Guinevere Evermore (8 page)

“Cheldric doesn’t,” Guinevere interrupted.

Risa grimaced. “I know." He’s good with the children, too. Never even asked which ones were his, just loves them all. When I think of what a swaggering bore he used to be, I can’t believe it. Losing his arm did wonders for his personality. But I’m not going to marry him, so stop hinting.”

Guinevere subsided. “But I do think you are mistaken about Modred. Arthur likes him.”

“So does Cei,” Lydia added. “He seems to be the most normal of the bunch.”

Risa shook her head. “All the same, I consider it my duty to continue meeting him until I know what he’s up to.”

“Well, by all means, you can’t shirk your duty!”

“Go on, laugh if you like. Just wait and see. There will be a formal dinner tonight, you know, and a meeting of the Round Table. Which jewelry would you like me to lay out for you?”

Lydia got up. “All right. We won’t tease you anymore. May I borrow the opal brooch, Guinevere? I’m going to wear my new blue tunic tonight.”

“Yes, of course. Risa, will you get that out, too? I think I just want the pearls and the Saxon bracelets. And the comfortable shoes with the fur lining. They’ll be warm for summer, but I’ll be standing so much this evening that I’ll forgo style.”

• • •

Arthur knew how to feed his guests. In the side court, two whole venison were roasting, lathered over with a basting of wine and cinnamon, basil, rosemary, thyme, and cumin. In the kitchens, huge trays of birds were browning—curlew, partridge, woodcock, and snipe. Trencher loaves of bread, colored with saffron, waited at the tables to be used to soak up the meat juices. Then there were five kinds of fish and eels boiled in almond milk. Lydia had been overjoyed at the recent arrival of a trading ship from Damascus, and so there were also several kinds of dried fruits in clove-and-ginger sauce. With this there were huge pitchers of beer and flagons of wine enough to drown all Camelot.

The meal began as soon as the evening breeze made it comfortable for so many people to crowd into the hall. No serious conversation was allowed and this was enforced through constant entertainment, singing, tumbling, and story reciting. The tumblers had not been to Britain for several years and had perfected amazing new feats of balance that caused people to forget for whole minutes the food before them.

“Arthur, this is magnificent,” Lancelot told him. “But are you sure it’s a good idea to have this feast before the Table?”

“You and I and the other knights will spend one hour in the chapel as usual before we meet. Those who are eager for the empty place will also be ready.”

“I should have known. A man who can’t stay sober at a feast like this can’t be relied upon to keep his wits about him on a mission. I am very glad that I joined this assemblage before you learned such trickery.”

“It doesn’t seem fair, but I can’t get to know these men the way I did you and Cei and Gawain. I need to resort to deviousness. It wouldn’t have worked in your case, anyway. You never touched wine in those days. And you don’t fool me now. You fill your cup once an evening, drink it half down and add water. You haven’t had enough tonight to make a baby tipsy.”

Lancelot fiddled with his knife. “I just don’t like the feeling. I want to stay alert. I didn’t think anyone noticed. I get laughed at enough for my ways.”

“Don’t worry. I’m grateful for one man I can always be sure of.”

Arthur went back to his meal. Lancelot swallowed and tried not to look at Guinevere, seated next to Palomides. He drained his cup and sat back, focusing all his attention on the bawdy song Durriken had just begun.

Guinevere knew the moment Lancelot glanced at her and away. She tore off a small piece of the meat-soaked bread and nibbled at it. She smiled at Palomides.

“Perhaps when you finish with Percival you will teach the rest of us how they behave at the Emperor’s court.”

“I see nothing to correct,” Palomides grinned back at her. “And by the time I finish with Percival, I will be an old man, gumming my gruel by the fire.”

“Nonsense! He is so much better lately. He hasn’t compared me to his horse in weeks.”

“I’m glad to hear it. He tries to remember my dictates, but he doesn’t seem able to apply one situation to another. He has no judgment. I’m afraid it will cause him great harm someday. And yet, there is something about him. I often wonder if he may not be one of God’s chosen, one of His innocents.”

“Perhaps.” Guinevere wriggled herself to a softer spot on her cushion. “But I think it more likely that he is just a fool. Still, one more at Camelot won’t hurt.”

