Guinevere had reached the other side of the Table. She stopped and again ran her fingers over the surface.
“So that’s what it was!” she said in excitement. “Arthur, come and see. I felt this once before, when Father and I were down in the cave, getting wine. There was no light then, but I am sure it is the same. I tried to spell it out. S-I-E-G-E-P-E- R-I-L-L-I-E-U-X. Siegeperillieux? What does that mean? Is it someone’s name?”
Arthur roused himself and went to stand beside her. He regarded the letters. “It doesn’t look like any language I’ve ever seen. It’s not Brythonic and it’s not Latin. That last part, could someone have been trying to spell ‘perillustris’? Maybe ‘siege’ means ‘guest.’ It could be a place for a distinguished guest. What do you think?”
“It sounds reasonable. I wonder why they carved places only for you and a guest?”
Arthur circled the Table quickly, his hand skimming the top to catch any hint of further engraving. There was none. He wondered how many could be seated . . . fifty, at least, maybe more. And a guest? There was no sense in puzzling over it now. He could ask Merlin. He took Guinevere’s arm.
“Come, my love. We had better get ourselves properly dressed. Wear something special. Something for a coronation. This day is the true beginning of my reign. Now there can be no doubt that there is but one High King in Britain. The best of them will come to me and from Camelot will issue forth order and justice and a reawakening of the kind of society our ancestors knew. It will be a rebirth. And you will be its Queen, Guinevere.”
He held her tightly and swung her around, kissing her over and over in his joy. At last he set her down. Both of them had become entangled in her unbound hair. With gentle, trembling fingers, he parted the snarls and kissed her again, whispering, “But even more, you will be my Queen, Guinevere.”
• • •
After everyone had seen and been awed by the Table, Arthur declared a day of celebration. It was a week to Midsummer’s Day and the afternoons were hot and humid. It was only sensible to build the roasting fires for the meats out of doors and to take the amphorae of wine and ale down to the stream to chill. The elders, the children, the farming landholders who lived at Caerleon in winter were now back on their lands. That left the most active, the strongest, the most restless to inhabit Camelot. There were fosterlings, sons and daughters of all the great families, there to be trained according to their station. Some brought their own servants; others fended for themselves or recruited cheap service from the household staff. Strangers also appeared at Camelot, people with no family connections at all. They were traders often, traveling jugglers, or peripatetic monks. Some young men arrived, each—as Lancelot had planned—with only a sword and a shield, hoping to win honor and loot in the fighting. Later, when Arthur’s fame had spread beyond his realm, there would be more exotic visitors, with dark skin and rich and bizarre clothing, who spoke Latin with musical accents and knew no Celtic language at all. But that day was far in the future. Today Camelot was still a tight family, young, brave, and sure of its destiny.
Gawain heard the music and laughter as he guided his brothers through the barricades that wound, mazelike, up the hill to the gates. He urged his horse on.
“Agravaine! Gaheris! Hurry! It sounds like there’s a festival at Camelot today and I don’t imagine that it’s in honor of your coming. Let’s get up there and get our duty introductions over before the best wine is gone!”
“Festival? What for?” Agravaine worried. “Damn! Mother never would let us learn about the old days. It’s probably some Roman holiday that everyone else knows all about.” He chewed the corner of his moustache. Agravaine was shorter than Gawain, but broader in the shoulders. His dark hair, gray eyes, and square chin marked him as a true son of King Lot, probably the only one of the five who was. Lot was partial to him for this reason, but allowed himself to show no overt favoritism, reasoning that the boys were not to blame for their mother’s behavior. Agravaine had always felt cheated by knowing his own father, for all his kindness. The others had spun wild tales of their possible parentage and each of them had some trait, some hint of mystery, that he had always longed for, even if it meant living only half a life, as Gawain must. His certainty about himself had made him determined to be certain about everything else. He wanted to know his proper place at all times, to be aware of what was occurring and, most of all, to be in control. He spent a great deal of time being nervous.
“I’ll drink to any holiday they like,” Gawain answered. “But if we don’t get out of these blasted earthworks soon, everyone will be too drunk to tell us what to toast. I know this is supposed to make the place impregnable, but I wish there were a back door for friends to use.”
Gaheris made no comment. He rarely did. He may not have been listening. He noticed the fresh dirt dislodged to create the barricades. Where the sun hit the top of it, wildflowers had begun to sprout.
Gawain was greeted with loud cheers and catcalls. He and his brothers left their horses and gear with one of the stableboys and hurried back to the wine table. Geraidus was there, happily tapping a beat on the wood with an empty cup. As they neared, he stopped and yelled into the air.
“I said, you come in at the third measure. One . . . two . . . three. . . ! And all together. This isn’t a stroll in the woods. Think of a march! Together! Now, try it again. Baom . . . da . . . da, da, da . . . ! Listen to me!”
Gawain reached around him for full wine cups for himself, Agravaine, and Gaheris. He pointed to Geraidus.
“You know our resident saint? He and his whatever-they-are came with me to Tintagel about three years ago.”
They nodded and reached for their cups. The movement caught Geraidus’ eye and he grinned at them.
