The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  There was a thump at the back doors, and the lock rattled from the strain of it. Guinevere looked to Lancelot, eyes wide, trying to—

  Thump! The wood started to crack between the wagon’s metal skeleton, but it would—

  Thump! Outside, one of the guards groaned through his pain, called out: “We are on the King’s business! If you—” Guinevere heard a crossbow fire, and the man fell silent. Robat scrambled for his sword.

  Thump! Lancelot tried to pull loose, but the chains were too solid. He saw Robat struggling to pull his sword free of its sheath, and gave up on the chains. “Robat!” he whispered, urgently. “Robat!”

  Robat only noticed the sound after the third try, and—

  Thump!

  “Lie down, play dead,” said Lancelot.

  Robat seemed confused by the notion. He looked between Lancelot and his sword and the—

  Thump! The lock was nearly done. It was nearly over.

  “Robat, please...”

  Thump! and the lock shattered. The doors were torn open by three masked men in soldiers’ uniforms, their crests covered by black sashes. They kicked debris out of the way, one pausing to pull at Lancelot’s chains like he thought he might just tear him free. Another stepped through the wreckage for Guinevere, but paused when he saw—

  Robat, dead among the splintered wood. Blood seeping from his leg, his face crimson, too. The soldier angled his sword down, pressing the tip to Robat’s neck, probing and—

  Lancelot spit at him. He jerked sideways and slapped Lancelot, hard, with a chainmail glove.

  “Get them out,” the soldier said to his comrades, and stormed back out through the doors.

  They worked at Lancelot’s chains with pick axes and hammers, careful to leave him bound, but mobile. For Guinevere, the thinnest of the soldiers jabbed and ground at the lock near her wrists until it gave way, and she was free. Free for a heartbeat, before she was seized by her hair and dragged outside.

  The place was a madhouse. The wagon had almost completely disintegrated in the melée; one horse was dead, stabbed through the neck so it sprayed blood everywhere until it died. The other had run away, possibly... though after a crash like this, probably not far. One of the drivers was dead in his seat, the other dragged out to the side of the road and left with two crossbow bolts to the chest.

  Guinevere was thrown to her knees, next to Lancelot, landing hard on the unforgiving stone road. It was dusk, the sky a rusty colour, shadows like titans prowling the earth.

  “So I’m going to ask this once, politely,” said the lead soldier, pacing back and forth before them with his sword tip dragging on the ground. “And after that, each time you make me ask it, I’m going to get more and more cross. Understand?”

  Guinevere said nothing, just glared. She felt blood on her cheek, wondered whose it was, and why. She wasn’t panicked, strangely... just angry.

  “Good,” said the leader. “Lady Guinevere... where is the money?”

  Guinevere’s eye twitched. “What money?”

  Lancelot took a punch so vicious, she heard a tooth crack loose. His attacker bounced backward, shaking his hand out, ready to go again. Lancelot just returned his stare to the leader, like nothing had happened.

  “Right, I suppose that’s not fair of me,” he said, scratching at his neck, just below his mask. “You’ve a lot of money, I should have been more precise. We’ll get London sorted on our own, so what I’m really after is where you hid the Paris loot.”

  Guinevere’s fists were so tight, it felt like her bones were cracking as well as her knuckles.

  “Tell Gawain I’d rather—”

  Lancelot was knocked sideways, landing on the road as blood sprayed out of his mouth. He wheezed, spat, spat again, and then put on a grin as the soldiers hauled him back to his knees. The one who’d struck him unwrapped the chain from his fist, shook it out.

  “That’s not an answer I can work with,” said the leader, scraping his sword up into the air, and resting it against his hand. He checked the blade like he was deciding whether to buy it or not. Scratched and cracked and ruined... but by what? And who?

  “Let’s try again,” he said, swinging the sword around in a manic arc, and letting the tip clang against the road once more. “We’ve done fists and chains. It’s time for, what, hammers, isn’t it?”

