by Kris Owyn
Her hands behind her back, Guinevere felt along the patched-together wooden planks that made up the exterior wall until she found the one with the oval notch in it. She slipped two fingers in and pulled it left, and click! something came loose in the wall. Hidden hinges let a portion swing outward, just big enough for her to duck without drawing attention to herself. She pulled the wall closed by a handle on the inside, and heard it settle back into place.
Light shone in through tiny slits in the woodwork around her; the floor was raw dirt and rock, cut into what seemed to be a the inside of false cupboard in the corner of the house. There was just enough ground to stand on, and then a ladder leading down into a hole beneath the floorboards. It was dark down there... very dark, and she couldn’t light a torch to guide her. She took a steeling breath and started down.
It was less a cellar than a hastily-carved hole. The sides were badly sloped, rough and loose and barely enough height to stand up. There was water in places, pooled and smelling almost as bad as the rest of London, but in such a contained space, it was dizzying. Searching out with her foot, she found a plank of wood, then another, and finally she was shuffling her way to the far end of the room, where Ewen promised she’d find—
A candle lit. She’d expected company — the two men Ewen had assigned to safeguard the treasure — but it still triggered a surge of fear in her. She fought the urge to run, and squinted in the darkness to find... not two men, but a boy. Ten years at the oldest, leaned against a locked chest, a long dagger in his hand, held out at her like a threat, but looking far too much like a feeble recourse. He was terrified. And alone.
“Who are you?” he asked, voice wavering.
“A friend,” she said, sure to keep a safe distance away. “Where are the others?”
’’Ran away,” he replied. “Brung the watchers someplace else.”
She nodded. Ewen’s men did their jobs perfectly, even under difficult circumstances. If Rinwell and his agents had closed in on the safe house, the only recourse would be to draw them away, create a distraction to keep the secret safe. She would have preferred someone more capable than a boy to help her move the money, but it was a far better deal than no money at all.
She pulled a key from her skirt pocket and stepped forward— the boy jerked the dagger closer. “Oi, tha’s enough,” he warned.
She stopped, held the key out for him to see. “I’m a friend,” she said. “See? I have a key to the chest.”
“How I know thas no’a trick?” he asked, and started to get up, blade inching closer.
“It’s not a trick,” she said, trying to calm him despite the manic look on his face. “Listen, if the key fits, it’s not a trick, yes?”
He blinked like the thought took some serious contemplation. He seemed lost in it.
“What’s your name?” she asked, and he snapped back to the present.
“Ward,” he said.
“Ward, I’m going to use this key to open the chest. If it opens, I will need you to help me carry the coins up to the street. Can you do that for me?”
Ward considered her request, thoroughly. Her time was slipping away, but there was no real choice about it. Finally, he said: “And if it don’t open?”
She shrugged. “It will.”
Without waiting for permission, she put the key in the hole, turned, and felt a solid click as the lock released. The lid of the chest even popped up a little, and Ward stumbled back in surprise. Guinevere opened it up the rest of the way, squinting through the feeble candlelight to see what she was dealing with. There were dozens of sacks inside; long burlap things just big enough to hold a neat stack of coins, cinched shut with twine. She reached a hand out — pausing to ensure Ward didn’t take it as a threat — and picked up one of the packages. It was heavy. Much heavier than she’d expected. Getting these up the ladder, out the door and into the wagons, undetected, that would be a challenge.
She picked up a second sack and nodded to the boy. “We haven’t much time, so we’ll have to work together. You unload the chest and bring the sacks to the top of the ladder, and I’ll get them from there to the wagons. Do you understand?”
Ward nodded. “Aye, miss,” he said, and pulled a sack from the chest himself, standing to follow her.
She shook her head. “No, Ward, we’ve got to move faster than that. Use both hands. Carry as much as you can in each trip.”
The boy stopped, stunned like he’d been slapped. He took his other hand away... and she realized it had been cradled against his stomach this whole time. When he held it out, it was slick with blood. He looked like he would faint at any moment. She rushed to catch him, steady him.
“What happened?” she asked, as he blinked to stay awake.
“Watchers,” he said, voice wavering. “Di’n see me get ‘ere. Promise. Di’n see...”
She brushed the side of his face with her hand; he was so young, so young to be doing this job, to be bleeding for this job. She steadied him, looked into his eyes until he focused on her. She took slow, even breaths... slow, even breaths.
“You’ll be fine,” she said. “We’ll get you help. We’ll get you help.”
Ward stood taller, sucking in a pained yelp, nodded to her. “Ready, miss.”
“Ward, no—”
He grabbed another two sacks from the chest, struggling to stand straight again, but refusing to give in to the pain. “You ge’ up,” he said, gesturing to the top of the ladder.
“Ward...”
“Ge’ up, miss. Please.”
She rested a hand on his shoulder, but he was impatient, urgent. He shifted this way and that until her hand fell off him, and he urged her forward with desperate eyes. She did as she was told, dashing along the planks until she reached the ladder; she climbed it as fast as she could, one hand heavy with a sack of her own, tumbling onto the small landing of dirt and rock. She turned around and Ward was already there, unloading four more sacks onto the ground beside her. The sunlight that cut through the boards illuminated his face, and suddenly she could recognize a ghostly pallor that made her shiver. The poor boy was barely alive, but still he did his duty. He looked at her, dark eyes asking for guidance, for some sort of direction.
