The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  “So you had the King banish you so you could better save him? That’s absurd.”

  “If I stayed, Gawain would have found a way to isolate and destroy me on terms I couldn’t control.”

  “But at least you’d have been there. You’d have a chance to see it coming, rather than hiding in some hole beneath a wretched hovel, leagues away from your king.”

  “Your closest friend was a spy working against you. How well did you see it coming?”

  She sneered. Eleanor’s betrayal still stung, and she didn’t know if it ever wouldn’t. “I chose not to see it.”

  “You’re a liar. You had no idea.”

  “Her father is—”

  “Her father’s not her, is he. She was different, to you. You told her things you wouldn’t tell another living soul, because you thought she was like you. She understood.” He tapped his temple. “You thought she was like you, and she is. And that’s how Gawain got to her.”

  “By what, by—”

  “By giving her a chance to win.” He laughed. “You’re astoundingly dense for someone so smart. If I had ten coins and offered you nine, your mind wouldn’t rest until you got the last one, too. If I had ten coins and gave you all of them, you’d find a way to get my purse. If I gave you all ten coins and my purse, you’d start wondering — and don’t deny it — what else I’m not giving up. Because you’re always looking for the next level up. And so is Eleanor... at your expense.”

  “I didn’t do this to her. I didn’t encourage this.”

  “You did, though. By being better than her. By giving her something to topple. The last coin, the purse, the unknown next.” He shrugged. “And that’s why you didn’t see her coming. And it’s why I couldn’t stay there, because Gawain would find my Eleanor, and blindside me the same way. As long as we’re free, we can fight back.”

  Guinevere started trembling with fury and grief, all bundled together so tight it hurt; her chest felt like it might tear itself apart and shoot all across London, striking down anyone in its way. “How can we fight back? We have nothing left...”

  “Ewen said there’d be a drop—”

  “A few coins? How will that fix anything?”

  “Every bit helps to—”

  “I had power,” she wheezed. “I had money and power and momentum, and they took it all. You think I can fight back? How? Even when I had everything, they still beat me! A few coins won’t do a damn thing!” She fought back the urge to cry. Fought so hard. “I’ve made so many sacrifices, I don’t know what else I can give.”

  Lancelot laughed. The sound of it irked her so, her sadness burned away in a flash of anger, until all that was left was rage.

  “That’s funny to you?” she snapped.

  “You think you’ve sacrificed,” he said. “That is funny.”

  She was stunned by the callousness. “I... I have... I lost... Bors...” was all she could get out, she was so angry.

  “Bors sacrificed,” said Lancelot. “But that was his sacrifice, not yours. I don’t think you even know what the word means. Sacrifice isn’t facing a bad situation and finding a way to turn it into a profit. Sacrifice is when you give something up, and know there’s nothing in it to benefit you.”

  “My fortune, my title, my home—”

  “You gambled and lost,” he said, looking away. “It hurts, but it’s not sacrifice. You know the third thing I learned as Captain of the Guard?”

  “I don’t care.”

  He laughed, shrugged. “And that’s exactly why—”

  It happened so fast, neither of them had time to react. The entrance they’d squeeze through burst away, like torn by a sudden, violent storm. Lancelot scrambled for his crossbow, but a pair of big, gloved hands grabbed his ankles and yanked him out of their hiding spot; Guinevere heard a heavy thud as he was punched into submission. She grabbed at the ladder next to her, trying to throw herself down the pit to buy a little more time, but hands grabbed her, too, and pulled so hard she felt her wrists crack from the strain of trying to hold on.

  There was a crowd outside, watching with wide-open eyes and quiet whispers back and forth. One of the men — sheriffs’ men, by the uniforms — grabbed her by the back of the neck and lifted her to her feet, then slammed her against the wall. His partner, a massive oak of a man with leathery pockmarked skin, was snatching Lancelot’s weapons, a heavy boot on his back to keep him down.

