“I think waking up with you is what I missed most,” he said casually, grinning down at me. It was the kind of comment he never used to make and I wondered if I should go away more often. Whatever accounted for my husband’s change of habit, I was delighted.
By comparison, the mood of the Cornish Queen verged on despair. I found Isolde lying on her bed, staring silently at the ceiling. “Yes, yes—I know I must make plans,” she acknowledged. “And I won’t be going back on my word…It’s home to Mark I go, and that’s all there is to that. But not yet, Gwen…I’m not ready yet.”
I was loath to press her further—who knew what memories and sorrows she was grappling with. I just hoped a few days’ rest would revive her spirits.
Later, when Arthur took me to see the new kennels, memories of my own rose to haunt me. Coming through the doorway, I ran right into Maelgwn’s hound from the Otherworld. He raised his head and stared directly at me, as he had in the hunting lodge, eyes glowing red, throat full of growls.
“What’s he doing here?” I cried, clutching my husband’s arm in panic and turning away from the brute.
“He’s well chained, Gwen—can’t possibly hurt you. Giving over Dormarth was part of Maelgwn’s reparation. I’ve always wanted to breed up a strain of black dogs, you know…”
I began to shake uncontrollably, a cold sweat covering my skin. Quite apart from the fact that it seemed a small payment for the grief my cousin had caused, I simply could not face the idea of living with that constant reminder under my roof.
“Please, Arthur—I haven’t asked for many things over the years,” I begged, still shaking. “Please get rid of him. I don’t care how, just make him go away.”
Arthur stared at me, confusion and surprise in both his voice and face. “I had no idea it would upset you so…” From the way his voice trailed off I knew he hoped I’d change my mind, but the very presence of the creature made my stomach turn, and I held firm.
Fortunately Gwyn of Neath, who had indeed built a small Hall of his own on Glastonbury’s Tor, arrived that evening to welcome me home, and Arthur gave the devil-hound to him. The gnarled little man was immensely pleased and promised to breed the dogs for Arthur but not bring them here, so everyone was satisfied.
***
Isolde’s problem was not so easily remedied, however—she continued to lie on her bed without tears or words, as though uncaring about either life or death. While I conferred with the builders about small additions and amendments to the kitchen—including a dovecote like the one at York—I tried to think how to encourage the Cornish Queen to continue her journey. Castle Dore was only a few days away, and I didn’t want Mark to come haul her home when she’d already made the trip this far. Besides, there was no telling how long Lance could keep Tris in the north.
I was debating the matter as I carried out a rack of fresh bread to cool. For a moment I paused to stare down the cobbled roadway, still marveling at the citadel the workers were constructing.
A swarm of people had gathered around a traveler who was making his way up the hill, and as they came nearer I cried out in surprise.
“Lance, what are you doing here?” I couldn’t imagine why he was on foot, and there was no sign of Tristan.
He glanced up at the sound of my voice and I called out again so he could see where I was. As the little crowd opened to let him through, I realized he was wearing the habit and cross of a Christian priest. My heart began to pound, and I shook my head in disbelief. Mouth open, eyes all but popping out of my head, I stood there like a ninny, gaping at the man who limped toward me.
“Your Highness.” His blue eyes twinkled as he made a formal bow. “Allow me.”
He took hold of the rack just as I was turning to put it down, and for a moment we engaged in a little tug-of-war.
“Oh, Kevin, is it really you?” I exclaimed, finally finding my voice as Beaumains rushed to relieve us of the loaves.
“Aye, ’tis me in the flesh, my dear, and more than glad to have found you!”
The people watched in astonishment as we hugged and cried and laughed like moonstruck children until I explained that Kevin was the closest thing I had to a brother, who had been lost and long thought dead.
“But I never believed it,” I rejoiced once we were seated in a quiet spot under the loft that runs around all four sides of the Hall. “You know I made Rhufon send Ailbe after you, don’t you?”
