Once the motion was complete, Bedivere and his page came directly to the foot of our reviewing stand. With grave precision Mordred led the salute to us, black hair gleaming in the sunlight, the badge of Orkney flashing on the sleeve of his yellow tunic.
Arthur saluted the child in return, and for a moment father and son stared into each other’s eyes. When Bedivere wheeled away and raced the Banner back across the green, I gave Arthur’s hand a squeeze and he grinned cheerfully.
The first three jousts went well, with much partisan shouting as the audience cheered on the combatants, but about midday there was a commotion at the edge of the green, and an Unknown warrior rode onto the list.
He wore no badge and his shield was without device. His helmet was unlike any I’d ever seen before—more conical than a Roman roundhat, with nose guard and cheek flaps that all but covered his face and a veil of chain mail protecting the back of his neck. Even the newcomer’s horse was unfamiliar, and a ripple of curiosity spread through the gathering.
The Unknown rode deliberately into the center of the field and, turning slowly to face all four sides, threw down a challenge to the men of the Round Table.
Nothing like this had ever happened before, and Arthur narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he scrutinized the stranger.
There was much hooting and jostling as the Companions vied for the chance to meet the challenge, until Gawain claimed his right as the King’s Champion and rode out to face the newcomer.
The two men met silently in the center of the green, nodded formally, and wheeled their horses away to opposite ends of the field.
When the lances were couched Arthur muttered something about the man’s technique being similar to Palomides’s. But we had recently received word that he was leaving Ravenna for Constantinople, so it surely wasn’t the Arab.
The competition between Gawain and the Unknown began well enough, but they made pass after pass with neither able to unseat the other. At last, showing signs of tiring, the stranger’s horse veered slightly, and Gawain’s thrust sent his opponent to the ground.
Wheeling his own steed around, the redhead bore down on the newcomer, lance lowered as though to skewer the fallen man. I caught my breath, wondering if, in the heat of competition, the Orcadian had forgotten this was only a tournament. At the last possible moment he raised his lance and hauled back on the reins so hard that his mount came to a crouching, rearing halt. By then the Unknown was on his feet, sword drawn and ready.
The contest resumed on foot, with the advantage going now to one, now to the other. Each was wearing a chain-mail tunic, and though they received minor cuts, there was little bloodshed.
Then suddenly it was over. Gawain slipped in the trampled grass, and the stranger was on him in a second. Astride the Champion’s chest, the victor leaned down and said something to him, then carefully stood up and extended his hand to his adversary.
Gawain hesitated only a moment before accepting the help. There was a flurry of back slapping and congratulations before the two of them turned to us and stripped off their helmets.
“Lance!” Arthur cried as my heart leapt into my throat and the audience let out a roar of acknowledgment.
Surprise and relief were coursing through me, and I leaned forward intently as the Breton went down on one knee before us.
“Indeed, Your Highness…I find I cannot stay away from Camelot after all.” Devotion sparkled in his blue eyes, and the joy of reunion on his face was matched only by that on Arthur’s. “No matter where I have gone, it is the Pendragon’s Court that calls me back.”
He turned without hesitation to smile at me, and we stared at each other with unabashed delight. Neither qualm nor guilt clouded our joy.
“You are my King and Queen, and I belong at your sides,” he said simply.
“But why come incognito?” Arthur queried.
“Just to keep them on their toes.” Lance shrugged and looked at me. “Besides, I wanted to surprise you.”
Arthur threw back his head with a laugh. “Can’t think of a nicer way to celebrate the completion of Camelot. Now come on up here and tell me where you got that helmet.”
So Lancelot joined us, seating himself on the other side of Arthur just as he had in the past. Handing over the strange headpiece, he explained he’d found it at the Saxon market in Canterbury—bought it with one of the gold coins Arthur had given him when he first came to Court. The peddler claimed it was in common usage among a Continental people called the Burgundians.
The two men immediately fell to examining the thing, oblivious to all else. Seeing them together again sent waves of joy and contentment through me. At last my dream was complete; everything I had ever longed for was gathered here—a child to raise, a love to share, a husband to admire, and a Court to serve.
I looked slowly around the green at the Fellowship…Men who saw themselves as members of the Round Table first, Merlin had said. Civilized men of law, Arthur had said. Champions of honor and courtesy, according to Gawain. The finest Court in the world, Cei called it. My own family, I thought with wonder.
***
My glance traveled up to many-towered Camelot, rising in splendor on its hill, then swept back down to the two men of my heart.
Clearly the best of all futures still lay before us.
About the Author
Persia Woolley is the author of the Guinevere Trilogy: Child of the Northern Spring, Queen of the Summer Stars, and Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn. Persia has had a career in journalism and television, and she has also written three nonfiction books. She presently lives near the northern California coast with her son and is currently working on an annotated version of her Guineveres for the use of students and scholars in the field.
Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 45