  “Tha’s ‘em,” said Guinevere’s goon.

  The oak-man just grunted, pulled the dazed Lancelot up to a standing position.

  Guinevere’s captor leaned in, breath foul and menacing, and said: “King Rufus requests yer ‘tendance.”

  Forty-three

  The main gates were open, and half the city seemed to be seeping into the castle like water trickling downhill. The Essex guards were on full display, armed with Chumont-series crossbows — bigger, heavier, deadlier — and postures that said they could kill anyone they liked, without warning, and without cause. If the Londoners noticed that, they didn’t show it; they kept streaming through the gates, jostling Guinevere, Lancelot and their captors like they were wholly unremarkable.

  Guinevere couldn’t see what was going on, or why Rufus would open the castle to so much chaos; it was hard to see much through the crowd, but she got the sense they were being led to the main staircase. Lancelot, ahead of her, was still having trouble getting his footing right; he kept stumbling and getting lurched back up by the oak-man, who wasn’t annoyed so much as aggressively disinterested. He tossed his charge forward, into a clearing ahead of them, where ten soldiers had carved out a plot of cobblestone free of distractions.

  Guinevere was given a little shove so she fell to her knees next to Lancelot, who was bleeding heavily from his nose and mouth again. He seemed to be half-awake, fighting to catch his breath like he was too tired to get it right. Guinevere rested a hand on his back, turned his face to her.

  “Am I bleeding?” he slurred.

  “A little,” she said with a sad smile.

  “Don’ kiss me then,” he said, and grinned.

  There was a loud stomp ahead of them as metal hit stone, and they looked up to see Rufus there, crown under his arm, long cloak spread out behind him. He was halfway up the stairs, but even at that distance, she could see his eyes were manic... but not in the usual way. Scared. Terrified, even. He kept shooting frantic glances around the courtyard, like he expected something horrible would leap out at him at any second.

  “Bow!” snapped the oak-man, and swatted the back of Guinevere’s head so hard, her forehead almost hit the ground. Lancelot was already doing a decent semblance of grovelling himself, so they let him be.

  “King Rufus,” Guinevere said, head still low. “We remain your humble servants and—”

  She was hit again, but this time out of spite. She shook off the pain, looked to argue properly— but froze at the sight of Adwen beside Rufus. She had a black eye, and a sullen expression Guinevere had never seen on her before. Broken and afraid. She was trying to communicate with her expression, trying to warn Guinevere that something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

  Around them, new soldiers marched into view, hands on their swords as they fanned out and among the Essex guards. These ones were different, though. These ones wore the yellow sash and crest of Lothian.

  A man sauntered down the steps, pausing just behind Rufus, picking the gloves off his hands one finger at a time. A high-ranking officer of some sort, with the pompous expression to match. He laid one glove over Rufus’ shoulder, then the other; using royalty as furniture. Rufus looked like he was relieved it was only that.

  “Lady Guinevere of Lyonesse. And her man, Lancelot.”

  Lancelot lifted his head with great difficulty, to see who was speaking. He did not seem impressed when he saw.

  The officer continued: “You are here
by charged with high treason—”

  “The King gave his sentence,” Guinevere shouted. “We are banished and—”

  She got a sharp swat on the head again. The pain was more than physical, now.

  “That is a matter for Camelot,” said the officer. “This is an Essex matter. You are hereby charged with colluding to defraud His Majesty, King Rufus, of his rightful powers and autonomy; and furthermore, of stealing taxes, levies and other monies owed to the Crown, taken without authorization or consent.”

  “I am steward of Essex, and I—” She was hit again, but refused to bow. “The collection of taxes was—” Again, hit, and her vision swam. “I wish...” she gasped, fighting to keep herself upright. “I wish to petition the King for an audience to argue my case.”

  The officer smiled, thinly. “Denied.”

