When Rawn’s large silhouette slid through the camp and he eased under the leather and curled his body around hers, Mair’s heart leapt. And although they could not indulge themselves freely, right there beside the fire and surrounded by Corneus warriors, Rawn did manage to delight her.
Sliding to sleep afterwards, with her head pillowed on his arm, was a most pleasant end to the second to last pleasant day facing anyone lying upon the great plain that night.
Now the huge host and every last person in Amesbury had gathered among the standing stones to wait for dawn, and the consecration of Arthur as High King.
Rawn stood with Arthur’s permanent army, as was proper. Mair could see him among the warriors, the checkered cloak of Brocéliande around his shoulders, pinned with the fibula carrying the tree symbol of his house.
Everyone was dressed in their finest, with tribe colors and house symbols on display in pins and on tunics, seal rings and arm bands. Leaders of the very oldest houses wore golden torcs about their necks—pieces of glory from the time before the Romans had conquered Britain, which had been handed down from lord to lord.
Great swords, symbols of lineage and the glory of their owners, were strapped to hips. The women wore elegant robes and delicate mantles, with jewelry dangling from their ears and wrists and arms, and more shining at their necks. Even Mair wore the best finery she had tucked in the big chest in her tent at Venta Belgarum—a green gown made of slippery silk and a fine wool mantle of the same color. The color, she had been told by many, matched her eyes.
Especially today, she would not forego her status as a fighter in Arthur’s army. She wore Cuallguoled at her side, threaded upon a jeweled belt, instead of the plain fighting belt she normally wore.
In the very depth of the night, they had gathered here and silently witnessed Arthur’s walk to the great altar stone in the center of the circle. Beneath the altar, Ambrosius was buried. That reason, among many, made this dance of giant stones a suitable place to make a king in the eyes of leaders of every religion, including the Christian priests, who had touched the great sword carved into the altar and called it a crucifix.
Arthur was accompanied by figures in white hoods and cloaks bearing torches which flamed steadily in the still of the night. He was bare headed and wore a simple tunic, bereft of jewels or heirlooms. He carried Excalibur, not on his hip, but in his hands.
The priests and shamans laid him upon the altar, Excalibur on his chest, his hands at his sides. The ritual cut on each palm let his blood drip upon the altar, then onto the ground, where it mingled with the earth and the power which laid in it.
The first fiery, dazzling edge of the sun appeared above the horizon. The light was undimmed by clouds. It arrowed across the plain, between standing stones, to paint the altar with light. It was not the aperture the sun appeared through at mid-winter, yet the renewal was the same.
As the year turned, a king was born.
Chanting, very low, so the sacred words could not be distinguished, broke the silence of the moment.
The Christian priests made their signs over the altar, as Merlin, wearing unadorned black, stepped to the foot of the altar and stared into the sun. “Rise, Arthur, High King of Britain.”
Something like a soft sigh passed through the people, as Arthur got to his feet, Excalibur once more in his hands. In the morning light, his red hair glowed with light and fire. His eyes, which everyone said were identical to his father’s, seemed to burn with fierce determination.
Mair shivered. She prayed to no gods and none called her theirs, yet the simple ceremony deeply moved her.
As the sun rose higher, with a speed which seemed to indicate it approved of the affair happening beneath it, Merlin moved around Arthur and the altar stone, calling, “Greet your new king, Arthur, son of Uther of the house of Pendragon!”
The cheering and clapping and stomping of feet upon the earth showed their approval. Mair clapped and laughed and stomped as best she could in her light slippers, as her eyes ached with unshed tears of pride, for Arthur was her king. In that moment, she dedicated her life to him.
As did they all.
Chapter Eighteen
The people of Amesbury had arranged great feasts for kings before, the spokesman for the town had explained. “Just present yourself at the town gates, my lord,” he’d told Arthur. “We will see to the rest.”
Arthur, now properly dressed and with Excalibur on his hip, had walked the two miles to the town gates at the head of the host, while the townsfolk hurried ahead to prepare.