“I’m having some trouble with a triumphal march. Arthur has his Table at last, you know!” he shouted while waving his arms. “It’s in the Great Hall. Go see it before you get started here. Cei! Gawain brought his brothers—two of them, anyway. Go show them the Table. No! No! Can’t I stop to talk a minute? You’ve gotten it totally scrambled. Do you want to go back to monotones?”
Cei, Arthur’s milk-brother and seneschal, greeted the new arrivals in Arthur’s name.
“If you wait to see him you’ll never eat. He’s off with Master Merlin, trying to figure out how many the Table will seat. They’ve put circles and lines and some sort of symbols all over an old scroll. I don’t know why they don’t just call us all in and see how many fit. But I’m neither a wizard nor a king, I’m glad to say, and I don’t try to understand their ways. Come have a look at the thing. You won’t believe its size, and Arthur’s name, they say, carved right on it, all this time.”
As they entered the Hall, they received the same impression as the other visitors had. There was no light but that from the window overhead. Sunlight streamed palpably upon the table, the rays alive with dancing flecks of dust. They had the sense of entering a sacred place and their voices were muted as they approached it.
Cei felt that his role as host meant that he must keep a conversation going. “It makes the whole thing more real now, doesn’t it? You know, Gawain, right now you and I are the only official Knights of the Table. I’ve sometimes thought we would be the only ones ever. But this thing, well, you can imagine it filled, can’t you? Only for Arthur could all of this have come about. It’s been so long since he planned it all. He’s worked and fought and worried himself gray over it. But here is his city and now his Table. I believe him when he says that soon there won’t be another court to rival it for learning and honor in all of Christendom.”
His voice was soft with awe and devotion. Gawain put his arm on Cei’s shoulder.
“I know. I haven’t always paid attention when he tried to pull me into his plans. I couldn’t understand him half the time. It was enough for me to do what he asked and not consider the reason. But now, with something I can see and touch, there seems some sense to it. He told me once that his court would be like the sun; his just
ice would fall evenly upon all in the land. Equally. How could that be? Yet look at this table. Where is the high seat? It always seemed impossible, but now I think I begin to believe.”
Gaheris had been watching the slow descent of the motes to the wood’s surface. As they landed, he raised his hand to brush them away. The hard wood depressed as his fingers touched it. He jerked his hand up and looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed what he had done. Then he saw the marks that had been made. His jaw dropped.
“Gluuk!”
Agravaine was on the other side of the Table, trying to puzzle out the “siege” engraving.
“What is it, Gaheris?”
“G . . . G. . . Look!”
They all rushed to him, but the writing was complete by the time they got there. They stared when he pointed. Gawain felt a jab of terror. He had grown used to unseen, unheard singers; he didn’t mind if tables fifty feet across wandered into locked rooms; he accepted his own odd inability to stay awake at night—but this was too much. His own name, carved in the Table and outlined in gold, just to the left of Arthur’s, where ten minutes before there had been only bare wood: sir gawain.
He glanced nervously at his brothers on either side and backed away, a step at a time. Perhaps the words would be gone when he came back. Where had he left his wine cup?
He was stopped by a cry from Cei. It was truly a cry. The man could hardly speak through his tears.
“See what they did? Right there. C-E-I and some other thing before it. I’m at his right hand. He always said he would, but I thought Merlin or Cador or you, Gawain. He didn’t have to, I wouldn’t have minded. I’ve got to go thank him!”
He wiped his face on his sleeve and stumbled out.
“I don’t understand this at all.” Agravaine was affronted. Gaheris took his arm.
“It’s all right, old fellow,” he soothed. “No one else does, either.”
They went back to the celebration to blanket their shock with food and drink.
Merlin had no desire to join in the festivities. He did not care for juvenile orgies. After he had tolerated Arthur’s enthusiasm and assured him that he could count on seating at least fifty knights and perhaps even a hundred, he closed his eyes and refused to open them. To the news that more names were being supernaturally engraved on the Table he only grunted. It was time for them to start finding their own explanations.
Guinevere and Lydia were on the balcony. Lydia’s brother had sent her up when the dancing had not stopped with the music. Guinevere knew well that her presence inhibited the pleasure of others and had returned to her rooms quite early. Lydia had managed to consume more than her share of wine, however, before Constantine had decided to be protective and she was piqued at having to miss the fun.
“I love to dance!” She hopped a bit across the balcony, which started it creaking. She sat down. “Don’t you ever want to just dance and dance until the moon rises and then float away into the night air?”
Her arms fluttered and she stared at them as if puzzled that she did not levitate. Guinevere helped her up.
“I never learned to dance,” she said. “I never really wanted to,” she added quickly as Lydia showed signs of weeping at such deprivation.
“I think we should go back in now, Lydia. The day is cooling as the sun gets lower.”
“Certainly, Guinevere.” Lydia leaned against her and started to obey when she happened to glance down at the field.
“Oh my!” She clapped both hands to her mouth. “Guinevere! Look at those amazing people!”
Guinevere followed her gaze. “What. . . ?”