  The soldier next to Lancelot slid a long, narrow-headed hammer out of his belt, turned it over and over again like he was trying to find the perfect way to hold it. Lancelot, blood dribbling down his chin, spat on the ground, tried not to wince as they grabbed hold of his hair and angled his head to the side. The soldier lined the hammer up with his jaw. Back, pause. Back, pause. He had the aim right. He nodded to the leader.

  “We can keep going all day,” he said, with a wink. “Or at least until your boy here runs out of solid bits to poke at. So let’s focus, shall we? Lady Guinevere, where is the money?”

  “I’m sorry, Lancelot,” she whispered.

  “What’s that?” called the leader.

  “Forgive me.”

  “Can’t hear you!”

  “I said—”

  A bolt landed in the neck of the man with the hammer. The impact knocked him sideways, staggering and trying to catch his footing before his body realized there was no point, and gave out beneath him. Neither Guinevere nor Lancelot had a chance to react before the soldier at her side dropped with a bolt in his eye.

  The other soldiers scrambled to get their crossbows up, looking back, forward, off to the sides of the road for some indication where the—

  Another dropped, dead.

  Guinevere heard the faintest of sounds, like a knuckle cracking. She looked around to west, where the sun was a blazing circle of fire, and saw a long shadow creeping her way. She squinted, trying to make out what it was... and when it cleared, it was magnificent.

  Ewen strode toward them, a crossbow in each hand, face a picture of stoic terror. Another bolt loosed, and another soldier down. He pivoted to the side to avoid a shot himself, then fired again, and again. Two more soldiers down, two more to go.

  The leader scrambled back, sword heaved up to battle, while his lieutenant made a dash for Guinevere, sharp dagger poised to kill. He got a bolt in the thigh and fell on his face, blade tumbling out of his hand. He reached for it, crawling desperately to try and get it before—

  Ewen’s boot crushed his hand, held him there. He looked up, begging, pleading... but the bolt cracked his skull before the words made sense.

  Ewen didn’t even care to see what he’d done.

  “I know his plans!” shrieked the leader, sword ready to fight a battle it couldn’t win. “I know what he’s doing next! I know where they’re going!”

  Ewen cocked his head to the side, like he was considering his options.

  “They’re sailing for Paris tonight, and they’ve taken the castle at—”

  He dropped dead from a bolt to the face. Ewen clipped the crossbows to his belt — where another pair were already hanging — and offered Guinevere his hand. She took it, trembling, and let herself be lifted to her feet, though she didn’t feel like standing. Not at all.

  She could barely speak: “Th-they took the castle at—”

  “London,” he said, and turned to unlatch Lancelot’s chains. “They had men on the inside. Launched their attack the night you left. I had a feeling you’d end up going for Dover, but I didn’t think it would be like this.”

  “So you heard?”

  “About Bors,” he nodded.

  “And Eleanor,” she said, and he scowled.

  “Like father, like daughter,” he said. “Money really can buy anything.”

  The chains fell off Lancelot’s wrists, and he got to his feet, massaged his jaw. “Do you have horses?”

  Ewen nodded, pointed off the road, down to a tree
where a pair of horses were tied. “I thought two would be enough. Sorry.”

  Lancelot smiled, patted Ewen’s back. “You don’t mind sharing, do you?”

  Ewen smiled, too, and for the first time in a long time, Guinevere felt—

  “Captain!” shouted Robat, climbed out of the wagon. Ewen’s crossbow flew up, finger squeezing the trigger and—

  Lancelot shoved the thing down. The bolt cascaded along the rocks, splintering into pieces. Ewen was furious at the interruption, but Lancelot was not backing down.

  “He’s a friend,” he said, phrased like a warning. He pushed away, strode over to the fallen leader of the would-have-been kidnappers, and scooped the sword off the ground. “We’ll have to take the side roads into Camelot.”

  “Th-those will be guarded, too, Captain,” said Robat. “Orders were a tight perimeter. The only th-thing allowed into the districts are—”

  Robat jerked suddenly, then again, and fell forward, crashing into the stone with a pair of bolts in his back. Guinevere gasped as Ewen shoved her aside, but then crack! he was knocked sideways, too, stumbling onto one knee before looking up and growling: “Run!”

