The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  He pinned her against the table, lifting her up so her legs could wrap around him, but keeping her tight against him as his beard prickled her chin, neck, and more. She fought with the straps on his jacket, his shirt, trying to get him free, even as he bit her lip, hands pressing her hips against his so hard that she couldn’t, she wouldn’t—

  She felt something had changed, and when she opened her eyes, he was smiling at her. “You’re losing focus,” he said.

  Her heart was racing so fast, she fought to catch her breath. “W-what do you mean?”

  “We can do this,” he said, thumb brushing her breast. “Or the other thing. Your choice.”

  She shivered despite herself. His attention wasn’t an act — she could feel that much — but his discipline was astounding. “We can do both,” she whispered, seeking his mouth again.

  But he wouldn’t let her reach him. “I like to do things properly,” he said.

  “There’s time.”

  His smile was hypnotic. “Not the way I do it.”

  His ultimatum was frustrating on so many levels, and that frustration only made her want him more. But he was right, she knew. She was losing focus, looking for a way out, an excuse to miss making a mistake. She had better control than this. She knew better than this.

  She swallowed, grasping for her composure. “The job comes first.”

  His hands let go her hips, giving her cruel freedom. “You’re sure about this?” he asked.

  “It’s the only way,” she said, and meant it in more ways than one.

  He half-nodded, checked the corners of the room, to be sure they were alone. Truly, a paranoid soul. “I need to hear you say it,” he said, voice almost imperceptibly quiet. “There can be no doubts.”

  She stood again and leaned in close, to his ear, resting a hand on his chest. His hair tickled her cheek, his beard touching her neck; she shivered, and whispered: “The King must die.”

  He stepped back, slipped the sack into his pocket, and bowed. “Milady,” he said, and without another word, flung open the door and disappeared into the blinding sunlight. Guinevere stayed there, stunned by what had happened, and trying to remember what would happen next. She began fixing her hair absent-mindedly, adjusting her clothes.

  “Guin?” came a voice from the door, and there was Eleanor. She was looking back and forth, from Guinevere to... her expression said it all. “Was that...?”

  Guinevere snapped back to attention. She caught Eleanor by the elbow, led her out. “I’ll tell you later,” she said.

  “You’re blushing,” Eleanor gasped. “Did he—”

  “Ellie, it’s fine. It’s... what did you need?”

  Eleanor shook off whatever thoughts she was thinking. “Ewen said you’d be here. The coronation is starting soon, and I—”

  “Yes, right, let’s go,” Guinevere said, starting back... but Eleanor didn’t budge.

  “It’s...” she said, and Guinevere frowned.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  Tears welled in her friend’s eyes. She pulled at her fingers, despondent. “I picked this dress for today,” she cried. “I haven’t chosen new clothes in years, Guin, and I thought... the coronation is a special occasion, and he couldn’t possibly say no to—”

  Guinevere set her jaw. “Gawain.”

  “The seamstress is demanding payment, and Gawain controls the finances now, and my salary from Court won’t pay for—”

  Guinevere slipped a handful of coins from her purse, held them out. Eleanor blinked at it, like it didn’t make sense.

  “Th-that’s too much,” she stammered. “I couldn’t—”

  “You can, and you will,” Guinevere said, as Eleanor took the gold and, in a burst of joy, kissed her. It might’ve lasted a second, but all that frustration at the Fox boiled over again, and Guinevere pulled Eleanor closer, her mouth hunting for the satisfaction she’d lost not minutes before, and Eleanor, for whatever reason — love or passion or something baser — did not say no.

  But the Fox’s words slowed her fingers, until she was stymied again: you’re losing focus.

  “Guin?” said Eleanor, out of breath. “What’s wrong?”

  Guinevere caught her breath again. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. I...” She put a hand on Eleanor’s chest, as if to put some space between them. “We need to finish this later.”

  Eleanor kissed her forehead. “You’ve work to do.”