“Ah, so that’s how the wolfhound came to join me.” Kevin smiled. “I did wonder about that.”
“He was moping so badly, we thought he’d die,” I explained, remembering that no one could get the great dog to eat once his master was gone. “But everyone said you’d be eaten by wolves or bears, or worse yet, captured by outlaws and sold as a slave. I was counting on Ailbe to keep you alive.”
Kevin inclined his head, his tone light but his words serious. “Then I owe you my life, for I did come close to starving, and the weather was bitter that year…Without Ailbe for help in hunting and warmth in sleeping, I might well have died.”
There was a pause while I struggled not to blurt out the question that had haunted me for so long: Had you loved me, Kevin? Did you run away because you couldn’t stand to see the emissaries of kings come courting? Or was it only my own childish dream that kept me waiting for you, clinging to the belief that one day you’d return right up to the point when I married Arthur? Now that he’d come back, even belatedly, I needed to know the truth of it.
“Why…why did you leave?”
The priest stared off into space, searching for some inner truth with the same strange intensity I’d seen in Lance. At last he cleared his throat, but he spoke without meeting my gaze.
“Father Bridei would say it’s because I had not yet found my calling. Remember the Pictish priest we met at Loch Milton—the hardy little man with tattoos all over and the love of God in his eyes? It was he who found me lying sick and feverish in the summer house that’s perched on the edge of the waterfall’s chasm. If he hadn’t happened by, I would have perished, but he took me to the monastery at Whithorn, where I grew whole and healthy again.”
Kevin finally met my gaze and smiled. His voice and manner were much as I’d remembered, but I was sure it was no accident that he wasn’t answering my question directly. Maybe it was because he hadn’t felt all those emotions I’d ascribed to him—maybe that had only been a reflection of my own feelings. Maybe, in truth, all we can ever know of loving is our own part in it—all the rest must be taken on faith and trust.
It was an idea that made me distinctly uncomfortable, and my mind veered away from it. “You weren’t Christian back then, were you?”
“Um-huh. Took me a while to admit to His Grace. I hear that Brigit is in a convent now?”
“Aye, up in the Welsh Marches.” It struck me odd that so many of the people I loved were involved with the White Christ: Brigit and Igraine, Vinnie, and now Kevin.
“Good heavens, Lance, when did you get in?” Arthur called, hastening across the Hall, then slowing abruptly when he realized his mistake.
“It’s Kevin, whom I’ve told you so much about,” I explained, and my husband stepped forward with a grin of welcome.
“We’d be pleased to have you stay over,” he announced.
Kevin accepted gladly, and by the time we had all shared the evening meal it felt as natural to have him there as if he had never been lost.
But for all that I was excited to have him returned and Arthur was gracious to him as a host, it was Isolde who truly responded to the priest’s presence.
I told her about his arrival the first evening, and the next morning she asked shyly if he would hear her confession. He spent much of the day with her, and by nightfall she joined us for dinner.
Two days later Isolde left for Castle Dore, after Kevin blessed her and the warriors who would escort her home. I gave th
e young Queen a hug, and we waved her on her way, hoping that the most harrowing part of her loving—and leaving—Tristan was finally over.
“Whatever did you say to her?” I asked, never thinking it was an invasion of privacy.
The priest gave me a reproving look, then grinned. “I reminded her of the litany of Celtic Queens, just as I used to remind you.”
I laughed, hearing in memory the many times he’d coaxed me through something I didn’t think I could face, didn’t want to do, wasn’t sure I could—“What kind of Celtic Queen says, ‘I can’t’? Of course you can!” If anyone could give Isolde the necessary courage to do what had to be done, it was Kevin.
***
As the days shortened, the new larders filled with apples and cabbages, turnips and salt beef; smoked hams and haunches of venison were hung from the rafters; even a fair supply of salted butter was put aside to see us through ’til spring.
