The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  The words were so unexpected, it took a moment for her grin to fade. She turned around, saw Rhos there with a handful of pages, a contingent of palace guards...

  ...and Arthur, face ashen and horrified.

  “Pardon m—”

  “This is not the place to—”

  “You can’t be serious!” she pointed a finger at Gawain. “He is the traitor!”

  Gawain stomped a foot. “Lord Rhos, please control the prisoner before she impugns the honour of any other—”

  “What honour?” she spat. “You’re—”

  The guards started forward, and she warned them off with a trembling hand. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

  Rhos pleaded with her, but she recognized the tone. Not concern for her, concern for the sanctity of the Council chambers. For protocol and decorum. “Lady Guinevere, it would serve you better to come quietly and—”

  “No,” she snapped, looking to Arthur for help, for any kind of indication he knew the charges — whatever they were — had no merit. But he just looked like he might cry. What had they told him?

  “I must have your explicit permission,” said Rhos. “Are you demanding to know the charges, here in this public place, at the risk of prejudicing a jury of your peers?”

  “I am,” she said.

  “Very well,” he said, and nodded to his rightmost page. They presented him with a long scroll of paper. An official indictment; this wasn’t just made up lightly... it had been prepared in advance.

  “The first charge concerns conspiring to undermine the authority and privilege of the Crown in its natural rights under the Constitution.”

  “Like trying to trick the King into signing away Camelot?” she snapped, and glared at Gawain.

  “That document was never signed,” said Rhos, giving her a warning glare. It had been signed, and he’d torn it up... illegal as that act might be, it did neither of them any good if she argued that point.

  “But there were others,” she said, not giving ground. “The King signed— you signed others, sire.”

  “Do not address the King,” Rhos warned. “His Majesty did indeed sign other documents, which I uncovered after searching the archives.”

  “So why aren’t you arresting him?” she shouted, pointed at Gawain.

  “Because the other documents were not contracts, Guinevere. They were warrants. Warrants to search your homes, to question your staff, to learn uncover the full extent of your conspiracy.”

  “What conspiracy? All I’ve ever done is to support and encourage the—”

  “Then what’s in London castle?” asked Gawain, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Why are you stockpiling weapons?”

  “That is slander and—”

  “We have witnesses,” said Rhos, gravely. “Witnesses to the orders, to the payment, to the delivery.”

  “Trusting Gawain’s man as a witness is as good as—”

  “The Gwynedds,” said Gawain, and she lost her breath. “The Gwynedds did not appreciate being implicated in an attempt to overthrow the King.”

  “To... to what?”

  “Why else order so many, keep them in secret in a city outside Royal control?” asked Gawain. “Enough crossbows to overpower Camelot’s meagre peacetime army, and you’ve gone on quite the spending spree, hiring a mercenary force—”

  “Sheriffs for Essex!” she snapped, and immediately regretted the outburst.

  Gawain grinned. “And what right have you to hire anything for Essex? Ah, that’s right, you’re its steward. A fact you neglected to share with His Majesty before bringing him there... for purposes I’ll leave up to a jury.”

  She lost her temper. She knew it was a mistake as it was happening, but she couldn’t control it. She shoved her chair so hard it fell, landing on the marble floor with such force, it cracked the back; ancient wood fragments scattered like arrows in flight. She was trying to formulate a counter-attack, some way to fight back, but her mind was running in circles, trying to find an avenue Gawain hadn’t already staked a claim to.

  “Shall I continue?” asked Rhos; stern in delivery, but with an undercurrent of mercy. She could save herself further embarrassment if she just agreed to leave. But she couldn’t agree to leave. Not like this. She’d never return if she left like this. “Lady Guinevere, shall we retire?”

  “No,” she said, jaw clenched tight. “What else do you think you have?”

  “Aiding and abetting a fugitive and enemy of the Crown,” said Rhos, accepting a letter from another page, and turning it to show her. “As documented in this confession, found in Lyonesse district.”