  Guinevere nodded. “As usual, Gawain sets the schedule of my displeasure.”

  “I hate that man so much. I can’t wait until you put him in his place.”

  Guinevere patted her friend’s back, and said: “Soon, Ellie. Very soon.”

  Twenty-two

  Green fabric hanging from a pedestal. An ill fit for the bright red flowers above, and for the crimson carpet to either side. There were two massive, arched doors into Coronation Hall, but both were shut for the time being. The crowd outside was audible, even through the thick wood. The time was drawing near.

  Guinevere double-checked the pedestals: one, two, three. Ready as they’d ever be.

  At the side of the hall, nestled between two pillars, was Ewen. He saw where was was looking, and shot her a concerned frown. She waved him over, made sure as few people were watching as possible.

  “Something’s wrong?” he said, under his breath.

  “You’re armed?” she asked.

  “Always. Why?”

  She acted reluctant to say more, but: “Just a feeling. Keep an eye on the King.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What do you know?”

  “Nothing. But it pays to be vigilant. If you see something, act. Don’t wait for permission.”

  He said nothing to this, and she wasn’t sure if it was because he thought it too obvious to warrant a reply, or because he was irked by the subject altogether. He did another pass of the room with his eyes, checked his weapons, and headed back to his post. Guinevere, meanwhile, turned back to Council, who were milling about as casually as a large group of over-dressed blowhards could.

  She was at the back of the group, and Gawain at the front, with Cornwall. She hadn’t been ordered to the back; she’d positioned herself there so it would be more dramatic when the King called her to the dais, by his side. Gawain was chatting, full of pompous righteousness, blissfully unaware.

  She heard, outside, the sounds of the outside gates opening; the procession was nearing the palace. The guards got into position around the periphery, crossbows ready, as Sir Ector made some desperate last-minute tweaks to the decor. He snapped his fingers, motioned for two servants to—

  Guinevere’s breath stuck. Ector was miming for the servants to remove the green fabric from the pedestals. The colour evidently offended him, too, but why now? The servants seemed confused by his miming, so he wove himself through the crowd of noblemen to set them straight.

  Ewen shot her an urgent look: stop him! But how? What could she say without arousing suspicion? He was almost at her, almost there...

  “Sir Ector,” Guinevere said, resting a hand on his shoulder as he passed.

  “Lady Guinevere, excuse me,” he said, with a bow, and kept walking.

  “Sir Ector, if I may—”

  “One moment, milady!” he called back. He was hissing instructions to the servants, repeating his miming, and far too far away to interrupt now. Guinevere turned and turned and turned and...

  “Milords,” she said, loudly, and instantly cut through the murmuring of the room, “I beseech you.”

  This drew every eye her way. She could only hope it drew Ector’s, too.

  “I know some of you truly believe in what’s planned for today, but I... I cannot stand by without speaking my mind.”

  Gawain glared at her, from across the room. He looked ready to murder her, right there in front of everyone
. Cornwall whispered in his ear, and he shook his head, slightly.

  “This is not the way,” she said, just as loud. “Civil discourse and negotiation are the only way to—”

  “Watch your tongue, girl,” Gawain snarled.

  “I cannot and I will not!” she said, trying to look forceful instead of terrified at what Ector would find. “I beg of you, Lord Lothian. It’s not too late to call this off. If things go wrong and—”

  “This is a matter for Council,” he said, mindful of the outsiders in their midst.

  “But how can you be sure—”

  “Guinevere, I’m warning you—”

  “The King’s safety is paramount, and I—”

  Sir Ector’s voice cut through from behind: “Crossbows.”

  She held her breath, didn’t turn. She couldn’t turn. Ector was at her elbow now, but she couldn’t bear to see his expression.

  “Crossbows at the ready,” he said, and pointed past her to the guards around the room. “Three cartridges each, and the best shots in the kingdom. The King’s safety is guaranteed.”

  She exhaled, trembling, and snapped back to her sharper self: “Is it, though?” she said, straight to Gawain. He waved her off, snorting.