  Guinevere and Lancelot were seized by their shoulders and jerked upright, staring up the stairs where their betters were stationed. The Lothian guards had all filed in, creating an impressive wall all around the perimeter, making it very clear who was in charge, and what it would cost to argue the point.

  The officer checked his nails, like he had better things to do than deal with matters of treason. “The King shall pronounce his verdict.”

  “We haven’t—”

  “The proof is irrefutable.”

  “But I—”

  She was struck again, and fell into Lancelot’s shoulder.

  “Please shut up,” he whispered before she was pulled back off him. She wanted to say something more, but he was right; she was getting dizzy from all the abuse. She needed to save her coherency for when it would really matter.

  Rufus, meanwhile, seemed unable to speak. His mouth kept opening and closing, like the words were there, they had to come out, but he couldn’t quite figure out the mechanics of it.

  The officer snatched up one of his gloves and used it to swat the back of Rufus’ head.

  “Pronounce the verdict,” he snapped.

  Rufus gave a mournful sideways look to Adwen, and then sighed. “Guilty,” he muttered.

  “Louder,” said the officer.

  “Oh for... guilty!” Rufus bellowed, and the crowd turned to see what was going on.

  The officer pushed the King of Essex aside as he stepped down closer, finding the perfect angle from which to look down his nose at them, and said: “The punishment for treason is death by hanging. Essex does not make allowances for banishment, I’m afraid.” He nodded to the oak-man. “Take them away.”

  They were moving again, and this time neither of them even had their feet on the ground. Tight grips on their arms had them floating through the crowd, off to the eastern side of the courtyard that Guinevere hadn’t been able to see before. It was different than it had been, days earlier.

  They’d built a gallows. Two nooses, drifting in the wind, atop an elevated platform created specifically to give the assembled crowd a perfect view of the executions to come. If she’d had her feet on the ground, she might’ve tried to run. If they hadn’t been holding her so tight, she might tried to break free. But all she could do was stare straight ahead, straight through the hole in the noose, as they got closer and closer and closer.

  Up the stairs, onto the platform, where they were held in place as their hands and ankles were bound in rope. Knots pulled tight, almost breaking the bones. The nooses were strung down, looped around their necks, adjusted until the fit was done right.

  Guinevere felt a horrible shiver overtake her body, and she nearly vomited onto the crowd beneath her; they looked up, ready for a show... especially one starring the noble-born. She tried not to hyperventilate, but it was too hard. Too much to handle. Ewen had told her not to get caught again, because he wouldn’t be around to save her, and she’d done it anyway. The only two people in the world that could save her were dead or about to die, and the realization that she had no options left, no hope left... it made her want to scream.

  She turned her head to see Lancelot, who seemed to be coming to, just in time to die. He was shifting his jaw, trying to see if it was broken, and only barely noticed her staring. He gave her a faint wink.

  She sniffled, tears on her cheeks. “What’s the third thing?” she asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “The third thing you learned as Captain of the Guard.”

  “Ah,” he said as they adjusted his noose. “That when Guinevere of Lyonesse wants something, she’ll get it, one way or another. That’s why I figured it was better being banished with you, than without.”

  She laughed, tried to ignore the feeling of rough rope around her neck. “Excellent plan.”

  “It was a spur of the moment thing.”

  “Well if it makes you feel any better, I really want to not be hanged.”

  Lancelot nodded, staring straight ahead to meet his fate. “Puts my mind at ease.”

  Guinevere looked across the courtyard, to where Rufus and Adwen stood; it was a long way off, but Adwen looked like she was crying, while Rufus just stared straight ahead like none of it was really happening. His crown was under his arm because they wouldn’t let him wear it. Because he was a puppet, not a king. And the look on his face showed how great a loss that had been to him.

  And then, further afield, on the other side of the courtyard, she noticed the wagons they’d brought with Arthur’s project... but they had been repurposed, loaded up with crates. Crates of weapons. The stockpile they’d hidden away, ready to move, to bolster Gawain’s coffers even more. She half-dreamed a scenario whereby she shut down his sales channels and reclaimed the weapons for herself, but then she realized she’d be dead before a single one of those wagons left the castle.

