by Kris Owyn
Guinevere was aghast. “Isn’t he Saxon?” she whispered.
“It’s complicated,” Eleanor sighed.
Rufus bounded in front of them, crouching low, watching the horizon like it held immeasurable calamity. “Damned Saxon hordes!” he growled. “Swarming our lands like locusts, shearing our women and defiling our sheep. There’s no greater menace than the Saxons. We must fight! Fight them off, splay their guts at our doorsteps, and send them packing back to Rome!”
No one knew what to say.
Rufus placed a friendly hand on Eleanor’s shoulder. “Come, tell me more.”
Guinevere raised a tentative hand. “Sire? I...”
He flinched, moved his friendly hand to Guinevere’s shoulder. “I’ll buy every weapon you have, to kill those Saxon bastards.”
Guinevere smiled. Selling him weapons was out of the question. She’d witnessed enough of Cornwall’s plight to know a pit of despair when she saw one. She set her hand on his shoulder, in return, and nodded solemnly.
“I can do better than that,” she said. “Name me steward, and I will make Essex into such a power, that we won’t just be fighting the Saxons off, but bringing the fight to them.”
Rufus gaped. “The Parthenon?”
She swallowed a laugh. “Aye. And beyond.”
He burst into manic laughter, and slapped her cheek three times in what he clearly thought was a friendly way. Getting to his feet, he turned this way and that, drawing invisible lines in the air before him, then clapped his hands together and laughed once more.
“Oh, I very much like you, Eleanor,” he said.
“Guinevere, milord.”
“Yes, her too. You shall be my steward, from this moment forward. You work your magic, and I will... I will...” he turned, turned, turned, until he settled on the stack of crowns on the throne. “I shall have to find the right clothes to march on Rome.”
Guinevere stood, curtsying deeply; Eleanor followed suit, unable to scratch the bemused smirk from her face.
“I will have the paperwork sent to your grace immediately,” Guinevere said. “And I look forward to our prosperous future together.”
“And dead Saxons.”
“And dead Saxons, sire.”
They excused themselves as he continued raving.
They moved quickly, pausing well out of sight and earshot, in the corner of the grand hall. Ewen checked his weapons for the ride home, while Guinevere took stock of the surroundings.
“There’s not much to auction here, but we’ll make do. Clear out as much of the castle as we need to store the weapons from the Gwynedds, and make sure the locks are good—”
“You want them shipped here?” Ewen asked, incredulous.
She smiled, nodded. “We’ll be set up by the time they’re ready.”
He looked around like the very thought disgusted him. “This is quite the step down, even considering the state of Lyonesse. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” she said, confident. “But it needs a heavy reworking before we can make that move. I need a full census of the kingdom as soon as possible, and sheriffs. As many as you can find.”
“That’ll be hard to manage, given Essex’s history of bad debts,” Ewen said, making sure no one was around to hear him.
“Hire them under the Lyonesse seal,” she said. “I want tax collectors on the street by month’s end. We’ll need safe lodgings for the Gwynedds, while they survey the land. Oh, and find an architect to design me a proper port. It’s time this wretched river did something other than stink.”
Ewen raised an eyebrow. “You can’t afford that,” he said. “Not after Adwen arranges your order.”
“I can’t afford not to,” she replied. “Roads and boats and factories are the key to my plan, Ewen.” She looked around the room again, saw the beginnings of something good. Something workable. “This place will pay for itself, soon enough.” She wrapped an arm around Eleanor. “And the first order of business is to pay its debts. Your father’s, most urgently.”
Eleanor hugged Guinevere, tears in her eyes. “Oh Guin! I don’t know how you manage these feats, but thank you! You are such a kind-hearted soul!”
Guinevere laughed. “I don’t know about that. But in truth, Eleanor, I’m not doing this for your father. If I can buy your peace of mind, I will... but your father will owe me all the same.”
“Oh, he’ll do anything you like, I’m sure of it!”
