by Kris Owyn
“They aim to curtail your royal privileges.”
“Curtail?”
“Eliminate, in truth. Make you a figurehead only.”
Arthur stepped back, like he’d been slapped. “Can they do that?”
“I couldn’t say, milord. I’m no scholar. But Lord Lothian is so incensed, I’m certain he’d find a way, if left unchecked.”
Arthur reached out for support, lowered himself against the wall. He set the crown down beside him, face pale and hands trembling. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would he hate me so?”
She knelt down before him, folding the paper back up and sliding it into her pocket. “It’s not you he hates, sire. It’s your vision.”
He frowned. “My vision?”
“I feel I’ve failed you, sire, on your most critical issue. Though I’ve tried to make them understand, Council can’t wrap their minds around the idea of Camelot as a force for good, instead of an enabler of tyrants. They call you...” She bit her lip, shook her head, tried to move away, but he caught her hand, pleading.
“I won’t tell them I know,” he said, eyes wide with sincerity.
“Things said in the heat of the moment aren’t fit to—”
“And I won’t be cross,” he said. “I swear it.”
She slumped, met his eyes. “They call you the Problem King. The one who will... who will bring ruin upon us all.”
This hit him hardest of all. She could tell, right from her first encounter, that Arthur was horribly insecure about his role in the history of Camelot. Where other rulers riled up calm waters for the sake of their own egos, he was terrified of making mistakes, big and small. Bringing ruin upon his newly-inherited kingdom was the straightest way to his nightmares.
“I... I don’t...”
“But no, sire, it’s not you who’s failed,” she said, taking his hands in hers. Just the contact turned his attention back up. “It was my responsibility to show them what you held in your heart, and I did it such a disservice, they’ve soured on you. If only I could have made them understand...”
He was trying to work out a strategy, she could see. His mind was working furiously. “Maybe after the coronation, I can visit Council and explain to them—”
“Oh, no, sire. That’s... you have no idea how unruly they can be. I fear you wouldn’t get two words in without being drowned in self-righteous shouting.” He meant to keep thinking, but she interrupted: “But wait! That’s it!”
He jerked to attention, drew closer. “What? What is it?”
“The one place they can’t interrupt you,” she said, with as honest a smile as she could muster. “After your coronation, you’re to address your subjects for the first time.”
“Yes, Sir Ector has been working with me to... um... simplify the topics I’ll address, so I don’t—”
“And that’s the problem, you see! That’s what I tried, as well! ‘Simple’ simply cannot fathom the depths of your vision. If you want to convince Council — nay, convince the world! — you must dive deep into the subject. Once they see what’s in your heart, sire, their minds will change—” she snapped her fingers, and he smiled. “—like that!”
“Do you really think so?”
“Sire,” she said, holding his hands close to her lips; he swallowed, nervously. “You changed my life with your wisdom. I know you can change theirs.”
She held him there, breathing onto his knuckles, his eyes locked onto hers, mesmerized, and—
“I’ll do it,” he said, suddenly confident again. She helped him to his feet. “Yes, I’ll do it,” he said, looking around the room and snatching the crown off the floor. “This will be good.”
“If I may, sire,” she said, taking a step back towards the door. “Recruit Merlin to help... fill out your topics. The more detail, the better.”
“And you?” he said, as she was turning to leave. “Won’t you help, too?”
She sighed, melodramatically. “Alas, no,” she said. “The lot of a nobleman is full to the brim. No time for planning, always do-do-doing! But you’ll make something spectacular, I know it!”
She waved, and before he could say anything more, she ducked out the door. She paused there, in the anteroom, and re-composed herself. She felt the colour drain from her face, her features harden, and her spine go straight. And then she proceeded on.
The preparations were reaching an even higher frenzy, now, with young men in frilly outfits rushing headlong through halls, carrying wine goblets, platters of roast lamb, reams of silk... She ducked against the wall more than once to avoid a collision.
Pausing in the walkway overlooking the main courtyard, she observed a small crowd of peasants gathered; the lucky few picked to witness such an historic event. In truth, they met very specific criteria: diverse enough to seem a cross-section of the kingdom, ugly enough to let the nobles feel superior, but not so ugly that they’d be a distraction.
And there, at the far side, she found what she was looking for: a dozen or so “peasants” who deigned not to wash their faces before heading out to a coronation. Almost as if they were being paid to seem “authentic”, and didn’t quite know what the word meant. Moreover, they were huddled together, seemingly taking orders from a taller man with a soldier’s build — despite the muddied farmer’s clothes he wore.
He was handing out tools to them; pitchforks, shovels, hoes and brooms. A scythe, too. To help with the authenticity, no doubt, but it created a worrisome situation where paid agitators were parading around with sharp objects. One of them was making a stabbing motion with his pitchfork, as if to test it out. Not a good sign.
She caught hold of the next page who went by: “Who’s in charge here?” she asked, voice sharp like slate.
“Uh... I...” he stammered, not knowing who she was, but knowing her clothes cost more than his hometown, twice over. “It’s that I—”
“That group, over there, see?” she said, pointing to Gawain’s troupe.
