The people of Camelot wore gay colors and a baffling array of styles and outlandish fashions. Even the houses were painted in a bewildering array of colors, and in the late afternoon sunlight, the city glowed like jewels scattered across the hilltop.
The sounds of commerce and a city living in peace floated up to the two of them at the top of the palace.
“Camelot is a wonder, Arthur,” Lancelot breathed. “You have built this marvel.”
“I did not lift a single stone,” Arthur said, smiling.
“But you fought and won the peace that was needed to allow Camelot to grow.”
Arthur rested his hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. “Sometimes, I forget that.”
“Then I will remind you of it when needed,” Lancelot replied, smiling with him.
A hail and a horn blowing drew their attention to the massive gates at the top of the steep causeway. A caravan of horses and carts approached, a dark banner at the front.
“Kernow,” Arthur breathed. “King Mark has arrived just in time.”
Lancelot glanced at him, startled. “For my mother?”
“Yes,” Arthur said stoutly. “And because you have returned yourself. I asked Mark to attend. It does everyone good to come together and remember what we have worked for and acknowledge what we have achieved. We have scattered across Britain for too long.”
“Ah. Then I am just the excuse.” Lancelot laughed.
“And a damned fine excuse you are, too.” Arthur laughed with him. “No one but you could have dealt with Claudas, Lancelot. He has been a thorn in the side of Britain for far too long. You deserve every accolade the court presses upon you, and for my sake, you will accept them.”
“You know I abhor fuss,” Lancelot said.
“Which is why I am insisting upon this. People need heroes, Lancelot.”
Lancelot cleared his throat. He was shifting on his feet like a young boy, he realized. Nimue had always teased him for the betraying action. He made himself stop. “If you insist, then of course, I will accept whatever honor is deemed fit for me.”
“Thank you.”
The gates thudded shut behind the last of King Mark’s people, the sound only a faint knock from up here. Lancelot’s gaze skimmed over the green, fertile land surrounding Camelot. Farther on, beyond the fens, he could see well-tilled fields, ready for planting and seeding. Cottages and round houses were scattered among them, all with smoke from cooking fires drifting up from their roofs. Cattle and sheep grazed on the sweet new grasses.
It was a peaceful, settled view.
“On a clear day, you can see the sea from up here,” Arthur said, “from two different directions. To the south, and to the west.”
“I am not in the least surprised by that,” Lancelot replied. His gaze fell upon the spiked irregular hill on the horizon. “Is it true that Morgan lives upon Avalon, now?”
“So we suspect,” Arthur said, his tone heavy. “Some call her Morgan the Goddess now and say she walks the paths, hooded and cloaked, to weave spells upon anyone she comes across.”
Lancelot laughed, but it was a weak sound. “That would not surprise me, either.”
“My sister had an eye for you, I know.”
“It was not mutual,” Lancelot assured him quickly.
“Is that why you went away?”
“You asked me to deal with Claudas,” Lancelot pointed out.
“And stayed away,” Arthur added.
Lancelot’s gut tightened. He found himself pulling together words to use in reply. Excuses.
Something in Arthur’s eyes made the words dry up and disappear. Lancelot found himself speaking honestly. “I did not stay away because I wanted to, Arthur. I have missed…so much.” He waved his hand toward the city that had not been here when he left. “I would have been here to help you with this, if I could.”
Arthur’s shoulders relaxed a tiny fraction.
Lancelot said, “Something troubles you, old friend.”
Arthur turned away. He leaned on the railing once more.
Lancelot waited.
Arthur gave a great sigh. “I have forgotten what it is like to speak freely,” he admitted. “If for nothing else but the freedom to say exactly what is in my mind, I have missed you, Lancelot. It is the smallest thing among your many gifts, but for me…it is the very greatest.”
Lancelot leaned on the railing next to him. “What is it, Arthur?”
Still, Arthur hesitated. Then he exhaled heavily. “There are some—I will not say who—but there are some who have spoken to me about putting Guenivere aside. Finding another queen.”
Lancelot’s heart squeezed. “Another queen who will bear you an heir,” he finished.
Arthur didn’t shift his gaze away from the city beneath him. “Now they have peace, they look to the future. It is natural.”
“You considered Gawain as a potential heir,” Lancelot pointed out.
“He is from the north.” Arthur’s tone was one of agreement. “To name him heir would bind the north to me, yet Idris has already done so. And Gawain does not want it.”
“He said so?” Lancelot asked, startled. He could not imagine Gawain telling the High King of Britain “no” to any request Arthur made of the man.
“I did not ask. I know Gawain. He is as old as me, Lancelot. As old as any of us. He is restless and cannot settle to peace. When I can spare the time, I wonder what will become of him. He has his father’s drive and his witch mother’s ambitious streak, and nothing to spend either upon. There are only so many sacks of wine and agreeable women to be had.”
Lancelot grimaced.
“You do not like Gawain,” Arthur guessed.
“He is a mighty warrior,” Lancelot said quickly. “It is more that he does not like me, but that is not unusual.”
Arthur’s smile was brief. “Most men resent what appears to be effortless success. They always have.”
