“Not hurt?” I asked as Ulfin’s son dismounted.
“Not a scratch, M’lady—not a scratch!”
With a yelp of glee I flung my arms about him and we danced a wild little jig amid chickens and children while the rest of the household came dashing to see what all the commotion was about.
“There’s others that are wounded, some of them right bad,” Griflet added breathlessly when we came to a stop. “But the Irish have been driven from southern Wales once and for all, and His Highness is mighty hungry.”
“You there,” I called to the youngsters, having instantly decided on the menu. “Whoever catches that roaming porker gets an extra helping of dessert. Just bring him around to Cook so she can get started.”
Next afternoon the Companions marched down the broad Roman Road with the sun glinting off their spearheads and the horses prancing proudly under the Banner of the Red Dragon.
Brigit and I stood on the ramparts while the crowd gathered by the gates and filled the air with cheers and clapping as they waited for the victorious warriors.
Even from a distance Arthur looked splendid: bronzed and ruddy, he carried the pride of his accomplishment with youthful vigor. As he reached the gate he glanced up with that fine, level gaze that marks him so clearly as Igraine’s son. I was jumping up and down, waving my scarf and cheering along with the rest, and when he saw me he grinned and gave the Roman “thumbs up” sign before passing under the arch. I turned and raced down the steps, hurrying along the back streets to avoid the crowd as I rushed to the portico of the basilica.
The mob was pressing into the archway of the forum’s plaza, clogging the entrance and bringing the royal stallion to a fidgeting halt. The trumpeter had to blow several flourishes before the people parted and by then I’d skinned in the back door and was waiting for the public welcome.
The crowd rippled aside as Arthur made his way toward me. The rest of the Companions were strung out behind him, caught in the crush of people still funneling into the plaza. It was impossible to see who was there and who was not, but at that moment all I cared was that my husband had come home in one piece and was glowing with triumph.
As queen and spokesman for the people I intended to give him the traditional greeting but when a squire hurried forward to hold the warhorse, Arthur leapt from the saddle and bounded up the steps to my side. Without waiting for the time-honored words, he slid one arm around my waist and swung round to salute our subjects, then lifted me off my feet and kissed me soundly as the crowd went wild.
“Now that,” he shouted over the uproar, “is more like a welcome home!”
Held firm against the length of his body, I threw my head back and laughed with him, happier than I’d ever been before in my life.
We rode the crest of exhilaration through the joyful public display, and it was only later, after the ritual bath had soaked away the dirt and bruises of the Road, that I told him about Igraine’s death. He turned and stared out the window, his face as empty as the twilight sky above the treetops. One hand reached up, unbidden, to touch the amulet he wore around his neck—the charm Igraine had sent with him when she gave him up. Then with a sigh he turned and smiled slightly at me.
“Thank you for going to her—between you and Morgan, I’m sure she had the best of care.”
“Morgan wasn’t there,” I answered, wondering how he thought she could have made the trip from Lakeland to Logres on such short notice.
“Not there? You mean she stayed here and let you go alone?” Suddenly Arthur was standing before me, both hands on my shoulders. “Morgan is here, isn’t she? She must be.”
When I shook my head he turned away with an oath. “I can’t understand it. The best healer in all of Britain, my own half-sister and High Priestess to the Gods, and she isn’t here when I need her. I specifically requested that she join you.”
Arthur’s voice was sharp with frustration, and he quaffed his wine in a single draft while I bit my lip and looked down at my hands. Apparently Morgan’s anger at me had not abated—no doubt she would have been glad to come to his camp, but because he’d asked her to wait here with me, she’d chosen not to respond. And there was no way for me to explain without the whole story coming out, making me the gossiping little snitch she claimed. So I listened in silence to my husband’s lament and squirmed inwardly at being caught in such an impasse.
With a sigh Arthur sank down at the long table and stared moodily into his cup. “I was counting on her to save Bedivere.”
“Bedivere!” I scrambled over to the bench where Arthur sat, trying to remember if I’d seen the lieutenant in the tumult of greeting just past.
