When I had finished with the first, Arthur raised the other foot. He continued describing the men who had come to join the Companions, and I listened with only half an ear, wondering how long he would go on talking and if he’d be too tired or drunk for loving. Dropping both boots under the table, I got up and went to stand behind him, rubbing his shoulders while he talked.
“There’s one who stands out above all the rest, Gwen,” he said with a yawn as I began to tug at his tunic and finally pulled it over his head. “Lancelot—King Ban’s son from Brittany. Seems he was educated by the Lady of the Lake at the Sanctuary; studied medicine and science and history as well as warfare and swordplay. Thank heavens he learned his lessons well; he’s the one who saved Bedivere on the field.”
I folded the tunic thoughtfully and put it on the table. When I was a child Vivian had been the Lady of the Lake, and she had asked that I come live at the Sanctuary to study with the other princelings there, but my parents had refused. If I had gone, no doubt this Lancelot and I would have grown up together. I looked forward to asking him all sorts of questions, for I’ve always wondered what I had missed.
Behind me Arthur stretched again and I glanced down at his feet, which were still propped on the bench. When he wiggled the toe that poked out of a hole in his sock, I paused to assess the damage, sure there would be a huge pile of mending after a summer of hard wear.
“Got you!” he cried, grabbing me by the waist so unexpectedly that I let out a yip of surprise. He pulled me, laughing and sputtering, down onto his lap.
“You didn’t really think I could be all
that
tired, did you?” he teased, holding me firmly.
I giggled and struggled, trying to twist around so that I could face him for a kiss, but we knocked over the chair in our tussling, and then we were making love among the rushes and bracken fronds that covered the floor.
It was a rowdy, boisterous coming together, full of Arthur’s usual enthusiasm and directness, and by the time we separated we were both relaxed and happy.
***
But, I thought ruefully, if we’re going to make this a habit, I’d best replace the rushes with a rug.
The Fellowship
When Arthur’s men divided up to chase the Irish across Wales, they agreed to rendezvous in Silchester at the autumn equinox. Now the war-bands began to straggle in, anxious for news of comrades and eager to celebrate the end of the campaign.
I met the men as much by accident as by intention, in one case literally bumping into a pair of them when our paths crossed in the barnyard.
“Ohhh!” I sputtered, trying to keep from dropping my basket of eggs, but burst out laughing as I recognized Palomides.
The Arab who had brought the use of stirrups to Arthur gave me a mischievous smile and bowed with a flourish. “Pelleas,” he said, turning to his companion, “behold the High Queen.”
I looked at the newcomer curiously, for Arthur had said he had the makings of a superb horseman. Thin and awkward, he went down on one knee and began stammering out an apology for not having recognized me.
“That’s all right,” I assured him. “Palomides mistook me for a page the first time we met.”
The Arab and I laughed at the memory while Pelleas gawked in disbelief and when Palomides leaned down to give him a hand, I hurried on to the kitchen.
Next morning, as we were getting out of bed, Arthur announced we should hold a victory celebration. “Something grand, like the reunion at Caerleon…” He was splashing at the water bucket and went on talking as he dried head and face with a towel. “Think you could arrange it for a week from now?”
“Dear man, do you have any idea how long it takes to put on a feast?” I slipped out of bed and crept up behind him. “Never get it done in time,” I declared, yanking the corner of the towel so fiercely that he spun around in surprise.
“Of course you can,” he responded, hanging on to the towel in spite of me. “Cei will help you.”
And then we were in a tug-of-war, laughing and playing, with all plans for the feast forgotten. So it was midday before I located Arthur’s foster-brother.
It was Cei’s fine eye for detail that had led Arthur to make him Seneschal of the Realm. Many find his sharp tongue unpleasant, particularly when he’s collecting taxes from them. But I admire his dedication to Arthur and his ability to ferret out hard-to-locate items amid a hundred ruins and unnamed sources.
