“He’s always had a romantic streak,” Gwyn explained with a shrug. “Yder’s dreamed of becoming your Champion since he first met you—probably the only one at Court glad to see Lancelot go.”
I stared at the two men in amazement, thinking them both mad beyond measure. “I swear I had no idea…” I stammered.
“Oh, that’s all right, Your Highness. Everyone knows the Breton is your favorite and as the best warrior in the land, most suited to be your protector. What you don’t realize is how many men would like to claim that honor themselves.” Gwyn gave me an impish grin, then turned his attention to his brother. “Yder’s more scared than hurt—a couple of days doctoring will see him well again.”
By now Elyzabel had made her way to me, her festive dress as splattered with mud and blood as mine was. She insisted on checking my arm which, miraculously, had not even been scratched when the bear’s claws slashed the sleeve. “We’d best be getting on, M’lady,” she suggested, offering me her arm. “At the least your hair needs recombing, and a rest wouldn’t do you a bit of harm, either.”
I nodded, glad for her support as I rose to my feet and we made our way to the praetorium. Both she and Gwyn proved to be good nurses; I stayed quiet all the rest of the day, and Yder was back on his feet by the next evening. He moved stiffly, like one favoring sore ribs, and would not likely take part in the tournament, but he seemed to have suffered no permanent damage.
Since Lance’s departure I had made a habit of inviting a different warrior to sit beside me each night. So on Yder’s first night back he was seated next to me in order that the Court see I was grateful for his valor on my behalf. In truth I felt more compassion for the bear than the man, but we chatted amiably enough and I was relieved to find that since his habitual shyness had returned, he made no further effort to pursue his suit to become my Champion.
***
This year we had decided to hold the Round Table meeting first, then the tournament, and finally, on the last night, a Grand Feast to go with the Lammas rites. Watching the members of the Fellowship take their places for the Council, I noted that Enid and Geraint seemed as comfortable and happy together as before, though there were no signs of pregnancy, either past or present. Ironside was quite smitten with the dark-haired queen, however, and solemnly handed her a nosegay as he passed their segment of the Round Table. It was such a quaint thing for the old reprobate to do, I couldn’t help smiling. For all his gruesome history at the river ford, there was a sentimental streak underneath his bluster.
Agricola arrived with his long-faced, pasty-skinned nephew at his elbow, and Bagdemagus marched proudly to his seat, announcing to anyone who would listen that the men of Dorset had asked him to be their permanent liaison with the High Court. I wasn’t surprised that Nimue and Pelleas hadn’t come; the doire and her husband were more than happy living on his remote, if sizable, holdings and since she’d spent so long with us last fall, it was unlikely we’d see her again unless Arthur were in danger.
Much more peculiar was the fact that neither Pellinore nor Lamorak were in attendance. This was the first Round Table Pelli had ever missed, and all through the day I found myself glancing toward the door, expecting to see the big warlord of the Wrekin come bursting in.
Most of this year’s news was peaceful—there were more immigrants than usual crossing the North Sea and settling along Northumbria’s coast, and up beyond the Wall Caw’s son, Hueil, was making life difficult for his neighbors, but when had that not been the case? Everyone agreed that it seemed we finally had achieved a stable peace, and there was much toasting and self-congratulations among the Fellowship.
Arthur brought up his studies of the Edictum, but refrained from arguing outright that we needed some such laws of our own, and before long attention turned to questions of trade. The Picts readily agreed to send us their fine heather beer in return for cuttlebones from the eastern shores and salt to be carted up from Droitwich. And the Scots bartered barrels of herring in exchange for a supply of fine buckles and harness wares from the Irish jeweler at the Mote in Rheged. I had known the artisan when I was a child, and had watched, fascinated, as he crafted a blue enameled brooch for my birthday. Years later Arthur and I commissioned him to make the gold-and-red rondels for the Companions, and by now his reputation had spread throughout Britain. It was certainly well earned.
In the late afternoon, when the Council was over, I was suddenly confronted by Agricola’s nephew, Vortipor, who haughtily announced that his quarters weren’t up to his usual standards.