  Ewen’s letter to her. The one she hadn’t been able to read, because of Arthur’s house arrest. She didn’t know what it said, but she knew enough that it would be damning for her, regardless.

  “I have never seen that document before,” she said, clearly and precisely.

  “But you know its contents,” said Rhos.

  “I haven’t seen it, so I couldn’t say.”

  Rhos grunted at this, handed the letter back to the page. “It explains how your closest associate, with whom you share, it is said, the most intimate of details... how he conspired, in the service of your father, the late Lord Lyonesse, to murder the King’s father in cold blood.”

  This got the room talking; and not subtly, either. Rumours were taking form, mutating and traveling at dangerous speeds all around her, and she was helpless to stop it. But what made it worse, what made it so much worse, was that Arthur was looking at her, begging her with his eyes to deny it, to tell him it wasn’t true. And she couldn’t. They would have proof, and she would only make it worse. She was cornered, and hated what she had to do next.

  “The charge has no merit,” she said, and the room half-hushed to listen. “The King was not the King when the act in question transpired.”

  Arthur looked like he’d been struck. The room was deafening now. Rhos shook his head, saddened but unyielding. “So you don’t deny it?”

  “I was a child when the—”

  “But this is not a surprise to you. You knew of it? You learned the truth before today?”

  She wished she could lie. She truly wished she be certain a lie wouldn’t backfire. “I did.”

  “Jezebel!” shouted someone in the crowd, and she couldn’t help it, her head cowed. There were threats of violence, of retribution, of unspeakable things wholly disconnected from her crimes... and something deep inside her body seemed to react to it all, to make her shrink in the face of injustice. If it truly was injustice.

  “Where is he now?” asked Gawain, cutting through the din. “Your man Ewen, where is he?”

  She knew, but there was no way she would betray him like this. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “In London?” said Gawain, pressing onward. “Is it not true he’s been running your little coup from London castle?”

  “I strenuously deny any involvement in a coup of any kind, and—”

  “Have you hidden him in London?” said Rhos, and she turned her attention back, trying not to look at Arthur again. “Now or in the past?”

  Again, no choice but the truth. “Yes.”

  Arthur staggered back, into the arms of his guards, who steadied him. He had lived under the same roof as the man who’d killed his father. Laughed while a murderer roamed the halls around him. Spoken with affection to the woman who shielded this monster from prosecution.

  “Thirdly,” said Rhos, as chaos swirled out of control around them. “The third charge is the attempted assassination of—”

  A guard caught Rhos by the arm, whispered in his ear. By the reaction, it was bad news. By the reaction, the room quickly quieted as everyone tried to hear what was going on. Rhos let out a wounded gasp, nodded like he was in a daze.

  “A new charge is added,” he said, v
oice trembling. “Murder.”

  Guinevere almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “Murder?”

  Rhos looked at her with no more compassion, no more mercy, no more shield of decorum or honour or benefit of doubt. His eyes burned with hatred. “Bors is dead.”

  Guinevere dropped to her knees before her brain fully understood what it had heard.

  “His servants found him this morning,” said Rhos, reciting what he’d just been told. “Stabbed through the heart. No sign of a struggle. Like... like he knew his killer.” He shook his head, drowned in sorrow. “His last visitor was Lady Guinevere.”

  She looked back up, trying to put words together as the grief of losing Bors pummelled her into oblivion; and she saw Arthur’s face, stricken with fresh horror.

  “It’s true,” he said, sounding like he might die at any moment. “She said... she said she needed to resolve things once and for all.”

  “Sire...” she pleaded. “Sire, I—”

  “Do not address His Majesty!” thundered Rhos, and she sunk lower, felt like curling into a ball and letting them carry her away, just to be done with it.

  “Guinevere?” came a voice, and she looked to see Lancelot there, at the edge of the doorway, pushing through to join the fracas. “What’s going on here?”

