The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  Gawain took three more vicious breaths, then tossed her back. She landed on her back, elbows cracking on the stone, as he snapped his fingers at Rinwell and marched away in silence. The aides, freed from their moral quandary, fled in all directions; they’d gossip later, in private.

  Eleanor rushed over to her friend, helping her back to her feet; the impact had made Guinevere’s hands numb, but she didn’t much care, for all the savage fury that was streaming through her. She looked after Gawain, and saw Rinwell was paused at the threshold, giving her a warning glare more treacherous than a dagger to the gut.

  “Guin, are you hurt?” Eleanor asked, lifting, checking Guinevere’s face for bruises.

  “Nothing that won’t quickly heal,” she replied, keeping her eyes locked on Rinwell so he would hear her next words: “Besides, there are better ways to hurt someone.”

  Fourteen

  Sir Ector didn’t even look up from his desk when Guinevere and Eleanor came in; his quill was scribbling across a paper like a jackrabbit in chase. He held out a finger to them, muttering under his breath, as he finished his letter. He tossed the quill aside, threw a little too much pounce powder across the page, and gave a sharp whistle.

  “Loic!” he shouted.

  “Sir Ector,” Guinevere said, politely, but was cut off by Ector’s frantic warning stare. His finger was still held out as a pause, and he shook it a bit, just to make it clear they were still to consider themselves paused.

  “Loic!” he shouted again.

  “Sir Ector, we just need to—”

  Ector stood, finger still out, and shook the powder off the paper. Splitting his attention, he said: “Ladies, I’ve far too many problems to solve tonight to waste time on the worries of maids, so if you’ll please Loic! For God’s sake, I need—”

  “Here, milord!” wheezed Loic, tumbling his way between Guinevere and Eleanor before colliding with the desk. He pulled himself to an injured salute. “Sorry, Sir Ector. There’s a peacock in the—”

  “Yes yes,” sighed Ector, folding up his paper and dribbled hot wax all over its surface. “I need you to get this to the courier straightaway, or—” He looked up, concerned. “Did you say peacock?”

  “Yes, sir, a gift from the Irish court. Arrived this afternoon.”

  Ector seemed to be trying to shake himself from a dream. “There are peacocks in Ireland?”

  Loic seemed uncertain of this himself, but more importantly, worried he’d be asked to find out.

  “Sir Ector,” Guinevere tried again, but Ector reinforced his finger towards her.

  “Hush, miss,” he said, and his eyes shot back to Loic. “Where is he now?”

  “The peacock, sir?”

  “The courier, Loic. The courier!”

  “I... in the courtyard, sir Ector. Chasing the peacock.”

  “Does he moonlight as a beast tamer?” Ector asked, and Guinevere swore she saw a glimmer of desperate hope on his face. Two for the price of one!

  “No sir, it ate his commission.”

  “Ah, very good, then. Now here—” Ector quickly jammed the royal seal into the wax, and pressed as hard as he could. Loic had his hands out to receive it before it was ready.

  “Have this delivered to Cornwall post haste. To his Lordship or Lady Eleanor, whoever can be found most easily. There’s a bonus in it, the faster they get it.”

  Loic took the letter in both hands, cocked his head, and then swivelled on his heel, held the envelope out to Eleanor. “Your Ladyship,” he said bowing, “an urgent message from the Master of Court.”

  Ector’s face drained of all colour. He suddenly saw Guinevere and Eleanor for the first time. Eleanor took the envelope with a grin. Loic pivoted back, hand out to Ector.

  “You mentioned a bonus if—”

  “Oh get out of here!” Ector yelled, thumping back into his seat, head in his hands. He made several long whimpering sounds, then a noise typically associated with pigs in labour, then looked back up, pleasant as could be, and folded his hands and said: “So you’re not maidservants.”

  “No, Sir Ector, we were just having a little fun earlier,” Eleanor said.

  “Oh, yes!” Ector said, and started to laugh— until he stopped, abruptly. “Lovely.”