“You’re welcome to go camp in the meadows like the rest of the warriors,” I noted with ill-concealed irritation. “We thought you would want to be with your uncle in the praetorium, but tent space can surely be arranged by the edge of the woods.”
“Of course I should be near my uncle,” the noble replied, contriving to look down his long, skinny nose at me. “But both he and I are used to having our own private suites, and the little room you’ve given me hardly qualifies as a suite.”
“No, I don’t suppose it does,” I agreed absently, refusing to take his complaint seriously. I turned away as Enid joined me, and dismissed the courtier with a shrug. “Well, you have our permission to move whenever you wish.”
“I don’t like that fellow,” the Queen of Devon declared as Vortipor moved away.
“Oh, he’s just a poor relative trying to use his uncle’s position for his own betterment,” I commented, thinking the man more of a nuisance than a threat.
“But you never know what sort of trouble they can cause behind your back.” Her comment was so pointed, I stopped to take a closer look at her. Although she seemed far more at ease with herself and life than during our last talk, there was the pinched look of strain.
“Did you follow my advice about the child?” I asked.
“No. Geraint wants one of his own blood, or none. But I’ve started a school of sorts at Court, and help to teach the youngsters whenever I find time. It does help, some.” She gave me a clear and honest smile, the sort that comes from looking life squarely in the eye and accepting what you see. “Odd how things never come out the way you expect, isn’t it?”
“Very odd,” I agreed, and we both laughed ruefully.
“The stupidest thing of all is what’s happening among Geraint’s warriors. Here they sit in our Hall, feeding at our board and drinking our wine, riding the best horses, wearing the best clothes…and all simply to be on hand if we need them. But is that enough? No. Do they enjoy being with their families, in peace and safety? No. Do they look for other things to occupy their time? No. They demand new weapons and then go looking for new people to use them on. Recently they’ve taken to blaming me for the lack of wars, claiming that before I came, there was always enough battle and booty to go around. Good heavens, you’d think they’d appreciate the fact that Arthur’s truces and Geraint’s diplomacy make all that killing unnecessary now. It’s ridiculous, I tell you.”
I agreed with her wholeheartedly, remembering Cei’s comment about the wages of peace.
Enid suddenly changed the subject, giving me a quick smile. “Geraint has taken quite an interest in this law code Arthur talks about. I think he’d like to borrow the scroll when the High King no longer needs it.”
“Borrow?” my husband exclaimed when I mentioned it that night. “Poor old thing is almost in tatters as it is. Perhaps I can find a cleric to make a copy for him. He mentioned to me how restless his men are—several have even implied he’s lost his nerve. I just hope he doesn’t do something foolish, simply to prove them wrong. By the way, have you heard anything about the men of the Wrekin?”
“No…” I shook my head slowly. “Do you suppose Pelli still distrusts Gawain?”
“I doubt it—the Prince of Orkney gave me his word last year, remember?” Arthur sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window at the quarter moon before getting between the sheets. “Pelli’s probably too busy chasing down a new woman. I’m more worried a
bout Agricola. He’s having trouble with that nephew of his; seems that Vortipor is agitating to make kingship hereditary rather than elective. It looks as though he’ll try to take the throne as soon as Agricola’s gone, without waiting for the people’s acclamation.”
“But that’s tyranny!” I finished plaiting my braid and came over to the bed. “Surely the people will insist on their right to decide who’s king!”
“Hard to say.” Arthur punched his pillow, and yawning loudly, turned away. “Certainly I don’t favor the notion.”
Even though I couldn’t see his face, I suddenly knew it reflected his distaste for his own son. For a moment I wanted to rail at him, to berate him about the distance he kept between Mordred and himself, for I was sure if he gave the lad a chance, he’d find him as charming and eager to please as I did. But with a Court full of guests, now was not the time. So I shuttered the lantern and got into bed with a sigh.
Tomorrow promised to be a very busy day.
