The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  Seventeen

  London was a mess. The old Roman roads that served as inspiration for much of Camelot’s infrastructure were a rotten patchwork of mud and water. Locals had carted away whatever stone they needed to prop up their buildings, making it virtually impassable by carriage. The houses themselves all seemed to be leaning against one another — remove one, and they’d tumble into a festering heap within seconds.

  An old woman without teeth tossed a bucket of waste out her window, narrowly missing Eleanor, who yelped and stumbled back. The old woman snorted, slammed her shutters closed.

  The smell was so bad, Ewen was forced to overpay a child for two scarves and a bottle of spiced ale; he doused the scarves, wrung them out, and tied them around Guinevere and Eleanor’s faces to make breathing bearable. Everywhere they went, someone was spitting something into the mud at their feet.

  “Your Essex friend certainly invests in his people,” Guinevere muttered, stepping around a dead animal of some kind. “This place must be charming in winter.”

  “Oh, don’t mention winter to him,” Eleanor said, holding onto Ewen for support. “He hates winter.”

  “I don’t think anyone really likes—”

  “No, I mean,” Eleanor said, catching Guinevere by the arm to make sure she was heard, “I mean he truly hates winter. It will set him off.”

  Guinevere paused, raised an eyebrow. “Set him off?”

  Eleanor tried to make light of it with a laugh, but it was not convincing. “He’s harmless,” she said. Then, as a quieter addendum: “I think.”

  “Any other topics I should avoid?”

  Eleanor seemed to be compiling a mental list, and it was long. “Hunting dogs, rye bread, lilies, or... well, avoid white flowers of all kinds. Also: Latin words, mid-sized birds, and the number twenty-seven.”

  Guinevere wasn’t sure what to make of this. “Is that all?”

  “I’m sure the rest will come to me,” Eleanor said, and it was clear she wasn’t joking.

  Ewen gave them both a gentle nudge forward. “Keep moving,” he said, under his breath. “We’re being followed.”

  A few dozen yards later, it became clear they had acquired a following, without question. Guinevere kept catching sight of the same men, trying to look like part of the scenery, a short distance away. They were too dirty to be on anyone’s payroll, and too inept, too. She wasn’t sure if that made them more, or less dangerous. They were slowly closing the distance, though, so she would soon find out.

  “It’s not far now,” said Eleanor, pointing downriver, toward a formidable castle on the banks of the Thames. The Essex banners on the walls, even from a league away, were clearly in bad repair.

  Ewen glanced behind himself, spoke quietly to them both: “We’re out of time.”

  Guinevere put a hand on his shoulder. “Give me the crossbow,” she said.

  He shook his head. “It’ll make you a target. Wait for my move, and then run down the trough on the right side of the street. It’s more certain footing there.”

  He looked back, again, and she did, too. “Are you sure about this?”

  “There are five, by my count. Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Nine,” whimpered Eleanor, stopping abruptly. “There are nine. No, ten.”

  And there it was: the trap was sprung. Five in advance, five in the rear, spreading out to block their exits. All the shutters closed, now, and the streets emptied fast. Ewen and Guinevere tucked Eleanor between them, eyeing the opposition carefully: knives, mostly, and a club or two. No swords, but that was hardly good news, given how quickly the attackers would be able to clear the distance.

  “This should be interesting,” Ewen muttered, keeping his cloak over his weapons, to keep the opposition guessing. “I’ve only got six shots in this thing. I don’t suppose you brought a spare cartridge with you?”

  “I try to leave the martial matters to you,” Guinevere said.

  “How are you with a sword?”

  “You won’t let me touch swords, remember?”

  “So you ignore me in all things except that?”

  The circle closed tighter around them. Ewen threw his cloak over his right shoulder, revealing his sword. His hand played along the hilt, to make it clear he was ready to strike. His left hand, meanwhile, carefully unhooked the crossbow from his belt.

  “We’re friends of the Essex King,” Guinevere called out, watching the attackers for some sign of sudden movement. “Let us pass, or there will be trouble.”

  “Aye,” said one, face a mess of scars. “There will be.”

