The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  The guards wouldn’t let Guinevere out of the carriage while they were still in the open, nor would they pass along a warning to Lancelot, up ahead. The last stretch through London was ostensibly the most dangerous, and they were on full alert, even locking the shutters over the windows to stymie any archers that might take a shot. Guinevere got progressively more and more agitated, until they finally got through the castle gates... the shutters jerked open, and she could see again.

  When they’d visited last, they’d come through the Petitioner’s Gate, which allowed foot traffic only, carefully designed to enforce order out of chaos, prevent stampedes, and create a security dynamic that meant visitors were at a clear disadvantage to the guards standing over them; try something foolish, you’d get yourself (and those around you) killed.

  This time, though, they entered through the main gates, which allowed for carriages, wagons and horses... and it was a whole other experience. In theory, anyone entering through the main gates was a trusted entity; you didn’t get access to the castle courtyard by chance. In Rufus’ castle, the place was designed like a pair of overlaid circles: a big ring (the walls) wrapped around the outside, while the castle itself was smaller, half-embedded in the wall-circle, with its rear protruding out the north side. It created a kind of thick crescent shape for the courtyard, with entry from the south; big enough to fit their entire convoy of wagons, with room to spare. The drawback to this design was that if someone took inspiration from the Trojan War, they’d have ample room to hold a sizeable invading force right in the heart of the royal complex...

  To compensate, the interior walls — and the castle face — were covered in tall, thin windows with absolute coverage of the entire space. There was literally nowhere to hide, once you were inside the gates, and the effect of so many vantage points made it next to impossible to tell where the bolts and arrows were coming from. A handful of archers would lay waste to an invading force, without suffering a single casualty. A terrifying sight, if you were there to make trouble.

  Or if you expected trouble to be made for you.

  The second her guards stepped away from the carriage, Guinevere threw open the door and dropped onto cobblestones. She dashed up ahead — head low lest some archer take a pot shot at an easy target — and tugged at the door to Arthur’s still-moving carriage. It didn’t budge; locked, still, so she pulled again, and again, and—

  It opened, and she nearly toppled over. Lancelot frowned at her, climbing out to make the first of many sweeps before considering letting his King into the open.

  “We need to hold back,” Guinevere said, scrambling closer, eyes watching the hundreds of windows with suspicion and terror.

  “What? Why?”

  “I can’t explain, but—”

  “If we’re not safe here—”

  “Just keep the King’s whereabouts secret for now.”

  “Secret? He’s in a gold leaf carriage surrounded by armed guards. I’m pretty sure everyone knows where he is. What’s wrong? Tell me.”

  She wanted to explain, but knew she couldn’t. That slice of truth would tumble down and invite so many questions and worries that she’d find herself under house arrest here, too. Why the worry? She saw Rinwell. Who’s Rinwell? Gawain’s man. Why would Gawain’s man be in London? Either he followed them here (danger! house arrest!) or he was here in advance; in which case, it’s probably a coincidence... it’s not like London was an expected or likely destination. Except... Except what? They may be in London to interfere with or even hijack her plan to use London as a base of operations to undermine the King’s policy without his knowing.

  “Intuition,” she said, instead.

  He glared at her. “Intuition is a terrible excuse.”

  The gates, behind them, started to close as the last of their wagons rumbled through. What few Essex men were visible were working to secure the castle; big fellows, in layered sheet armour, pushing the spokes of gears bigger than Guinevere until the massive machinery did its thing, and the gates lurched downward. The latticework metal, sharp and unforgiving on the outside, made a horrible screeching noise as jerked lower and lower...

  “Please...” she hissed to Lancelot.

  “Just tell me why, and—”

  Something stirred in the main doorway, at the top of a long stretch of once-ornate stairs; a torch in the darkness, and the ker-click of something shifting from one position to another. Footsteps, the smell of smoke, a cold rush of air as the crypts of the castle emptied into the stifling summer heat. She heard the sound of something bumping against stone; a crossbow? The sound echoed around the space like they were surrounded by a hundred archers. Maybe they were. Maybe it was already too late.

