***
Mordred had a natural aptitude for riding, and by the time the bees were gathering nectar in the lime trees he was ready to go on extended outings. It was fascinating to see what the boy responded to. He loved to watch the golden eagles gliding high and free above the earth, for they reminded him of the Orkneys, and when I took him to Stonehenge for the druids’ midsummer gathering, it brought out just as much superstitious awe in him as the Standing Stones at Castlerigg had in Gawain years before. The lift and swell of the downs made him smile, especially when we galloped through the long grass with the wind in our faces—but the dark, untamed woods filled the boy with dread.
“We don’t have forests at home,” he said one day, scowling into the trees that encircled us. “The Orkneys are all open and free and windswept.”
“Are they bare?” I asked, trying to imagine such a place.
“Not really; there are lots of fields, and a few groves of trees twisted by the winds from across the sea. But nothing as dark and scary as this. I sometimes dream Mama’s lost somewhere in here,” he whispered, glancing nervously from side to side. A shudder crawled across his shoulders. Then, with a visible effort, he lifted his head and spoke more clearly. “I don’t think the High King likes me. Perhaps I should return home.”
“Right now the King is very busy,” I interjected. “Maybe come fall we can coax him into doing more things with us. Oh, look”—I pointed upward, thanking Providence for the timing—“there’s an eagle circling…Let’s see if we can spot its aerie.”
Mordred’s spirits perked up at that, and by the time we reached Camelot his fears were no longer evident. I couldn’t do anything about his mother, of course, but his fear of the High King might be allayed. Later that night I brought the subject up to Arthur.
“I know you don’t want to get involved, but if you’d just give him a chance, you’d find him likable enough. And eager to please,” I concluded.
We were in that quiet state after loving, and I ran my fingers through the hair on my husband’s chest, noticing the occasional white ones that were beginning to sprout there.
Arthur sighed and propping himself on his elbow, looked down at me. “You really are determined to bring him into our lives, aren’t you?” he queried.
“It was you who brought him into being—doesn’t that count for something?” I asked gently. “Besides, there is so much of you in him. I’m not suggesting that you recognize him to the rest of the world or anything like that; just give him the chance you would give any other youngster coming to Court to serve you.”
“Does he know…?” Arthur made no effort to finish the sentence.
“I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that your coldness worries him.” I put my hand on Arthur’s cheek. “He spends all afternoon at the practice field trying to learn the heft and hand of a sword, studying the way the warriors move, trotting after Bedivere in the hope of being useful. It would make such a difference if you encouraged him a little.”
My husband shifted his gaze from my face to some far, lonely place of his own, then nodded slowly. “I hear you, Gwen…and I’ll try,” he promised.
I didn’t expect it to happen right away but smiled quietly, satisfied that he understood how much the boy needed him.
***
After that we settled into a kind of informal routine. In the morning I had charge of the lad—teaching him about horses and history and diplomacy. In the afternoon he joined the younger boys down at the practice field, where the High King occasionally came to observe the lessons. Arthur neither said nor did anything special, but he no longer avoided the child, and that was a start.
The girl from Carbonek, on hearing that Lance would not be returning to Court this year, packed off home, still prattling that one day he would recognize her as his fated love. By then I was more than glad to be rid of both her and her pushy governess.
As the summer ripened Frieda gave birth to a pair of twins, healthy and sturdy as their mother. We teased the Kennel Master about having a litter of his own, and he was so excited, for a minute I thought he was going to name the babies Caesar and Cabal.
Gwyn of Neath came to visit frequently, bringing his brother Yder with him. Together with Arthur they went over the breeding charts, checking the new foals and sending off the yearlings to Llantwit, where Illtud began the process of breaking and training them.
Below our ramparts the village of South Cadbury continued to grow as peddlers and merchants made it a regular stop on their travels. I tried not to ask, not even to think about Lance, but every visitor to town or fortress brought a new story of his adventures. His reputation for honor and bravery was sung of everywhere he went, and the people soon counted him their favorite hero.
“Sir Lancelot bested a bandit who was holding a merchant caravan for ransom,” one fellow reported.
“Came to the rescue of a girl whose uncle was trying to claim her lands, now that her father had died,” said another.
“Spent some time with a hermit in the Brecon Hills,” announced a monk. “Very devout man, that Breton.”
I nodded silently, remembering our trip to the hermitage when Elaine had chided him for being so spiritual.
In the autumn, when the haying was over and the days were growing cool, Gawain returned from the north. He reported directly to Arthur, then came to find me in the garden where I sat making a corn dolly wreath of the last shock from our fields. Laying aside the ancient symbol of fertility, I rose to give him a kinsman’s embrace before stepping back and looking him up and down.
The Prince of Orkney was lean to the point of stringiness, but he’d developed an unusual air of calmness. His movements weren’t so sudden, and even his voice had gentled.
“Our family is deeply appreciative of your taking Mordred in hand, M’lady. I hope he has not been a bother.”
Startled by the realization that everyone else in the world thought Mordred belonged to Gawain’s family, not to mine, I sat down abruptly and busied myself with braiding the wheat stalks.