  “We’re no good as hostages,” she said. “If that’s your play, you’ll get nothing from it.”

  The scarred one stepped forward, pulling a second long knife from his belt. “You’ve got gold on you. I can smell it.”

  “I’m surprised you can smell anything but your own filth.”

  “Hand it over and we’ll leave you be,” he said, then licked his cracked lips, at Eleanor. “Mostly.”

  Guinevere peered over her shoulder, at Ewen, who was adjusting his stance to take the first shots. “What an interesting proposition,” she said, loudly. “Buying our freedom, versus killing you all. What’s our break-even, I wonder?”

  The crowd shifted, uncomfortable with their confusion.

  “A bolt’s worth, what, two bits?” she asked Ewen, who nodded slightly. “So here’s my counter: a shilling for the lot of you, and you escort us to the castle.”

  “A shilling?” cackled the scarred man. “Your cloak’s worth more than that!”

  “Yes, but you’ll never have my cloak, but you can have the shilling. So who’s up for it? Any takers?”

  The scarred man’s comrades had been trading uneasy looks, and now three of them raised their hands; one on Guinevere’s side, two on Ewen’s. Seven men left. “One short,” Ewen said, under his breath.

  “Good lads,” she said, keeping close watch on the others. “You’ll make quite the killing on this deal. No one else? The offer won’t last.”

  Not only did the others not raise their hands, but they gripped their weapons tighter and started closing in for the kill. The scarred man laughed. “You can’t bargain your way out of this one, lass,” he said, flipping one of the knives to a back-handed stance, and spitting into the mud.

  “I suppose not,” she sighed. “But it’s always good to try. Ewen?”

  The first shot flew before anyone realized what was happening; straight into the victim’s chest, toppling him instantly. Ewen swung his arm back around, past Guinevere, taking out another one of the assailants with a shot to the throat, then the man to his right, heartbeats later.

  A primal scream erupted behind Eleanor, and a man with a gnarled blade charged at them — Ewen arched the crossbow around and pegged a shot in the man’s forehead before he reached ten paces. Then, sword drawn, he took aim at two of the remaining enemies, making it very clear he would have no trouble dispatching them all, no matter how they decided to fight.

  Three of them had already stepped away from the melée, but now another two did, as well. That left only the scarred man, who was slowly realizing he was in a very bad spot indeed.

  “Five guards to escort us now!” Guinevere said, taking stock. “Glad to have you with us. And as for you...” she observed the scarred man with a curious grin. “What’ll it be? Split the shilling, or cost me two bits?” The man shrank back a step, cornered. Guinevere tapped a finger to her lips. “But if we use the sword, it won’t even cost that, will it? I suppose there’s the wear and tear on the blade, but unless your bones are especially coarse, I don’t think it’ll make much difference.”

  He lowered his knives halfway, mouth blubbering desperately. “I... I’ll take the shilling,” he said.

  “Like hell you will!” yelled one of his comrades. “You got us into this mess,
you bastard!”

  “Get him!” shouted another, and very quickly, the scarred man found himself scrambling through the mud as five angry brutes chased after. He burst into a nearby house, prompting more screams, breaking pottery and the clashing of metal as his pursuers piled on.

  Ewen sheathed his sword, but kept the crossbow handy. “Not a bad investment, that shilling.”

  Guinevere shrugged. “It won’t even cost that, if we get to the castle before they’re done killing him.”

  Eighteen

  The castle was, for all its outward issues, quite remarkable on the inside. Built in the early days of Pendragon’s rule as a test-bed for the new engineering techniques Camelot was developing, it was like a first draft of Arthur’s palace. It had strong Saxon influences, and a touch of the old Roman style, but some things — like the crystal prism skylights in every room — gave a clear indication where the architects intended to go, in the future.