Lancelot shook his head. “I do not shrivel without their approval.”
“You’re too busy working for your success to care,” Arthur finished, his smile reappearing again.
Lancelot’s heart had recovered and now beat evenly once more. It gave him the strength to broach the subject once more. “Do not put Guenivere aside, Arthur.”
Arthur lifted a brow. “It is the political thing to do.”
“Which is why you should not,” Lancelot said.
“I should deny a reasonable request from those who look to me?”
“That’s the politician speaking.”
“Then give me a good reason to refuse them,” Arthur demanded.
Lancelot realized with a jolt that Arthur was asking him for a reason. He wanted an excuse—any excuse—to refuse those who pressured him. “Putting her aside would dishonor Leodegrance, who was the very first of the old lords to swear fealty to you. And it would dishonor the very land upon which you stand,” Lancelot said. “Guenivere is of the Summer Country. It would be an insult to everyone who lives within sight of Camelot, if you refuted her.”
Arthur nodded. “That will do. For now,” he added, his voice low. “If things do not change, if there is no…if nothing changes, then even honor will not be enough to silence them.”
“Honor is always enough.”
Arthur shook his head. “We have lived through generations of war and killing because the notion of honor demanded we fight. We were slaughtered in Rome because we clung to honor instead of fighting the Roman army as we should have—and their emperor used it against us. We have lost much, because of honor.”
Lancelot stared at him in amazement. “How is one to conduct themselves if they have no honor to guide them? This is madness, Arthur. You cannot put honor aside.”
“I do not suggest we should,” Arthur replied, his tone cool. “But we have applied honor in the wrong way, for far too long. Honor should not demand we kill our friend because he stole our cow.”
Lancelot laughed. “Then who would stop my neighbor from stealing the entir
e herd if I do not stop him?”
“The law,” Arthur replied.
“The…law…?”
“Laws. Rules. And punishments for when those rules are broken. Punishments that are handed out properly and with consideration—and not simply one neighbor gutting another over an insult.” He straightened and shook his head. “I am still sorting it out in my own mind, Lancelot. Rome used laws in this way, and they controlled peace for centuries, to the point where any Roman could walk freely anywhere in the empire and know that Rome would defend him…and they did. We decry Rome, Lancelot, but we should not cast aside all that is Roman as useless or evil.”
Lancelot stared at him. “You have been busy while I was away. This is…it requires thought.”
Arthur laughed. “Merlin has been grinding it into me for years. You have some catching up to do. We’re still refining the ideas, so there is time yet.”
“Speaking of which—” Lancelot said, glancing at the lowering sun. It was close to the horizon.
“There you are!” came the exasperated exclamation from the top of the stairs to the roof.
They both turned as Guenivere stepped up onto the walkway and let the folds of her gown drop. “I’ve been looking for you, Arthur. The ceremony cannot start without you. Either of you, come to that,” she added, with a glance at Lancelot. “The sun is nearly to the horizon. You must go down to the spring.”
Lancelot’s heart leapt again. He managed to keep his face still and his expression urbane. She was a lovely, visionary creature. He had forgotten, while he was away, just how beautiful she was. Or perhaps she had become even more beautiful. In person, Guenivere outshone any memory he had of her. He found his gaze running over her face and figure, storing the details.
“You are pale, madam,” he said, fighting to keep his tone polite. “Should you be on your feet, just yet?”
Guenivere’s cheeks flamed red. “I am well enough,” she said stiffly and looked back at Arthur expectantly. “Really, Arthur, you must come now. I have not spent the entire day bullying Cai just so you can insult the priests by failing to arrive on time. They insist the ceremony must take place at sunset and by running water, and I do not know enough about their religion to argue the point.”
“My mother was a Christian,” Lancelot added apologetically to Arthur.
“She had to make up for your pagan excesses,” Guenivere shot back. Then her eyes widened and her lips parted.
Arthur gave a great bellow, throwing his head back.
Lancelot found he was laughing, too. It was rare for anyone to ever point out his faults. The last who had dared was Vivian…and she had raised him.
After a moment, even Guenivere smiled.
Chapter Eight
For the ceremony, Guenivere had insisted that Tegan stand with her family, even though Guenivere’s face was whiter than snow and Tegan could see that she had done too much this day and was near exhaustion.
With Cadoc gone, Tegan was glad to be beside her father, with Lancelot on his other side. Bricius stood like a rock throughout the prayers for Elaine’s soul. The priests spoke Latin with a British accent, which grated upon Tegan’s ear, although it was not nearly as repulsive to her as the sound of guttural Saxon.
As twilight dropped over the city, the prayers ended and the only sound was the bubbling of the spring and the water sluicing along the channels that ran in all four directions, serving the city with fresh water.
Bricius gave a great, harsh exhalation of breath and closed his eyes, as everyone moved away from the spring and the temporary altar with its simple cross, heading to the palace for the feast that was to follow.
Arthur gripped Bricius’ arm for a moment. “She will be missed,” he said quietly. He glanced at Lancelot. “Elaine worked for peace and gave up much to ensure victory. It pleases me that for her last years, she was happy.”