“Good,” Guinevere said. “Because it’s time to show Gawain who’s in charge.”
Nineteen
It was as if Council was disintegrating at high speed: attendants, pages, accountants and advisors raced in and out of the main hall, some stone-faced, but most on the verge of tears; their once-peaceful lives were suddenly very dire indeed. One boy with a stack of letters bumped into Ewen, dropped his cache, and scrambled desperately to get them all back in order, cursing under his breath, but loudly enough for everyone to hear. Not that anyone cared — it was every man for himself.
Ewen straightened his cloak, waited for the boy to exit before saying another word. “It’s done,” he said to Guinevere, watching for eavesdroppers. “We’ve got a dozen couriers out now. One of them will find Cornwall.”
“Good,” Guinevere said, only half-listening while she ran through her plans in her mind. “The sooner the better.” She fidgeted with the cuff of her sleeve, pulling it absentmindedly like it would put her thoughts in order.
Ewen leaned in closer. “This might be the first time I’ve ever seen you nervous,” he said.
She laughed, mirthfully, at that, as a page called the noblemen in to Council. Guinevere nodded to Ewen, pushed through the crowd until she was, once again, by the map on the wall. Her designated place, it seemed. The rest of the lords settled into their seats, continuing their bitter arguments at full volume. Half a dozen variations on the same theme: the collapse of Camelot, and what to do about it.
The seats at the table had shuffled since the last time she’d attended: Gawain and his allies on the one end, faces red with fury as they denounced the opposition; and Rhos and the First Line on the far side, watching over the proceedings with a stoic self-assuredness. They’d weathered worse, and would weather this. Midway between the two sides war Bors, alone; he wagged a finger, summoned Guinevere over.
She got close to his ear, so he could keep his voice low: “I stayed neutral, like you asked,” he said. “It felt like treason, but I did it.”
She patted his shoulder. “You can vote your conscience from now on, uncle,” she said. “Things are settling.”
“Are they?” he asked, curious. “How?”
But before she could answer, Gawain thumped his hand on the table, and the room began to quiet. Guinevere made her way back to her spot by the wall as he stood, and the last of the conversations ended.
“Lady Guinevere!” he called, and she stopped, turned with a smile. “We thought you’d run back to Paris. So nice to have you back to explain yourself.”
She mock-laughed. “Explain? What for?”
“The King’s new directive? A foolish inspiration that seems to have stemmed from your meeting with him.”
She seemed confused. “My meeting? I presented Council’s proposal to his Majesty, and he was enthusiastically onside. I promised to return with detailed numbers and—”
“Oh come off it! I saw him first thing the following morning, and he’d already made up his mind.”
Guinevere’s face begged for details. “Made up his mind about what?”
Gawain’s tense jaw clicked. “To halt all weapons production in Camelot.”
Her mouth dropped open, which made Gawain’s nostrils flare. He could see through her charade, exactly as planned. “I had no idea,” she gasped. “Was this before or after you tried to undermine Council’s position by seeking a private audi
ence?”
The room grew quieter still. Gawain put his fists on the table, leaned in. “What did you say to him that evening?”
“Or do?” Wiglaf chortled, and Gawain’s allies all laughed.
Guinevere glared at him. “Not everyone solves problems the way you train your horses,” she said, and the allies laughed again, as Wiglaf fumed.
“Enough!” barked Rhos. “Blame is a luxury we cannot afford, now. The question we must answer is the nature of our response.” He pounded a finger into a paper before him, covered in writing — scribbled and corrected a thousand times. “I spent the night reworking Lord Lothian’s resolution, and I...” he sighed, resigned, as Guinevere turned it, to read. “There’s no way I can support something that treads so close to treason. Not like this.”