  “Like you don’t know,” sneered Gawain.

  Rhos cleared his throat: “And so on the fourth charge, the attempted assassination of His Majesty on his coronation day—”

  The anger boiled up inside her again. “You have no evidence to back up that claim—”

  “It’s true, we didn’t,” said Gawain, strolling forward, standing next to Lancelot. “Only rumours and innuendo at first. But the more we looked, the more compelling the case became. We realized we needed more time to gather all the evidence, to be sure... so we concocted reasons to keep Lady Guinevere from fleeing prosecution.” He bowed to Arthur, full of grace. “I admit to abusing the integrity of the inquiry, sire, and for that I am truly sorry. And yet we did not want to level an accusation we could not back up with proof and testimony.”

  “What testimony?” Guinevere asked, shooting a desperate and furious glare at Lancelot.

  Eleanor stepped into the room next to Gawain, eyes downcast.

  “Lady Eleanor has been helping build the case against you for some time now,” said Gawain, with obvious glee. “She’s helped connect clues across multiple charges, from your misleading the Gwynedds to your erstwhile escape plans — thwarted thanks to her true patriotism. But her recounting of your confession about the assassination attempt is probably the most damning.” Gawain winked at her as he added: “If you want to buy someone’s loyalty, you’ve got to do better than the occasional coin.”

  “Eleanor?” Guinevere called, and... and Eleanor finally looked up. She was sad, tired, defeated... but also angry. All those moments of hurt, shown in tiny moments and so quickly dismissed, they’d been building upon one another, slowly growing in the background of Eleanor’s psyche until they weren’t just a part of her anymore, but all of her, and she seemed at war with herself over who she was and who she loved. Guinevere knew the answer to that: she was no one. She loved no one. And it was awful.

  “I’m sorry, Guinevere,” she croaked.

  Rhos nodded and Eleanor was led away; he sighed, full of sorrow.

  “Those are the charges,” he said, like pronouncing a verdict; and in many ways, he had. “The punishment for each is death. You will await trial in the dungeon, and upon sentencing, be brought to the south courtyard to be hanged or beheaded, as per His Majesty’s preference.” Arthur seemed unable to even hear the words; she wondered how he’d actually choose. “Captain Lancelot, remove the—”

  “One issue, milord,” said Lancelot, stepping forward. “You’re missing a key fact.”

  “What fact?” snapped Gawain. He’d accounted for everything. New facts were irritants to him.

  “Lady Guinevere hired me to thwart the assassination.”

  He shrugged to Guinevere as the room turned itself upside-down with delirious shouting; twists were twists, but this one spawned so many other questions, it was like an explosion of possibilities, creating infinite permutations of scandal that—

  “So you admit she knew of the assassination?” yelled Gawain. “That she knew an attempt would be made?”

  “Enough to know to hire me,” said Lancelot. “I don’t think she trusted you lot to do the job right.”

  More shouting, more possibilities spiralling out of control.

  Rhos was incensed: “Knowing of such a plot and failing to warn the King is—”

  “Treason!” shouted someone.

  Lancelot raised his hands to calm the clamour: “Listen, I admit it was wrong. I made a mistake. And I’m prepared to suffer the consequences, be it hanging or beheading or banishment—”

  “Arrest that man!” Gawain shouted, voice cracking.

  “—I will accept the sentence the King deems appropriate—” Lancelot continued, as the guards around him seized him by the arms, tearing the sword from his belt.

  The room was absolute bedlam now, a protective shield being formed around Arthur as men pushed this way and that to get a better view of the perpetrators, of the triumphant investigators, of the day Camelot changed forever.

  “Take them both away!” Rhos shouted. “Let them stand trial and—”

  “No,” said Arthur, and his guards moved aside to give him space to walk. He was enfeebled, tired and crushed. He looked at Guinevere with tears streaming down his face. “There will be no trial.”

