The Problem King

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Kris Owyn

  All rights reserved.

  One

  Paris — 843 A.D.

  The crossbow skidded across the desk, knocking Guinevere’s candle askew, spraying wax everywhere. Still, she set down her quill, neatly, and kept her smile patient.

  “That thing cost me the war,” snarled Robert d’Anjou, stabbing at the crossbow with a stubby finger. His cheek was sliced, long hair matted with blood and mud, uniform torn to conceal allegiances that might prove... dangerous.

  Guinevere said nothing, just watched as he paced a semi-circle away from her desk. Outside, rain pelted the manor like a thousand soldiers in full sprint; lightning illuminated the office, the sapphire banners hanging along the walls suddenly electric, imposing. d’Anjou didn’t notice; he was too busy reliving a different nightmare altogether...

  “We were cut down like animals. There was no escape. The weapons didn’t fire, no matter what we did. There was no way to fight back. And my father... my father knows now. He knows, and—” he glared at the crossbow again, like it had been built by Satan himself. “Those weapons did it. Your weapons did it.”

  At this, Guinevere raised an eyebrow. She reached a hand forward, toward the weapon. “May I?”

  d’Anjou spat at the floor in reply.

  Guinevere took the crossbow, turning it upside-down, and wiped a portion of the undercarriage with her thumb. She squinted at the imprint: “Poldare series,” she said. “Fourth generation automatic, with interchangeable cartridges and—”

  “I demand a refund,” d’Anjou snarled. “Your products did not perform as promised, and your warranty states—”

  “Our warranty document is quite thorough,” Guinevere said, and d’Anjou visibly bristled at the interruption. Guinevere visibly did not care. “Have you read it?”

  “I’ve read enough,” he snorted.

  “I see,” she said, smile returning to her face. She fished a paper out of a stack at the edge of her desk, ran her finger down it, and then turned it around, set it closer to d’Anjou. “This is your bill of sale. It says you ordered 10,000 Poldare crossbows. Is that correct?”

  “Cost me a damn fortune,” he said, barely looking at the paper.

  “But is it correct?”

  d’Anjou grunted. “It is.”

  “And I see you also ordered 10,000 bolt cartridges.”

  “And I’ll be wanting a refund on those, too.”

  “Hmm,” she said, pulling the cartridge out of the crossbow. She turned it over, set it down. “It’s odd, isn’t it?”

  “What’s odd? What?”

  “A single cartridge holds six bolts, so buying only a single cartridge for each archer is... well, it suggests you either have too much faith in your soldiers, or none at all, doesn’t it?”

  d’Anjou’s hand was on the hilt of his sword. From the dried blood there, it was clear he knew what to do with it. He loomed over her, incisors bared like he would leap over the desk and bite her throat out at any second.

  “Your toys failed. Pay me what I lost.”

  “Our weapons do not fail, your highness. What failed you, in your abortive coup, was something much smaller...” She lifted the cartridge, gave it a shake. “Counterfeit ammunition.”

  Something in d’Anjou’s expression changed. Still as furious as ever, but on his back foot for a change. “That’s absurd.”

  “Look, see here,” she said, and pointed to the top of the cartridge, next to an octagonal hole lined with copper. “Something’s missing here.”

  She opened a drawer on her desk, and d’Anjou’s sword unsheathed, partway. Ready to strike.

  Her smile returned, and she slowly removed a second cartridge from the drawer. She turned it to him so he could see another octagonal hole, another lean layer of copper, and...

  “The seal of Camelot,” she said, setting the two cartridges next to each other. “And as you’re undoubtedly aware, our extensive warranty only applies when Camelot-made ammunition is used in our Camelot-made weaponry. We cannot guarantee the efficacy of counterfeit or substitute cartridges.”

  d’Anjou’s eyes twitched. His sword slid back into its sheath as he struggled to find a new angle to attack from; Guinevere cut him off regardless: “If I were a charitable woman, I would suggest you were the victim of a scheme of some kind,” she said, not letting him break eye contact. “But then why buy so few genuine cartridges with your order, unless you knew you’d be getting the balance somewhere else?”