Palomides laughed softly. If only he could make the people here see what they had. He looked around the hall. It was a special evening and everyone was dressed in their finest robes. The babies had been left with the nursemaids and the older children served the food and wine. Sometimes they would trip on a dog and there would be a momentary uproar, but on the whole it was orderly. Those at the high table ate off Samian plate and drank from gold cups while those at the lower tables had pewter or silver. To them it was perfect elegance. To Palomides, after the ritual coldness of Constantinople and the lush opulence of Babylon, it was comfortable, simple, and warm. Here the servants were held in esteem; people were still few enough to have worth. No, he had no intention of teaching them to behave with the callous thoughtlessness of the Emperor’s court. Someone tapped his shoulder.

“Would you like some of the fruit, Sir?” Galahad smiled at him. “Figs and dates from Damascus. They are very good.”

His sticky face and fingers testified to it. Guinevere glanced up at him and laughed.

“We should be glad they aren’t any better or no one else would get any tonight. Here, love, let me just wipe your face before the dogs lick you clean.”

“I don’t mind the dogs.”

“Nevertheless.” She dampened her napkin and Galahad resigned himself to martyred embarrassment.

When the song ended, Arthur rose. Quiet spread slowly to the end of the hall. When all had stopped, he spoke.

“Tonight we must select a new member of the Round Table, to take the place of our brave Gereint, who was wickedly slain by Ligessauc Longhand. It is our custom, as most of you know, for all of the knights to spend the time before in the chapel, praying for the soul of our lost comrade and for guidance in the choice of his successor. But no choice will be accepted unless the name be written on the Table. We will meet again at moonrise. Until then, please, the rest of you continue with the feast.”

Palomides rose also, bowed to Guinevere and left with the others. There were a few moments of silence after they went, punctuated by sighs of envy from the young men who remained. Then Durriken signaled the tumblers to begin again and they did another routine, this time to the beat of a tabor. When they finished, the pipers joined the drummer and the ladies got up to dance.

By moonrise, the tables had been cleared and the children sent to bed. Guinevere waited with Lydia for the knights to arrive from the chapel. They must be the first to enter the Great Hall, where the Table rested.

“I never get used to it,” Lydia murmured. “All of this by night and the name appearing on the Table all by itself.”

“It’s only magic,” Guinevere answered. “You shouldn’t be afraid.”

“Yes, but
who
writes the name?” Lydia shivered.

“I don’t know. I never thought about it. Perhaps one of the old gods. The Table was built in their time.” Guinevere was unconcerned. She was grateful that she had had the sense to wear her soft shoes. The night was cooler than expected. Brisane was probably dying in those open-lattice things with the high heels. But she always did prefer fashion to comfort.

The candles in the chapel windows flickered as the knights passed out of the building and returned to the hall. Their faces were stern, as if preparing for battle. Without speaking to the waiting group, they entered the hall and took their places as the Table. There were three empty seats. One was that of the knight Gereint. One was the mysterious Siege Perillous, of which they had never discovered the meaning. The last was clearly marked “Sir Gawain.” But Gawain was, as always, sound asleep and would be until dawn. Lancelot looked at the space and wondered what it would be like never to have seen the moon at night, or the stars. Poor Gawain! He missed all the enchantment.

Modred’s fingers curled into fists at his side. It was too soon. He knew it. But Gawain had been one of the first. He had more right to a seat at the Round Table than anyone, certainly more than that half-wit, Gareth. Why shouldn’t he be chosen? Idly, he wondered how Arthur wrote the names. It was a perfect method. Who could complain about the choice of some supernatural hand?

The place at the Table was still blank. Arthur bowed his head, his eyes closed. Suddenly, someone cried out and they all craned to see.

Under the pouring moonlight, letters were being pressed into the wood. Arthur did not move or open his eyes. But he knew when it was finished and signaled Cei to read it out. Lydia stepped up silently behind him, to read the name first and whisper it in his ear. Cei still had trouble with unfamiliar words and names were the most difficult.

“The Table has chosen,” he intoned. “The newest Knight of the Round Table is Sir Dyfnwal!”

“Me!” came a squeak from the back of the room. It was the younger of Meleagant’s sons. “But . . . but . . .”

Arthur relaxed. “Come forward, young man. We do not question the choice.”