Five sacks of coins. A fraction of what was there, and not nearly enough to pay the Gwynedds, but—
“You ‘urry,” he said, and disappeared down the ladder.
She wanted to call out to him, but there were guards too close for that. If they looked, saw what she had, what she was doing, none of it would matter anymore. The boy was doing his job, and she had to do hers.
She moved the sacks next to the false wall, and pulled the handle to the right to unlock it again. She pushed it outward slowly, gently, to not attract any attention, should anyone be nearby. It was so bright outside, her eyes stung with every glimpse, but she had to move, had to at least get herself in the open before anyone saw the change happening. She pushed the door open wider, took a bracing breath, and threw herself into the light.
Her vision was all but useless, but she could hear that work was well underway: shovels slicing dirt, a sharp-tongued taskmaster forcing workers on... Lancelot had warned they’d only stay long enough to see the first tube installed, and it wouldn’t take much to do that, once the ground was broken. She had to move faster.
She reached back into the opening, felt around until she found one of the sacks. She pulled it up and out, and nudged the door closed with with her foot; not all the way, just enough to hide what it was. The sack was easy to transport, it was true, but hard to conceal. She wrapped the twine around her wrist a few times, dangled the thing in the folds of her skirt, on the side nearest the buildings, to hopefully keep it hidden.
She peered around the corner, left and right, and hoping there was no one around — her vision was still a mess of blurs and agony — and made a brisk walk to the closest wagon.
It had already been unloaded, the tarps that had covered Merlin’s tubes tossed back inside in a haphazard way that gave her just enough cover to operate. She reached her free hand over the edge and pulled at one of the base-boards that ran the length of the wagon. These were thick wedges of wood, meant to support heavy crates of weapons over long distances, but that also meant they needn’t be nailed down... with some effort, she lifted it, rolled it onto its neighbour.
Another heave-ho and she slung the sack into the space below the base-boards. There was a little clearance in there, but it would do the trick. She gave the sack an extra shove to get it out of view, then rolled the board back into place... and with another quick check for guards, went back to get more.
Her plan was wildly inefficient, she realized, but there were no good alternatives. Each time, she would scoop another sack from just inside the false wall, hide it in her skirt, pry that same board out, deposit her loot, roll the board back, and make the dubious journey back to the house again. Her arms ached with each pass, her fingers bled as she slipped-up one action or another, her wrist burned as the twine cut through layers of skin, bit by bit. But each time she got back to the house, there were another handful of sacks waiting for her; not deep inside, but right there, right where she needed them. Ward was working far harder than she had any right to expect. She was slowing things down.
Out beyond her little chaos, the task-master berated his workers once again; Guinevere risked a glance over and saw Arthur and Lancelot in conference... Arthur seemed unhappy, and Lancelot was gesturing back in the direction of the castle. Arthur shook his head, but she couldn’t tell what for. Lancelot stormed off, out of her field of view, waving a hand in the air in a twirling motion. They were leaving.
She dropped the board back into place and rushed back to the house. But when she pulled the boards open, there were no more sacks. She felt further inside, but found only dirt.
“Ward!” she whispered, as loud as she dared. “Ward!”
No answer. No answer and no time. She cursed to herself, opened the door wider and ducked inside. The ladder was slick with mud, and she fell the last few rungs, barely landing on her feet in a puddle below. The candle had gone out, but she found the boards and followed them along to the chest. She felt inside, end to end, and... it was empty. She and Ward had got it all, somehow. She closed the lid gently, and—
It wouldn’t close. Fingers slid along the edges, until... a hand, halfway into the chest. She followed it up, touched lips, a nose, a face...
“Ward,” she said, rubbing at his cheek to wake him up. “Ward, we have to go.”
No response. No reaction. She bent in, gave his shoulders a shake. “Ward. Come, we have to go.”
But there was nothing. The only breath she heard was her own, in the darkness.
She stood back, suddenly, wiped her hands on her dress like they were covered in blood. Were they covered in blood? She thought back to the words Bors had said... you can make people want to serve you, even if it costs them all they’ve got... and now a boy was dead, and—
But she didn’t ask for it. She didn’t force him to do it. She tried to help him, tried to fix him... but he’d say no, and—
Why is it, she heard Bors say, you can change any mind except the one that serves your needs? She hadn’t argued. She hadn’t refused. She hadn’t told him his life was worth more than bundles of coins, meant to pay people he’d never meet, for reasons he’d never comprehend. He’d offered himself as a sacrifice to her wants, and she had gladly taken it all.
The chest was empty, and it...
She had to go. She had to get out of that room, out of the darkness, out of the stench and the death and the—
She slipped on the ladder again, and this time fell back into the mud. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t make a sound when she tried. She clawed her way back to the incline, scrambling up the wood until she was on the landing, scratching desperately at the handle, trying to make it unlatch, and then—
She tumbled outside, blind again and muddy and frantic. She braced herself between the two buildings, up to her feet, trying to catch her breath, trying to make the panic stop, trying to forget the image of that poor boy, face pale in the slats of sunlight, telling her he would die for her and her gold.
