She reached up to him.
“What are you talking about?” he shouted. “Who in hell are you and how did I get here?”
He stumbled backwards to avoid her and his foot hit something metallic. A water cup rolled across the floor. All at once he knew what they had done to him. He felt sick. He managed to make it to the window, threw open the shutters, leaned out, and retched his stomach empty. Then he returned to the bedside and stared at the woman as if she were some new and loathsome insect he had found.
“You have ruined me,” he stated solemnly.
She gaped at him. “You! What about me? Until last night I was a virgin!”
“Oh? If that is true, which I doubt, I am sure it was not through your own vigilance. I admit that I must have sinned with you. But my sin was that of weakness and stupidity. You are far more evil; you are the serpent, with a malicious love for corrupting the pure. My penance will be long and hard. I fear God must see to yours.”
He left her without a backward glance. In a fine white rage, he found his way through the halls to the stables. Gawain’s horse was already there. As he finished saddling Clades, Gawain came rushing out of the main hall. He leaped on his horse and they galloped out without a word.
When they were far enough away for Gawain’s peace of mind, he reined in.
“Lancelot, what happened back there? When I woke, there was a note from Agravaine saying Guinevere had summoned you here, which is impossible. I came straight over to ask Pellas about it. I routed him out of bed. He insisted that you had come to meet the Queen and, upon finding that she wasn’t there, had forced yourself upon his daughter, Elaine, instead. He said you were too much for him or his men to stop. When I left, Elaine was up in her room screaming that you had seduced her and then run off.” He paused. “I thought the matter might be better settled somewhere else.”
Lancelot wiped his forehead. “Gawain, you must believe me. Before I even reached the age of reason, I vowed a life of frugality, temperance, and chastity. I have always kept that vow. I swear I did not take that woman to bed by force.”
“But you did have sex with her?”
Lancelot shook his head, trying to clear it. “I must have. I don’t remember.” He closed his eyes. “Gawain, I could have resisted, I know it, even drugged, but they told me it was Guinevere!”
“Christ’s teeth! Do you know what you just said? Good Lord, man, don’t ever tell that to anyone else.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Are you happy to be back at Caerleon?” Arthur asked, putting an arm about Guinevere’s waist. Below them, the courtyard was noisy with the bustle of preparations for the winter. Guinevere smiled up at him and drew closer to his warmth.
“Yes,” she said. “This is my favorite home. But Camelot is becoming very beautiful to me. That artist from Iberia draws very well. Don’t you think we could let him do a mosaic in the small courtyard by the dining hall and maybe another on the floor of the chapel?”
“I have already sent traders to Gaul to find the tiles.” Arthur was pleased with himself for anticipating her. “In the meantime he is going to work on a fresco on the west wall of the guest quarters. What do you think?”
It made him happy to know that she was learning to care enough about Camelot to be interested in the embellishing of it. Guinevere had indeed stayed near him all summer. She had sat beside him patiently, listening to the news and complaints brought to him, and often made suggestions for resolving them. She had helped to plan ceremonies and taken a kindly interest in the throng of hopeful applicants for knighthood. She had been busy and happy and the tight worry he had felt in the spring had relaxed. Guinevere had shown no signs of missing, well, anyone inordinately.
For Guinevere the summer had been peaceful and reassuring. There were no more sudden irritating jolts of her heart at the realization that he was watching her. She did not walk into any rooms with trembling anticipation, wondering if he would be there, waiting. No one upset her sense of balance. People were kind to her; they brought her gifts—silks, jeweled cups, stories. Even Merlin was more pleasant since she had given him that ring. It was not hard to keep her vow to pay more attention to Arthur’s life. The affairs of Britain were more interesting than she had supposed. And it was little enough effort for the joy it seemed to give him. Now winter was creeping in again. She could retreat to her rooms during the cold weather and not arouse comment. How lovely that would be.
She noticed Cei arguing with a messenger just arrived at the gate. His voice could not be heard, but his stance was severe. It was apparent to everyone that the honor of being promised to Lydia had raised him far above common humanity.