  “I was betrayed!” he snarled, and she laughed.

  “You were betrayed by your own frugality, not me,” she said. “Your warranty is void. You will receive no compensation for your losses. However, if you wish to return any surplus weapons in moderate-to-good condition, we will gladly offer you a modest recycling fee of—”

  “They were all seized. When we lost.”

  She sighed. “Well then. Maybe next time.”

  His eyes were glistening with tears, furious tears. “What next time? I’m ruined! I’ve nothing left! No money, no friends, no army! My father will have his dogs hunting me in every corner of Gaul until my head’s on a pike!”

  Guinevere nodded. She turned the crossbow over, clicked the genuine cartridge into its base, and handed it over to him, with a conciliatory nod. “Then you’ll need this,” she said. “On the house. I insist.”

  He looked at the weapon in her hand, and his face, already red with grief, flashed scarlet with anger. He snatched the crossbow, stood back, taking aim at her chest. “You insufferable bitch!” he yelled, and squeezed the trigger—

  Click!

  Nothing. He tried again, but still no shot. He caught his breath, barely.

  Guinevere’s smile had an icy edge to it now.

  “Really, your highness, you must read the documentation. The crossbow won’t fire while the safety latch is on.” d’Anjou turned the weapon to the side, trying to see where the switch was, but— “Ewen, show him how it’s done.”

  Crack! a bolt pounded into d’Anjou’s thigh, shattering his femur and sending him crashing to the ground.

  Out of the shadows, at the side of the room, walked a slight man in a black robe; his crossbow was trained at d’Anjou’s head. Ewen was silent, but he had a faint smile on his face; bemused. His head turned slightly to the side, like he was trying to decide exactly where to fire the next shot.

  His weapon made the most subtle of sounds, like a knuckle cracking.

  Guinevere leaned back in her chair, a grin on her face. “Did you hear that? That sound? It’s the next bolt settling in the chamber. It costs more, of course, but isn’t the peace of mind worth it?” Then, to Ewen: “Return him to his father. Decline the reward, if offered.”

  Ewen nodded, grabbed the blubbering prince by the arm and started dragging him out.

  Just then, another servant rushed into the room, sweating and struggling to catch his breath.

  “Not now, Marcel,” she said, waving him off. “Whatever it is, it can wait until—”

  “It’s from Camelot, milady,” Marcel said, almost doubled over with exhaustion. “The sword. Someone took the sword from the stone!”

  Two

  A strong wave rocked the boat, and the plank shifted violently; Guinevere nearly fell into the water, just shy of the pier. She flun
g herself the rest of the way, catching hold of a slimy brace-post and fighting to regain her composure. It took all her willpower not to retch at the salt water mist.

  “Still hate boats, do you?” came a booming voice from down the way; it was Bors, striding toward her so his embroidered cloak cast out behind him like billowing smoke. He had a wry grin beneath his greying beard as he reached a hand out to her, gripping her arm tightly.

  “I hate any vessel that needs its captain’s prayers to stay afloat,” she said, legs wobbling as they adjusted to life on land again. “Seas are wretched things.”

  “They’re uncontrollable,” Bors nodded. “Can’t be bargained with.”

  She blew out her cheeks, fighting nausea. “I’ll leave Poseidon be, if he does the same for me.”

  Bors laughed a big, round laugh, and led her back down the rickety pier.

  Her ship had docked at one of several stations in the Dover network reserved for Camelot business. All around, stacks of crimson chests — filled with gleaming weapons and flawless ammunition — waited to be sent off to their new owners. In the distance, she saw a massive, looming Excelsior-series trebuchet rolling to the waterfront; they shipped those fully-assembled, to put the fear of God into the buyer’s enemies.