  She dared to look back, catching sight as one of the servants lifted the flowers off the middle pedestal and the other got ready to remove the green fabric and—

  There was a heavy knock at the door; Ector yelped.

  “Put it back!” he hissed to the servants. “Put it back and get out of there before—”

  The servants just barely replaced the flowers before the easterly doors opened and sunlight shot through. The cheering outside was sudden and deafening; the King had arrived.

  The noblemen parted themselves to either side of the red carpet, carefully aligned so they’d have room to bow as the procession came through. The last two faces Arthur would see before stepping onto the dais were Gawain on one side, and Cornwall on the other. Guinevere was sure to find a spot where she could make eye contact with Gawain at all times. He noticed it, immediately, and sneered at her.

  Four guards came through the doors first, standing at attention as flower petals showered through. The people outside seemed genuinely excited at the idea of their new king, and it gave Guinevere a strange feeling of dissonance: she’d spent so much time in the company of those who hated the King, it felt almost alien that anyone would cheer his approach. He was the lad whittling by himself at night, sleeping on straw, learning to wear a crown. How could anyone take him seriously?

  Two pages entered, wearing the crimson robes of Camelot and heavy gold chains over their shoulders. One had the ceremonial sceptre, held sideways with the tail facing the crowd, to denote a transition in progress. The other would have been carrying the sword, but given the circumstances, having Arthur carry Excalibur through the streets seemed the better option.

  A jubilant cheer rang out from the crowd, and a moment later, Arthur appeared, sword held aloft, face an irrepressible smile. He finished waving to the peasants outside, then turned to see the dour Council waiting for him, and almost recoiled at the sight. Sir Ector cleared his throat, gently, and Arthur carefully handed the sword over to the second page, who bowed graciously. Arthur seemed the least-comfortable one in the room.

  Guinevere curtsied as the procession came past; she heard Arthur trying to make her look up by whispering her name, loudly, but she couldn’t risk it. He tried again, thinking she hadn’t heard, so she very, very subtly shook her head no. After a pause, he seemed to realize his gaffe, and continued on.

  Once he was the requisite ten paces on, she stood straight again, and aimed her gaze straight at Gawain. The King was still a few seconds away from the dais, so she timed it just right... as Gawain was about to bow, she cracked a smile and raised an eyebrow; the sight of it drove him mad, and his face convulsed into a snarl — just as Arthur looked over at him. Caught in the act, Gawain hastily bowed, but even from behind, it was clear Arthur was taken aback. It took another subtle throat-clearing from Ector for him to finish his ascent.

  Guinevere’s smile was genuine, now, and she looked over to Ewen to see if he’d noticed her play.

  But Ewen was gone.

  She checked further up, and down that side of the hall, in case he’d moved. But nothing, no sign of him anywhere. She checked the other end, back behind the throne, and towards the doors... but the crowds were being let in, making it harder and harder to see what was going on. Even with the luxurious buffer between the noblemen and the peasants, it was next to impossible to make out anything beyond the first rows; if Ewen had re-positioned near the doors, she wouldn’t find him until after the coronation.

  At the far side, Sir Ector was agitated all over again... and she could see why. Somewhere in the back of the crowd were pitchforks, hoes and, yes, a scythe. Gawain’s “farmers,” waiting for their moment; evidently her warnings had not been acted upon. Or had been overridden. The guards at the periphery were taking special note of them, too, adjusting their stances. Among the wiser heads in the room, the tension had ratcheted up tenfold in just a few seconds.

  The Archbishop made the first call to order, and the room quickly quieted. Then, after a pause, a series of prayers: for the kingdom, for the noblemen, for the newfound king. Booming, ominous Latin that made her shiver. She could see Arthur, facing the crowd, head bowed in deep reverence. He was mouthing along with the words the Archbishop spoke, eyes closed tight like he could feel God watching him, and was scared what the judgement might be.