Arthur was delighted. “You see him?” he pointed. “That man won’t get up to me unless he has an earthshaking story to tell. Cei always had that authority, but he wouldn’t take it before. I only hope his confidence lasts beyond the wedding.”
“Lydia is her mother’s daughter. She will see to it that he knows his own worth.” Guinevere had caught a scent of regret in Arthur’s words. She sighed. What did he want from her?
“It seems that the man has something to say, after all,” Arthur decided as they watched Cei lead the man toward the small audience room Arthur sometimes used. “I suppose we should go down and find out what it is. Do you want to come with me?”
“Of course. I would freeze up here without you.”
Cei met them at the bottom of the stairs, outrage making his face and voice taut.
“This man has been sent with the most insane tale! I don’t believe a word of it, but he swears he came straight from King Pellas. He says that he took Lancelot there himself that night and that Sir Agravaine will attest to the truth of it. I thought you should deal with him yourself.”
“All right, don’t worry.” Arthur tried to calm him. “I want to discover what you are talking about. Guinevere, would you rather wait in our rooms?”
“No, I’ll come.” Guinevere was furious with herself that the mere mention of his name could cause her throat to tighten.
The messenger was both puzzled and dismayed to meet Guinevere. “You weren’t at Corbyne!” he blurted out.
Guinevere stared. “Of course not. What is it?”
“Never mind, dear.” Arthur sat down and drew her next to him. The band of worry was beginning to tighten again. “Now, what is this story you bring?”
“But they told me . . . it wasn’t her . . . ,” the man muttered, looking at Guinevere and shaking his head. He pulled himself together.
“A week ago, sir, I was on duty at the gates of Corbyne, King Pellas’ home. Early in the evening a woman rode in alone. She was veiled, but I could see that she was fair. Her clothes were fine and rich. They told me later that Queen Guinevere had arrived and that I must go at once to Tintagel to fetch Sir Lancelot for her.”
Guinevere started to expostulate, but Arthur stopped her. “Continue,” he commanded the messenger.
“It was very late then, but I left and got Sir Lancelot out of bed. He seemed puzzled, but he came without any argument.”
“But, Arthur, you know I was never—” Guinevere began.
“Let him finish,” Arthur said quietly.
“We raced back to Corbyne. I could barely keep up with him. They let him in at the main house and I went to bed. The next morning he was gone.”
“What of this woman you saw?” Arthur demanded.
“I don’t know what happened to her,” the man admitted. He studied Guinevere. “But it wasn’t you, was it?”
“Of course not!” Guinevere was outraged.
“Well, then,” Arthur relaxed. “Obviously someone was mistaken. Is that all?”
“No, sir.” The man shifted feet and focused on a spot on the wall behind them. “About the time everyone had assembled in the main hall for the morning meal, the Lady Elaine came running in. Her hair was undone and she was still in her nightdress. She was screaming and wailing so that we couldn’t understand what had happened. Finally sh
e managed to tell her father that the night before, Sir Lancelot had forced his way into her room and . . . uh . . .”
“Go on,” Guinevere snapped. “What did Lancelot do?”
“Well, sir—” The messenger fumbled for a term he could use in front of a woman. “He debauched her.”
“What?” Arthur felt inclined to laugh. The whole story was obviously ridiculous. What angered him about it was that, for no apparent reason, Guinevere had been brought into it. He would not tolerate such slander.
Guinevere barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping. If he had accused Gawain or Torres, perhaps, she might have believed him. But not Lancelot. She composed herself. Of course it was merely a joke, or a mistake. Still, she felt her stomach knot.
Arthur had no doubts. “Is any of this recital of yours from Pellas,” he asked, trying to keep a straight face, “or did you manufacture it all on the way here? Who paid you to say all this?”