  Inside, in the throne room’s antechamber, there was a long and winding tapestry running along the walls, from one side of the room to the other. It depicted, from what Guinevere could tell, the Essex King’s virgin birth, childhood in anonymity, and rise to power to defeat... a Pharaoh, it seemed. And then his friendly relationship with the fledgling kingdom of Camelot, followed by something — it was impossible to tell, because that part of the tapestry was stretched across the upper section of the main doors, and had frayed and fallen apart after apparently being walked into repeatedly. The rest of the story seemed to document the king fending off invading hordes. But most worrisome was the label most associated with His Majesty...

  “Why is he called ‘Mad King Rufus’?” Guinevere whispered to Eleanor.

  “You’ll see,” Eleanor whimpered.

  “He calls himself that?”

  “In polite company, yes. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t mention—”

  The doors burst open, hitting the walls with a thunderous noise, startling everyone into silence. Standing there, in a regal robe, shoulders back and chin high, was a scraggly man in his late forties, gray hair spritzing out in all directions, eyes narrow and probing. The crown he wore on his head was clearly a ceremonial one — too big, too tall, very shiny, and sinking down almost to his eyebrows with the weight of the jewels on its rim. His hands gripped the collar of his cloak like it was a matter of royal fashion; his fingers were layered with rings of different shapes and sizes.

  “His Majesty, King Rufus of Essex!” he shouted, out the corner of his mouth. Announcing himself. “Thank you, well done,” he said, more centrally, to himself. He gave himself a polite nod.

  Guinevere looked to Eleanor for guidance, but noticed she was bowing. Shocked, Guinevere did the same. It was generally understood that noblemen of Camelot need not bow to the monarchs of the other British kingdoms — the noblemen had been monarchs themselves, too, not so long ago, after all — but regardless of convention, it was never a good idea to be the only one in the room breaking protocol.

  “King Rufus,” she said, bowing deeply. “It is a great honour to make your acqu—”

  “Eleanor, my dear!” he boomed, striding forward and warmly embracing... Guinevere. She stiffened, uncertain what to do. He pulled back, took her by the shoulders and smiled, almost teary-eyed. “You’ve grown!”

  Guinevere smiled weakly. “I... I am Guinevere, milord.”

  Rufus squinted at her, then looked over at Eleanor, then back at Guinevere. Then back at Eleanor. His smile returned, and he embraced Eleanor instead. “Eleanor, my dear! My favourite niece!”

  Eleanor gave Guinevere a sour face to indicate that no, she was in no way related to this man. She patted him on the back, lightly, obviously uncomfortable. “Your Majesty,” she said, “how have you been?”

  He stepped back, hands on his hips, and let out a long sigh. “Horrid, Eleanor, simply horrid. I’ve not had a good egg in a fortnight, and it’s making me quite cross, if I’m honest.”

  “I can only imagine, milord,” Eleanor said, with thin sympathy. “Are your hens not well?”

  His eyes narrowed further. “Oh, they’re well. Too well. They’re in rebellion.”

  No one spoke for a moment.

  “Rebellion, sire?” Guinevere croaked.

  He turned his wild-eyed attention to her, now. “Aye, they’re spitting in the face of God’s anointed! Well, so to speak, obviously. Hens aren’t the best spitters.” He wagged a finger at her, started to laugh. “Not that I haven’t tried.”

  He turned away suddenly, spread his arms, and led them back through the doors to his throne room. It was an absolute mess of papers and clothing; like a servant or two had exploded on their way to sort his belongings. The throne itself was a simple wooden affair, but strewn with royal cloaks, garters and sceptres. There was a stack of crowns in the middle of the seat, each one highlighted with a different colour of fabric. Arranged, Guinevere, realized, to look like a rainbow.

  She raised an eyebrow to Eleanor, who just slumped. Ewen was turning, checking all corners of the room, wary as ever. Danger could be lurking anywhere, in this kind of mess, and they’d never see it until it leapt out at them. Though Guinevere suspected the real danger was right in front of them.

  Rufus paused before the throne, pivoted on his heel, and nodded to them. “Please, be seated.” And then he sat... on the floor in front of the throne. Cross-legged. Guinevere looked around for some kind of chair or stool or— but no, Eleanor was settling into a kneel on the floor, too, so she reluctantly followed suit. When they were comfortable, Rufus pointed at Ewen, curious.