Guinevere skimmed, tried not to smile. Just as expected, Gawain’s instinct was to stake a position so aggressive, there was very little room for compromise. The resolution he drafted — even as re-written by Rhos — was full of blustery language that was meant to put the King in his place as subordinate to Council. It called for new laws to explicitly deny the King any rights over the direction of the kingdom, or a say in how production would be managed. It even had a section, heavily redacted by Rhos, that curtailed the Royal allowance from a percentage of income, to a flat rate that would barely cover meals and firewood. Gawain smelled weakness, and couldn’t resist exploiting it. Which was, amusingly to Guinevere, his greatest weakness.
She shook her head, feigning disgust. “This isn’t close to treason, milord. It is treason!” Rhos’ allies thumped their hands on the table in agreement. “Why, it’s lucky we’re not all executed for having put it to paper!”
This prompted a different kind of response: anxious silence. The First Line looked from one to another, worried they hadn’t fought hard enough against Gawain; Gawain’s group was itself divided between those who were suddenly doubting they’d picked the right team, and those who would never budge, no matter the consequences. A stalemate of sorts, but with momentum heading in Guinevere’s favour.
Just then, the doors opened, and a page scrambled to the fore: “Milords: Lord Cornwall.”
Every chair creaked as Council turned to see old Lord Cornwall limp into the room; he was greyer than the last time Guinevere had seen him, but still just as formidable. The furs he wore over his shoulder were heavy enough to crush a lesser man, and the scars on his face and neck marked a soldier who had fought for his King at the risk of all else. The walking stick he used was, once, a gaudy accessory that drew laughs. Now it was a vital appendage to his person, keeping him upright as he shuffled to the seat that no one had dared take.
The First Line started pounding the table again, and Gawain’s side joined in, after a time, until it sounded like thunder greeting Cornwall, as he lowered himself into his chair. Guinevere, meeting his eye, curtsied; he gave her a slight nod in return.
As the sounded died, Cornwall adjusted in his seat, and said: “Thank you, all. I’ve been away too long. Seems like a lifetime, and I suppose in many ways, it has been. There are great decisions before us, once again, but I have faith that we, the founders of this kingdom—” He nodded to Rhos. “—and its warriors—” He nodded to Bors. “—and its sons—” This time, to Gawain. “—will find the right path to victory.” There was a murmuring of agreement. “Now, enough puffery. Someone catch me up.”
Rhos cleared his throat, subtly pulled the paper away from Guinevere. “The issue before Council is our response to His Majesty’s plan to remake Camelot. While many of us believe it is our sworn duty to collaborate with the Crown to achieve its wishes in matters of—”
Gawain stood. “Some of us believe in a more persuasive approach.”
“A coup, you mean,” Guinevere said, and Cornwall’s eyes locked on her.
Gawain spread his arms. “Nothing of the sort. I agree with Lord Rhos that our earlier entreaties were more on the definitive side of things. Rhetoric too strong, perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” Guinevere laughed, as Wiglaf shot Gawain a nasty look. Wiglaf did not like being betrayed.
“A hard line makes easy enemies,” Gawain said. “But we cannot simply roll over and let Camelot be disassembled around us. The King is new and inexperienced at matters of state, so instead of beating him over the head with complex and abstract arguments he will not understand, I propose an education of sorts. Visceral persuasion.”
Bors ran a hand down his face. “If this ends in torture, I vote nay.”
Gawain laughed, shook his head at Bors. “No, not torture. Speaking in terms he will understand.”
“I’ll fetch a cow!” joked one of Gawain’s team, and got a sharp stare from Cornwall. No one laughed.
Gawain continued: “We demand a consultation with His Majesty, to bring to light some unintended consequences of his fantasy. Most importantly, the damage it would do to the poor workers of Camelot, when the factories are reconfigured. Thousands of jobs, gone almost overnight. And without those jobs, no money to buy food, putting strain on all segments of the economy until—” He was getting fired up, and realized it. He stopped, calmed, and continued: “The King wants to save the riff-raff of the world, but his plans will impoverish the riff-raff he came from, first. He needs to understand the ruin he will bring to his own people.”