“Your Majesty, my Lord, sir! I swear I have spoken the truth! Lord Agravaine was with me when I saw Sir Lancelot. He will vouch for me. But I have not delivered King Pellas’ message yet. He ordered me to say that he appeals to you for justice. Lady Elaine was a maid and now she is not, as her servants and her nurse will witness. He wishes you to either Eunish Sir Lancelot fully or, in view of his high birth, require im to marry the Lady Elaine.”
“That is unspeakable!” Guinevere breathed in horror.
“I thought as much!” Arthur laughed in triumph. “Don’t be so shocked, Guinevere, it was really very clever. Pellas has apparently not been very lucky in finding a suitor for Elaine. This is a rather crude method, but he may have been desperate.
“However,” he added sternly, “it will not work. Go back and tell your master that I will not have my knights made fools of or tricked into marriage. Also, I am exceedingly angered by his use of my wife’s name as a part of this deception. I will send a messenger of my own at once, to make the matter clear and to return with a complete apology, both to me and to the Queen. You may go!”
Guinevere managed to sit silent until they were alone. Then she could wait no longer.
“Arthur, what was all that about?”
Arthur chewed the corner of his lip and Guinevere knew he was more upset than he had pretended.
“I’m not certain, my dear. It may be just a wild scheme of Pellas, but I’m not sure. That king owes allegiance to my sister, Morgause. Merlin has warned me more than once that she is not to be trusted, but I never had any evidence to prove it. I don’t know. But I am sure it did not happen as Pellas claims. We will have to wait until Lancelot returns to find the truth of it.”
Guinevere did not want to wait patiently for Lancelot to arrive. The story was impossible; Lancelot would never do such a thing. Everyone knew that. Everyone. But Guinevere knew the energy that constantly pulsed through him and had felt the emotions which were kept so tightly reined. What if he had found someone else who could release those emotions in him? Guinevere choked at the thought, all the while reminding herself that it was nothing to do with her. Nothing at all. She ate hardly anything and drummed her fingers on the dinner table, waiting for Arthur to finish. She drove Risa distracted by unpacking her own clothes and leaving them all over the room. She could not sit still long enough to hear a new poem composed in her honor and offended the poet highly by requesting that he finish reciting it later. Cei suggested that she go riding more often to wear down her nervousness. Anything to get away from Caerleon for a while, where her mood was starting to affect everyone. Arthur agreed. He did not want to think about what was making her act so oddly. It was interfering with his work too much. So Guinevere went in search of Caet.
She found him in the small room he had been assigned, at one end of the living quarters near the stables. Because he had refused to be billeted with either the stableboys or the knights, he and Arthur had found this room as a compromise. Guinevere paid no attention to his new prestige.
“Caet,” she announced. “I must go riding now. Come with me!”
Caet rose deliberately from his cot. “My Lady, my name is Briacu. Do you think it would be proper for you to go out with me alone?”
Guinevere stamped her foot. “Caet! Stop this now! I don’t know why you go on pretending. Father recognized you at once. He told me about it. If you didn’t like the name you were given, you were free to change it. I don’t care. But I won’t be treated as a stranger by you! I want to go riding. It never bothered you to come with me when we were children and I’m not going to let you start now.”
Caet’s jaw tightened. “When we were children, I was the slave boy who lived in the empty stall. I came along to hold the reins and carry the lunch. When you wanted me, I was there and when you didn’t, I was invisible.”
“That’s not true!” Guinevere protested, hoping she was right. “You were my friend then. You were the only one who had time to play with me when my brothers were gone. Do you remember all the times you hoisted me up into the apple trees so I could throw the good apples down? You were a servant—never a slave! No one in the house treated you like one. Matthew always brought you back something special. He taught you and Mark to ride and fight the same way. He cared about you just as he did his own brother.”
Caet wasn’t interested. “Matthew died. I would have fought with him, but no one thought to ask me to go. I was left behind to clean out the stables and mend harness. But I am just as good as any man here. I have been a hero in Armorica. I am Arthur’s master of the horse. If you tell them about me, I will be nothing more to these people than another runaway.”