“Yes, milady?”
“Who gave them weapons?”
The page’s eyes went left, right, left, right. “I... I don’t—”
She grabbed his chin to keep him focused. “It’s a simple question. Where did the weapons come from?”
“Th-they’re farmers, a-and without the proper tools, they—”
She turned his face toward the crowd, urgently. “Weapons,” she said. “Say it with me...”
“Weapons,” they said together.
“B-but Lord Lothian insists—” he said, by way of an excuse.
“Lord Lothian does not control security at the palace.”
The page looked at her, hopeful. “Do you?”
She frowned. “No. But I know who does.” She let him go, snapped her fingers at his face. “Disarm the farmers before someone gets hurt.”
He bowed, urgently, and stumbled away, down the stairs into the courtyard. Guinevere would have watched to be sure it was done properly, but she still had more to do, and not much time to do it.
On her way to the south wing, she made a winding detour near what would soon be the coronation hall. The chaos was even more pronounced, here. Decorators were trying to get their work done and get out of sight before the noblemen were shown in, and it was no going well. A tall ladder toppled, throwing strings of flowers all over the floor. Worse, some landed on poor Sir Ector, who was turning in circles, blubbering madly.
“Sir Ector,” Guinevere said, with a curtsy.
“Lady Guinevere!” he exclaimed, trying to rush over to her, but finding his legs tangled in string. She closed the distance, instead. “I’m glad I bumped into you. The King has requested your presence on the dais, during the coronation.”
She raised an eyebrow. “During the coronation?”
He slapped his hands to his cheeks, pulled down so he looked like a mopey dog. �
�Yes, well, that’s what he said...” he sighed. “But as I don’t intend to give the Archbishop a stroke today, let’s just agree you’ll stay in the audience until the actual crowning is done.”
She laughed. “Sounds reasonable.”
“Coronations are hard enough without being asked why why why about every little detail. Why can’t Merlin be part of the procession? Why must the noblemen swear fealty? Why are the peasants kept at the back of the hall, when there’s so much space up front? It’s impossible!”
“Well just tell him the peasants are kept in back to keep them from rushing the throne,” she said, patting his chest in a friendly way.
His face blanched. “R-rushing?”
“I mean, only if they get unruly,” she said, by way of calming him down.
“Why would they get unruly?”
“Oh, you know peasants,” she said, rolling her eyes. “So unpredictable.” He whimpered. “By the by... have you noticed that some of the farmers are armed?”
He choked. “Armed?”
“On Lord Lothian’s orders, apparently.”
Ector was caught in a difficult spot, now. Common sense versus a powerful nobleman. He seemed to shrink two feet. “We need a Captain of the Guard. Urgently,” he said, dejected.
“Yes, well, in good time,” she said, nodding, like it didn’t worry her one bit. Not one bit. “Good luck, Sir Ector. I’ll see you later!”
She skipped away, leaving him on the verge of tears. She heard him screaming something desperate, as she turned another corner and broke into a run, towards the south wing.
This area, the servants’ quarters, was largely deserted; partly because all the servants were wildly over-occupied, and also because there weren’t that many servants to begin with. Half the doors she passed were boarded up, which made it much easier to pinpoint the chef’s room. She paused outside, again icing her expression, put her hand on the handle, and stepped inside.
It was dark; far darker than she’d expected, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. Someone had lit a candle on the table at the side of the room, which cast ominous shadows across the faces of the occupants. Not that they needed help in that regard: one was a short man with thick limbs, a badly-shaved head, and a savage burn mark on the left side of his face; the second was taller, lean, with a dead eye staring off to the side, and teeth that seemed to be sharpened into points. He ran his tongue along them, watching her greedily, as she settled.
The third man, when he turned, made Guinevere flinch: it was Eleanor’s captor. The Fox. His hair was braided out of his face, now, which only made him look more dangerous. His cloak matched the others: poor, cheap, ruined. It did not suit him at all.
He smiled when he saw her, sat at the edge of the table.
Guinevere considered leaving, but time was short. She clasped her hands together, put on as polite a performance as she could:
“Thank you for coming, on such short notice,” she said, looking from one to the other, and trying not to dwell on the one she knew. “Each of you was chosen because you impressed his lordship with your confidence and skill. After carefully reviewing—”
“Whose lordship?” snorted the short one.
Guinevere winced, pleasantly, like she didn’t want to impart that information. Instead, she said: “Let’s put it this way: he’d like to double what he paid you this morning.”
The two newer mercenaries exchanged curious glances, and grins; the Fox, though, kept his eyes set on her, not blinking. She reached into her pocket, pulled out three velvet sacks. They jingled, heavy with coins. She had the full attention of all three participants, now. Greedy attention.
She threw the first sack to the short one. “You’ll attend the coronation, in the back,” she said, and threw the second into the taller man’s ready hands. “Stay apart from each other. No communication.” The Fox watched her, curious, as she threw the last sack at him. He caught it at the very last second, as if by magic. Unlike his comrades, he didn’t open it.