A shout.
Footsteps in the dirt, and more shouting, and then through the ringing in her ears, she could make out Arthur’s voice calling: “Water! Get some water!”
She stumbled forward, oblivious to the world, and leaned against the wagon full of treasure. Still squinting, she watched the most peculiar scene...
The trench was now quite long, and half a man deep in places. The workers were all stopped, though, watching the King of Camelot cradling an old man in his arms, trying to make shade with his hand as guards milled about with visible tension. Arthur was calling for water, and someone was running to them with a flask...
The old man had fainted, that much was clear. When the water hit his lips, he barely reacted; it just ran down his cheeks, cutting away the dirt that was there in perfect, clean lines. “Drink,” said Arthur, “that’s it, drink.”
Slowly, the old man complied. He choked a bit, but then swallowed. Arthur smiled, nodded up to the guards. “Get more water. Buckets, ladles... enough for everyone.”
The old man had come to, and as he realized what was going on, he grew increasingly apologetic: “God forgive me, milord,” he stammered, “I pray you forgive me, I meant no—”
“No, no,” said Arthur, sitting at the edge of the trench and wiping his brow. “Shame on us for making you work so hard like this.” He looked up to the task-master, a spindly fellow with a lopsided nose. “Do you always employ men this old?”
The task-master shifted, awkward and nervous.
“Pardon, sire,” said another man in the trench, nearby, “but we ain’t ‘is workers.”
Arthur couldn’t hide his confusion. “You aren’t?”
“No, sire,” said another. “We...” He looked at the guards, at the task-master, at Lancelot, like he was afraid of reprimand. But he spoke anyway: “These is our homes, sire. Thas all, sire. We ain’t workers by trade.”
Arthur turned to the task-master, face as angry as Guinevere had ever seen it. “Is this true? Are you forcing these people into labour?”
“Th-the project is for the b-benefit of th-the—”
Arthur looked about ready to lose his temper. “Alright, that’s enough.” He looked up and down the trench, motioned for the workers to get up and out. “Everyone out, now!”
They obeyed, as they were expected to do, and stood at the edge of their handiwork, heads bowed and waiting for whatever punishment came next.
“First of all,” said Arthur, still in the ditch, “thank you all very much for your service. Lancelot, be sure to pay them for this forced labour.” He cast a mean glare over his shoulder, and the task-master cowered.
Arthur picked a shovel out of the dirt, turned it around with a grin on his face. “Seems like ages since I’ve done this,” he said, and the crowd laughed. He sunk the blade into the mud and strained to lift it. “Oof,” he said with a wink, “harder than pulling a sword from stone.” This got a laugh from the guards, too. Arthur gestured up at them. “The one and only time they laugh, and it’s at my expense.”
The water arrived, buckets set down next to the trench. After a hesitant pause, the parched workers crowded around, drinking their fill — while Arthur dug away.
It wasn’t just a token effort, Guinevere realized; he was reverting to his previous self. After a few minutes, he tossed his belt and Excalibur aside; a short time later, his outer robes; his tunic was soaked with sweat, hanging off him as his muscles roared back to life, and the trench grew deeper and cleaner.
The workers watched as they finished their water, one by one taking note...
One of them dropped back into the ditch and reclaimed his shovel. With a quick nod to Arthur, he went back to work... and he was soon joined by others, and others, and more, until there was no one left up above but Lancelot, the guards, and the erstwhile task-master, suddenly without a job himself.
Guinevere couldn’t process what she was seeing. She put a hand to her forehead, and felt dried mud, and had a jolt at the memory of what she’d just left behind. Looking down, she saw she was covered in mud, head to toe. She felt a panic swell up inside her, but she grit her teeth and forced it back down. She was not so easily conquered.
Everyone was so entranced with Arthur, no one noticed her cross the street, snatching up a shovel from the pile near the far end of the trench, and hop down with the others. Two scoops later, she wiped her brow with the sleeve of her dress, and looked over her shoulder long enough to catch Arthur’s eye. He smiled at her, at the mess she’d made in support of his project, and she... she smiled back.
She was nothing if not resourceful. Nothing at all.
Thirty-seven
The water in the basin was cold, and quickly dirtied. She doused her face once, twice, three times... but the mud and dirt kept coming. She leaned there, over the dresser in her room, palms pressed into the wood so hard her arms ached, and let the filth drip off her nose.
“Looks like enough,” said Ewen, using the side entrance at the back of the room. “We’ll recount to be sure, but I think we’re safe.”
She watched the water ripple below her. Her hands were cracked and bleeding, fragments of skin showing through the last vestiges of the day she’d barely survived. She wanted to speak, but couldn’t find the words.
“I’ll have the Gwynedds keep the shipment just outside the city, to the north, until you can get the King out of sight,” he continued, oblivious. “If they complain, I’ll add another, what, twenty?”