Gawain took a seat on the bench across from me and putting his fingertips together, stared thoughtfully at them. “Does the lad know what happened to Mother?”
I shook my head slowly. “If so, he never speaks of it. And Bedivere has made sure no one, from noble to stable hand, has breathed so much as her name, on pain of banishment.”
“Aye, best we keep it that way—I’ll find something to tell him to quiet his questions until he’s older.” The redhead sighed. “It’s been a long summer—a very long summer. Sometimes, one has to stop and take stock. Maybe the old days of reacting to the moment without any thought are just as well past. It’s fine for the young men—they’re always eager to die in glory so as to live forever in song. But when you’ve seen almost three decades out—when your reflexes start to slow, and you know you’re a fraction of a moment off, even if no one else realizes it—then you have to draw on experience, not just bravado.”
I watched him in silence, amazed that the most hotheaded of the Round Table Champions was turning philosophical. He stroked his beard absently and frowned as he chose his words.
“I’ve been thinking maybe life itself is like that—maybe honor, like experience for the warrior, comes in to give you the edge where instinct once guided you. It was instinct for Agravain to draw his sword, instinct for me to take Ettard—and just look at what happened! You know,” he added earnestly, “I made a point of going to see Pelleas on my way back here; wanted to apologize. He heard me out, at least, and didn’t run me off on sight. But that’s a companion I’ve lost for life because I didn’t honor the trust of friendship.”
I smiled and reaching out, put my hand on the Champion’s arm. The old impish grin creased his face.
“Not that I’ll ever be as renowned for ‘honor’ as Lancelot is—everywhere you go someone is singing that man’s praises.” Gawain snorted, half in derision, half in envy. “Well, give the Breton his due—he’s as close to an equal in arms a
s I’ll ever see! Meanwhile, it’s time to start thinking before I go leaping into a fray—or a bed.”
He was concentrating on his hands again, his voice dropping even lower. “I thought a lot about women…about Mother, and Ragnell, and some of the other women I’ve known. There’s been many hurtful things done without thinking, but I’d like to change all that…or at least try to in the future.”
There was a flicker of blue as he glanced up at me and then away. He made me think of a roughneck child trying to remember to say “please” and “thank you,” and I wondered what was causing this unexpected shyness.
“I’ve taken a vow to come to the aid of anyone in need—but particularly women—as a matter of honor.”
“Oh, Gawain, I think that’s splendid!” I cried, deeply touched by his seriousness. “And I have no doubt you’ll soon be known as the most courteous and trustworthy of knights, as well as the bravest,” I told him.
Arthur’s nephew blushed, then squared his shoulders and looked me full in the face. “I hope so, M’lady. I do hope so. Well now,” he concluded, getting to his feet, “think I best go find Mordred. Arthur says he’s most likely down at the practice field.”
“Probably.” I nodded, then added hastily, “You know, I’ve been giving him riding lessons, and tutoring in the morning. I do hope we can go on with that.”
“Sure.” The redhead grinned. “Maybe teach him a bit about honor and courtesy as well—wouldn’t hurt to start a little earlier than I did.”
We both laughed at that, and I watched him walk away, shoulders swaggering, muscles taut. He brought the most amazing zeal to anything he went into, and I shook my head in bemusement.
***
Thus always with the Celts, I thought, forgetting that I was one myself.
Chapter XXXVIII
The Face of the Future
As the year moved toward Samhain, the other Companions who had gone off on their own business over the summer began to return to Camelot. There was much exchanging of news and jests, and the Hall filled with familiar faces.
Bors arrived from Brittany, bringing his brother Lionel for the first time. Lionel proved to be less boisterous and outgoing than his sibling, but with just as much humor, and between them and Dagonet our meals were kept merry.
Pelleas and Nimue returned to Court, having made their vows at the Sanctuary of Avebury on the night of a blue moon. I watched them together, as comfortable and settled in their partnership as Arthur and I were in ours. The delight of romance might be missing, but the sturdiness of a solid marriage made up for it. If one had to choose between the two, I told myself I had the better part of it.
Then, in the height of winter, we heard that Tristan had married a girl in Brittany. I froze, wondering if Isolde knew, hoping she didn’t. But what if it was Lance who had wed…wouldn’t I want to know? The very notion shattered my composure, and excusing myself from the table, I fled the room, white and shaken.
Grabbing Igraine’s cloak, I made my way upstairs to the lookout tower atop the Hall. The young sentry on duty nodded respectfully, then left me alone to pursue my own thoughts. Pulling the hood closer about my chin, I leaned against the window ledge and stared out over the land, waiting for my heart to quit racing and the tears to leave my eyes.
A full moon had breasted the snow-covered hills, and in the glittering blueness of the night only the biggest of the stars remained to be seen. Down below both forest and wildwood lay black against the land, while here and there the little golden glow of a steading’s light offered a warm touch of humanity.
I focused on one in particular, wondering about the people who lived there. Were their lives happy or sad, lonely or fulfilled? What had they known of grief and loss, hope and wonder? Had they ever been deeply touched by love—were they among the blessed whose lives were shaped by love? Or is it that we shape love to fit our lives?
