“Shall we begin the game, sir?” she asked demurely.
• • •
Gareth and Lancelot were camped for the night by a swift, cold mountain stream. Neither one of them had the slightest idea of where they were. They had traveled north and west as far as the road allowed, passed through some small villages and a few farmholds. But no one knew where Meleagant lived. Gareth tried to appear unconcerned as he prepared their evening meal, but he wondered what, if anything, Lancelot would do next. In the few days they had been together, Gareth had come to almost worship the knight of the Lake as his image of the perfect man. This was what the traveling storytellers meant when they spoke of the ideal that Arthur sought. Already Gareth feared the possible defeat of the man beside him as one dreads a flood or plague or some other such disaster beyond the control of man. It could happen, but it was unthinkable.
Lancelot abruptly got up and walked into the woods. Gareth relaxed. Certainly he had gone to be alone and pray for divine guidance. Gareth had no doubt that the information would be given.
In a few moments Lancelot returned and silently took the offered plate. Gareth respected this. One could not commune with God and immediately chat with mere mortals. Lancelot paid him no attention. He was wrestling with himself again. His devotions had not helped him tonight. He had mouthed the words, but his mind had not been on them. What filled his thoughts were terrible visions of Guinevere being pawed and tortured by some faceless monster. He was not at all aware of what he was eating and had almost finished before he remembered that he had not prepared the food himself. He looked up. There was that stableboy sitting motionless across from him. Lancelot regarded him curiously.
“Did you tell me your name?” he asked.
“Gareth.”
“Have you eaten?”
“While you were in the woods.”
Lancelot put the plate down. “Why did you come with me?”
Gareth blushed. “I want to help you. No, I mean I want you to teach me to be like you. I want to be a knight, like you.”
“Me?” Lancelot felt uneasy. “I cannot teach you anything. Only Arthur creates knights. Cei is the man you should ask about it, or Gawain. They have been his friends for many years and know what is expected.”
Gareth shook his head. “No, you are the one I want to be like. They may know what is wanted, but you are that. I want to be what you are, strong and brave and sure of yourself! Like a hero from the old stories!”
Despite himself, Lancelot gave a little smile of pleasure. “Beware of pride!” his conscience warned him.
“Well,” he conceded, “if you prefer to assist me, I will do what I can for you. But you must understand, I do not live as the others do, although I do not fault them. I believe that, to be what King Arthur dreams, we must be pure and chaste of body and spirit. That is the most I would ask of another. I have other duties laid on me, but that is my affair and a matter in which I answer only to God.”
His voice failed. How much he had to answer for! Gareth assumed he was overcome by the awesomeness of his proximity to Heaven. He felt unworthy to eat even the crusts left by such a man.
Lancelot wafted back into his inner debate, forgetting again that Gareth was there. Gareth tiptoed about the campsite, afraid of disturbing him. When it appeared that Lancelot was fixed upon his log for the night, Gareth reluctantly rolled up in his cloak and blanket and fell asleep.
The next day was much as the last had been: riding up and down narrow mountain paths, always trying to stay pointed somewhat toward the northwest. Deep into country that the Roman forces had never penetrated, they discovered that the few people they met spoke a dialect of Brythonic which was hard for even Gareth to understand. The farmers and shepherds they met had been too long isolated to give them any help. Lancelot was getting desperate.
Late in the afternoon the road widened a bit. It seemed to be turning downward again when they overtook the cart.
It was a simple, rough, mule-drawn cart, with two crude wheels and three sides and an open back. It was empty. Lancelot wondered why it was there at all. Most of the local goods were transported by pack animals. Although they carried less, they were far safer in these mountains than a clumsy cart that could fall apart before a few rocks in the road. He wondered at its being there as he waited for the trail to widen enough for them to pass. His shouts to the driver were ignored.
“Do you think there is a driver?” he asked Gareth. “There’s nothing on the seat but a bundle of rags.”
“I think, sir, that is the driver,” Gareth answered. “I think we should get away from him as quickly as we can.”