“You are angry because no one would let you die with Matthew and John? Would you have been happy if you had gone into real slavery with Mark? I do not see why you could not have become a hero or whatever you wanted by staying here.”
Caet longed to tell her why he had really left. The pearl he had sent her for her wedding still lay on her throat. He felt the urge to tell her what he had done to earn it and how every woman he had flattered and taken had been faceless because he could see only her. He wanted to shake her until she really saw him for once. But he stood silent, glaring at her with sullen, angry eyes.
Guinevere’s lip trembled. “All right, be whomever you want to be. But you and Risa are the only people here from my childhood and sometimes I am very homesick. We could have helped each other and been friends again. But you do nothing here but hide. If you were such a hero in Armorica, why did you bother coming back?”
He took a step toward her, reaching out his arm, intending to twist the chain from her neck and smash it beneath his heel. She recoiled in panic.
“Never mind. I can go riding by myself. Don’t worry. I will tell no one who you are.”
Caet caught her wrist so tightly that her fingers grew white. She stared at him as if he were the stranger he wanted to be. He opened his mouth to speak and then, swiftly, like a spring flood, all the rancor against her drained out of him. His hold upon her loosened, but she didn’t run.
“Caet?” she pleaded. “What did I do to you? I don’t want you to hate me. I’m sorry if I was cruel. I didn’t mean to be. I never thought of you as a slave or even a servant. Please. I need you now to be my friend.”
He cursed himself in three languages and then gave in. He knew it was hopeless. Even as a child he had been unable to resist her. He didn’t remind her that he was the one who had been beaten for letting her climb the apple trees. She wouldn’t remember or understand.
“All right, Guinevere. Put on your boots and I’ll go with you. But this time, when I say the time has come to return, you listen to me!”
Guinevere flew at him and kissed his cheek. “Oh, Caet! Thank you! Thank you! It will be wonderful, just like the old days!” She ran off to get ready.
Caet walked slowly and unhappily to the stables to see that the horses were saddled, mentally kicking himself with each step. “Just like the old days,” she had said. He had no doubt that it would be.
They came back several hours later, wind-blown and tired. Arthur drew Caet aside after dinner and thanked him for his trouble.
“I know you have more important work to do, Briacu, than entertaining my wife. So I’m doubly grateful. She has been very restless these last few days. Perhaps she misses Geraldus. This is the time he usually arrived. If you could take her out again tomorrow, I would be grateful. Maybe when Gawain and Lancelot return, they can keep her occupied.”
• • •
Gawain was losing patience. They had been arguing for days about this.
“Lancelot, I know you’re upset, but you shouldn’t take it so seriously. No one is going to believe that you raped that girl. So what if you slept with her. You didn’t want to, did you? You didn’t enjoy it, obviously. How can you call it a sin when it wasn’t any fun?”
“I should have been stronger,” Lancelot reiterated. “I should have guessed what they were doing to me.”
Gawain shrugged. “I don’t see how. There isn’t a man alive who ever outguessed my Aunt Morgause and you can bet it was her strange mind that planned this. It is only her idea of a joke, believe me. You should hear about some of the ones she played on me. You wouldn’t believe the places and positions I’ve woken up in.”
But Lancelot wasn’t interested. He plodded along on Clades, weighted down with guilt, anger, and, most of all, fear of what Guinevere would say when she saw him. What Gawain could not understand was that the greatest sin he had committed was that he had believed the woman was Guinevere. He had given in to a desire he had refused to admit before. How could he face her now?
In spite of his reassurances to Lancelot, Gawain was worried. There was something wrong about this, something more complex than one of Aunt Morgause’s practical jokes. If they had just wanted to drug Lancelot and throw him in bed with someone, why did they have to send him to Corbyne? And why drag Guinevere into it at all? It seemed unnecessarily complicated. He felt a clammy chill at the memory of the look of unholy glee his aunt and mother had exchanged before he went to bed that night. They were plotting something grandiose. He wished he could guess what it was before it was unleashed on Britain.
The Chessboard Queen Page 28