The Problem King Page 16

  Gawain said nothing for a moment, weighing his options, no doubt. “We’ll form an inquiry,” he croaked, fighting to maintain his composure. “I will personally assure the King we’ll—”

  “You?” spat Bors, incredulous. “You instigated the thing! It’s like the wolf investigating why all the sheep went missing!”

  Gawain flushed red: “I resent the insinuation that I—”

  Oh, that anyone would ever consider Guinevere for the job! She stayed quiet, still picking flecks of blood off her hands, wondering how much more there could possibly be.

  “I’ll lead the inquiry,” said Cornwall, and the room quieted again. On the one hand, everyone knew Cornwall was in Gawain’s pocket, and would obviously rig any process to absolve his benefactor. But on the other hand, he was still a living legend, and not one you could insult on a whim. By speaking out, he was effectively guaranteeing Gawain would avoid too much scrutiny. He would find some of explanation for the events of the day, and present that to the King, with the authority of Council.

  “In the meantime,” Rhos said, knocking his fist on the table to draw attention, “I vote we shelve any previous plans to confront the King about his vision for Camelot. The timing would be, at a minimum, inconsiderate. There’s no need to burden him with a petition or—”

  “He already has the petition,” said Guinevere, and Rhos stopped cold.

  “He... he has?”

  She nodded. “Maybe just a draft.” Rhos seemed to lose his balance at this, and the rest of the room held their collective breaths. “He was quite upset about it,” she added. “He kept saying this is what they warned me of... this is what they meant...” She twitched, like coming out of a memory, and added: “As the assassins were closing in.”

  No one made a sound, but from the expressions around the room, it was clear everyone was looking for an angle, or an alibi, or any excuse to put distance between themselves and that damned petition. Poor Rhos had to contend with the fact it was in his handwriting.

  “I...” said Wiglaf, standing suddenly. “I’m late for...” He was searching for a reason, but nothing came to mind. But then another nobleman stood, taking the hint, and said: “Aye, it’s nigh time for that... uh... I mean...”

  Council started to disband, rushing into pockets of conversation, or out the door and away. It was laughably false, given the day’s schedule had them starting a mandatory feast right about now; but the fact of the matter was, the closer to the executioner’s blade, the more likely one was to be cut.

  Bors crouched down next to Guinevere, laying his hand on her arm, gently. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?” he asked, voice low.

  “It’s not my blood,” she said, and hoped she was right. Then, a thought: “Have you seen Ewen?”

  Bors was concerned. “He’s not with you?”

  She shook her head. “Not since before the coronation. He just... disappeared.”

  Bors’ mind was running that through and through. He winced at its conclusions. “He wouldn’t leave you without good reason.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said.

  He leaned in closer. “How much of what you said is true?”

  She turned to him, felt tears welling in her eyes against her will. Her voice was shaking when she spoke: “All of it. All of it.” And it was, at the edges. But then there was the question of the Fox. Was he dead? Why did he... why did he do what he did? They’d torture him, that was for certain, and he’d point the finger at her, and she’d—

  The doors opened and a palace guard was there, uniform soaked with blood. Every head turned toward him, and recoiled. His sword hung from his belt, the tip cracked off.

  Rhos stepped forward: “The King?” he asked. “Is he—?”

  “The King is safe, your lordships,” said the guard, then turned his gaze to Guinevere. “You’re to come with me, milady.”

  Guinevere stood, felt like running. Had the Fox talked already? It hadn’t even been an hour! Had Arthur soured on her so quickly? The guard’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, glove tightening on and off like he was ready to use it at a moment’s notice. His expression said he was in no mood for games. None at all.

  “I... I’m...” she said, and he summoned her forth with his hand. Like a child.

  “Now, please,” he said, warning.

  The crowd parted around her as she walked, as if to the gallows, from the round table to the doorway, stopping a sword’s length away from the guard. She squared her shoulders, swallowed, spoke crisply: “Is His Majesty not—”

  “Ask him yourself,” said the guard, and took her by the arm and pulled her out of the room.

