The Chessboard Queen by Sharan Newman

backward glance. In the growing sunlight, the carving on the Table began to show and, in a clearing a day’s journey away, Lancelot prepared to ride.
     
     

 
     
    Chapter Five
     
     
    The first thing everyone did upon seeing the Table for the first time was to reach out and touch it. All that day people filed past, running their hands over the ancient, silken wood. They spoke in whispers, as if in the presence of a sacred relic. Arthur stood nearby, watching. His excitement was too great for him even to sit down.
    He had awakened that morning at first light and hurried out to the balcony. It was not high enough for him to look down into the main Hall and see if anything were there. The sun rose higher and caught the glass in the roof so that it was reflected. It seemed to him that the glow was a good omen, like a huge golden chalice. Arthur couldn’t wait any longer. He returned to the room and began throwing on his clothes. He was glad that it was summer; a tunic and a belt and quickly-laced sandals were all he needed. He started to run out, then stopped and looked back at the bed. Guinevere had burrowed down into the sheet until only a truant braid could be seen. He hesitated, went over, and folded down the linen to find her face. She winced and mumbled something as the light hit her eyes. Arthur laughed.
    “Wake up, my love. Don’t you want to see the Table? You must come with me. It’s your dowry, after all.”
    She mumbled something more and tried to turn her face back into the sheet, but Arthur lifted her by the shoulders, propping her head against his chest as he continued to exhort her.
    “The Table, Guinevere! Merlin said it would be in the Hall by morning. I want you with me when I see it for the first time and I will not wait another minute. Wake up, dearest, please! What did you say?”
    “I said,” she spluttered, pulling a loose strand of hair from her mouth, “I said, I will come with you.” She yawned. “Only couldn’t it wait? I need my hair done and a clean robe.”
    “You look beautiful, Guinevere,” Arthur assured her and meant it. “This robe is clean enough. No one will see us. Just run over there with me and then we can come back and get properly dressed.”
    “All right,” she said as she stretched and yawned again. “I hope we don’t awaken the rest of Camelot. Hand me the robe, please.”
    Arthur watched patiently as she tossed off her nightdress and pulled on the robe. Even after five years her body was still so beautiful to him that he felt something close to awe every time he saw her undressed. Perhaps that was why he still felt so clumsy making love to her. It was more like the violation of a shrine than the tender union of two people. He blamed himself that Guinevere had never learned to enjoy it.
    She caught his intense stare and felt unsure. Her fingers twisted her braids, disheveled after the night. She undid them and her hair fell loose, almost to her knees. From the protection of that cloak, she smiled at her husband.
    “Do you really believe the Table will be there?”
    The robe slipped over her head. She pulled her hair out from under it.
    Arthur grabbed her hand. “Yes, I do and I want to be the first one to see it. Let’s go.”
    They ran across the courtyard like guilty children, laughing in whispers, and arrived breathless at the doors. Arthur stared at the grain of the wood. At the moment of truth, he almost doubted. Then he raised his arms and, with a dramatic sweep, pushed the doors inward.
    The Great Hall was still dark except for the ring of golden light pouring down on the Table. Carving could now be made out on the legs and around the rim. It was enormous, practically brushing against the pillars supporting the roof. Guinevere had never seen it before in the light. Her memories of it were of a hulking shape lurking in the dark. Her brothers had taken her with them to see it and had dared her to touch it. The sight of it then had terrified her into