“Th-this is way more than double my—” stammered the short one, but was shushed quiet by the taller one. Guinevere turned her attention back to them, trying her best to ignore their comrade.
“After the coronation, the King will deliver his first address as ruler. He will... evoke a response, let us say.”
“Fortune-teller, are you?” said the Fox.
She smiled at him. “Inside information.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She continued: “At the back of the hall are three pedestals draped with green fabric. Hidden behind those pedestals are crossbows. One for each of you.”
Now she had their attention.
“The crowd is being paid to riot, and loudly. When they draw the guards back, make your move. One on each side, and the third down the middle. You won’t have much time, so make it count.”
“Y-you mean...” stammered the taller one.
“I mean we can...” said the shorter one.
“Say the words,” said the Fox. “So there’s no misunderstanding.”
She stared at him for a long minute, shoving all her frustration into the pit of her stomach. He had a look on his face like he was doing the same.
“Once the King is dead,” she said, addressing all three once more, “exit through the west doorway. There will be three horses waiting for you, saddled with a final payment for a job well done.”
The short one scratched his scar. “How much?”
“Enough to start fresh, far from here,” she said. “And I’d recommend picking somewhere far from here.”
The short one pocketed the sack; the taller one was still counting the coins inside. The Fox hadn’t so much as scratched his nose since catching his, and made no moves to change that situation.
“This is a one-and-done job,” she said, ominously as she could muster. “Do not contact his lordship. Do not even glance at him in public.” There were nods of agreement, and she opened the door behind her. “Godspeed, then.”
The short one left, then the tall one, but the Fox, he just stayed there, perched on the edge of the table, hand cradling the gold, as a smile crept across his face.
“Who are you with, again?” he asked.
She closed the door. “Are you taking the job or—”
“Because you seem to want us to think you’re from Lothian, without actually saying it.”
She crossed her arms. “You’ve a paranoid mind.”
He shrugged, set the sack down on the table and stood up. “It’s learned, the hard way,” he said. “I’d think you, of all people, would understand that, Lady Guinevere.”
She pretended to not understand. “I don’t—”
“How is Lyonesse these days? Overgrown, I hear. Quite the change, coming from Paris.”
Whatever smile she had, was gone. She stepped closer, eyebrow raised. “You’re industrious, aren’t you.”
“I like to know who I’m dealing with. Unlike you, apparently. You seemed shocked to see me.”
“Well, that’s understandable, I think,” she said, watching as he strolled towards her, like an animal moving in to strike. “I sent my man to find capable soldiers having their debts paid at Lothian.”
“And I’m not capable?”
“You’ve no debts anymore,” she said. “We settled those, I recall.”
“You settled. Lothian paid.”
She laughed, wagged a finger at him. “Ah, so you collected twice. A hundred tremisses on a sixty-coin job. How noble of you.”
He sighed, shook his head. “I got the balance owing, no more,” he said. “Unlike some, I’m no cheat.”
Cheat? She took a step back, jaw squared. She gave him the tiniest of nods, eyes narrow. “I think we’re done here,” she said. “Leave the gold. We’ll manage without you.”
He laughed, but could see she w
as serious. “Really?” he asked, incredulous. “How do you know I won’t go straight to Lothian? Or the King?”
She shrugged. “Try it.”
He glanced back at the gold, then at Guinevere. She squared her shoulders, dared him to try something — even though they both knew she was in no position to stop him from doing whatever he wanted.
He ground his teeth for a second, then snorted, strode to the door. She passed him, on the way, snatching the sack up and squeezing it tight. Behind her, he grabbed the door handle, roughly, and—
—and he paused, shaking his head. He let out a frustrated sigh. She turned just in time to see him marching up to her, stopping far too close to be decent, and putting his hand out, fingers brushing her belly. His eyes were locked on hers, and they were intense.
“I’ll do it,” he said, warm breath on her face.
“You’re too paranoid.”
“You need me,” he said, and glanced down at his hand, still waiting.
She let her heart beat in her ears a few more times, then pressed the sack into his palm. He closed his fingers around it; rough, strong, but somehow gentle. She was caught in his hand too, but made no move to escape.
This close, even by the dim candlelight, she could see the kind of man he was: layers of light armour, stitched together and sliced apart many times over. His beard was a mess, interrupted by scars more than fashion. One such mark, at the edge of his throat, felt like a gruesome reminder of a death narrowly averted.
He breathed her in, very obviously, and — tugging his fingers loose from hers — took a hesitant step back. Like he hoped she’d command otherwise.
She braced herself on the table, tried hard to maintain her composure, even as her body betrayed her. Her face flushed, ears hot, vision stubbornly focused on his—
“You’re sure you want this?” he asked.
“Want what?” she breathed.
He grinned, and it was suddenly too much for Guinevere to take. The adrenaline of the day, mixed with the raw sexual energy that flowed out of him, and the way he looked at her, it was just too much. She kissed him, hard, fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer — and oh, he got closer.