  “We need to go,” she hissed. “I can’t—”

  The carriage door opened and Arthur peeked out. “What are you two fussing about?” he asked.

  “Lady Guinevere was just explaining that to me...” Lancelot said, putting her on the spot. Short of screaming for them to run, what could she do? And if she did scream, what were the chances the archers weren’t ordered to open fire at the first sign of panic?

  She glanced back at the second carriage, with Eleanor and Adwen; at the royal carriage, with Arthur and Merlin. How many of them would make it out alive, if things went wrong? But staying was—

  “Eleanor!” shouted Rufus, from the top of the steps.

  Everyone stopped, stared.

  Rufus’ arms were out in welcome, crown sunk down to his brow, long royal cloak hanging off his shoulders, perfectly complementing his bright blue tunic... and less-perfectly complementing his utter lack of trousers. But at least he had on socks.

  “I’ve missed you!” he called.

  Guinevere tried to smile, but couldn’t; she was trying desperately to understand what was really going on. She’d expected Rufus to be dead, or deposed — it would explain his lack of replies over the last three months — or at the very least a heavily-censored puppet working at Gawain’s behest. But that didn’t seem to be the case. Why leave him as he was? But then she realized: you didn’t need to control Rufus to control Essex. Even her plan had been to leave him as he was, and work around him. The question was: had Gawain set up shop in the castle itself, or was Rinwell outside because Rufus was too much of a distraction? Were they safe inside, or trapped inside? And most importantly: would she be able to find out before it was too late?

  As Rufus strode down the stairs, she swore she could make out the faintest glint of metal, deep in one of the windows above him. Yes, there was definitely movement in there. Someone was watching. Gawain? Rinwell? Or another agent? Regardless, it seemed almost certain they were in enemy territory... and she had no way to convince Lancelot of that fact, short of—

  Rufus nearly tripped down the stairs. He balanced himself, let out a tense sigh, and then yanked off his left sock and threw it across the courtyard. “Damn feet!” he spat, then stood tall again, regal, and strode down the rest of the stairs, where Lancelot and Guinevere both bowed, without taking their eyes off their surroundings for one second.

  “Is this what you were worried about?” Lancelot whispered, while still bowed.

  “No, I—”

  “Rise, dear subjects,” Rufus said, and they stood to watch him perform a magnificently gratuitous bow himself. Arthur had a look on his face like he was watching a unicorn and a dragon play darts, and wasn’t sure if it was beautiful or horrible. Without warning, Rufus took Guinevere by the shoulders and planted a loud kiss on her cheek. Arthur and Lancelot recoiled in shock.

  “Eleanor, my darling,” said Rufus.

  “Over here, milord,” called Eleanor, emerging from the second carriage with Adwen.

  Rufus looked at Guinevere again, frowned, and let go of her shoulders like she was hot metal. He wiped his hands on his cloak, took a wobbly step back, and squinted at them all. “We really ought to get you h
ats,” he said. “Help tell you apart.”

  Eleanor and Adwen arrived; Eleanor curtsied deeply as Rufus nodded to her. She was well-practised, after all. Rufus nodded, then, to Adwen, who didn’t curtsy, but raised an eyebrow to him like she found him peculiar. Which, to be fair, she did. Guinevere regretted putting this nugget of defiance in the girl’s head.

  Rufus raised an eyebrow himself, seemed intrigued by Adwen. “You and I shall share a ham,” he said, and stepped away — without breaking eye contact.

  Lancelot cleared his throat, drawing Guinevere and Rufus’ attention so suddenly, Rufus yelped. Lancelot smiled, politely, and bowed again. “Sire, allow me to introduce his Majesty—”

  “I’ve already met him,” said Rufus, waving it off.