When they moved inside the gates and through the short main road into the vast town square, the feast was ready for them. Long, narrow tables had been set up. Some held food and drink for the guests to select. Others were surrounded by benches, chairs and stools and up-ended logs, for guests to sit and eat.
The longest table was at the top of the square. A massive chair sat behind the center. The lord of the town escorted Arthur to that chair, while his companions selected chairs and stools along the length of the table.
While they were served food and wine, the rest of the host gathered at the other tables to collect their own meals from the steaming pots and kettles spread upon the tables.
Mair was starving by the time she reached a kettle and gripped the ladle to serve herself. She ladled the piping hot stew into her bowl and tore off a hunk of bread. Then she stepped away from the crush at the table, just far enough to dunk the bread in her stew, to sop up the gravy. Her mouth watered.
“You cannot stand about in such a pretty gown and eat on your feet like an animal,” Lancelot said, as he came up beside her.
“I am too hungry to find a seat at a table,” she admitted, and took a huge bite of the bread.
Lancelot rolled his eyes. “Then I will find you one. Come along.” He took her elbow and steered her through the milling crowd. When she realized the direction in which he headed, she thrust out her foot to halt his progress. “I cannot sit at Arthur’s table!”
“It is a dining table, not a counsel.” Lancelot released her elbow, pulled out a small stool and patted it. “See, it is the most uncomfortable seat at the table, the one no one else dares sit upon.”
The men sitting at the table watched the by-play, smiling as they ate. Their amusement let Mair relax and put her bowl on the table before the stool, then sit upon it. The stool was as uncomfortable as it appeared to be. One of the three legs was shorter than the others, and the seat too small for anyone but a child to find it an adequate perch.
Mair didn’t care. A solid surface to hold her bowl while she ate was sufficient to keep her there. As Lancelot pulled up a larger stool beside her, Mair ate quickly.
She knew everyone at the table. They were all the senior officers who surrounded Arthur day and night and protected him in battle. King Pellinore sat directly in front. He had finished his plate of meat and bread and carved a hunk of cheese into smaller pieces, in between mouthfuls of wine. His lined eyes were faded, yet still bright with energy. As he worked at the cheese, his gaze shifted, taking in the movement of the people in the square.
He dropped his knife and waved. “Here!” he called.
Mair turned as the longer bench beside her was pushed away from the table with a scrape of wood on the stones beneath. Pellinore had pushed it out with his foot, beneath the table.
“Come and join your son at the table, my Lady,” Pellinore added.
Elaine stood a few paces away, her expression uncertain. Only a few more steps behind her, Bricius stood scowling.
“Pellinore…” Lancelot said, his tone chiding. He raised his voice. “There is room for two, Lady Mother.”
Elaine glanced at Bricius. He gave the smallest of movements with his shoulders. A shrug?
Elaine moved over to the bench, gathering her gown up at the front in both hands to prepare to step over the bench, so she could sit upon it rather than straddle it.
Pellinore lurched to his feet and leaned over the narr
ow table to hold out his hand to her and smile.
Bricius knocked his hand away and held out his own to Elaine, with a glare at Pellinore.
Everyone in that section of the table made oohing sounds. Laughter accompanied it.
Then Bricius hooked the bench with his boot and pulled one end of it away from the table, so Elaine could decorously step around it. He pushed it back beneath her.
Elaine’s smile at Bricius was a warm reward.
Druston patted Pellinore’s shoulder, as the older man sat down. “You must find a different meadow to plow, Pellie.”
Everyone laughed at that. It seemed this really was a relaxed, no-business meal.
While Bricius secured platters and bowls for the two, Elaine rubbed her temples, frowning.
“You are well, Elaine?” Mair asked her softly, for Elaine sat beside her. It would not be good for Elaine to fight tomorrow while battling illness.
“It is nothing. Merely a headache. I have been short on sleep since…well, it does seem like forever,” Elaine muttered.
“You’d best put the blame for that upon Bricius,” Percival said. He was on his father Pellinore’s left side.