  “Watch it! Careful!” came a shout from her right, and she turned to see, on the next dock over, a chest come loose from its harness and smash into the pier. A dozen crossbows spilled out; some sliding into the sea, some knocking the workers into the sea themselves. Chaos erupted as men chased after friends and merchandise. Blame shot back and forth like arrows.

  “Due for Oslo,” Bors said, over his shoulder. “We’re arming both sides this time. Should be an... eventful war.”

  He slammed the carriage door closed behind them, and waited for Guinevere to settle. Outside, Ewen helped Bors’ men load luggage onto the back; they moved quickly and silently, so that the only real cause for delay was the comfort of the passengers inside. Bors knocked on the ceiling, and they jerked into motion.

  The carriage interior was soft, plush and ornate; the curtains, layers of lace hung along a polished metal bar, itself etched with intricate designs the whole way along. Needlessly expensive, as was Bors’ habit. Roomier than the ones in Paris, too; she stretched her legs out, trying to convince herself she wasn’t on water anymore. The rocks and mud of the Kentish roads made for a bumpy ride, but it was still worlds better than the heave-ho of her last few hours.

  “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” Bors remarked, pouring wine into a small cup and handing it over.

  “I was about to say the same,” she said with a wink, and he guffawed, patted his belly, though it was the same trim figure she remembered. A soldier’s best asset is his body.

  “Business is good, I admit,” he said. “But nothing compared to your feats on the Continent. The factories can barely keep pace with your orders. I’m surprised you don’t have clothes woven from pure gold by now.”

  “What, and overshadow you, uncle? Never.”

  He laughed, finished his wine, poured another. “How is Paris these days? It felt... crowded, last I was there.”

  “Oh, still crowded,” she said. “But with a thousand different cultures, all crashing into one another. You know, I met a Persian prince the other day. Couldn’t understand a word he said, but we got along famously all the same.”

  “Worth their weight in gold, those Persians,” Bors said, into his cup.

  “Minus my commission,” she said with a smile, and he burst out laughing again.

  “Ah, it’ll be good to have back in Camelot proper,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “The blowhards here are as dim and shallow as ten-minute candle. But you... you are your father’s daughter.” His expression changed, to sorrow. Regret. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to say goodbye.”

  “It was better that way,” she said, staring at her hands. “He... he wasn’t himself, at the end. It was better no one saw him like that.”

  “All the more reason for me to attend,” he said, and met her eyes. She took a moment, then shrugged it off. Bors gave up on his cup, started drinking from the bottle instead.

  They went over a bump and the ride became immeasurably smoother — they’d passed the division between the local laneways and the Camelot highway. Interlocking stone, laid on a solid foundation, immune to weather and wear... there was a slight jitter as they drove, but nowhere near the twists and lurches she was used to in Paris.

  Bors used the change-over as a cue to get properly comfortable, while Guinevere glanced out the window, at passing scenery. The seaside town was dissipating around them; sporadic shacks built so poorly they were barely held together, right at the edge of the pristine roadworks. It was technically illegal to build so close to a highway, but so long as the way was clear for shipping wagons, no one much cared if the locals caught a taste of civilization.

  Down the way, Guinevere saw a filthy woman on a barrel, feeding her baby in one arm, her other grabbing hold her older boy’s shirt, to keep him from running into their path. She looked up at Guinevere, suspicious, cautious... and bowed slightly, just in case. Guinevere closed the curtain, cricked her neck.

  “So what of this king?” she said, watching Bors for subtler reactions. But his reaction was not subtle: he rolled his eyes, shook his head, and had the look about him of a man who was sick to death of youngsters carrying on like animals.

  “It’s early yet,” was what he said, despite all that.

  “How did he get the sword out?” Guinevere asked, echoing the questions she’d been hearing, relentlessly, ever since news got out about Camelot’s Great Miracle.

