realm.”

  Gawain glared at her. “I’d do my duty, no questions asked.”

  “What a noble hero you’d be, too,” she said. “Spending, say, fifty thousand tremisses — fifteen percent of your average income — to save us all.”

  Gawain’s face darkened; fifty thousand was no idle speculation, it was an exact figure. She couldn’t tell if he was upset about her airing his numbers in public, or that he had no idea what hers were.

  “If that’s what it took,” he sneered.

  “I could do it for less, but regardless,” she said with a grin, “If you gallantly saved the kingdom for fifty thousand tremisses, you would, in fact, owe the King nothing that month. It’s receipts or services, you see. One or the other. Gold or muscle.” She winked at Rhos. “Or, in this case, chamber pots. For every charitable donation we provide, we owe the Crown less of our other earnings.” She placed a finger to her cheek, acting pensive and false: “Now someone remind me... how much do chamber pots cost to produce?”

  The Chief Accountant glanced at his papers, started to speak, when—

  “A tremis each,” said Bors, loudly. “At least.”

  There was banging on the table as applause spread. “Hear hear! A tremis a pot!”

  “Who can spare some factory time for the King’s charity?” Guinevere called, and the room erupted into cheers. She beamed as those around her patted her back, complimented her cunning ways; Rhos looks appeased, too, and even Wiglaf seemed satisfied.

  But Gawain...

  “And yet...” The room quieted again. “And yet all this does is starve the royal treasury. The King will feel the pinch, the longer it goes on.”

  “Well,” said Guinevere with a shrug, “ultimately, that’s the King’s problem to solve, not ours.”

  “He’ll see through your scheme,” Gawain warned.

  “Oh, he’s far too busy counting the steps to Dover,” she said, and the room burst into laughter. “Besides, when he realizes the cost of his side-projects — even if it’s on the verge of poverty — I’m sure Council would be more than happy to finance solutions. On our terms.”

  Bors started pounding the table in support, and soon the whole room was loud again, but in unison, with purpose. Gawain adjusted his cloak, angrily. Guinevere tried to look doe-like and innocent, but found it very taxing.

  “Shared responsibility for charitable works,” Gawain said, as the noise was quieting. “I’ll bring our proposal to the King and—”

  Guinevere laughed, drawing an incandescent glare. “I’m sorry, go on,” she said.

  “As First Minister, I—”

  “But you’re not First Minister, as I recall.”

  He leaned forward, fists pressed against the table. “I am Council’s chief negotiator.”

  “And I am Council’s best negotiator,” she said, and again, the room burst into laughter. “Besides, I’ve a rapport with the King I suspect you lack. Or did he fetch you a chair, as well?” More laughter. “I will bring our proposal, and I will ensure a fair and equitable deal is struck for all.”

  Again, rapturous applause.

  “I will not let you down,” she said to the crowd. “But I make one request, in return: in exchange for a speedy resolution to Council’s problems, I ask for full cooperation in solving my problems. I expect a seat at this table, going forward—” The reaction was agitated, but not wholly hostile, so she pushed her luck: “—along with full control of all Lyonesse holdings.”

  She looked directly at Gawain when she said: “All of them.”

  Thirteen

  “Guinevere!”

  Gawain pushed through the crowd, out of the Council chambers; the hall was largely deserted, except for Eleanor, sitting at a bench, playing a card game by herself. And, in the far corner, Rinwell, simmering. “Guinevere!” repeated Gawain, and she turned back, hands on her hips, ready to battle.

  “If you’re here to berate me, Gawain, you can—”

  “No, no,” he said, stopping as close to her as she could stomach. “No fighting, I swear.” She was thrown by his tone: not angry and abrasive anymore, and not even the faux-chivalrous brand of patronizing from their first encounter... he almost sounded sincere.

  “This is bigger than you or I, Gawain,” she said, still not giving ground. “Council elected me to defend the soul of Camelot, and I won’t be bullied into—”

  “You’re right,” he said, and she stopped cold.

  “Am I, now?”

  “You are, and I...” he took a hesitant step forward, “I feel I owe you an apology.”

  Guinevere raised an eyebrow to Eleanor, who pretended she didn’t see. “Go on,” she said.