  Lancelot caught her hand and yanked her away, down the road and through the underbrush off to the side. They scrambled down a low embankment, feet sliding over stones and moss and— she lost her footing, started to fall, but Lancelot pulled her back up, mid-air, and dropped her onto her still-moving feet. Bolts tore up the dirt around them, smacking against rocks like hail on parched bone.

  Up ahead, the horses waited for them... so close, but— crack! a bolt landed in the tree trunk, and Lancelot almost tore Guinevere’s arm out of its socket, changing direction. They landed against a large boulder, backs pressed tight, panting for breath that never seemed to catch up with them. They had cover, but not for long. Not long at all. Lancelot turned his head as much as he dared. “If they kill the horses, we’re as good as dead.”

  “What about Ewen? We have to—”

  As if on cue, Ewen skidded around the corner, sliding through the mud and scrambling back, nestled in between them, panting, too. He unclipped a crossbow, handed it to Lancelot, then unclipped another and held it in Guinevere’s general direction.

  “Can I trust you?” he asked her.

  “It’s not a sword,” she countered.

  “You know how to fire these, right? Not just disassemble them?”

  She shrugged. “I can’t promise I won’t try to sell it, but—”

  He grinned, shoved it in her hand, then took up the two others, nodded to himself, and to himself, and to himself again, like he was trying to convince himself everything would be fine, and he wasn’t believing it. Guinevere peeked over the edge of the boulder and saw at least a dozen soldiers fanning out, all around the wrecked wagon, hunting. Some clearly knew where their prey was, and were stalking it cleanly and deliberately; the others knew they had nothing better to do than look for strays.

  “Right,” said Ewen, like he had everything all worked out, but wasn’t sure how to say it. “Two horses will do after all.”

  Guinevere frowned, confused. “What do you mean by—”

  Ewen groaned as he rolled to his side, showing the bolt sticking out of him; thick dark blood seeped through his clothes, and had even soaked the ground around him until it looked like tar. He was sweating too much; his lips were pale.

  “Hit the liver,” he said, with more levity than made any sense at all. “I’ll give you cover.”

  “Wait, no, Ewen—”

  “Even if I escape, I can’t outrun it,” he said.

  “But there must be—”

  “He’s right,” said Lancelot, and his face made it clear he was telling the truth, and he hated it more than he could bear.

  “Get to London,” said Ewen. “The safe house. A tax collector will make a drop within a few days. Use the money to plan your next move. Just—” He grunted, pushed the pain down. “Just try not to get caught.” He put a hand to her cheek, smiled. “I won’t be able to save you again.”

  She tried to argue, tried to stop him, but Lancelot was readying for a sprint, and was pulling her into position, too. He nodded to Ewen like soldiers do when they think a sacrifice isn’t in vain. “I’ll take care of her for you.”

  Ewen clicked the safeties off his crossbows. “You’ve got it backwards,” he said, and nodded. “Now go!”

  Guinevere saw two things:

  She saw Ewen stand and pivot on his heel, arms unfolding like the wings of a bird with the sounds of crack! crack! crack! crack! crack! while his crossbows unleashed ungodly havoc on the men chasing after them. She heard the screams, the wails, the shouted commands cut off mid-word as training met skill, and lost. She saw a bolt bounce along the ground to her left, skidding into the mud as its owner crumpled and dropped his weapon. She heard the sounds of men dying all around her, and imagined Ewen would not be one of them.

  And she saw the tree, the two horses waiting, and Lancelot pulling her arm, pulling her so hard she almost screamed at him. Not because she couldn’t run, or that she wouldn’t run... because she knew that if he let her go, she would turn back and make it all count for nothing. And she hated it was so obvious, that she was that weak, that she was being pulled like a doll with no bones and no soul.

  She fell into the horse, scrambled up onto it, and kicked it into a gallop the second Lancelot cut it free with his stolen sword.