Lancelot did not answer. The path had broadened enough for him to come abreast of the cart. He saw at once that Gareth was right. Out of the front of the bundle, two strong hands emerged, holding the reins. They seemed far too large and powerful to belong to the body beneath all the wrapping. To Lancelot’s eyes the body seemed to have no shape at all. He shouted again.
“Driver! Sir! Can you help us? We have been traveling several days and are lost. We urgently need directions to the castle of King Meleagant.”
The mule walked on until they rounded a bend where they were sheltered from the wind. Then the hands pulled the cart to a halt and one of them unwound the cloth at the top part of the rags. A pair of bright eyes appeared and then a nose and mouth. Lancelot stifled a gasp. The man had a head and hands but hardly any body, just a twisted shape. How could this be? Gareth reined in beside him.
“He’s a dwarf, Sir Lancelot. Haven’t you ever seen one?”
Lancelot shook his head. This seemed to amuse the man.
“I’m a rare creature,” he wailed in glee. “One of a kind, I am. Right? Where does your fancy-dressed friend come from, boy, that he’s never seen anyone like me? No matter. He can stop staring now.”
The cloth was again drawn over the face.
“Wait!” Lancelot stopped him. “I beg your pardon for staring. But can you help us? Meleagant—do you know how we can find him?”
The eyes reappeared. “Yes, I do.”
“And how are we to get there? We are in a great hurry.”
“Oh, are you? Invited you to supper, has he?”
Gareth intervened. “He has kidnapped the wife of our King. We must rescue her immediately. We have no time to spare.”
The man uncovered his mouth again. He considered Lancelot, poised straight and tall upon Clades, plumes waving in the breeze. Quite a noble picture.
“I suppose this woman is beautiful.”
Lancelot’s eyes misted. “You have never seen anything to match her.”
“No doubt. I haven’t been to court lately.” The dwarf spat into the dirt. “What makes you think you can get her out of the fortress? I’ve heard the front gate is guarded by ghosts. Do you believe that sword of yours will frighten them?”
“One of the farmers we met told us that there were bridges leading to the rear entrance,” Lancelot told him. “Do you know about those?”
The dwarf laughed. “Bridges? If that’s what they are, then no man has ever crossed them. One is a bridge of planks held by ropes tied to the shore.”
“That doesn’t sound difficult,” Lancelot commented.
“Oh? The bridge itself lies five feet under the water, which rushes so viciously that no one has ever been able to swim across it. All who have tried have been drowned and washed out to sea. Could you keep your footing on such a path, with your sword and lance and shield?”
Gareth thought Lancelot could do anything. Lancelot was not so sure.
“And the other bridge?”
“That one is even better. There are two oak trees, one on either side of the river. Embedded in them and reaching across is a giant sword. It is barely a finger’s breadth wide and as sharp as the day it was forged. It’s been there as long as the bards can remember and there’s not a trace of rust upon it. No man has ever attempted to cross it.”
“Why is it there, then?”
/> “Who knows? Some joke of the gods, perhaps, like me. What difference does it make?”
Lancelot’s jaw tightened. “I must enter that fortress. If there is no other way, I will cross on the sword. Will you tell me how to get there?”
The dwarf shifted in his seat and then grimaced, as if in pain. He looked again at Lancelot, perfect, arrogant. Then he announced, “It’s not often that I have company worth talking to in my rounds. You get in the cart and ride with me, and I will show you the way.”
Gareth grabbed Lancelot’s arm. “Sir! You can’t! He wants to disgrace you!”
“What? How?”
“The cart! Don’t you know what it is for? No man would ride in a cart, not if he were dying! It is used only to convey criminals to be executed or branded. Only murderers, cattle thieves, and adulterers are put in carts.”
Lancelot hesitated. “Do you know how to find Meleagant?”
Gareth shook his head.
“Then either I ride with him or we continue wandering lost in these mountains.
“Besides,” he added, “there is no one around to see. Will you lead Clades for me?”
Lancelot dismounted and leaped into the cart. There was no room next to the dwarf, so he was forced to stand in the rear.