  “No one knows,” said Bors, obviously tired of the topic already. “He’s a farmer from Lothian, and a scrawny one at that. I’ve only seen him briefly, and he didn’t speak a word. But it’s Pendragon’s sword he’s got, no question. Carries it around wherever he goes, like he’s afraid someone might steal it.”

  “So everyone knows who he is, more like.”

  “Oh, no worries about that. He’s the stuff of legend, of course. The people love him. Celebrations in the streets, every damn day. It’s like they’ve been oppressed under us, all these years. Ungrateful sods.”

  “And Council?”

  Bors exhaled, a long and pained breath. “We’re in a bind, aren’t we? It’s nigh on thirty years we’ve been running this kingdom without a king. And now this... this fairy tale interruption.” He shook his head, looked like he felt ill. “And to think we all loved this prophecy, back in the day. Whoever taketh this sword from the stone is the True and Rightful King of Camelot. And we all lined up for months to have a turn.” He sighed. “Pendragon must be laughing at us now. And we deserve it, too.”

  Guinevere took a slow sip, ventured further: “Any question of legitimacy?”

  His reaction was bemused and cautious, all at once. “Is that why you’re here? To stir trouble?”

  “I’m here to pledge my fealty,” she said. “Why else?”

  “You might’ve sent a proxy,” he countered. “Others have, and they’re all closer.”

  “I’ve been away too long already. Besides, if there’s a chance the King might hear my petition—”

  He let out a long and exasperated sigh. “This again. You’ve no more friends on Council than last time you tried, Guinevere. And it’s not the King’s place to meddle with inheritance laws. Be happy in your stewardship, girl. Ten percent is better than nothing.”

  “But fifteen would be better still,” she said, winking. “And I don’t intend to argue inheritance, in any case. My concerns are about capacity. Lords Nordham and Hallow are chronically short-changed in acquiring weapons for their Irish clients, and I thought the King—”

  “Might help sway them to your side?”

  Guinevere shrugged. “I’m the rightful heir of Lyonesse, not some outside
manager. It shouldn’t even be a question. If I were a man, I’d have been given full control and corresponding title the second my father stopped breathing. Do you know what it’s like, hiding in Paris, hoping nobody remembers Lyonesse is, for all intents and purposes, still run by a ghost? No, if there’s a chance this king will hear me, I must try. And I’ll not apologize for fighting for what’s mine.”

  “Just be sure it’s a fight you can win.”

  Guinevere looked out the window again, at the darkening sky. It was colder here. A menacing springtime, without the colours of Paris. The wind cut through the carriage doors like they weren’t there, and she fought back a shiver. So strange, this place seeming foreign to her. It was her home, but she barely remembered it.

  “What kind of gift do you give a newly-crowned farmer?” she asked with a grin. “A golden pitchfork, or—”

  The carriage jerked to a stop, almost throwing Guinevere off her seat. Men were yelling outside, footsteps on the stones, moving quickly in all directions. Bors stowed the bottle, adjusted his belt, and pounded on the door.

  “What’s going on out there?” he bellowed.

  No one answered. He pounded again. “I said what’s going on?”

  And then, a scream. A woman, crying out in anguish, in a wordless sound that drove Guinevere from her seat, onto the road before Bors could stop her.

  Ewen and the other guards were spread about, swords drawn, watching their surroundings carefully. And in the middle of the road, strewn beneath the wailing woman, was a young man in a sickening pool of blood.

  Three

  “Milady, back in the carriage,” said Bors’ head of security, hand out towards her, but eyes not leaving the darkening periphery. “It’s not safe.”

  Ewen’s expression said he agreed with the assessment, but she ignored it anyway. She strode toward the woman, watching the guards shift to protect her, and stood over the scene. The victim was no more than sixteen, stabbed through the chest with a broad-bladed weapon. He would have been dead before he knew he’d lost; the woman over him, in her forties, maybe, still didn’t seem to know it herself.