Guinevere’s mind was racing: this was unexpected, to say the least. She may have stayed away too long, and given Gawain enough time to temper his plan. What he was proposing was actually quite clever, and might even work... if she didn’t want him to fail, she might even back it. But with Gawain, there was no middle ground, only the illusion of cooperation. She would have to draw the sharper side out of him, somehow.
Rhos shifted in his seat. “We’ll request a consultation.”
“No, demand,” said Gawain. “Someone must be the responsible adult in this government, and given the options, it falls to us.”
“Council has no right to demand—”
“The King has no right to destroy the work Pendragon set—”
“And what if it fails?” Guinevere said, reading the paper Rhos had rewritten so many times. “If the King hears your pleas and decides the risk is worth the effort? What then?”
Gawain was doing his best to be calm, but he was very clearly frustrated. “We will cross that bridge if we come to it.”
Guinevere held up the paper. “It seems you’ve surveyed the other side of the bridge quite extensively, with plans to set up camp. Your persuasion seems, at best, disingenuous, Lord Lothian. At worst, a ploy to buy time, and better position yourself after the coup.”
“Are you calling me a traitor?” he bellowed, shocking everyone around him.
“Will you pledge to accept the King’s decision, whatever it may be?”
“I will never stop arguing for the future of Camelot!”
“You didn’t answer my question!”
“It’s a damned foolish question and I won’t—”
“Very simple!” Guinevere persisted: “Yes or no? Are you loyal to the King?”
“If he—”
“So it’s conditional? He has your fealty only if it pleases you?”
Gawain slammed his hand on the table. “I will make him see reason.”
“One way or another,” Guinevere said, and he screamed, pushed away from the table and paced away, holding his head in his hands. He had his sword on him, she realized, but hoped decorum would hold just enough sway over him to save her life.
Rhos spoke, cutting through the tension in the air, at least partly: “Lord Cornwall, I beg your pardon. I know you’ve only just returned, and the stakes are, regrettably, higher than they have been in a generation... but I think I speak for all members of Council — on either side of this argument — when I ask your opinion.”
The room all turned to Cornwall, who had pressed his brow into his
walking stick, deep in thought. He shook his head slowly, trying to jar eloquence free, and sighed.
“Camelot has faced many foes in its short life,” he said, voice rolling through the room like a wave. “And though this seems like the gravest of crises, like the very upending of our entire civilization, I have no doubt that with time and distance, it will be yet another bend in the road for us. We have overcome worse, and we will overcome more.”
Guinevere nodded. His words were perfect; the more he made the case for cooler heads, the more alienated Gawain would be. Very few could put this fight in the context of Camelot’s greatest legends, but he was playing his part better than she ever could have hoped.
“Change never comes without struggle,” he continued, his audience rapt. “Hard choices must be made, losses softened, victories eked out of the harshest of conditions. When there are no good paths to take, you forge your own. It’s how Camelot was made, and how it will survive.” He looked to Gawain, grave. “Lord Lothian’s approach is the only way forward.”
The room erupted into impassioned whispers, but Guinevere heard none of it. It took all of her effort not to fall, the blow was so great. Cornwall had betrayed her, at the most critical moment. Whatever damage Gawain had done to his reputation had just been undone, and suddenly her position was dangerously unsteady.
Gawain stood, and Council quieted. “Thank you, Lord Cornwall. I appreciate the complex nature of the situation, which only makes your endorsement all the more powerful. I promise to live up to the trust all of you—” he glanced at Guinevere, “—most of you have placed in me.”
Hands pounding the table. More than before. Rhos’ camp was defecting.
“Now, I do agree that simply demanding the King’s attention is bound to fail. Especially now, as he’s at the crest of his popularity, and so few are willing to defy him, in even the smallest of ways.” More murmuring of assent; some eyed Guinevere, like they suspected she had special experience with that subject. “His Majesty is less swayed by words, and more by actions,” Gawain continued. “He feels more than we do, and so I propose we take advantage of that affectation, to lay the groundwork for our petition. To that end, I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a demonstration at the coronation tomorrow.”