Lance and Tris arrived in time for Samhain, and Kevin agreed to winter over with us on the condition that he be allowed to say Mass regularly for those who were Christians in our Court. Many, both Christian and Pagan, grew very fond of him, but Tris was not among them, for he held the Irish priest responsible for Isolde’s leaving.
“I don’t care whose wife she is, the holy man had no right to steal her away from me,” Tris complained, distorting the facts entirely. He glared around the Hall, drunk enough not to care what he said, still sober enough to best any man who challenged him.
Lance, who was the only one Tris would listen to these days, talked him into taking up the harp, and he serenaded us with wonderful music until the wine got the best of him. Laying his instrument aside, Tristan sobbed himself to sleep with his head pillowed on his arms on the table.
It was a scene that was repeated more and more often as Tris wallowed in self-pity, holding everyone but himself accountable for his misery. Then one night he went too far, turning his anger against Isolde, claiming she had played him false, led him on, deluded him with dreams of love when at heart she was a faithless bitch.
Palomides rose to his feet and stalking purposefully across the Hall, stopped in front of the Harper. “How dare you besmirch her reputation,” he spat out contemptuously. “Everything she did was what you wanted. So take back that slander or meet me in single combat tomorrow morning.”
“Why wait for morning?” Tris snarled. “I can whip any man in the Hall right now, yourself included.”
Palomides lifted his chin and stared disdainfully at Isolde’s lover. “I am a man of honor and do not fight people who are drunk,” he announced. “Tomorrow, at dawn.”
“There will be no feuds within the Round Table,” Arthur bellowed, intent on stopping a senseless letting of blood. “Tristan, it’s time for you to let go of this passion of yours and get on with your life.”
“You don’t understand,” cried the big Champion, turning furiously in a circle as though to dare all comers. “She is mine, forever. My life and my death. Fated we are, and no one, not priest or Cornish King or Arab, shall come between us.”
He pounded his fist on the table, sending a clatter of plates and glasses to the floor, then whipped around and launched himself on Palomides like a whirlwind.
A gasp ran through the Hall, for Tris was the best wrestler in the realm. The Arab crouched to defend himself, and as Tris leapt at him, the smaller man twisted away.
Palomides fought only to restrain Tristan without hurting him, though they both came up with massive bruises in the end. But in spite of his drunkenness Tris was the victor, pinning the Arab to the floor and hooting his triumph before passing out.
Lance and Dinadan carried him to his bunk while the rest of the men gathered around Palomides, praising him for his courtesy and grumbling about the Comishman’s unruly behavior.
Next day Arthur asked Bedivere to take Tristan to Brittany when he went to serve as an emissary to King Ban’s Court. “Surely Tris can make a place for himself with one of the local Princes,” Arthur added. “With any luck, he’ll start a new life there as well.”
After that we settled into a winter dazzling in patterns of gold and white, full of love and laughter and so much hard work. Riding through the frosty days with Lance, laughing and playing and glorying in the fullness of life while candlelight pours through the doors of the Hall and we dance with the people on nights of festival and merriment…working with Arthur every day, snuggling together at night beneath the comforter while the stars glitter like flashing ice in the night sky above Somerset. And every morning the two men make the rounds of the fortress, checking with the sentries, discussing the plans for the day, deciding what is to be done.
Often I’d watch them tramping across the courtyard, matching stride for stride in the pristine whiteness of a new snowfall. Heads bent in conversation, oblivious to all else, they work together to guard and shape our world. Arthur was well filled out now, ruddy and solid and full of direct energy, while the lean, dark shape of Lancelot moved with sinuous grace beside him; they made me think of good sturdy wool and glimmering sealskin.
I could not imagine not loving them both.
We put our energies not just into the development of the citadel, but on the Cause as well. It was that winter we found the solution to making the Roads safe again.