Bricius nodded. “It pleases me to know that, too. Thank you.”
“Lancelot, you were her greatest gift to the world,” Arthur added to the man beside Bricius. “She had the wisdom to see you reached your potential. Thanks to the gods for that.”
One of the priests behind Arthur coughed and cleared his throat.
“Whatever gods they were,” Arthur added, with a quirk at the corner of his mouth.
Lancelot looked as though he were trying not to laugh. Tegan realized with a jolt that her father was smiling, too. Arthur had found a way to ease their hearts.
She hurried ahead to find Guenivere and ensure she sat and rested as soon as possible, and to fend off Melwaes’ attempts to help her to the palace. The worst of the day was behind her. Only the feast lay ahead.
At least there was the feast ahead, Gawain thought, as he moved through the courtyard to the doors of the great hall. He thoroughly approved of feasts, for wine flowed well on such occasions and a full belly always helped one relax, too.
There were at least four major feasts each year, and the Christians had their own calendar of events which required food, wine and gift-giving. Plus, Arthur tended to call for feasting for any number of odd events, including Lancelot’s return, tonight.
Gawain might not approve of Lancelot, but he could happily raise a glass of wine to the man’s fighting prowess and enjoy the evening, anyway. Yet he had barely settled at the table and raised a finger to beckon the pot boy before the first tendrils of unease made themselves felt.
Gaheris was not at the head of the Lothian table, as usual, but Gawain was certain the man was in the hall. He was always on time for such things, while Gawain was…not.
Gawain looked around. “Agravaine,” he said, catching the attention of his little brother. “Where is Gaheris?”
Agravaine’s eyes were bloodshot and he hunched over the mug in front of him. It was clearly not the first cup of the evening for him. “Why should I know?” he replied.
“He’s over there,” Gareth said, leaning forward to see Gawain around Agravaine’s slouch. “At the Dunoding table.”
Gawain frowned, turning on his stool. “Where is the damned wine?” he muttered, as he located the Dunoding table. Gaheris was sitting with Bricius, who was otherwise alone at the table. Lancelot did not sit there and…where was Tegan?
He glanced over his shoulder, to see that Tegan was beside the Queen at the King’s table, watching over Guenivere, who looked as though she should still be abed after the loss of her child.
He turned back to study the Dunoding table. What was Gaheris doing there? He and Bricius were talking intently, their heads close together.
Then the pot boy arrived. Gawain turned his attention to the filling of a mug and the drinking of half of it before the boy stepped away from the table, so it could be refilled instantly.
The horns announced Arthur’s arrival. Everyone in the hall scrambled to their feet. Stools toppled, chairs scraped.
Arthur moved over to the big chair at the head of the King’s table and looked around. “Lancelot.” He did not speak loudly, but as the entire hall was silent, he did not have to raise his voice.
Lancelot moved to the table and bowed.
“As the guest of honor, you will sit with us at my table,” Arthur told him.
“As you wish, my lord,” Lancelot said gravely.
Gawain rolled his eyes and wished it wasn’t impolite to reach for his mug while everyone was still on their feet waiting for the King to seat himself.
Finally, Arthur settled upon the big chair and everyone sat once more.
The kitchen staff moved into the hall with their heavy trays and cauldrons, all steaming and trailing delicious scents.
Ah, he loved feasts!
Gaheris returned to his chair at the head of the table and tapped Gareth on the shoulder. “Swap seats with Gawain. I want to speak to him.”
Gareth moved around the table, happy to oblige. He was an amenable fellow when not influenced by Agravaine.
Agravaine looked as though he was settling in for a night of heavy drinking. He had pushed
his plate away.
Gawain moved up to the other end of the table and settled on Gareth’s stool. There was no one on the other side of the table, even though stools were placed there. They had always told those who asked about the empty stools that they were there to honor those who could not sit at the table—their mother, and the queen whom Gaheris was yet to find.
The truth was, Gawain could not bring himself to sit where his mother had sat on the right of his father. He was glad that she had offended Arthur enough that she was banished from court. It saved Gawain from having to deal with her slippery ways. He presumed his brothers felt the same way, even Agravaine, for none of them ever tried to use those stools, either.
Sometimes, other members of the court who stopped by the table would use the stools. While they sat on them, Gawain writhed, waiting for them to get up once more.
It would have been easier to have the stools taken away, but that would be too deliberate an act of repudiation. So the stools remained.
Gawain glared at the empty places and drank deeply.
The four of them remained silent while the food was being served, all no doubt busy with their own thoughts. Gawain was pleased to not have to think at all. He waved for more wine before the meal was served, then turned to the business of eating, while the venison was still hot and burned his fingers.
Gaheris at least waited until Gawain had eaten most of his meal. Gaheris finished his own then pushed his platter aside. He was a picky eater, with no excess flesh on his long body and a face that seemed to grow narrower each year. The red of his hair faded each year, too.
Gaheris cleared his throat. He glanced over his shoulder for anyone within hearing distance, but the next tables were all busy with their meals and drinking and talking among themselves.
Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7) Page 9