  Lancelot twitched. “You... you’ve—”

  “Well it’s me, isn’t it. I’m his Majesty. And I’m quite well-acquainted with—”

  “No, sire, I mean...” Lancelot gave Guinevere a sideways glare, like he wished she were handling this instead of him. “Your fellow sovereign, your newly-anointed brother-in—”

  Rufus’s eyes went wide as he beheld Arthur. “Dolph!” he squeaked, and hugged Arthur like a bear rushing in for the kill. “My brother Dolph! Oh, how long has it been? You’re smaller than I remember! And look, your leg grew back!” He pulled back, squinting. “How did you survive the cremation?”

  Arthur got a faint smile on his face, laughed. “No, King Rufus. I’m... I’m Arthur. From Camelot?”

  Rufus looked from Arthur to Lancelot to Guinevere, and then to Eleanor and Adwen. Finally, he seemed to understand.

  “I’m in the wrong castle again, aren’t I.”

  Lancelot blew out his cheeks, turned away. Guinevere touched Rufus’s arm, gently. “Sire, we’ve had a long journey, these last days. Perhaps you’d like to show us into your Great Hall?”

  Rufus nodded, knowingly. “Aye, lambs to the slaughter.”

  Lancelot jerked back at this. “Pardon?”

  “Lambs... the...” he sighed, like he was having to explain simple terms to a simpleton. “We’re slaughtering lambs in the Great Hall this week, obviously.”

  “Why would you... slaughter lambs in the—”

  “Because if we did it in the courtyard, nobody would want to come visit, would they, with all the blood and guts everywhere! Goodness. Think a little!” He turned, started up the steps, and waved them after him. “Come, come! I’ve forks enough for all of you! This way!”

  Arthur shot Lancelot an anxious look, but shrugged and followed Rufus inside; his guards kept a careful perimeter around him, loaded crossbows at the ready. She prayed they wouldn’t need to use them. If someone came at him with a knife or a sword, they wouldn’t get within ten paces. Anything else was a matter of luck.

  Lancelot paced Guinevere as they followed, close as was appropriate. “You need to tell me what you know, right now.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not as easy as that.”

  “Well let me make it easier for you: if anything happens to the King, it will be on your head. We’re here because you said Essex was friendly territory, and yet you’re acting like we’ve landed in Gawain’s backyard.”

  She said nothing, but the look on her face spoke volumes. Lancelot stopped walking. “Jesus. You can’t be serious.” He dashed back to her side. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

  She took a sharp breath. “That might backfire.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’ve been trying to think: why did Gawain let us come to London? It doesn’t make sense. To hold the King ransom?”

  “No, he controls the treasury. He’d just be stealing from himself.”

  “Exactly. And if they wanted to detain us, why send Rufus out instead of soldiers?” They reached the top of the stairs, paused at the threshold to the main doors that Arthur and Rufus had already passed. “It’s like he wants us to feel comfortable. Lull us into a false sense of security, and trick us into making a critical mistake.”

  “Yes, but what?”

  That was the question Guinevere had, too. Gawain had the weapons, he had whatever money they’d raised from taxes, he controlled Lyonesse both on the Isles and the Continent—

  She nearly fell over.

  “If he isn’t already, Gawain will be richer and more powerful than anyone in Camelot,” she said. “Save for one man. One man who cannot be truly outdone, so long as he lives.”

  Lancelot didn’t understand. “You’re saying he wants to assassinate the King? He’d never survive it. Regicide, especially of this king—”

  “But it won’t be Gawain doing the killing,” Guinevere said, gesturing around them. “It will be at the hands of Mad King Rufus. His supposed friend.”

  Lancelot grimaced. “And then Gawain can lead the charge to conquer Essex, depose Rufus, and become the undisputed master of Council.”

  Guinevere nodded. “He needs us to be at ease. He needs witnesses to swear that we didn’t see it coming, and then—”

  Lancelot took a sharp breath. “I’ll pulling him out of here, now.”

  “No,” said Guinevere, taking his arm. “They’re watching. If we look like we know, they might—”

  Lancelot swore under his breath. “So what would you have me do? Just sit and wait? I can’t do that, Guinevere. It’s suicide.”

  She nodded; they’d reached the Great Hall — Arthur and Rufus were inside, among a sizeable flock of very lively lambs — and the rest of the party was catching up. Essex guards stood watch at the doors, watching them with cruel and dispassionate eyes. Would they be the ones to do it? Or did they just know to look away?