  That was when the reality struck her: she wasn’t on her way to see the King, she was being brought before him. The courtiers and servants in the halls stopped to stare; the guard’s hand around her arm, and the way her legs just couldn’t keep up with his pace, no matter how much she willed it. She felt an overwhelming urge to grab at the walls, at the tapestries, at anything to slow things down, to give her more time to think, to plan, to find a way to—

  The door to the King’s chambers opened as they approached, and the guard pulled her inside, stopping just short of the desk, and jerking her forward onto her own two feet. There was a chair there, turned away from her; its back was too tall to see who was sitting there, but she knew it was Arthur.

  “Lady Guinevere, as requested, sire,” said the guard, and bowed.

  The room was silent, then, but for the fireplace crackling. Guinevere tried to think of the right words to say, the right way to angle things to undercut whatever the Fox had told them. Had he mentioned Gawain at all? How she’d tried to pin the blame on Lothian? If she were careful and smart about it, could she convince Arthur she’d been an unwitting accomplice? Or blackmailed into it? Or should she just deny, deny, deny? Dispute a confession given under duress; after all, she had a rapport with the King... surely that would buy her some trust when it came to—

  Arthur stood, slowly, from his chair. Even from the back, he seemed frail, weakened, tired.

  “Sire...” she said, fighting against the urge to plead. Never plead. Never give ground.

  He turned his head to the sky, inhaled to steel himself, then turned, and she was instantly struck by his red eyes, raw from crying or screaming or whatever other emotions he’d been battling after the Fox had spun his tale.

  And then he smiled, and ran to her, and wrapped her in a suffocating embrace. ”Thank God you’re not hurt,” he said, voice trembling.

  She laughed, in spite of herself, covering her mouth too late. He was happy to see her. He was happy to see her! If the Fox hadn’t confessed yet, there was still time, but she had to act fast: take the truth and re-work it into something that saved her own skin. But how? She’d secretly paid three mercenaries to—

  Arthur was trying to explain, begging her forgiveness: “I tried to tell them to take you with me, but they—”

  “It’s protocol, sire,” she said, as if it made any sense for him to be apologizing for what had transpired. “The guards must protect the King at all costs, and sort out the rest later.”

  “Well it is later,” he said, stepping away but not letting her hands go, like he was afraid to lose her. She could see it in his eyes, the difference she’d been dreading: he wasn’t just smitten with her anymore. He was falling in love. She knew the expression well, and how to use it to her advantage... yet somehow, with Arthur, it felt wrong.

  “I need you,” he said, and then seemed to realize what it sounded like, and blushed. “I... I mean I called you here because—”

  “Sire, I know you’re—”

  “There are so many things I need you to... I mean...”

  She squeezed his hands in hers, and it gave him steadiness almost instantly. She smiled. “Whatever you need, sire. I am here for you.”

&nb
sp; “Good,” he said. “I’m glad. We need to know everything you remember, anything at all, to aid in the inquiry.”

  That confused her. Had Cornwall beat her here, somehow? “The... inquiry, sire?”

  “Yes, the Captain of the Guard wants to strike while the iron’s hot, so to speak,” Arthur said. “While memories are freshest.”

  She almost choked. Captain of the Guard? As disjointed and disastrous as her plan had turned out to be, it was a survivable calamity so long as it was no one’s direct responsibility. Ector could blame the guards, the guards could blame the staff, the staff could blame the peasants... a circle of recriminations with no actual resolution. But a Captain of the Guard — whose entire job it was to ensure the safety and survival of the King — would be smarting from the debacle, and extremely motivated to find someone else to blame. God help her if it was a nobleman.

  “I... I wasn’t aware your Majesty had a Captain of the Guard,” she said.

  “Oh, I didn’t,” he said, shaking his head like he realized that was a horrible mistake he’d made. “But after that display, how could I not hire him?”