  “May I introduce my good friend, Lady Guinevere of Lyonesse.”

  Ector’s head angled in a very unhappy way. “Guinevere of Lyonesse,” he sighed.

  “At your service, milord,” Guinevere said, with a curtsy.

  He banged his head on the table, hard. “If it’s at all possible, I’d prefer beheading to hanging.”

  Guinevere laughed, and Eleanor joined in. Ector covered his head in his hands.

  “We’re not cross, Sir Ector,” Guinevere said. “So long as you can help me arrange a meeting with His Majesty first thing tomorrow. The sooner, the better.”

  Ector frowned at her. “A meeting?”

  “Council business.”

  “Ah, well,” he sighed, and flipped a page out from a stack of papers. He had ink stains on his forehead now, and though Eleanor nearly laughed, Guinevere steadied her. Don’t startle the man, she said with a slow shake of her head.

  Ector scanned the page, and: “Tomorrow’s a tight day, but I can get you in between Lord Lothian and the tailor. It’s only five minutes, but—”

  Guinevere’s eyes had narrowed. “Gawain’s seeing the King, tomorrow?”

  “Yes, milady. First meeting of the day.”

  Guinevere and Eleanor traded unhappy glances. “Does His Majesty have time to see me now?” she asked.

  Ector slammed a fist onto the table, then seemed like he wanted to take it back, to not seem so crude. He stroked his hand affectionately — and strangely — and smiled at them. “I’m sorry, milady, but as I told Lord Lothian earlier, there’s really no way to see the King this evening. He sent all the servants home before dark, so there’s no one to—”

  “He sent all his servants home?” Eleanor asked, dumbfounded. Ector gestured to her wildly, like she had read his mind. He looked like he was being swarmed by bees.

  “This is not the job I signed up for,” Ector muttered, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. “But yes. Shall I put you down for tomorrow, after Lord Lothian?” He started writing her name on the sheet, in any case.

  Guinevere thought for half a second, then said: “No need. I’ll manage. Thank you, Sir Ector.”

  And they left. Ector stared at the paper he’d just written on, took a halting breath, bit his upper lip a bit too hard, and then crumpled up the paper and threw it against the far wall. It hit a low candle and burst into flames almost immediately.

  “Loic!” he shrieked. “It’s happened again!”

  Fifteen

  Guinevere pressed the tremis into Eleanor’s palm. “Take the fastest horse you can find, and send Ewen back, straightaway.”

  Eleanor peered into the pitch-black corridors of the royal palace. She shivered. “I should go with you,” she said, sounding slightly less confident than her words implied. “What if Rinwell is in there?”

  Guinevere shrugged like it didn’t bother her. “He won’t leave Gawain’s side, and Gawain has no reason to think I’ve got him beat.”

  Eleanor’s face echoed the misgivings Guinevere had about her own plan. “I’ll tell Ewen it’s an emergency,” she said, and rushed off to the stables.

  “It won’t be an emergency,” Guinevere called, then added, for herself: “I hope.”

  The darkened palace — beyond Sir Ector’s offices at the south wing — was reduced to a maze of empty rooms and endless echoes. As Guinevere walked the halls in the encroaching twilight, it was even hard to see exactly how vacant it was, because none of the torches were lit.

  It took nearly half an hour, but she found the throne room, feeling around in the dark. It was empty. She coul
d only tell that’s where she was because she bumped into the two chairs that had been brought in for her and Eleanor. Using them as a guidepost, she followed the wall around the room, heading for the far door that should lead to the King’s quarters. She considered cutting across, but figured it would just end with the throne toppled and broken — and that was another headache she didn’t need.

  She felt carpet beneath her feet, and knew she was approaching the Petitioners’ Gate, where Council and the public entered for an audience. Halfway there. She kept one hand against the stone as she walked, so she didn’t—

  A shuffle.

  She stopped cold.

  It had come from behind, but even as she turned, she realized she’d never be able to see what it was. Even her own hand, held out in front of her, was swallowed by blackness. She held her breath, fingertips brushing the wall so she’d know where not to run, if it came to it.