  “What about him?”

  Guinevere shrugged. “Bad knees.”

  Rufus nodded like he’d fought his own battle with knees, and won. “Aye, those buggers.” He slapped his chest twice, held out three fingers to Ewen. “Godspeed, brother.”

  Ewen, uncertain at first, bowed slightly.

  “Milord, I would like to properly introduce you to my good friend, Lady Guinevere of Lyonesse,” Eleanor said, with a fanciful aristocratic tremolo to her voice. It did the trick: Rufus looked at Guinevere anew, like she was a unicorn.

  “Lady Guinevere,” he said, bowing; it was an awkward bow, since he was sitting. “I have heard absolutely nothing about you.” He wagged a finger. “Which, if you think about it, is a good sign. I hate meeting scoundrels.” He switched his attention back to Eleanor. “How is your father?”

  “He is well, milord,” she lied. “He asks about you often.”

  Rufus seemed thrilled at the idea. “And I, of him, of course,” he said. “Now speaking of which: I’ll need to place another order before long. The army must be armed! Otherwise, they’re just... an un-army! And where’s the use in that?” He pounded his fist into the ground for effect, then had to massage his hand, because it was a stone floor.

  “Actually, sire, that is why I’m here today,” Guinevere said, and he raised an eyebrow at her.

  “To un-arm my army?”

  “No, sire, to help build your army into an even more devastating force.”

  “Ooo, that sounds lovely. Go on.”

  “What is the biggest problem you face, today, in the execution of your duties as King?”

  He didn’t let her answer for him, because he knew exactly what she meant: “Gnomes.”

  “Gnomes, sire?”

  “The little men with beards and pipes and funny hats that—”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with gnomes, sire. But I don’t see how they fit into the governance of the kingdom.”

  “That’s just it! They don’t! And yet there they are, always underfoot.”

  Guinevere paused, strongly considered leaving, but persisted: “I would suggest to you, sire, that your gnome issue is, in fact, a symptom of a larger problem.”

  His eyes widened. “Elephants?”

  “No, sire, the subtle decay of the Essex sta
te.”

  He blew out his cheeks. “I don’t follow.”

  “Gone are the days when a great king as yourself could simply rule by force of personality alone. In these modern times, the administration of government is a complex and formidable bundle of overlapping bureaucratic—”

  “Fiddly bits?”

  She smiled. “Yes, sire, fiddly bits. And while it is clearly within your skill-set to more than handle matters such as taxation, accounting and governance, the divestment of such responsibilities allows great monarchs, such as yourself, to focus on more important matters of state, such as—”

  “Cockroaches.”

  “Cockroaches. And other—”

  “No, I mean cockroaches, to your left. Tuck in those skirts, ladies!”

  Sure enough, a line of cockroaches were marching their way across the floor, right between Guinevere and Eleanor, in perhaps the only example of organization in the whole castle. Eleanor tucked her skirts a bit tighter, but Guinevere stayed on message:

  “You are, obviously, a great king, milord. But do you know the difference between a great king and a legendary one?”

  “Taller shoes?”

  “A vibrant kingdom.”

  “And that.”

  “Sire, allow me to be direct: I propose to be the steward of your great kingdom. Working under your most wise supervision, I would streamline income, boost trade, maintain law and order and protect the rights of your majesty in this most precarious of ages. I promise you a tenfold increase in the royal treasury within a year, and the admiration and respect of all monarchs, near and far.”

  He seemed to enjoy this idea. “Will there be banquets?”

  “Yes, milord. Banquets bigger than you have ever seen, filled to the brim with exotic treasures the entire world will be falling over themselves to see in person. Your Court will well and truly be the pinnacle of civilization, and the proper heir to the Saxon kingdoms of old.”

  Eleanor whimpered. “Oh no.”

  Rufus leapt to his feet, body tensed in bloody fury. “Saxons!” he screamed, and threw his crown across the room. “Saxons!” he screamed again, and started running from window to window, roaring out each in succession, before racing to the door and bellowing: “God curse the Saxons!”