“Everyone needs salt,” I said one blustery day as we sat at the long table with maps and charts, records and tables spread before us. “There’s so few places making it, compared with the inland settlements that need it. And transporting it is so dangerous…”
Lance looked up from a scroll that contained a Roman tax collector’s report. “The Empire taxed the salt wagons, and used that money to keep the Roads clear. If only we had coins, we could do the same…”
I was wondering how hard it would be to establish a mint when Arthur spoke up.
“We could barter for the service—offer to make sure the salt gets to those towns and warlords who keep the Roads safe and free of obstacles. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a capital idea,” Lance concurred. “And everyone would benefit—travelers and merchants, and the royal messengers as well.”
We all rushed to look at the map, tracing the routes the tax rolls had shown and debating which client kings would be cooperative, which resistant. In the end the system worked well and was one of the best ideas we ever had.
***
With the first hint of spring Frieda decided, at long last, to become a Christian and marry Griflet, and they asked Kevin to perform the ceremony. Much to everyone’s surprise her mother and sisters came for the wedding, which led to great rejoicing. There was pain as well, however, for Frieda’s father disowned her entirely. It was an act that hurt the both of them deeply, for she had been his favorite child.
Palomides was as courteous as ever at the festivities, yet there was an air of sad withdrawal around the man. Later he confided to Lance that while he wished the newlyweds every happiness, their joy only made his own loneliness harder to bear. “It seems,” the Breton added, “he still grieves over his hopeless love for Isolde.”
As the bluebells bloomed beneath the beeches and the cuckoo filled the night with longing, the Arab grew more and more restless. So I was not terribly surprised when he asked permission to leave Court.
“The Irish priest and I have been talking a lot lately,” Palomides explained. “And I’ve decided I’d like to go to Arabia…to find out what it’s really like, and if I have any kin there. Besides, I’ve always had an itch to see new places—the remnants of Rome, the city of Constantine…”
Arthur’s consternation at the notion of losing one of his best Companions showed clearly on his face, but he was never one to hinder the fulfillment of another’s moira. “I’ve heard some interesting things about the Byzantine laws—things that might be useful here. Perhaps while you are in the East you could look into them for me?” he asked.
Palomides agreed readily and began preparing to go to Exeter where he hoped to catch a ship for the Mediterranean. We provided him a letter of introduction to various Kings across the Continent and a special note for the Emperor Anastasius.
The day before the Arab was to leave, Kevin came to see me, asking if we could have a private chat.
“Let’s take the horses out,” I proposed, remembering how often we’d raced and ridden over the fells of Rheged.
We headed along the track that leads to Glastonbury. Featherfoot was growing old but was still strong and ready for a run, and it was only after a pounding gallop through the forest rides that the animals settled into a casual walk.
When we reached the edge of Gwyn’s pastures, we paused to admire the mares that were grazing in the meadow. The man from Neath had ponies as well as large horses, and for a few minutes Kevin and I compared notes on the animals.
“I think I’ll join Palomides on the trip to Devon,” Kevin announced casually as we turned for home. “I’d like to visit Castle Dore and see how Mark and Isolde are getting on.”
It had taken a while to get used to seeing my childhood love in the garb of a holy man, governed by spiritual tenets that set him apart from the flow of everyday dreams and desires. Yet once I accepted the change in him, it seemed so natural to have him at Court, I assumed he would remain with us indefinitely. The idea of his leaving jolted me from my complacency.
“How strange it will be,” I mused, “with Tristan and Bedivere, Pelleas and Gawain—now even you and Palomides—all off somewhere else.”
“And Lancelot, too, I think,” Kevin allowed.
Shocked, I turned to stare at him. He was watching me intently, and I blushed and looked away hastily.
“You don’t think I could have missed the fact that he’s in love with you, do you?” Kevin asked. When I couldn’t find the words to answer, he went on gently. “The Breton and I have spent a fair amount of time together, discussing many things. He’s badly torn between his love for you and his love for Arthur, so I advised him to leave your side and go in search of the Almighty.”
Queen of the Summer Stars Page 38