“That’s right.” The dwarf nodded fiercely. “Can’t be too proud when we want something, can we? This wife of your king, what is she to you?”
Lancelot glared his reply, but the man was satisfied. “I thought so. No one tries something like the sword bridge for the sake of another man’s property. I never did meet a man whose soul was as straight as his legs.”
He settled back into a contented silence. Gareth followed behind them, his heart bleeding for the shame he presumed Lancelot was feeling. Then he saw where the dwarf was taking them.
“Sir Lancelot, quickly, get out! There’s a town ahead of us. He’s going to drive you right through it!”
“Stay where you are,” the dwarf commanded. “If you want to reach your dear lady before Meleagant woos her away from you.”
Lancelot did not move. He called back to Gareth, “Stay there! No one need know you are with us.”
“No, I can’t leave you! There must be someone else who can show us the way. Please, get out before someone sees you!”
It was already too late. A man working in a field had spotted them and given the cry. The whole population of the town was running from all quarters to get a sight of the criminal.
“My, he’s a pretty one,” one woman simpered. “What do you think he might of done?”
“Don’t know, dear, but I wouldn’t mind if he did a bit to me before he goes,” another leered.
“Look at them clothes! Pearls and rubies, oh my!”
“What’er them things on the top of him? Bet I can knock one off!”
One of the boys took aim at the ostrich plumes with a divot. He missed, but the next boy was luckier. The feathers waved and broke, one falling across Lancelot’s face. He remained immovable. Gareth, watching, wanted to gallop in and flatten all of the taunting crowd, but dared not say or do anything. They continued to mock Lancelot and threw things at him all the way through the town. Some people even followed behind them for a mile or so, shouting curses and jeers. Lancelot never seemed to notice them. Gareth was in tears. What if someone from Arthur’s court should hear of this? The torment continued as they passed farms and groups of traders. Soon Arthur’s name was heard. Gareth’s worst fear was coming true.
“Must be one of Arthur’s new knights,” a man laughed. “Who else would dress like that? He doesn’t look like much to me, though, underneath that fine cloak. And if old Pumpilio has him, he can’t be any better than that last bunch we had ruling us, and not as smart. They never got caught.”
Another trader agreed. “I been saying that all along. What do we know of Arthur except they say he drove the Saxons back? He’s just a warrior fancied up, like this one. What did any of them ever do but burn the fields, steal the pigs, and carry off our daughters?”
More comments like these pursued Lancelot and accompanied the clods and rotten fruit thrown at him. Without realizing it, Gareth allowed himself to fall back several horse lengths behind the cart. He could not bear it. Lancelot never moved or answered the catcalls and sneers. He had not lifted a finger even to wipe the slime of rotten carrot greens off his face. Gareth choked back tears of fury and shame. What must Lancelot feel?
After the first shouts, Lancelot heard and felt almost nothing. His mental wrangling absorbed him immediately. When he realized what was happening, the Christian analogy occurred to him almost at once, and he basked in the sacrifice of it until his conscience began jabbing at him again, far more painfully than the blows of the divots.
“Suffering again? Bearing it all without a murmur. How grand of you! To which of your sinful friends can you dedicate this abuse? Whose soul is most in danger now? Why are you doing this, Lancelot? I know, if you don’t. It’s nothing more than vanity turned inside out. How glorious we are in our abjectness. How near divine!”
Thus battered by his own doubts, Lancelot had no interest in the actions of the crowd. The voice within hammered at him until he was forced to admit to his motives.
“It is for myself that I must suffer now! That’s what she has done to me. I can no longer reach outside myself to others. No! No! You are right. She has done nothing. It is all my own folly. I am to blame. But I cannot stop now. If I rescue her and then depart, go back to the Lady and never return, will you leave me in peace then?”
“I will never leave you,” the voice within him mocked.
With a sharp cry, Lancelot threw his hands over his face.
The dwarf turned around. “I wondered when you would finally break,” he stated. “But it doesn’t matter now. We haven’t passed anyone for a mile or so. You may as well get down.”