Standing motionless on the practice field were three horses, two brown and one an ivory white. Upon them, just as still, were two men and a woman. The woman’s hair was unbound and kept in place only by a gold and jeweled fillet which glittered in the last rays of the sun. Her clothing was of silky fabric that shimmered and changed color in the breeze. The men were even more incredible, apparently armed in silver and bronze. The one in silver wore a mask covering the top half of his face. They seemed to be waiting for someone or something. Guinevere wondered how long they had been there. It didn’t appear that they intended to enter Camelot uninvited. Perhaps she should send someone. Her eyes swept the revelers. No one down there looked alert. The laughter was beginning to sound hysterical, and the singing more slow and slurred. Oh, good! There was Caet—Briacu, rather. He didn’t look as if he had been celebrating with the others. She called to him.
“Briacu! There are some strange people standing out in the practice field. Can you send someone to find out who they are and what they want?”
Caet nodded and bowed. He looked around. The revelers looked as if they could not crawl to their own beds, much less negotiate the twisting embankments to reach the field. He did not mind going himself, but not on foot. He went to the stables and slipped a bridle on Cheo. At least he would not be the one who must look up anymore.
Guinevere and Lydia continued to watch the three strangers below them. They still had made no movement at all. Guinevere wondered if they had any idea that they were being watched. Lydia was fascinated. She had sat on the floor again and was peering at them through the rails.
“Where do you think they come from? They certainly don’t look like anyone I ever met in Armorica. Ireland, do you think?”
Caet had reached the people. He made some greeting, but Guinevere and Lydia could not hear it. In answer, the man in bronze moved forward and handed him a scroll. Then, without a word, the three turned and rode into the forest. Caet watched them go and then, with a shrug, turned his horse back to the gate.
He brought the scroll to Guinevere.
“What in the world?” She unrolled it and read. “‘To Arthur, King of Britain, Greetings from the Lady of the Lake.’ Briacu, can you find Arthur? I think he should see this at once.”
Arthur had just gotten his dinner. He had forgotten to eat all day and was starving. He wasn’t interested in mysterious visitors. There had been enough sorcery and strangeness already today. He only cared about the reality of the meat and bread on his plate. But Caet was waiting for an answer. Arthur sighed and decided to bring the plate with him to Guinevere’s rooms.
“Look, Briacu, I know it’s not your job, but could you search out a wine jar and bring it up to me? Bring a cup for yourself, too.”
He found Guinevere tucking Lydia into a blanket on the couch. The wine had overcome her. Guinevere shook her head at his anxious expression.
“No, you won’t bother her. I don’t think that her foster parents ever allowed her all the wine she wanted before. Oh, Arthur, haven’t you eaten yet? Sit down at once. Let me call someone for wine.”
“Briacu is bringing some. Why don’t you read me the message while I eat?” he suggested as he started in on the meat. The juice ran down his fingers and he wiped them on the bread.
“Briacu told you about the people, what they looked like, didn’t he?”
He nodded, still chewing.
She began reading. “‘To Arthur, King of Britain, Greetings from the Lady of the Lake.’ Who is that?”
“I think Merlin told me something about her once. He won Excalibur from her. I don’t remember the rest. Go on.”
“‘I come before you to present to the court of Camelot my Protege, Lancelot of the Lake. Tomorrow morning Lancelot will prove in combat with any knight you so choose that he is a worthy and gallant man of great prowess, more than fitted to be a member of your company and to be a true and valiant Knight of the Round Table. He will await you then on the spot where we stood today. Be it also known that Lancelot and his squire, Torres, are under my protection and any ill treatment of them will not go unmarked.’”
“But that’s wonderful!” Arthur exclaimed. “Read that part again about a ‘true and valiant Knight.’ The very thing I want. What was he like? Do you think he can fight?”
“Arthur, I have no idea. You won’t believe the costume he had on. I think there w
ere ostrich feathers in his helmet. He sat his horse well, though. What will you do?”
“What else? Send someone down to fight him in the morning. This will be exciting. How about Gawain?”
“Do you think that would be fair? It’s almost midsummer.”
“That’s true. Cei then. He’d like that and right now, he’s the only other knight we have. Oh, Briacu, the wine. Thank you. Do you know where Sir Cei is? Down there somewhere? Oh, well. I’d better go find him myself. All right, my dear. I’ll be back as soon as I find him. Do you think Lydia will have to sleep there all night?”
• • •
Not far away from Camelot, the Lady had set up camp in her own way and with her own elegance. She saw no reason to be uncomfortable, even in the middle of a wilderness. She had finished her meal and reclined gracefully upon her divan, waiting for Lancelot and Torres to complete dinner.
“Now, you both understand what you will do tomorrow? I have brought you to your Arthur, but it is up to you to earn your place with him. I’m sure you will have no trouble, but you will find that life may be very different up here. Not everyone lives the way we do and, I confess, I have never cared enough to find out much about the customs of these humans. But if you live among them, you must learn to adapt to their ways. And of course, my dears, whenever you want to return to us, you will always be most joyfully received.”
The Chessboard Queen Page 8