***
“What’s this?” I asked as we came to a sizable island in the middle of the river.
“Astolat,” Arthur replied. “You remember Bernard, don’t you?”
“And Elaine.” I nodded, scanning the little crowd along the shore for sight of the widower and his voluptuous daughter. The father was quickly found, standing athwart one of several skiffs that were tied to a makeshift dock, but the girl was nowhere to be seen.
A tall stone tower was barely visible above the trees. In the shadow of the topmost window stood a lonely figure, her long hair unbound and tangled around her head. She peered cautiously at the procession of Champions moving along the riverbank as though afraid of both seeing and being seen, and I wondered if the enforced solitude had completely unstrung her mind. My heart went out to her.
Suddenly Elaine moved forward and stepping into the sunlight, leaned out over the window ledge.
I waved to her, but her attention was riveted on the procession; though she held a weaving shuttle in one hand and a hank of yellow floss in the other, both loom and bodkin were forgotten as she stared raptly downstream.
There was something uncanny in her strange, intense stare, and once more I wished her father could understand that imprisonment would not cure her “shyness.” With a sigh for human nature I put the subject aside and promptly forgot her. Later I would have ample cause to remember that moment.
***
Our journey down the river was long and stately, and by the time the Roman bridge at London came into view I could have jumped up clapping for joy at getting off that boat.
The people of London turned out to give us a welcome as gay as the water trip had been solemn. They crowded onto the bridge and lined the wharf below the walls, while out on the river scores of skiffs and coracles formed a procession as we headed for the quay.
Lancelot and Bedivere stood on the pier, and after Arthur asked the ranking members of the Council for permission to enter the city, trumpeters filled the air with flourishes and the two lieutenants helped us ashore.
Bedivere gave Arthur a broad grin of welcome, but the Breton greeted me with great solemnity. Instead of the courtly nod I expected, he studied me intently as he took my hand and helped me ashore.
“Are you well—not overtaxed by such a long trip?” he asked.
“A little tired,” I admitted, giving his hand a squeeze of appreciation as the wooden dock firmed up beneath my feet. “If only the royal trappings weren’t so cumbersome.” I tugged at the cape which had caught on the rough edge of a piling.
Bending low in a gesture that might be construed as a deep bow, he untangled the corner of the offending garment.
“Your freedom, M’lady,” he said lightly, and then we were laughing as he offered me his arm, and we hurried after Arthur.
***
Cei and Enid were arranging a splendid feast with which to conclude the oath taking, so I was blessed with several days of relaxing and catching up with bits of news and gossip from all over the realm.
In general men talk about what
happened
—who has been bravest or bloodiest and where the victory lay—while women discuss who did what and
why
, and how it will affect the rest of us. So I went to the women in order to gauge the mood of the Court.
All the Britons, both northern and southern, were basking in the victory at Mt. Badon. Our journey down the Thames was hailed as a stroke of genius, and the midsummer gathering in the old Imperial City was seen as a fitting climax of pomp and power. Only the Roman girl Augusta made bold enough to mention Maelgwn, asking snidely about his standing in the Round Table. I brushed her question aside and was glad when no one else pursued the subject. Hopefully they realized that a confrontation could lead to civil war, and we needed the men of Gwynedd as allies. For myself, I was still frightened that it would lead to Arthur’s death.
The Park around the Palace was in splendid shape this year, so I arranged a picnic for my ladies, hoping to catch whatever breeze came off the river to relieve the summer heat. A fat bumblebee was making its way through drifts of flowers, the hum of its wings lying soft on the still air as the talk moved round to visiting royalty.
Our guests had begun to arrive from all over the realm. Everyone except Morgan le Fey and Maelgwn had promised to be in attendance. Even King Mark of Cornwall had overcome his fear of travel and arrived that very morning, bringing a large entourage for Isolde and the Champions Tristan and Dinadan as well.
“The Cornish Queen and her husband’s nephew are never out of touch,” Ettard commented, her childish voice giving the innuendo an ingenuous twist. It caught me by surprise, for I hadn’t realized that royal romance had become common knowledge.
Vinnie handed round a tray of biscuits and sliced cucumbers and scowled at the convent girl, who looked away with a giggle.
“You’re a fine one to talk.” Augusta’s patrician voice cut sharply across the mirth like the bee darting for a new patch of blossoms. “Everyone knows you and Pelleas spend all your time together.”
Ettard blushed but raised her head haughtily. “It is he who seeks me out,” she snapped.
“And you’re no longer pushing him aside. What’s the matter, is he the best you can get, after all?”
“Now just you shush,” Vinnie exclaimed. “Whoever heard of such tattling in front of a Queen?”
The girls settled down after that, and the older women made a point of keeping the conversation on more steady subjects: the state of the crops, the arrival of Byzantine traders at the London docks, and the gradual growth of trade between the Saxon women and their counterparts in the city markets.
“Sometimes I think if it was left to women, we’d have long since settled the difficulties between the tribes,” Enid mused, and I couldn’t help but agree with her.
The men, however, went about it in their own way.
The acceptance of the Saxons’ oaths took two full days. Not all were willing to pledge themselves as Arthur’s men, and those who refused were led to a block a short distance away, where their heads were chopped off unceremoniously.
I winced whenever the sword fell, for while many had died in combat against us, execution was something else again. But the bloodier-minded Celts cheered happily each time a Saxon head rolled, and Arthur’s standing among them rose another notch.
A small but grisly collection began to decorate the wall over the gate, as a warning to any who might plan to cross the Pendragon again.