“Aye, Bedivere.” Arthur poured himself another goblet of wine, not even noticing when he spilled some. “He fell in the last encounter…damn near died on the spot, it took every skill we had to staunch the bleeding, and if it hadn’t been for Lance, we wouldn’t have gotten him this far.”
By now my husband was on his feet, moving restlessly back and forth across the rush-strewn floor. Concern for his best friend overshadowed even the season’s victory, and the tension built until he rounded on me sharply.
“Ye Gods, Gwen, what would I do without him?”
It was a cry full of fear and frustration and the unnerving realization of death’s nearness. Now that he had brought his men safely home, the war-leader was free to mutter to himself and quake in the face of what had happened. He refilled his goblet and resumed his pacing.
“At least Brigit is at hand,” I pointed out. “And where Bedivere is concerned, that should make up for the fact that Morgan isn’t looking after him.”
“Ummm…” My husband grunted noncommittally. “Don’t see how.”
I started to point out that Bedivere was in love with my foster-sister and her presence now was bound to cheer him. But Arthur was intent on his own thoughts, so I held my tongue. Besides, love—our own or other people’s—was not something he paid much heed to.
“What I’m most afraid of,” he growled, “is that Bedivere will just give up. It’s a dreadful thing to lose a hand, no matter who you are. But when you’re the High King’s lieutenant and a superb warrior besides, being left with only a stump could mean the end of everything.”
“Or the beginning of something new,” I suggested. “Bedivere’s far more than your lieutenant; he’s been your councilor and confidant for years. Even if he never rides to battle again, surely he’ll go on being your best adviser.”
“That’s true.” Arthur tossed off another cup of wine and putting down his cup, stretched noisily. “It was quite a campaign, Gwen…quite a campaign.”
Igraine once told me that Uther always picked a fight with her on his first night home. She said it was the way he crossed from the outer world where he dominated all others to the inner world where he could drop his own defenses. I watched my husband and wondered how much he would take after his father. I’d never seen a dark, unruly side to Arthur, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
Fortunately he wanted to share his memories rather than get into a row, so I listened carefully as he recounted the war.
At the onset the remnants of last year’s rebels had banded together to meet the Britons in a pitched battle.
“It might have been all over right then,” Arthur noted, seating himself at the end of the table. “The Irish wanted to settle the matter according to the Old Way, in single combat between two champions. Stupid business—almost as chancy as Trial by Combat. I wasn’t going to hear of it, but Gawain got his dander up—you know how he is when it comes to a challenge. And before I knew it, he was on his way out to meet the Irish champion, Marhaus, in a fight to the death. They went at each other from the cool of the morning until well past noon, with neither one able to get the upper hand. In the end both had to be dragged off the field, exhausted and covered with blood.” Arthur shook his head over such folly. “Thank goodness Gawain wasn’t badly hurt; he’s the best warrior I have!”
After
that the enemy had scattered, forcing Arthur to divide his men into independent groups to pursue them.
“We chased them from the Brecon Beacons all the way to the ancient track on Presely Mountain, and from there down into the sea. Half the time my men would go out hunting for dinner and end up in a tangle with the Irish Boar instead.” He leaned back, absentmindedly propping a foot on the bench so that I could undo his boot. “Fortunately many of the men seem to be good leaders as well.”
When I had finished with the first, Arthur raised the other foot. He continued describing the men who had come to join the Companions, and I listened with only half an ear, wondering how long he would go on talking and if he’d be too tired or drunk for loving. Dropping both boots under the table, I got up and went to stand behind him, rubbing his shoulders while he talked.
“There’s one who stands out above all the rest, Gwen,” he said with a yawn as I began to tug at his tunic and finally pulled it over his head. “Lancelot—King Ban’s son from Brittany. Seems he was educated by the Lady of the Lake at the Sanctuary; studied medicine and science and history as well as warfare and swordplay. Thank heavens he learned his lessons well; he’s the one who saved Bedivere on the field.”