  She saw the long shadows before them, growing longer and less distinct, until they were mixed into the nighttime mist... and she knew in that moment that Ewen was dead.

  Forty-two

  Her fingers shook so much, she had trouble catching hold of the oval notch in the wall. Lancelot seemed anxious, bordering on frantic, watching the street for threats as she fought to slide open the latch. But then the false wall pulled out like it had before, and with some effort — sore muscles and lack of sleep each took a toll — they ducked inside, locked themselves away from the world.

  There wasn’t much space up top, but Guinevere refused to go down that ladder into the darkness again. She wasn’t sure if she was afraid that Ward would still be there, or that his ghost would be, real or not, watching over her, wondering why he’d made his sacrifice at all.

  Lancelot’s face looked worse than before, even in the fragmented light that crept between the boards. He said he had broken bones, maybe a broken nose; his right eye was swollen almost entirely shut, and his lip kept bleeding whenever he smiled, which was mercifully rare.

  For a while, they said nothing to each other. The ride into London had been so rushed and hectic, with the wind screaming into their ears, conversation would have been impossible anyway. But now she realized she truly didn’t want to say anything at all. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The image of Ewen was too fresh in her mind, the thought of him lying dead in a field off the cursed Camelot road... she wanted to cry, but their survival depended on more control than that. If someone outside heard her weeping, it would be an oddity; if that someone was a sheriff — especially one under Gawain’s control — it could prove fatal.

  She kept replaying the last few days in her mind, trying to pinpoint the moment she lost control. So much that had once made sense suddenly turned against her without warning. All the pieces were there, but she hadn’t noticed they could be assembled into more than one product, if you did it right. None of it was a surprise, the more she thought about it. None of it except...

  “Why did you say it?” she asked, voice hushed in case anyone was listening.

  Lancelot barely registered he heard her at all.

  “Why did you tell them I hired you?” she said, after a moment. “You had no reason to. They didn’t suspect you. They weren’t accusing you. You could have walked away.”

  He gave the smallest of shrugs. “They’d have found it eventually. Or made it up, knowing Lothian. I’ve no
patience for games, so I figured: get it over with.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It is. Just not one you like.”

  “You sacrificed yourself for nothing. You could’ve been hanged—”

  “Or beheaded. Or banished.” He felt the side of his face with tentative fingers. “I learned three things in my time as Captain of the Guard. The first is that the King can only choose options he knows exist. He won’t invent things out of nothing, he needs choices to consider. Gawain gave him two bad ones, I had to let him know there was another way.”

  “But how could you be sure—”

  “He told me this story, once, about a farmer.” He smiled, and sure enough, his lip split again, bled more. “His village kept getting overrun by soldiers and mercenaries, thieves and scoundrels. Every day, another threat. And the farmer’s friends, the baker and the weaver and the... the—”

  “Builder,” said Guinevere, and he nodded in recognition.

  “Aye, the builder. They were all in a panic, and didn’t know what to do. A thousand men, tromping through their little village, ruining their lives. And so the farmer, he put aside his spade and his ox and everything he knew, and he defended them. He saved his friends from danger, and so the baker could stay a baker, and the weaver could stay a weaver, and the builder could stay a builder.”

  Guinevere frowned. “You’re missing the key to the—”

  “That’s just it. I’m not, he is. How does one farmer save a village from a thousand men? He has no idea. Courage and sacrifice realized as what? He can’t fathom it. He can’t fathom a solution that ends in someone’s death. If it came down to killing a man — any man — or giving up his crown, he would abandon the crown in a heartbeat. Or if he were truly torn, he’d be crippled by indecision.” He sighed, wiped some blood off his chin. “Someone had to tell him he had another option.”

  Guinevere wasn’t convinced. “But it didn’t need to be you. Not like that.”

  “Second thing I learned, working as Captain of the Guard,” he said, ignoring her completely. “Lothian operates in the cracks of the foundation you think is bedrock. Every fact has at least two meanings, and a third waiting to strike when it serves him best. You can’t trust anything so long as you’re in the house he’s infected. You can’t save anyone from the inside.”