He embraced the idea of a feast enthusiastically. “The basilica’s not in bad shape, except for the corner where the roof’s fallen in. Have to get rid of the owls…” Cei frowned for a minute, then brightened. “You look to the guests, M’lady, and I’ll take care of the festivities.”
So Silchester became a beehive of activity. Arthur took out daily hunting parties, which kept the warriors occupied and added to Cei’s menu at the same time. And in the sewing room the women plied their needles, furiously embroidering each newcomer’s name on the pennant that would grace his chair at the feast. These were the symbols of acceptance within the Fellowship, and every man must have one.
Even the Saxon milkmaid Frieda bent her blond head to the task, though her stitches were rough and awkward. “Now you know why I prefer to work in the milk-barn and kennel,” she grimaced.
“
Macht nicht
,” I assured her. “
Es iss sehr gut
.” Patient as she had been in teaching Arthur and me her language, I could be lenient about her handiwork.
Cook collected all the usual edibles from the countryside while Cei pillaged ancient gardens for such rarities as walnut trees and late-bearing figs.
Two days before the celebration the Seneschal stood before the long table in our work chamber, scowling at a glass bottle with a rag in its neck and a layer of oil floating on the top of the contents. “It’s the best to be had under the circumstances,” he reported dubiously.
“I’m sure it will be fine.” Arthur barely glanced up from the horse-breeding chart. “This is a reunion of rowdy warriors, not elegant nobles—most couldn’t tell good wine from bad.”
I grinned at that. Having been raised on cider and strong brown ale, I’ve never developed an appreciation of the vintner’s art and can rarely tell the difference between wines, unless one of them is vinegar.
Cei continued to frown at the bottle, then shrugged, as though resigned that it would have to do. “Shall I set up the Round Table?” he inquired.
“By all means.” Arthur’s attention was suddenly engaged. “Ever since Merlin’s prophecy, the men have talked about the Round Table as though it has a magic of its own.” My husband let his glance slip sidewise, sweeping me with the conspiratorial look I love. “Never did meet a Celt who could resist the promise of fame and glory.”
I laughed, for Arthur was fond of teasing me about my Celtic heritage, though most all Britons were Celts to begin with, just as later we’d all been proclaimed Roman citizens as well.
“But Arthur,” the Magician had said, “will be a king for all Britons; Roman and Celt, Pict and Scot…yes, even the Ancient Ones will look to him for justice. And the Knights of the Round Table will become part of a glory that shall be sung for all time.”
It was a grand and stirring prophecy—and one we had no notion how to fulfill.
***
I thought of it again when the British warriors came streaming into the basilica for the feast—men like Geraint and Agricola, who spoke an antique Latin and wore whatever badges of office had been handed down from ancestors honored in the days of the Empire. Mingling with them, equal in courage and stature, were the rough-hewn warlords who had returned to the earthen forts their ancestors carved out of the hilltops. Heroes in homespun and hides, they’ve never learned to read or write, but sang and bellowed at each other in the tongue of the Cumbri.
Pellinore of the Wrekin was one such. A warrior dedicated to the pursuit of all the women in the hope of finding the Goddess incarnate, he swaggered into the Hall full of cheer and ale. When I waved a greeting he came forward immediately.
“That’s a mighty handsome piece of silk, M’lady,” he commented, taking the corner of my Damascus scarf in his big hand. “A fitting touch in such a royal setting—Cei’s done a fine job with the old ruin, hasn’t he?”
I nodded in agreement, glancing around the room. The basilica had been cleaned and polished; flags and shields hung from the moldering walls, and fresh torches had been placed in ancient sconces. The curved trestles of the Round Table were set out in a circle, each Companion in his designated chair with his men ranged behind him. Servants and children ran errands between the trestles or darted across the open space in the center, and the air hummed with conversation.
I grinned up at Pelli just as he let out a fearsome oath. “Someone’s hiding behind that hanging, M’lady,” he whispered, drawing his dagger and crouching to leap.