Gareth had caught up with them. He was ashamed that he had not had the strength to stay closer. He covered his guilt with admiration.
“Sir Lancelot! Let me help you down. You were wonderful! You never once lowered yourself by answering those filthy scum! I . . . I couldn’t have done it. Now, please, let’s get our directions and go!”
Lancelot shook himself, trying to bring things into focus. He saw Gareth—what was his name?—yes, Gareth, standing before him, his face twisted in emotion. Lancelot rubbed his eyes and removed some of the slime.
“What was that? Thank you. I’m fine,” he mumbled. He faced Pumpilio. “Now, I demand that you fulfill your side of the bargain,” he insisted, his voice gaining strength. “Tell us at once the way to the fortress of Meleagant.”
Pumpilio raised his head and tried to straighten his back. He flinched at the pain, but he spoke bravely.
“The sun is almost down. In the morning I can show you the way. You can be there by mid-afternoon. Now, help me down.”
Gareth exploded. “I’ll twist your body even more, old man. You can’t treat Sir Lancelot in this way and survive!”
Lancelot held Gareth back. “No, do not touch him. It would be wicked to force him to speak. Anyway, I am very tired. We would have to start in the morning in any case.” He helped the man down.
Pumpilio looked at Lancelot’s face for the first time. He studied it, pursing his lips. “I may have been mistaken. Perhaps you do notice the feelings of those around you a bit.” He shook his finger at Gareth. “But don’t you ever forget, young man, what he endured today is no more than what I have lived with all my life and for even less reason.”
They camped not far from the road, but no one bothered them that night.
• • •
Guinevere was discussing fashion with Gilli in her room when Meleagant entered, looking pleased. Gilli had learned to detest that expression, but hoped that this time it meant that someone had already been caught trying to rescue Guinevere. It was not often that they had any civilized company and Gilli had no interest in letting Guinevere go before Easter, either.
; “Your husband has some strange servants,” he smirked. “One of my men just arrived saying that only today some fool with white feathers in his helmet was conveyed in a cart through the village and farmlands nearby, like a common thief. The rumor is that he has come here from Caerleon. Maybe to rescue you from my clutches, Lady Queen? If this is the best Arthur can pick, a fool or a brigand, I wonder whom he expects to employ to arbitrate among the clans? This is one wager it will be easy to win. I hope your warm clothes arrive soon, my dear. This will be a cold winter, they say.”
He had no intention of letting her stay long enough to need more clothes. One look at them and Gilli would be nagging for some like them. But this cart episode was just what he needed to get out of the thing gracefully. He could give the Queen back and still refuse to join Arthur.
He went out again, laughing. Guinevere felt sick. Lancelot. Why had Arthur sent him, of all people? And why, how could he do such a shameful thing? She reddened thinking about it. Gilli patted her arm, misunderstanding.
“Guinevere, please, don’t pay any attention to him. I can lend you some clothes if you tell the seamstress how to alter them to the latest styles. I’d like you to stay the winter as a guest. I’m sure that Meleagant won’t hurt the man Arthur sent. Do you know who he is?”
Guinevere nodded. “Sir Lancelot of the Lake. Silly name, isn’t it?”
Gilli glanced at her sharply. The mysterious Lancelot! That was exciting. And Guinevere was sitting next to her, blushing. He was said to be very handsome. Gilli gave a wistful sigh. It didn’t seem fair that some women should have so much and she should have nothing but Meleagant and a haunted castle.
• • •
Pumpilio kept his word and at dawn showed Lancelot and Gareth the way to the fortress. Lancelot thanked him gravely and gave him a jeweled pin from his cloak.
“What is this for?” the man asked angrily.
“For your trouble,” Lancelot answered.
Pumpilio threw the jewel on the ground. “For your pity, you mean. I want none of it. If you really intend to cross the knife bridge, you will be dead by sunset. In that case, all I ask of you is to search the next world for the god responsible for my creation and give him my curse.”
The Chessboard Queen Page 18