***
“This thing gets heavier every year,” Arthur muttered, taking off the crown at the end of the first day and looking about for some place to put the golden circle. Our chamber in the Palace was enormous and over the centuries had become the final resting place for wardrobes and linen chests, tables and stools and couches of all kinds. Arthur finally put the crown over the stile of a chair and sank wearily onto the seat.
In the distance the crows quarreled and flapped among the heads, pulling the flesh from the recent dead and squawking in raucous victory over each bloody morsel.
I came round to stand behind my husband, trying to massage the tension out of his shoulders and commiserating on the less noble aspects of being a ruler.
“Part of the job,” he grumbled, rubbing the red mark the crown had left on his temple.
“It’s not always going to be like this,” I murmured.
“That’s up to them.” He spoke curtly, the hard edge of authority cutting off all other comment.
I rested my cheek against the top of his head with a sigh. It was one thing to understand his avoidance of personal emotions, and even to put aside my own desire for support when I was scared or hurt or sad. But this callousness toward those whose lives had become forfeit to our sovereignty was something new. I wondered if empathy and compassion no longer existed for him—if too many wars and too much violence in the effort to bring peace kills the capacity to feel anything afterward.
“Time for bed,” he yawned, leaning forward and away from my embrace. “At least tomorrow will see the last of it; Cei’s feast can’t come too soon for me.”
***
I nodded silently, echoing the sentiments myself.
The Lily Maid
I wish Merlin could have seen it; I think he would be pleased,” Arthur commented as we presided over the grand feast.
I slid my hand into my husband’s and gave it a squeeze in agreement.
The cavernous main Hall of the Palace was full of light and color; everywhere you looked there were banners and sconces, flowers and fresh rushes and the bright glint of gold. It was a rich and sumptuous setting for the nobles and warriors who had gathered to do us honor.
The women ranged from the delicate beauty of Isolde to the country bonniness of Pellinore’s young wife. And the Companions were just as diverse. Yet Palomides with his dark, Middle Eastern cast and Gawain, ruddy and high-spirited as they come, were but differing facets of the same jewel. They made the Round Table shimmer like a living tapestry.
In spite of their variety, the Court I now gazed on had come together with one identity; over and above all else, they were the proud followers or allies of King Arthur.
Nimue took her place nearby, and I raised my goblet in a silent toast, glad that she could see the Sorcerer’s dream come true.
When the tables were cleared Dagonet called for Wehha the Swede to come forward, then paraded slowly around the inner circle of the trestles holding up a large serving vessel of silver so that the torchlight glinted off its polished sides.
I caught my breath as I recognized the Anastasius Bowl, that gift the King of the Franks had sent to Arthur years ago. Of all the peoples of East Anglia, Wehha alone had honored his treaty with us and not joined Cerdic’s forces. Arthur intended to reward him well.
“You don’t mind, do you?” my husband asked in a whisper, gesturing toward the treasure he was giving away. I shook my head, thinking that if shiny cold metal would assure a peaceful future, he was welcome to all the silverware in the royal households.
Nonetheless I stared at the tray and wondered what the barbarian would make of its classic elegance. I had a sudden picture of him parading through London preceded by his standard of feathers, strutting along while a slave beat on the big circular dish like a gong. The notion was so funny I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing aloud.
The leader of the Wolfings approached us with great solemnity, one hand holding his drinking horn and the other extended in his particular salute. Hailing Arthur as his equal, he turned to address the assemblage.
“Please to note, not all Federates and newcomers are traitors.” His Latin was oddly cadenced, as though this were a speech learned by rote so as to make the rest of the Fellowship aware that he too was a man of culture. “An honorable immigrant respects the hospitality of his host King, even if his compatriots do not.”
Wehha lifted his horn and after pouring out an oblation for his Gods, toasted the Pendragon and drained the wine. His men were standing at the back of the Hall, and when they began the rhythmic clapping by which these people express approval, Arthur rose and saluted them in return.
I scanned the gathering of Swedes, looking for some sign that Wehha’s wife had grown bold—or curious—enough to attend a feast again, but outside of the warriors the only figure I could make out was Wehha’s son, Wuffa. Too old to be called a child, too young to have been blooded, the boy stood stiff and silent before his father’s men, scowling fiercely during the proceedings.
I wondered why he should be so angry, but a commotion at the end of the hall distracted all of us, and the thought was lost.
A page dodged past the crowd of peasants standing at the door and advanced upon us, breathless from running.
“A boat…a little skiff…with a lady lying across it. There’s neither oarsman nor sail…only a length of fabric trailing in the water…and it moves by itself, as though guided by a God.”
The lad’s teeth were chattering, and his eyes went huge with fright as he told of watching the little boat come floating down the Thames. Its strange, silent cargo was borne along on a steady current, striking fear and awe in all who saw it. Finally a fisherman had found the courage to row out and tow it in to shore.
“It was he who sent me to fetch Your Highness,” the child gulped. “He asked you to hurry…said you’d know what it means.”
Arthur turned to Lance, but the lieutenant was as puzzled as the King, and the Hall filled with curious murmuring. I put my hand on Arthur’s sleeve, concerned that such an unnatural event boded ill, but he gave me an encouraging smile and turned to the gathering.
“Something so uncanny is not to be ignored. Whoever wishes to join me at the river may do so.”
Cei called for more torches and within minutes we were trekking through the night to the water’s edge.
The fisherman was just bringing the little vessel alongside the pier and Cei leapt forward to secure the tie-rope. The flickering torchlight alternately hid and revealed a tragic picture, and in the hush the little crowd of onlookers made various signs asking their Gods to protect them from whatever magic was afoot.