  Off to her side, she caught sight of the peasants, mouthing along, too, and it struck her just how much like them Arthur was.

  She checked for Ewen again, but then the ceremony itself began, and she couldn’t afford to seem distracted or rude. She watched as Arthur recited — with careful prompting — the oath of kingship, declaring to serve God, and to protect Camelot and the noblemen, from whom his power derived. Carefully-crafted words, written decades earlier by a much younger Rhos, to maintain a fragile peace. All lost on Arthur, she knew; subtleties were beyond him.

  When it came time to bestow the crown, Arthur bowed early. This made the noblemen shift uncomfortably, and the peasants whisper something under their breaths like a strong wind coming out of nowhere. The Archbishop paused, holding the crown aloft, stymied; he was meant to recite more phrases, showcasing the crown to the east, south, west and north — representing all points of the kingdom — before returning to the then-bowing King, to finish the act. It was a long time to leave someone bent over, let alone the sovereign ruler of the realm.

  Sir Ector, sweating profusely, made a flimsy attempt at clearing his throat again, which only helped focus everyone’s hearing on... on the most peculiar thing...

  “Pater noster, qui es in caelis,” said Arthur, voice an almost imperceptible sound, “sanctificetur nomen tuum...”

  The Lord’s Prayer. Guinevere knew it, heard it often, but hadn’t spoken the words since she dissected its meaning with tutors in Paris. She could tell, by the reaction of the rest of Council, that it was even further-removed for most of them, too.

  But behind her was something entirely different. What started as a few brave voices soon turned into a symphony of reverence, of every last one of the assembled peasants reciting the Lord’s Prayer along with their king. Quietly, as they’d do in church, but with voices trembling with emotion. When they reached the end, they started again, unprompted; again and again.

  The noblemen, in the middle, seemed badly out of place... but there was no rulebook to say how to fix it. They just stood there, silent, hoping for guidance.

  The Archbishop snapped out of his confusion and held the crown to the east, speaking his designated words like an embellishment to the foundation the crowd was laying. To the east, then, and the south — and not a single peasant’s head lifted to see it happen, either. To the west, and th
e north, facing the still-bowing King. The Archbishop took a moment, waited for Arthur to finish his latest round of the prayer, before stepping forward. Arthur gasped, and the crowd did, too, looking up just in time to see the crown touch his head.

  That instant, Guinevere felt flood of warmth rush through her body, like God Himself had touched her soul, telling her that this moment mattered. But she knew better; she was just nervous about what was to come, and soon.

  Arthur stood tall, the crown balanced perfectly, and the first page set the sceptre in his left hand. The room was so silent, it was as if the whole place was empty. And then the other page, carefully, put Excalibur in Arthur’s right hand, tip facing up, and stepped back.

  “My lords,” the Archbishop said, bypassing Latin this one and only time, “I give you Arthur, Anointed King of Camelot, and Defender of Christ!”

  And at that, the peasants exploded with cheers. Voices gone hoarse in seconds, for all the joy that was finally unleashed. “God save His Majesty!” and “We love the King!” and “Long live King Arthur!” until all Guinevere could hear was ringing in her ears, and the feeling of the old stone structure rumbling with so many feet pounding down in excitement.

  As glorious as it was, the noblemen had better places to be; Gawain shot a glance to Sir Ector, who quickly scurried up to the dais and bowed, deeply, to Arthur. It was time for the acts of fealty.

  The new King settled into the throne — though not comfortably, thanks to the heavy crown — as Council arranged itself to pay their respects. Gawain was first in line, naturally, standing tall as the stage was set for his arrival. As his name was called, he gave Guinevere a sharp sneer, over his shoulder. She rolled her eyes, in return.

  Upon reaching the King, Gawain knelt down, head lowered, crossed himself, and said: “I, Gawain, Lord of Lothian, do solemnly pledge my love, my loyalty, my honour and life, to you, O Right and True King of Camelot. My sword is your sword. Your voice shall be mine. With all my heart, I am yours.”