Elaine’s cheeks colored. “I have spent days learning a superior way of fighting so that tomorrow I will help Arthur find victory. The learning takes effort.”
Silence greeted her words. Mair spotted small nods of agreement along the table.
Then Bryn, Druston’s partner, pushed a platter piled high with loaves of bread toward Mair. “You appear in need of more,” he added.
She nodded her thanks and tore off more bread.
“Hector, the bouquet of flowers there,” Gawain said, his voice rising so Hector, who sat on Lancelot’s right, could hear him. Gawain sat farther down the table, on the same side as Mair, yet his voice and accent were distinct enough for her to recognize who spoke. “Pass it down, will you?”
Hector peered at the bunch of flowers sitting in an old, chipped Samain jug in the center of the table. He shoved the jug down the table.
Mair moved it along, too. So did Bricius.
“What’s wrong, Pellinore?” Gawain asked, as he plucked the flowers from the cup and slapped them upon the table. “You look as though your favorite wolf hound ran away.” He reached for the jug of wine before him and poured a cupful, then sliced the flowers with his eating dagger.
Pellinore lifted his gaze from his cheese and glanced at Gawain. He shook his head. “Pay me no mind. This is not the moment for such words.”
“Ah, the morose Listenoise clan,” Lancelot murmured.
Pellinore glanced at him. “It is more than misery which gnaws at me, boy.”
Lancelot raised his brow. “It is?” His tone was polite.
Mair wondered if Lancelot was truly ignorant of the Listenoise family’s blight. Everyone else was aware of it, even though no one spoke of it openly—certainly not in front of Pellinore.
Pellinore picked up his knife and returned to paring the cheese. “Then you haven’t heard about the madness which grips my family?”
Lancelot didn’t show an inch of surprise. “The madness which drives you to woo a taken lady and risk a sword in your belly?”
Everyone laughed again. Even Elaine gave a little titter, as she pressed her fingers to her temple.
Pellinore picked up a sliver of cheese. “Tomorrow, I will be safe from the madness, for tomorrow, I will have a battle to fight. Today, though, I have nothing but my thoughts to keep me company and not even the presence of a beautiful lady to offset them.” He raised the cheese toward Elaine, then took a bite of it.
“Fighting stops you going mad, Pellie?” Bricius asked, sounding doubtful.
“To be of use stops me going mad,” Pellinore said.
Horror touched Mair. Was everyone in Pellinore’s family—Percival and Dindrane, Aglovale, Lamorak…were they all afflicted by this need to work, or go mad?
Pellinore swallowed. “It is a family thing,” he added, speaking to Lancelot. “Some families strive to be the perfect warriors,” and his gaze flickered toward Mair, “while others want only to be the best.” His gaze shifted back to Lancelot.
“Not the best,” Lancelot said, his voice even. “Merely the most effective I can be at slewing the enemy. If you are better at it than me, I will not consider it a slight upon my family. I will merely step aside and let you hew the many I cannot. We all stand behind the Pendragon and face the same enemy, do we not?”
Pellinore raised his cup, with a nod, and drank. So did many others.
“Maybe you should come north with us, Pellinore,” Gawain said. He crushed and ground the flowers between the heels of his hands as he spoke, letting the fragments fall into the wine, beneath. “There will be more than enough to do up there, for every man who rides with us.”
“Perhaps I should,” Pellinore said. “I have family there, too.”
“You do?” Gawain’s hands grew still for a moment.
Pellinore picked up more cheese, with a grim smile. “My cousin Pedr. King of Corbenic.”
“Of where?” Bricius asked. “I’ve never heard of that place.”
“Most haven’t,” Pellinore said. “My mad cousin, the Fisher King, lives somewhere north of the great wall, in a valley accessible only by a high mountain pass. For him, the madness arrived early and with great force, poor man.”
“Then even you don’t know how to find the place?” Lancelot asked. “What happened to send him mad?”