  “Sire, the laws—”

  “I can’t bear to hear this again. Not again. I...” He swallowed slowly, grit his teeth, looked straight into Guinevere’s soul. “You are banished. You may be comfortable with deaths on your conscience, but I... just can’t. The two of you, together... you betrayed me. You made me believe I could... that I...” He took a halting breath. “You’re banished.” He nodded to the guards. “Get them out of my sight.”

  Forty-one

  Dover. They were headed to Dover.

  They were shackled in a prisoner transport — a military wagon modified with heavy doors, metal fencing and a shielded driver bay — rumbling down the smooth road to the sea. By foot, three or four days. Shipments took maybe two. The force of Arthur’s expulsion propelled their transport so fast, they might make it in a day. Maybe less.

  Guinevere’s head knocked against the wall from all the shaking, but she was too spent to care. Her wrists were already bleeding from the metal chafing at her skin, eyes raw from crying tears that never came. She was cold, somehow; she’d started the day channelling the energy of the summer air into something great, and now she was shivering in a dank shadow. Cold, or something like it.

  Next to her was a thick-browed guard with a uniform that fit a little too big, and a face that said he was used to it. He was trying to suck something out from between his teeth, kept trying to find the angle or technique to make it happen, but couldn’t... quite...

  “How’s the boy, Robat?” asked Lancelot, on the far end of the wagon, chained at the hands and feet, to be safe. He didn’t look defeated so much as tired of fighting all the time. He rested his head in the corner, eyes half-open, as relaxed as he could be, in the situation.

  “I said no talking,” said Robat, the guard.

  Lancelot nodded, nodded. Shrugged. “He’s five, though, yes?”

  Robat glared at Lancelot, glared a stern warning. Then sighed and said: “Yes, Captain.”

  “Still want to be a soldier?”

  “Aye. Or a baker.”

  Lancelot grinned, closed his eyes. “A baker sounds nice. Same sort of mind as a soldier, really. Discipline, stamina. Up before dawn, careful measurements, never complaining, being a small part of a big picture. You’ve a baker in the family?”

 
“No, Captain,” said Robat. “The lad’s dreaming, is all.”

  Lancelot shrugged. “My brother’s got a shop up north. Best bread you’ve ever tasted. I’ll put a word in for your boy, see if we can’t get him an apprenticeship.”

  “He’s only five, Captain.”

  “Given I’m being banished, I may need a little more time to work out the details.”

  Robat laughed, and Lancelot laughed; Guinevere stayed in her catatonic state. She wished she could laugh, too, and forget what had just happened to her. Everything turned upside-down, everything destroyed. Every plan she’d made, twisted against her; every friend she had, betrayed her. Everything was ruined. She’d landed in Dover aiming to conquer Camelot for good; she would leave Dover a penniless traitor.

  “Your wife like the sea?” asked Lancelot, staring through the slight openings that acted as windows at the side of the wagon.

  “She’s never been,” said Robat.

  “You should bring her,” said Lancelot. “Hang back in Dover, once we’re gone. Send for her and that boy of yours. They’d like it there.”

  “I... I don’t think I can’t just—”

  “Give it a try anyway, Robat,” said Lancelot, gaze locked and intense. “You don’t want them in Camelot, these next few months.”

  Robat shifted uncomfortably. “Captain, if you’re—”

  The wagon seized; they slammed into the wall so hard, Guinevere’s breath left her. There was a tiny fraction of a second of calm and then the whole thing lurched again, spinning out beneath them and crashing them against the ceiling as the wheels outside cracked, and they went airborne, tumbling through the sky before crashing into the road. The horses screeched, sparks flew as metal tore itself apart, and when the wagon finally stopped sliding, it felt about as sturdy as an autumn leaf.

  “Wh... what just...” gasped Robat, climbing off the ground — what used to be the far wall — with blood glistening on his face from a wound under his helmet. He tried to grab for his crossbow, but it was broken in half; the wire had sliced open his thigh, and when he noticed, he faltered again.