Chapter X
Gareth
Psst, M’lady. Are you alone?”
The sibilant whisper filled the henhouse, and I whirled in surprise. It seemed to have come from the shadows beyond the nesting boxes. A pile of empty hemp bags looked awfully lumpy, and I eyed them with suspicion. “Is that you, Lynette?”
“Yes ma’am,” the girl avowed, poking her gamin face out where I could see it. “Beaumains wants to keep our presence a secret, but I came on ahead. I told him you’d hide me for a bit.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” I lifted an eyebrow and she giggled.
“But of course. Can’t be no harm in it, and I said you were always one to appreciate a surprise.” She scrambled to her feet and instinctively reached for the basket I was holding, then realized she couldn’t carry it into the kitchen without being seen. “I wouldn’t want to spoil his fun, seeing that he did such a splendid job on old Ironside.”
“Ah yes, the stout fellow who showed up at Camelot.”
“Then he did follow Beaumains’s orders!” Lynette’s eyes fairly danced with satisfaction, and she gave a little hop of glee. The story was going to come bubbling out of her whether or no, so I sat down on an overturned barrel and suggested she tell me about it.
“Well, M’lady,” she began, her voice going solemn, “Ironside had set his tent up beside the stream and was challenging everyone who wanted to cross the ford. He’d taken the shields from the men he’d bested and hung them up in the branches of a staghead oak—there must have been more than a score of them, making a ghostly clatter when the wind blew. We could hear the sound of them through the mist, and I made sure to keep close behind Beaumains. As we got closer, there was such a foul stench, it made me gag.” Like a Master Bard recounting terrors of the past, the girl was re-creating her own horror in a torrent of words. A shiver slid down my back. “Then, as we came around a stand of alders and approached the ford, I saw two things at once…the dead and rotting body of a warrior hanging from the bottom branch of that oak, and the ogre below, who growled his challenge at Beaumains like a boar—all grunts and snarls.”
Lynette went thumping about the henhouse, stirring up straw dust and causing the hens much consternation as she mimicked Ironside’s ferocity.
“When Beaumains called him to account, the fellow’s face grew as red as his shield. The old toad started swaggering and boasting, but Beaumains didn’t say a word—just drew his sword and waited for his opponent to quit flustering and put up a defense.” Lynette jumped back in imitation of Beaumains, squaring her shoulders and holding an imaginary sword with two hands. “There was a parry, and a thrust”—crouching and weaving, she waited for the opening, then swung the weapon up over her head—“and a whack that took my breath away.”
The imaginary weapon came down with a sidewise sweep which was so forceful, it spun her around and sent the remaining hens squawking into the yard. When her dizzying spin was completed, she clasped her hands together under her chin and gave me a wicked grin. “It was that fast; he knocked out that old warlord before you could say ‘Jack-in-the-Pulpit’! Beaumains is going to be the best Champion of the Round Table, you wait and see.”
I laughed at the sheer exuberance of the girl. “Then you’re pleased with the job he did? There was nothing you could fault him for, after all?”
Lynette ducked her head and smiled to herself. “Only that he can never find his way—if I hadn’t been watching the landmarks, we would have ended up in Cornwall instead of the Welsh Marches.”
“Sounds as though he’d be wise to keep you with him, just to get to where he’s going,” I teased. “And was your cousin pleased with his performance?”
“Pleased!” The urchin’s whole body registered indignation, and she made an unladylike grimace. “The little hussy threw herself into his arms the first time they met. But I fixed that—put a dose of powder in his nettle beer.”
The girl was immensely proud of her solution, but I was nonplussed. “You did what?”
For a long moment those mischievous eyes studied mine before she decided to explain. “When I came to be with you at Court, my mother gave me a packet of powder and told me a pinch of it works wonders in cooling a man off; she thought I might need it among all those randy warriors. But I put it to better use, keeping Beaumains out of my cousin’s bed.” There was an awkward pause, then she added, “It’s only temporary, you understand, so I had to give him a lecture on the proper behavior of a Round Table Champion. It seems to have worked, for we stayed with my cousin upward of the last ten months, and there aren’t any stray babies waiting to be born.”