  A scrape. A musty smell.

  Another savage nighttime creature?

  Rinwell?

  What did a blade sound like, pulled from its sheath? She knew that, but if she heard it without context, would she—

  Scratch.

  She stepped back, away from the whatever it was, and her foot hit a copper fence-post. It toppled to the ground with a sharp crash! and the silence was suddenly pierced by dozens of tiny feet scrambling for cover.

  Guinevere jerked away, involuntarily, at the sound of rats shrieking. Something brushed past her left leg, tiny scritch scritches streaming through the room, and out the far door. She braced herself against the wall, caught her breath, and trailed them. Sometimes the best tour guides were the ones who didn’t want to be followed.

  After hugging the walls for what seemed like forever, Guinevere’s eyes started to perceive shapes. Barely enough to navigate by, but then she smelled smoke, a fire, and heard the crackling of wood... before long, she could see an orange light coming from a room up ahead.

  She rounded the corner and found herself in a smallish room with a hearty fire in the far well, a few wooden benches and a half-eaten loaf of bread next to a cup of wine. And there was a strange sound, too... like something being sliced, over and over again, almost—

  “There are cups on the shelf over there,” said Arthur, partly hidden behind a stone column. He was still dressed in his oversized clothes, but seemed much more at ease. He had a long stick braced against his shoulder, whittling away with a knife, with practised hands. He pointed the knife past Guinevere, and she saw a small assortment of cups and plates on a rickety shelf, on the other side of the room.

  “Honestly, help yourself,” he said, returning to his work. “I can’t drink it all, alone. The bread’s good, too.”

  She poured herself a cup, ripped off a piece of the bread — because, she realized, she hadn’t eaten in hours, and it was starting to catch up with her — and stood by the column, watching him smooth out the wood.

  Out of the tempest of Court, he made more sense. It was something Guinevere had learned in her dealings in Europe: in public, a man will take on the role of the self he was born to play, with varying levels of success. His reactions are virtually scripted for him, because there are only so many things he can do. But get him in private, and off his guard, and you see the person he really is. The smiles are more genuine, the gaffes are more meaningful, the words less chosen.

  You can only really judge a man’s character by his private self; beauty can be put on, but a man who is naturally good can’t be ignored. Like a fire in the darkness.

  Arthur the man wasn’t rugged, wasn’t foppish, wasn’t dirty like the Fox or plump like Bors. He’d seen hard times, sure, but it shaped him, toned him, made him leaner, ready to survive. There was something noble in that, on its own. Guinevere could see how women would fall for him, with his easy smile and able hands; but there was something else there, too... like the runt of a litter you knew wouldn’t survive, even as it looked up at you with love-struck eyes.

  She had to be careful with this one.

  “Sire, I—”

  “Please, if you could, call me Arthur.”

  She winced. He was going to make this so very hard. “It’s not proper, sire.”

  “No, I suppose not,” he sighed. “It’s funny how even kings can’t change certain rules.”

  She smiled, drank some wine. “What are you making?” she asked, nodding towards the wood.

  “Ah, this? A new crossbeam for that chair over there.” She saw the dilapidated chair, by the fire. It was in poor shape, cracked and broken all over. “Fixing furniture... it’s all I can do to feel useful anymore.” He laughed to himself. Guinevere didn’t react.

  “What is this place?” she asked. It truly was a shocking departure from the rest of the palace; small, dirty, with straw on the ground, broken furniture, and a fireplace that seemed like it was imported from a distant hovel.

  “It’s where I sleep, mostly,” said Arthur.

  Guinevere nearly gasped. “Sleep? Where?”

  He pointed at the other side of the room, where a pile of hay was haphazardly arranged in a mound. “Not too near the fire, or I’d wake up toasted.”

  “Sire, you must have a bedroom somewhere in the palace to—”

  “It’s...” he said, then paused like he was afraid to offend. “It’s like a cathedral. Far too big and empty. I can’t stand the sound of it, if I’m honest.”