Pellinore considered the wine in his cup. “We are descendants of the royal line of Joseph of Arimathea. It was our holy duty to guard the sacred cup of Christians. Pedr took it to heart. He swore he would serve God and no one else. He cut himself off from everyone and everything. Then a maiden found her way into the valley, quite by accident. Pedr discovered he is a man like any other man, with the same weaknesses of the flesh. She seduced him.” He tossed the wine back, grimaced and put the cup down with a soft thud.
Everyone was listening carefully, now.
“He went quite mad, after,” Pellinore added and stabbed at more cheese with his knife. “The woman died giving birth to his daughter. Now he and his daughter live alone in the hidden valley…and I sorely hope it remains hidden from the Saxons, for I shudder to think what they would do to the pair.”
“You speak of your cousin, Pellinore?” Arthur said.
Mair tore her gaze away from Pellinore and looked up. Arthur stood behind the King of Listenoise. He had moved along the table while everyone focused upon Pellinore.
“My cousin Pedr, yes,” Pellinore said, with a grimace.
Arthur rested his hand on Pellinore’s shoulder. “Never fear, my friend. You will have more than enough to do, starting tomorrow.”
Pellinore nodded, his expression returning to the sad one which had begun the conversation. “Is there something I can do for you, Arthur?” he added.
Arthur shook his head. “This long straight table is useless. I cannot see everyone the way I can when we sit about the fire. Gawain, what are you doing?”
“Curing a headache,” Gawain said. He held the cup of wine in his fingers, swirling the bottom of the cup over the flame of the lamp closest to him.
Arthur leaned between the shoulders of Druston and Pellinore and sniffed. “Mint?” he guessed.
“And lavender.” Gawain held the cup toward Bricius. “For your lady, to cure her ills.”
“Thank you, Gawain,” Elaine called.
Bricius handed the cup to her. She sniffed, then sipped.
“I had almost forgotten about your cousin up in the wilds, Pellinore,” Arthur said. “Although it occurs to me that Listenoise is directly south of both Galleva and the wall.”
“And overlooking the sea, yes,” Pellinore said.
Arthur nodded. “Galleva is without a leader. Steffan will do what he can. The forest protects them from the north. However, if battle comes to those lands, as it will without strong leaders in the north to stop the Saxon tide, then Gallev
a will fall without resistance.”
Mair drew in a shaky breath. How many other kingdoms and lands were as vulnerable as Corneus?
“Cai refuses to go back and in truth, I cannot spare him,” Arthur added.
“You have Idris for the north,” Pellinore pointed out.
“I will send you, too,” Arthur replied. “I need men there who are not afraid to make decisions without me to confirm their guesses. Would you go north with Gawain and Idris and see to the fortifications of Galleva on your way, Pellinore? I do not want to see my homeland fall, yet I must deal with the Saxons on my doorstep instead.”
Pellinore looked grave. “Galleva will not fall, Arthur. I will make sure of it.”
“Good man.” Arthur slapped his shoulder.
“Mair…” Lancelot murmured and touched her arm, drawing her attention. His black eyes were grave as he lifted his chin toward something behind her.
Mair swiveled on the uncomfortable stool.
Rawn stood by the nearest food table, a wine pitcher in hand. He stared at her, with an unreadable expression in his face. As Mair’s glance fell upon him, he put the pitcher down with a sloshing thud and strode away from the table.
Mair hurried after him. “Rawn!”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Not here,” he growled. Fury made his eyes glitter.
She ignored his rebuke and tried to catch up with him as he wove between tables and clumps of people. He had longer legs, though. She picked up her hems and ran.
Rawn was nearly out of the square when she caught up with him. He was heading for the road which led to the front gates and the bridge over the river. Mair dropped her gown and gripped his arm, instead. It was a bright, warm morning, and he had his cloak furled back over his shoulder, leaving his arms bare. She felt heat and warmth and the solid muscles which intrigued her so much.
“Rawn. Please.”
He came to a halt without warning. She slithered to a stop beside him and turned to confront him. “Rawn.”
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