  Guinevere took an unsteady step back. “Him?”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a man step forward: face bruised, and cloak stripped away, but still as cocksure as ever... the Fox.

  “Lady Guinevere,” said Arthur, “Meet our saviour, Lancelot.”

  Twenty-five

  Guinevere stared, devoid of emotion. “Sir Lancelot,” she said, tipping her head ever so slightly. He returned the favour, his sly grin back in full force. They stood there, opposite each other, engaged in a duel without swords, with rules and consequences that only they understood. She knew from their earlier encounters that he was not one to be led around by the nose... but the stakes were so high, now, that there wasn’t much of an alternative but to try.

  The Fox was Captain of the Guard. If Gawain being in charge of Council’s inquiry was laughable, this was dangerous. Never mind whose word one believed or not, Lancelot could manufacture evidence to hang her, no matter what path she took. That he happened to be privy to actual evidence was almost a side-issue. The question wasn’t whether he could convict her of treason, it was in what way?

  She would have to be careful. More careful than ever before.

  He gave her another, polite bow. “I’m no knight, milady.”

  She raised an eyebrow: no you’re not.

  He returned the favour, daring her to say the words aloud.

  It would be a long duel, then. Very long.

  “And he won’t let me knight him, either,” said Arthur, cutting through the tension without noticing. “That’s something I can do, now, isn’t it? Knight people?”

  “Yes, sire,” Guinevere said, speaking to the King but watching the Fox. “Most definitely.”

  “Ha!” Arthur said, pointing a satisfied finger at Lancelot. “I knew it!”

  Lancelot bowed, said: “It is an honour I cannot accept, sire. Though I am greatly moved by your graciousness.”

  “Cannot accept?” Guinevere said, trying not to sound too harsh. “Really.” Every knight she knew would not only accept it, they’d accept multiple knighthoods. Perhaps monthly. Did he really think he would seem more credible, by feigning humility? The only thing Guinevere distrusted more than thieves were saints.

  “I’ve not yet earned it, milady,” Lancelot said, and she suddenly had this ominous feeling he knew exactly what would count as having “earned” a knighthood. And it would not be good for her.

  “Nonsense,” said Arthur. “You’ve more than earned it. The both of you have. Here, Lady Guinevere, I’ll knight you, too. Come...”

  She winced: “Alas, sire, it is not legal to bestow a knighthood upon women.” Also, a horrible insult and demotion-in-spirit for a nobleman descended from kings. But she was learning not to hold such things against Arthur.

  He threw up his hands, defeated. “The only two souls in the realm who won’t be knights, and they’re the ones I chose to reward. What a king I’ve been so far.”

  “I do not want to be a knight, either,” said a voice from the back of the room, and Guinevere was surprised to see Merlin there, reading a thick book, running his finger down the page; he didn’t look up as he spoke, but seemed very much attuned to the conversation. She realized she’d never heard his voice before. It was clipped and calculated; and strangely off. He sniffled, briefly, and kept reading. “I do not want to be a knight.”

  Arthur nodded, warmly. “Aye, Merlin, I remember.” Then, to Guinevere and Lancelot: “This day’s been a disaster. I... I don’t even know how—”

  “It’s not—” Guinevere began, at the same time Lancelot said: “The investi—” Both paused, bemused. Lancelot motioned her on: “Ladies first.”

  That expression irritated her — it was a subtle way for her opponents to get the last word, without seeming so — but worse, she could tell he knew it irritated her, and he said it anyway. She pushed all that aside and turned to the King, the very picture of pleasantness.

  “Sire, you cannot blame yourself for what happened today. What transpired was... it was...”

  “Some kind of plot,” said Lancelot, and she turned, furious at the interruption.