  “But it has a bed...”

  He waved that off. “Blankets tangle,” he said. “Did you know, this is where they kept the tapestries? Until they started hanging them up again, I mean. They brought me here on my second day, asked me which ones I wanted for which rooms, and I...” He scratched the back of his neck again, seeming all the more like a farmer peasant. “I have no eye for tapestries. I told... um... that... you know, the one with the oversized necklace...”

  “Sir Ector?”

  “That’s the one. Is it just me, or does he talk to himself quite a lot?”

  At this, Guinevere laughed. “That he does, milord.”

  “Oh thank goodness it’s not just me that sees it. I can never tell if he means for me to answer him, so I try not to interrupt... and now he probably thinks I’m ignoring him half the time.” He sighed, motioned to the bench opposite him. “Please, you must sit. I feel like a fool like this.”

  Guinevere curtsied and sat opposite him, folding her hands on her lap. “Thank you, milord.”

  “So how do you like it here? Not here, I mean, but the palace in general?”

  “The palace, sire?”

  “Yes, I mean you’d know better than I, probably. What would you improve? Do they treat you well? Are you paid enough? You’re here late, so are the hours too much, or—”

  “I’m sorry, sire, I don’t—”

  He chuckled, awkward, and blushed. “I’m being an oaf about it, I’m sorry. I don’t even really know what a maid does, to be honest.”

  Guinevere’s mouth was hanging open, slightly. She started to speak, but then stopped, and tried again: “Sire, I’m not a maid.”

  Arthur’s face dropped. “You’re not?”

  “No, sire, my name is Guinevere of Lyonesse. I’m a member of your Royal Council.”

  “Oh God, you are?” he stood suddenly, and performed a desperate and deep bow; Guinevere jumped to her feet, too, waving him down.

  “Sire, please don’t—” He bowed a few more times, then reluctantly sat on his stool again. Guinevere sat, too, gingerly. “I should have announced myself,” she said.

  “And I should have figured, too,” he sighed. “That dress is far too nice for a maid, isn’t it.”

  “Actually,” she said with a smile, flattening her hand-me-down rags from Eleanor’s closet, “it’s a good peg lower than my usual attire.”

  He blew out his cheeks, slumped. “Even the lowliest of royal servants dr
ess better than anyone in my village, even on their wedding day. It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that these people are here to take care of me, and not the other way around.”

  She drank some wine; it was strong stuff. She inhaled deeply.

  “Milord, I actually came here this evening to talk to you about—”

  “Your accent is so peculiar,” he said, concentrating on his whittling more than her, she thought. “You’re from Lyonesse, you said?”

  “Yes, but I spent most of my life on the Continent.”

  “Rome?” he asked, fully attentive, now.

  “Paris, actually,” she said. “My father—”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of Paris! Is it big? Bigger than Camelot?”

  Guinevere hedged a shrug. “They’re not really comparable, sire. Paris is dense and busy, like the whole world converging in one spot. But Camelot has a majestic ingenuity and sense of development that the Franks just can’t fathom.”

  He set down his work, ripped a large chunk off the bread and offered it to Guinevere; she shook her head no, so he tore a smaller bit — this, she accepted with a nod. “How long have you been back?” he asked, taking a bite and chewing happily.

  She turned her bread over in her hands. “Only a few days. I set sail the second I heard the fuss about the—” She looked up, afraid she’d made a critical gaffe, but he didn’t seem to notice. “When I heard about your feat with the sword.”

  “Ah,” he said, and reached for the wine. He poured himself a messy cup. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t done that, to be honest.”

  She frowned, lowered her cup. “Sire, I’m sure you don’t—”

  “It’s like... I can’t describe it. It’s like when your neighbour falls ill, so you take over his field, but you don’t know what he planted and where, so every day you’re finding new surprises sprouting, never knowing if it’s a mistake or going as planned. And you wish you could ask him, but he’s... well, in this case, the only one who knows is long dead.”

  Guinevere set the cup aside. “If you need guidance, sire, I am more than happy to—”