  She would be dead before they finished loading the wagons.

  The officer had made his way up to the gallows, standing just to the side of the nooses and their condemned, and cupped a hand to his mouth. “For crimes against the crown, the prisoners are to be hanged until they are dead.”

  The crowd cheered, but it was a half-hearted cheer. Most of them hadn’t even heard what the charges were.

  “Rufus, King of Essex, shall give the word.”

  A cruel act by a cruel man. Forcing their friend to give the order that killed them... it was despicable and awful, and it made Guinevere want to spit. She nearly shouted out to just do it, do it anyway, to save Rufus the guilt... but the crowd half-turned to see him, and he looked across at her, eyes full of pity, and let out a sigh she could hear from so far away. He nodded, steeling himself, readying himself. And he said it.

  Or, well, screamed it.

  “Die, Saxon scum!”

  Chumont crossbows were different than the Poldare series in that they traded the automatic loading mechanisms in favour of increased range and power. Cartridges, loaded horizontally, could hold as many as twelve shots; an experienced archer could, on a good day, fire as many as a bolt every second, with enough force to blast open a solid oak door from twenty paces.

  Or, as it happened, pin an officer to a wall, from ten.

  The Lothian soldiers didn’t have time to react, because as many of them as there were, there were more of Rufus’ men, and they had wisely brought long-range weapons instead of awkwardly-sheathed swords. In the first ten seconds, two-thirds of the Lothian soldiers were dead or dying. In the next ten seconds, the crowd, realizing something had gone horribly wrong, were stampeding for the exits, which made it even harder for the Lothian men to manoeuvre. And in the last ten seconds, a merciless volley of bolts tore down the last of them, and the only Essex casualty happened when one of Rufus’ guards tried to kick a sword away, and did it badly.

  Guinevere nearly screamed with joy when Rufus and Adwen hopped up the stairs and sliced the nooses apart; she fell into Adwen’s arms, fought back sobs, and failed.

  “You’re safe now, Lady Guinevere,” said Adwen, softly. “You’re
safe.”

  “That man was a monster,” said Rufus, glaring at the dead officer, hanging off the castle wall like a gruesome decoration. “I do not hang my friends. Never. Never hang your friends.” He nodded to Lancelot. “Drowning, that’s the key.”

  Guinevere wanted to stop right here, right in this moment, and never let go of Adwen, never do what had to be done next, never think about what they’d just survived or what others hadn’t... she wanted to stop it all, and just enjoy the embrace. But she knew better. She had to keep moving until the dance was done.

  “Adwen, I can’t thank you enough,” she said, eyes squeezed tight. “I know this puts you in a precarious position with—”

  “Actually, milady,” said Adwen, “my brothers wish to inform you they are at your disposal. Once I explained to them the situation, they became... shall we say... quite cross with Lord Lothian’s deceptions.” She gestured to her black eye, gave a comical shrug. “Moreso when they saw this.”

  Guinevere gasped. “Gawain’s men beat you?”

  Adwen flashed a mischievous grin. “Not exactly.”

  “It was me,” sighed Rufus, then scowled at Adwen. “She made me.”

  Adwen giggled. “But don’t tell my brothers that. The alternative quite solidified their support of you.”

  Guinevere gaped. “Adwen!”

  Adwen shrugged. “I am an odd duck in a room of daft hens.”

  Guinevere gave her another hug, and this time Rufus joined in.

  Lancelot was frowning across the courtyard at the wagons. “Is it just me or does that look like an invasion?”

  Guinevere was about to argue when Adwen cut in: “It is, and worse. They’ve already set out for Camelot with hundreds of men, and dozens of wagons. They have my brothers securing all the main roads in and out, to ensure victory.”

  “But I thought your brothers were on our side,” said Lancelot.