  “I’ll set a distraction,” she whispered.

  “I can’t let you—”

  “You do your job, I’ll do mine,” she said, looking down the hall; it quickly faded to utter blackness, just around the bend. “When you hear the shouting, evacuate to the carriages. Don’t wait for me.”

  He frowned. “What are you going to do?”

  She shrugged. “The throne room seemed flammable, last I was here.”

  Just then, Arthur called from afar: “Lancelot! Come see! We named this one after you!”

  Lancelot gave her a curt nod, headed in.

  Guinevere waited just long enough for Eleanor, Adwen and Merlin to arrive with their own retinue of guards. Merlin walked straight past them without blinking, but Eleanor let herself be caught, brought to the side. “I’ll be right there,” she said to Adwen, then stepped closer to her friend: “What’s the plan?”

  Guinevere flashed a smile. Eleanor knew her too well. “Go in with the others. When you hear the signal, I need you to get Adwen to safety. She won’t know what to do, but you...” She rested a hand on Eleanor’s cheek. “I trust you.”

  Eleanor nodded, blinking back tears. “And you?”

  “Well in hand.”

  A quick embrace later, Guinevere was on her own again. She approached the guard to the left of the doorway, and put a pained look on her face.

  “Excuse me,” she said, doing her best to sound airy and not-too-bright, “where are our rooms, I wonder? I’ve such the headache after the ride in, and I really must have a lie down.”

  The guard looked like he was thinking long and hard about the request, like he hadn’t considered the idea that guests to the castle might have their own rooms, or that he might need to give them directions. Then it struck her that he probably didn’t expect to need to. She held her panic back, barely.

  “Down the hall, up the stairs, first door on your right,” he said, terse and ominous. “Nowhere else.”

  “Of course not,” Guinevere said, giving him a curtsy.

  She ambled down the hallway, pretending to be entranced by the tapestries there, until it was far too dark to see the tapestries, and the guards were just out of view. She hiked h
er skirts and ran the rest of the way; not to the closer staircase, as instructed, but to the further one, the grander one that led up to the throne room she had visited last time she was in London.

  She kept close to the walls, checking every few steps for someone on the watch. If it came to it, she could scream early, hopefully create enough ruckus to give the others time to escape... but she really preferred to not end up sacrificing herself that way. She could light a fire and make her way back downstairs before anyone was the wiser.

  The first landing was cluttered with empty chests and bits of broken-apart armour. She saw a handful of Roman mosaics, carefully transplanted onto massive oak canvases, stacked like base lumber at the far end of the space. There was glass everywhere — shattered, solid, blown into intricate shapes and patterns and just... everywhere. And cushions and candelabras and what seemed to be a stuffed beast of some kind, but what kind she couldn’t—

  A hand wrapped around her mouth and squeezed tight; she felt another two sets of hands lift her under the arms and up, and before she knew it was she was being dragged into the darkness. She tried to scream, but the angle they had her at, it was hard to get the lungful of air to make a sound. She writhed, fought, but another man grabbed onto her legs, squeezing them tight and helping rush her down a pitch-black corridor that smelled like rotting wood and incense.

  Finally, light; she was deposited onto a chair next to a mounted torch. Her captors had all but disappeared... only one remained: a craggly man with oversized eyes and a crooked smile full of missing teeth. He bent low to meet her eye, finger to his lips.

  “Hush, miss,” he said.

  She took a sharp breath, tried to see where she was, where she could go, how many of them there were. “If you hurt me...” she warned, and he laughed.

  “Oh, we wasn’t hurt you, miss,” he said with a wild, disjointed voice. “Boss has things for you, miss. Boss has things.”

  She sat taller, ready to fight back, any way she could. “You tell your boss if he lays a finger on me, it will be the last thing he ever does.”

  The craggly man’s smile grew bigger, greedier, more deranged. “Tell him yourself,” he purred... and a dark figure stepped out of the shadows behind him.