Shaking my head in amusement, I inquired when Beaumains planned to make his presence known.
“This afternoon, at the tournament,” she answered promptly. “Since he asked for this adventure before the assembled Fellowship, he wants to return victorious before them all as well.”
I grinned at her explanation. Clearly our Fair Unknown had a flair for theatrics as well as battle, so I agreed not to divulge their secret until the lad himself put in an appearance.
***
Before the tournament began, Arthur took part in the ceremony for new squires. These were the boys who, after years of being errand-running and tack-mending pages, would now officially become apprentice helpers to full-fledged warriors. They stood at attention, their sponsors behind them, prepared to pledge their loyalty directly to the High King.
Mordred was the last in line, standing in front of Bedivere. I had made my stepson a splendid new tunic—he outgrew his old ones at a horrendous rate—and had sewn the badge of King Lot’s house on the sleeve, since there would surely be talk if I’d given him the High King’s badge. Still, I held my breath when Arthur came to a stop in front of him.
The Pendragon’s eyes flicked from the badge to Bedivere’s face. Solemnly the one-handed lieutenant reached out and rested his good hand on Mordred’s shoulder. “I have the honor to present the youngest son of the House of Lot,” the craggy lieutenant said. “He will someday be a fine warrior, and an honor to his father.”
Arthur swallowed drily and dropped his gaze to the boy. For a long moment they stared at each other, eye-to-eye, and I marveled that the rest of the world didn’t see what was so obvious to me—the same fine, level gaze that marked them as father and son.
“Are you ready to give me your promise?” Arthur asked.
Mordred’s answer was clear and he spoke his oath calmly and well. Arthur heard him out, nodded abruptly, and without another word turned and strode to the reviewing stand where I was seated. I let out my breath but continued to watch Mordred, wondering how much he understood of what had just transpired. But there was nothing in his face except pride in his new status; one would guess he had no idea how closely he was tied to the King who tried so hard to ignore him.
Once the new squires and their mentors had moved off the field, Arthur gave the trumpeter the signal to begin the tournament. Our different guests brought forth their flags, and when Bedivere can
tered onto the field, it was Mordred who rode next to him, carrying the Red Dragon into the center of the arena. Slowly they wheeled to allow the other pennants to be lowered in salute. When the maneuver was complete, Bedivere and Mordred brought the Banner to our box and saluted Arthur in the name of the people.
“Why don’t you join us?” I suggested as Bedivere fixed the standard in its place behind Arthur.
So it was that he and Mordred were seated beside us through the day, watching as both Champions and contenders displayed their best skills. Dinadan, being light on his feet and wiry, put on a fine show of swordsmanship against the more powerful but slower Gaheris; Sagramore, always a sturdy man but like a bull—slow to build up momentum and equally hard to stop—caught some interest in the new grip he used on his lance; and Palomides clearly outperformed everyone else on horseback, both known and new. But by midafternoon it was clear that Gawain had excelled in all the disciplines and should receive the prize. Until, that is, an unknown opponent entered the arena to bring the redhead a challenge.
The newcomer was well equipped and graceful in action, and I soon realized it was Beaumains. The two men battled for some time, both on horseback and on foot, and when Gawain lost his balance, the Fair Unknown was on him in an instant, sitting astride his chest and pinning his arms to the ground.
“Yield,” he cried, “yield in the name of Morgause, Queen of the Orkney Isles!”
There was a gasp of confusion in the audience and some small scuffling between the combatants, then Gawain was struggling to his feet as the newcomer took off his helmet. The sun glinted off his flaxen hair and a roar of remembrance went up from the audience. The blond youth had grown into full manhood during the last year, and I smiled proudly at him.
“By the Gods!” Mordred suddenly cried beside us, leaping to his feet. “It’s Gareth! My brother we thought was drowned.” The lad vaulted over the railing and started across the sand, still crying out his brother’s name.
Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn Page 12