Startled, I turned to look at the large, exotic rug Cei had hung as a backdrop behind us. Its colors were deep and rich, with a central panel of maroon holding a circle of silver stars. I was wondering where the Seneschal had found it when Pelli sprang forward, bellowing his challenge as he flung back the edge.
“Show yourself, skulking swine!”
There was a flurry of feathers and oaths as a pair of indignant owls glared down on the warrior.
“Oh, Pelli, it’s just the birds.” I laughed as much at Cei’s ingenuity as at Pelli’s bewilderment, and was glad when the older man roared good-naturedly as well. After Pelli moved away I surveyed the rug more closely, thinking of the bedroom, then turned to look at Arthur.
Rested and relaxed, he leaned back in his carved chair with the deceptive casualness of a seasoned warrior. I’d made him a new scarlet tunic, and the torchlight winked and glimmered on its embroidered trim. Where the sleeves fell back, a king’s ransom of golden armbands could be seen reaching all the way up to his elbows, and the official Ring of State graced his hand. In the flickering light the gold-and-garnet dragon seemed to coil around his finger, rich and powerful. Altogether he was a man who wore his kinghood well, and I thought again how lucky I was.
Once the Hall was full the trumpeter coaxed a cascade of notes from his battered horn and a blaze of color whirled into the empty space within the Round Table’s heart. I stared at the gyrating figure in mystification, not recognizing the acrobat who had joined our wedding party last year.
“Dagonet came on the campaign,” Arthur whispered, leaning over to me. “Did well enough as a foot soldier, but it was his lighthearted antics around the campfire that proved most useful. He’s so good at jesting, Gawain dubbed him the Royal Fool.”
“Your Highnesses,” Dagonet called out, bowing low before us. “May I conduct this feast for you, since the Wizard is off dallying with his lovely spellbinder elsewhere?”
The jester wove a dance of the Companions’ recent exploits—miming a swaggering warrior one moment and the dying enemy the next. As the ever-important smith he repaired a bent sword with such gusto he managed to smash his thumb against the imaginary anvil, and even parodied the High King leading the cavalry against the foe, finishing up with a triumphal return to Silchester.
“And all,” he cried in conclusion, “all that for the Cause—a prosperous Britain, loyal to King Arthur and safe from the threat of invasion.”
I joined in the laughter and clapping when Dagonet took his bow, thinking that a jester could be very handy in reminding the people what we were trying to do.
“And now, my fellow heroes and buffoons,” the Fool announced, “’tis time to pay our respect to Their Highnesses and receive the gifts of treasure due every proud warrior, that it may truly be said that Arthur is the most generous of Kings.”
First among the heroes was Gawain. As Dagonet recounted his confrontation with the Irish champion, the Hall filled with applause—the Prince of Orkney may not have bested Marhaus, but he basked in the glory of having fought him to a standstill. When Arthur slid the thickest of the gold bracelets over his hand, Gawain grinned up at us, the impish nature of the boy I’d known in childhood still beaming from his face.
To Cei went an ornate inlaid bracelet, for the Seneschal loved elegance, no matter how old or battered. And a fine golden torque was laid aside for Bedivere, who had given his hand in the service of his King—though the lieutenant was too badly wounded to attend the ceremony, all witnessed how deeply Arthur cared.
So the men came forward to receive their due, to bend the knee, to thank us in their individual ways. Pellinore and Lamorak; Griflet and Geraint and Cador of Cornwall; Palomides and the skinny lad, Pelleas-—the names spun out, the rewards were given.
I gasped when Dagonet announced Accolon of Gaul. This was the young warrior who had come to serve Arthur and been seduced by Morgan le Fey instead. Memory of my sister-in-law’s anger danced around me—raging little wildcat, hissing and screaming at me in fury. As Accolon approached I wondered whether his presence meant the Lady had gotten over her pique, or that his desire for a warrior’s glory was stronger than his love for her.
Bors of Brittany came next, bounding across the space before us and asking leave to present his cousin Lancelot.