The idea was new to me, and I puzzled over it, seeing it both ways. Take Morgan, for instance, with her impulse toward love and ambition so tangled together, not even she could undo the skein of her scheming. It seemed impossible for her to think of one without the other.
By contrast, there were Griflet and Frieda, stolid and quiet in their feelings for each other but just as committed as Morgan would ever be. I thought of the Kennel Master and Saxon girl with a special fondness and prayed their lives never became as complicated as Lance’s and mine had.
Or Tristan and Isolde. Now there were a pair of tragic lovers for you! The very memory of their willful, selfish ways brought pain and aggravation in equal measure, and I turned my thoughts to Pelleas and Nimue. Like Enid and Geraint, the story of their marriage was only just beginning to play out, and I wondered how such different partners would fare over the years. Or, for that matter, whether durability and length of contact is the true measure of love. Maybe in some couples it denotes more stubbornness than long-lasting affection…
Nor does love have to be shared to reflect one’s moira—the Lily Maid’s was both brief and unrequited, yet I could not say it was not beautiful, at least for her. Or Palomides, who cherished an ideal of Isolde that had little to do with the real woman. The pain of knowing he could not have her was real enough, however…it had sent him off to the unknown East, searching for something to take her place.
And what of those who were rejected outright? Bedivere, quietly absorbing and accepting Brigit’s choice; Gawain, turning cynical and dissolute after losing Ragnell…all reflections of loving, in one way or another.
Indeed, it seemed to me we had each of us been altered by it. The how and why, in which way or for what reason, were still beyond my ken—maybe always would be. But the power and universality of it was both amazing and faintly ludicrous…after all, it was my love for a man who made me feel beautiful and vulnerable and worthy of protecting that had led me up here to sit under the moon and freeze!
You’re likely to come down with pneumonia if you don’t stop this, I told myself, and with a rueful smile to the sentry, slowly made my way back down the stairs.
Clearly the subject of love was bigger than I knew what to do with; it was enough to know it existed, and was lodged firmly in my heart.
***
“I think,” Arthur announced one evening in April, “that we should hold a tournament next summer—combine it with a horse fair and give Gwyn a chance to show off his new stock. Might as well convene the Round Table then, too.”
It would be the first time we’d officially hosted the Fellowship at Camelot, and I smiled at the prospect. I could think of no more fitting way to show that our home was finally complete.
“Besides,” Arthur added, giving me one of his sidewise looks, “it’s been ten years since we married, and I’d like to celebrate.”
The very fact that he’d stopped to count made me laugh with pleasure.
They came streaming in—heroes and Champions, Kings and nobles and representatives of all our allies. A large contingent from the south and west arrived: Geraint and Enid, Mark and Isolde, and Constantine of Cornwall. His father, Cador, would not attend, having fallen from a horse and broken his collarbone. The son was fully accepted in his father’s place, however.
Even Pellinore came, though I noted that Lamorak remained behind at the Wrekin, where he now lived. With Gawain having come back to Court, I thought it a wise choice.
Pelli had grown grizzled and gray, though his back was still as straight and his eyes as merry as in years past. He strode through the Hall with a toddler on his shoulders, basking in the pride of paternity. Considering that his grown children had made him a grandfather many times over, I found his adoration of this youngest child to be both amusing and touching.
“I’ve finally given over the quest for the perfect woman, M’lady,” he offered by way of explanation. “The Goddess is a hard mistress, and I’m not getting any younger. Now that I’ve got this little fellow, I’m going to raise him to be the best knight of all. Say hello to the Queen, Perceval,” he prompted
as the tyke crowed happily and tugged on his father’s ears.
We housed our guests everywhere—in the Great Hall, in the village, even in camps scattered through the open woods. Pavilions popped up in the meadows around the base of the hill-fort, and Cei erected a reviewing stand beside the field at the foot of the hill that had been set aside for the lists. It looked to be one of the most splendid gatherings we’d ever had, and Cei was well set and organized for it.
On the first morning Arthur and I stood hand in hand and waited for the trumpeter to call the tournament open. As gay as any gathering at Caerleon, as grand as London, it was the flowering of all we’d ever dreamed to do. I only wished that Lance were here to share it with us.
“Would you believe,” my husband marveled as the silver notes lifted in the bright air, “that it would come to this?”
“No…yes…” I laughed, remembering how young and unknowing we had been and thinking that as long as Arthur lived, anything was possible in Britain.
The opening of the tournament began with Gawain leading a procession of Champions across the field. Single file they came—warriors dressed in splendor, horses sleek and shiny, the rondels on their bridles glittering gold and crimson in the morning sun. Each had a page riding beside him, holding aloft the standard of his house. Bright as a May Day dance, the flags and pennants streamed out on the breeze when they formed a circle around the edge of the green.
It was then that Bedivere brought forth the Banner of the Red Dragon. At the lieutenant’s side, riding smartly at attention, was Mordred. When they reached the center of the green they paused while the trumpeter gave out the notes of assemblage. Then slowly, majestically, the two of them turned their horses to each quadrant of the compass. As they did so the pennants and house flags of each client king dipped in salute, like a run of field poppies bowing before the wind.
Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 44