I folded the tunic thoughtfully and put it on the table. When I was a child Vivian had been the Lady of the Lake, and she had asked that I come live at the Sanctuary to study with the other princelings there, but my parents had refused. If I had gone, no doubt this Lancelot and I would have grown up together. I looked forward to asking him all sorts of questions, for I’ve always wondered what I had missed.
Behind me Arthur stretched again and I glanced down at his feet, which were still propped on the bench. When he wiggled the toe that poked out of a hole in his sock, I paused to assess the damage, sure there would be a huge pile of mending after a summer of hard wear.
“Got you!” he cried, grabbing me by the waist so unexpectedly that I let out a yip of surprise. He pulled me, laughing and sputtering, down onto his lap.
“You didn’t really think I could be all that tired, did you?” he teased, holding me firmly.
I giggled and struggled, trying to twist around so that I could face him for a kiss, but we knocked over the chair in our tussling, and then we were making love among the rushes and bracken fronds that covered the floor.
It was a rowdy, boisterous coming together, full of Arthur’s usual enthusiasm and directness, and by the time we separated we were both relaxed and happy.
***
But, I thought ruefully, if we’re going to make this a habit, I’d best replace the rushes with a rug.
Chapter IV
The Fellowship
When Arthur’s men divided up to chase the Irish across Wales, they agreed to rendezvous in Silchester at the autumn equinox. Now the war-bands began to straggle in, anxious for news of comrades and eager to celebrate the end of the campaign.
I met the men as much by accident as by intention, in one case literally bumping into a pair of them when our paths crossed in the barnyard.
“Ohhh!” I sputtered, trying to keep from dropping my basket of eggs, but burst out laughing as I recognized Palomides.
The Arab who had brought the use of stirrups to Arthur gave me a mischievous smile and bowed with a flourish. “Pelleas,” he said, turning to his companion, “behold the High Queen.”
I looked at the newcomer curiously, for Arthur had said he had the makings of a superb horseman. Thin and awkward, he went down on one knee and began stammering out an apology for not having recognized me.
“That’s all right,” I assured him. “Palomides mistook me for a page the first time we met.”
The Arab and I laughed at the memory while Pelleas gawked in disbelief and when Palomides leaned down to give him a hand, I hurried on to the kitchen.
Next morning, as we were getting out of bed, Arthur announced we should hold a victory celebration. “Something grand, like the reunion at Caerleon…” He was splashing at the water bucket and went on talking as he dried head and face with a towel. “Think you could arrange it for a week from now?”
“Dear man, do you have any idea how long it takes to put on a feast?” I slipped out of bed and crept up behind him. “Never get it done in time,” I declared, yanking the corner of the towel so fiercely that he spun around in surprise.
“Of course you can,” he responded, hanging on to the towel in spite of me. “Cei will help you.”
And then we were in a tug-of-war, laughing and playing, with all plans for the feast forgotten. So it was midday before I located Arthur’s foster-brother.
It was Cei’s fine eye for detail that had led Arthur to make him Seneschal of the Realm. Many find his sharp tongue unpleasant, particularly when he’s collecting taxes from them. But I admire his dedication to Arthur and his ability to ferret out hard-to-locate items amid a hundred ruins and unnamed sources.
He embraced the idea of a feast enthusiastically. “The basilica’s not in bad shape, except for the corner where the roof’s fallen in. Have to get rid of the owls…” Cei frowned for a minute, then brightened. “You look to the guests, M’lady, and I’ll take care of the festivities.”
So Silchester became a beehive of activity. Arthur took out daily hunting parties, which kept the warriors occupied and added to Cei’s menu at the same time. And in the sewing room the women plied their needles, furiously embroidering each newcomer’s name on the pennant that would grace his chair at the feast. These were the symbols of acceptance within the Fellowship, and every man must have one.
Even the Saxon milkmaid Frieda bent her blond head to the task, though her stitches were rough and awkward. “Now you know why I prefer to work in the milk-barn and kennel,” she grimaced.