  “I haven’t been, I think, treating you fairly, these last few days. I suppose I never thought much about how you got to be so successful, in Paris. For whatever reason, I just imagined you were, you know, maintaining the work your father began, rather than thinking for yourself.”

  She said nothing, verbally, but her expression said she thought he was full of—

  “Your plan, back there, in Council, is brilliant,” he said. “You saw what no one else could, and I daresay without your help, we would be heading for a civil war. Even as I was arguing against it, I could feel I was wrong. I just made the connection too late.”

  “Strategy’s about chasing the result down the line, not the one right at hand,” Guinevere said, not unkindly. “My father taught me that.”

  “Aye, and that’s what we need. That foresight.”

  “Then let me inherit my seat, and you’ll have it, without reservation.”

  Gawain took her by the shoulders, which made her extremely uncomfortable. But then again, so did Rinwell, hand on his hilt, so she let it be.

  “Why can’t we work together, Guinevere? Your father saw the merit in it. Keeping me around all those years, he was laying the groundwork to a bold alliance. Lothian and Lyonesse, working as one. We spent that time together so we could be a better team, you and I.”

  Guinevere shrugged as much as she could, given her arms were being held hostage. “By that measure, I should be in business with Eleanor instead.” She looked over her shoulder, with a wink: “What do you say, Ellie? Fancy a political marriage?”

  Gawain shook her in frustration. “This isn’t a game, Guinevere!”

  Her gaze returned to him, slowly. “Did you just shake me?”

  His hands came off her, and he stepped back. “I’m sorry. I’m... these are trying times, and I...”

  “At any rate, our interests are easily aligned, Gawain. I don’t enjoy having enemies. Drop your opposition, and maybe we can rekindle some of that old friendship you hold so dear. We could do great things for Camelot, together.”

  “But we can do more...” It was like he was pleading. So disturbing to watch. “Two of the greatest families in the realm, joined together, making a district so powerful, we’d have unprecedented control over Council—”

  “Oh, Council could be swayed by a child with a shiny enough bauble.”

  “So let’s make that child together!” he said, stepping far too close, now.

  She squinted at him. “I think you miss the point.”

  “No, Guinevere, I think you miss the point! Apart, we can do great things, but together, we and our sons—”

  “Oh, I don’t—”

  “—could truly tap th
e full potential of the Continental market, and—”

  She put a hand on his chest and shoved him back. “You’ve lost me, now. Are you suggesting I’m not qualified to handle the Continent?”

  His reaction said that was exactly what he was suggesting, and furthermore, he couldn’t fathom her not understanding it, too. “Not that you’re not qualified, but you must admit, there are limits to what a woman can achieve in—”

  “Limits to what I can—” she was stunned by the words, even. “Lyonesse has more sway over Gaul than the Pope himself! It seems the only place I face limits are here, at home!”

  Gawain was not convinced: “But just imagine the power if I, as head of our combined district, headed up negotiations with the Frankish courts. An equal partner in their eyes, finally, and able to drive a harder bargain.”

  “A harder bargain? You couldn’t even convince Wiglaf to support you, just now! The Carolingians would eat you alive. No, the only person who benefits from this alliance of yours is you, Gawain. It doesn’t take a brilliant strategist to see that. And what offends me most isn’t that you aspire to hijack my efforts to enrich yourself, it’s that I know, without a doubt in my heart, that you would muck it all up before the ink dried on our marriage contract.”

  His face was turning red. He shot a warning look to Rinwell, who stepped away from the wall.

  “I don’t want you as my enemy, Guinevere.”

  “And I don’t want you as my keeper. There’s an easy truce to be had, here. Don’t make a mess of something so easy.”

  That did it: he snapped, reaching out and wrapping his hand around her face, squeezing her cheeks in with his fingernails. He inhaled, long and deep, and bore down on her.

  “You were promised to me,” he snarled.

  “Life’s full of disappointments,” she said, through a clenched jaw. “Yours especially.”

  Just then, the Council doors opened, and a handful of aides stumbled out, heading off to— they stopped, mid-step, at the sight of Gawain throttling Guinevere in the hall. One seemed ready to call for help, but for a moment, no one moved.