He drew his sword, Excalibur, and the light caught it, flashing upon the upturned face of Dyfnwal as he knelt before the King.

“I question the choice!” a voice blared. “He has no right to be a knight before me. I’m the eldest! I’m the one who should have been picked. Let me read that.”

Dyfnwal’s brother pushed his way to the Table, ignoring the arms that tried to hold him back. His jaw clenched as he made out the letters.

“It’s a mistake. He doesn’t know how to keep his own ass safe, much less watch out for someone else’s. There must be a place for me. What about that one? There’s no one there.”

“That belongs to my brother Gawain,” Agravaine said clearly. He knew how the man felt; both Gawain and Gaheris had been chosen before he was. All the same, Mallton would get nothing by making a scene. “We all know that his infirmity keeps him from being here at night.”

“Then what about that one? No one sits there. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Your name is not ‘Siege Perillous,’ is it?” Arthur’s voice held a threat, but the man didn’t heed it.

“My Lord, please,” Dyfnwal said urgently, “let him have my place. He’s right. I’m not worthy.”

“
I
think you are.” Arthur was a king now. His eyes were hard. “Mallton, you will return to your father in the morning. No one can stay at Camelot who questions my decision and that of the Table.”

Mallton had been drinking too much to listen to orders. He was accustomed to being deferred to as Meleagant’s heir. He grabbed a chair, set it in front of the Siege Perillous, and, defiantly, sat.

There was a gasp in the room and a shuffle as several men rushed to drag him away. Mallton leaned back with an exultant smirk, which suddenly changed to a look of horror. His eyes bulged and his veins knotted. He gave one hideous, drawn-out scream and slumped forward.

“My God!” Guinevere shrank back in her chair, her fingers making the sign against evil. This was a sort of magic she would rather do without.

Father Antonius, who had followed the knights from the chapel, stepped forward and gently lifted Mallton’s head. He looked into the dead face. Those behind him turned away. He closed the man’s eyes and straightened.

“He has paid the price for his blasphemy,” he said softly. “I will take him home to his father.”

Dyfnwal threw himself on his brother, weeping bitterly. Father Antonius drew him away and signaled for someone to remove the body. He then half-carried the shattered newly made knight from the hall.

“There’ll be hell to pay for this,” Cei murmured to Arthur.

“Hell’s been paid. It’s Meleagant I’m worried about. He won’t believe his oldest son died without my conniving it.”

No one could think of anything more to say and everyone wanted to be away from the Table as quickly as possible, so the ceremony ended abruptly. Arthur let Guinevere lead him to their rooms, where he sat up the rest of the night, trying to understand what had just happened. Lydia stopped by the kitchens and made a strong cup of hot herbed mead for herself and Cei. She wasn’t the only one.

Constantine and his father, Cador, were nearly the last to leave. Cador moved slowly now, his legs weak and his eyes blurred. But his mind was still clear and one thing puzzled him.

“Who was the man standing in front of me?” he asked. “He was close enough for me to make out his face, but I think my brain must finally be going.”

“I don’t remember who it was, Father. Why?”

“I could have sworn that it was Uther Pendragon.”

“Uther’s been dead for over thirty years, Father. Let me think. Yes, the man you saw was Modred, Morgan le Fay’s youngest.”

“I don’t see how it could be. He was even standing like Uther, his hands opening and closing on his thighs, just as Uther’s did when he was waiting to take something he wanted. ”

“You must have been mistaken. He wasn’t even born when Uther died.”

“No, of course not. You’re right. I’m getting old. Yet, they are enough alike for the boy to be Uther’s ghost.”

Chapter Seven

Sir Percival, at last a knight of the Round Table, was heading, not too quickly, toward Camelot. He slumped in the saddle in a way which would have horrified Palomides. He sighed deeply. He scratched at a flea in his tunic. They were going to laugh at him. And, if they didn’t laugh, they were going to be angry. He sighed again. How could he have known? “It’s rude to ask questions.” Palomides had told him so a hundred times. “If people want you to know something, they will tell you. If they don’t tell you, then use your eyes and brains and find the answer yourself.” Well, he had tried, but none of it made any sense to him. From the time they welcomed him to the castle on the river island to the minute they threw him out, he had not understood a single thing that happened. Sir Lancelot had told him that there were many strange places in the world. He had not lied.