“Macht nicht,” I assured her. “Es iss sehr gut.” Patient as she had been in teaching Arthur and me her language, I could be lenient about her handiwork.
Cook collected all the usual edibles from the countryside while Cei pillaged ancient gardens for such rarities as walnut trees and late-bearing figs.
Two days before the celebration the Seneschal stood before the long table in our work chamber, scowling at a glass bottle with a rag in its neck and a layer of oil floating on the top of the contents. “It’s the best to be had under the circumstances,” he reported dubiously.
“I’m sure it will be fine.” Arthur barely glanced up from the horse-breeding chart. “This is a reunion of rowdy warriors, not elegant nobles—most couldn’t tell good wine from bad.”
I grinned at that. Having been raised on cider and strong brown ale, I’ve never developed an appreciation of the vintner’s art and can rarely tell the difference between wines, unless one of them is vinegar.
Cei continued to frown at the bottle, then shrugged, as though resigned that it would have to do. “Shall I set up the Round Table?” he inquired.
“By all means.” Arthur’s attention was suddenly engaged. “Ever since Merlin’s prophecy, the men have talked about the Round Table as though it has a magic of its own.” My husband let his glance slip sidewise, sweeping me with the conspiratorial look I love. “Never did meet a Celt who could resist the promise of fame and glory.”
I laughed, for Arthur was fond of teasing me about my Celtic heritage, though most all Britons were Celts to begin with, just as later we’d all been proclaimed Roman citizens as well.
“But Arthur,” the Magician had said, “will be a king for all Britons; Roman and Celt, Pict and Scot…yes, even the Ancient Ones will look to him for justice. And the Knights of the Round Table will become part of a glory that shall be sung for all time.”
It was a grand and stirring prophecy—and one we had no notion how to fulfill.
***
I thought of it again when the British warriors came streaming into the basilica for the feast—men like Geraint and Agricola, who spoke an antique Latin and wore whatever badges of office had been handed down from ancestors honored in the days of the Empire. Mingling with them, e
qual in courage and stature, were the rough-hewn warlords who had returned to the earthen forts their ancestors carved out of the hilltops. Heroes in homespun and hides, they’ve never learned to read or write, but sang and bellowed at each other in the tongue of the Cumbri.
Pellinore of the Wrekin was one such. A warrior dedicated to the pursuit of all the women in the hope of finding the Goddess incarnate, he swaggered into the Hall full of cheer and ale. When I waved a greeting he came forward immediately.
“That’s a mighty handsome piece of silk, M’lady,” he commented, taking the corner of my Damascus scarf in his big hand. “A fitting touch in such a royal setting—Cei’s done a fine job with the old ruin, hasn’t he?”
I nodded in agreement, glancing around the room. The basilica had been cleaned and polished; flags and shields hung from the moldering walls, and fresh torches had been placed in ancient sconces. The curved trestles of the Round Table were set out in a circle, each Companion in his designated chair with his men ranged behind him. Servants and children ran errands between the trestles or darted across the open space in the center, and the air hummed with conversation.
I grinned up at Pelli just as he let out a fearsome oath. “Someone’s hiding behind that hanging, M’lady,” he whispered, drawing his dagger and crouching to leap.
Startled, I turned to look at the large, exotic rug Cei had hung as a backdrop behind us. Its colors were deep and rich, with a central panel of maroon holding a circle of silver stars. I was wondering where the Seneschal had found it when Pelli sprang forward, bellowing his challenge as he flung back the edge.
“Show yourself, skulking swine!”
There was a flurry of feathers and oaths as a pair of indignant owls glared down on the warrior.
“Oh, Pelli, it’s just the birds.” I laughed as much at Cei’s ingenuity as at Pelli’s bewilderment, and was glad when the older man roared good-naturedly as well. After Pelli moved away I surveyed the rug more closely, thinking of the bedroom, then turned to look at Arthur.
Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 5