  “A plot?” asked Arthur, sitting at the edge of the table for support. He looked to Guinevere, aghast: “Was it the... you know... the—”

  The petition. Guinevere still had it, too; she felt down to her pocket, subtly. As part of her original plan, it was a convenient way to prove to the King that Council — more specifically, Gawain — did not have his best interests at heart. A solid foundation, but not the kind of thing that would stand up to scrutiny. Especially not directly attributable to her; it would tie too many threads together. If it was entered into evidence, things would be very hard to—

  “Let’s see it,” said Lancelot, holding his hand out. Shocked, she briefly considered feigning ignorance, but he was looking straight at her hand over her pocket. He knew.

  She slid it out, handed it over, and he unfolded it. A few seconds into reading, he laughed.

  “Well that’s treason.” He kept reading, then looked up at her. “And you knew about this?”

  “I wouldn’t sign my name to it,” she said, defiant.

  “But you discussed it,” he said. “In Council. And didn’t warn anyone.”

  “I warned the King,” she countered.

  “Ah, yes,” said the Fox, grinning. “Minutes before the coronation.”

  Arthur stepped into the fray, trying to be peacemaker: “Lady Guinevere helped me find ways to... to lessen the problem. With a better speech.”

  Lancelot laughed. “Speeches don’t stop crossbows, sire. But on that subject...” He pulled something from a sack at the foot of the table, turned it around for everyone to see.

  Guinevere tried not to gasp. It was a crossbow cartridge. And by the look on the Fox’s face, it was one of hers. Arthur took it, turned it over, curious.

  This was his play? It made no sense... the cartridges were untraceable; they could have come from anywhere, sold to anyone, at any point over the last five years. Was he trying to trick her into admitting something she needn’t? But the more Arthur kept turning the cartridge over and over and over in his hands, the more she started to worry that she’d left some clue behind that he’d discovered.

  She could hear her blood pounding in her ears.

  Lancelot seemed pensive: “How many assassins were there, Lady Guinevere?”

  She swallowed, took an involuntary step back. “H-how would I know something like—”

  Arthur looked up, but she couldn’t read his expression. She had an overwhelming urge to run, but the saner part of her brain knew that was the shock of the coronation mixed with the emotions of the day, and the best thing to do was to stay and argue the Fox into a corner he couldn’t—
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br />   “As an eyewitness, of course,” Lancelot said. “I was in the crowd for most of it, His Majesty was, naturally, preoccupied with his speech at the time, and the First Minister was not—”

  “I do not like crowds,” said Merlin, still reading.

  Lancelot smiled. “The First Minister does not like crowds. So it seems you had the best vantage point from which to see what transpired.”

  Guinevere held her breath as she tried to work through the options. Obviously, he was waiting for her to tell a lie, so he could catch her in it. The cartridge factored in how? She couldn’t tell. Play the eyewitness and explain what you saw... What could she say? Three that she hired, and one from Gawain? Did he want her to point a finger at him? Make her seem unstable, paranoid, unreliable?

  A lie would sink her, but the truth was worse.

  And it was all she had.

  “One came from behind,” she said, like she was dredging up distant memories, instead of fresh horrors that she couldn’t quite erase from her mind. “Another came up the front, just before you got there.”

  There. As little as possible, and all things considered, avoiding her involvement as much as possible. With no crossbows in the mix, the two attackers might well have been working as one. One from the front, one from the rear, both with daggers... it was a tidy story. The cartridge was a loose thread, but it could be explained away under any number of scenarios... a spare from a guard, or maybe a misplaced—

  “And before that?” Lancelot asked. “Something set things in motion, but I couldn’t see what it was, from where I was standing.”

  She breathed in a long, slow breath. Where was he going with this? Why was he so intent on making her call out his comrades? What did he want?

  “I don’t know what—” she ventured.

  “Before the screaming,” he said. “By the eastern doors.” She made it clear to him she didn’t want to answer, but he just smiled in return. “Think back.”

  She played the part, reluctantly. “I believe there was a man with a crossbow,” she said.

  “You believe?”