Guinevere Evermore

by Sharan Newman

  She waited, watching him, contrasting the brownness of his face and hands with the whiteness of his body. It was an abstract thought, for his appearance no longer mattered to her. He could have been pocked and scarred from shoulder to thigh and still she would have thought him beautiful.

  He walked slowly to her and knelt between her knees. Her hands rested on his shoulders and eased down across his chest. Then, finally, he looked into her eyes. They said more than she ever could. She leaned back and wrapped her legs around his hips, guiding him to her.

  “In the daylight,” she exulted. “At last!”

  His lips were against her throat. The soft gusts of his breath beat a rhythm on her skin. “Without shame,” he whispered.

  And even the most shadowy corner of her soul blazed with joy.

  Chapter Six

  “The man murdered three of my messengers, including Gereint, who was a knight. Then he ran north of the wall and Saint Caradoc won’t send him back because he’s been granted sanctuary!” Arthur roared at the unhappy man who had brought the news. “Ligessauc Longhand would shrivel into cinders if he ever touched a gospel book. It is his father’s jewels, donated to the Church, that Caradoc is protecting. Go back and tell them that I will have Ligessauc and the man-price of my messengers or Caradoc will see an army at the door of his precious church! I’ll not have my authority in Britain flouted by a self-styled bishop. Tell him to offer sanctuary to the Christian slaves Eliman is selling to the Piets. But then it would be no use; slaves have no gold.”

  He grabbed the cup before him and drained it as if trying to quench his wrath.

  “What else do you bring me today? It’s summer, there must be a plague somewhere.” The messenger cringed and Arthur’s face changed “Oh no! I didn’t mean it. Where?”

  “In Cirencester, Sir. They think it may be scarlet fever, brought in by a returning pilgrim. They only sent word for everyone to keep away.”

  “All right. Cei, see if there are any volunteers to take food and supplies to Cirencester. They can leave the bundles outside the town limits. Now, has nothing good happened anywhere in Britain?”

  “Yes, Sir. Gwynlliw reports that he has successfully eloped with the Lord of Brecon’s daughter. They would like you to pay them a visit when the lady has had enough new clothes made and their castle is cleaned to her taste.”

  Cei gave a faint cheer and then remembered his position.

  “The only obstacle to the marriage was that Brecon wanted Gwynlliw’s prize brood mare in trade for the daughter, Olwenna,” he explained. “Gwynlliw wouldn’t part with it and the lady found the whole idea repellent. She’s a very good horse breeder, herself. I only hope she had the sense to elope on that fine stallion of hers.”

  Arthur looked at him in astonishment. “Why Cei! How did you come by such a fund of gossip?”

  “Lydia was fostered in Armorica, with Olwenna’s brother. She felt a family interest in the matter.”

  “No doubt. Well, then, is that all for today?”

  “All of any interest. Will you call the Table together tonight?”

  “Yes, now that everyone is here. There should not be an empty seat for long. Also, there are several things we need to discuss. I’m especially worried about the kingdoms in the North. Between the Dal Riada, the Bannauc lords, and the Piets, it’s a constant battlefield up there, and those blasted bishops don’t help a bit. Every one of them wants to rule Britain himself, or give one of his relatives the job. The priests I know are fine men; even most of the wandering monks, but make a man a bishop and he thinks he can take God’s place in the world.”

  Cei listened with only half an ear. Arthur had been having run-ins with the bishops in the North for years. They resented every innovation in government Arthur had suggested. They had delusions, too, about the extent of their own power. Less than half of the people outside the towns were even nominally Christian. The Piets had only been baptized to hedge their bets. It was a hard life north of the wall. And when they lapsed, Arthur wasn’t about to charge up with an army simply to punish them for paganism. This matter of Christians selling Christian slaves to them was another thing, though, and something that had to be taken care of. There was another matter that Cei didn’t like to bring up. However . . .

  “Gereint’s name is gone from the Table.” He didn’t look at Arthur. Magic made him nervous.

  “I know. He’s dead. That’s what always happens when a knight has gone. Have you looked to see if another name is there?”

  “Yes, the wood is as smooth as if never written on.”

  “There is a full moon tonight. It will be decided then. Those boys of Meleagant are both panting for it.”

  “I can’t believe any seed of his would be worthy.”

  “Maybe not. They have a fine mother, though, and the younger boy has a quality about him. What about Modred? He’s the only one of my nephews without a place at the Table. Even Gareth finally achieved it.”

  “He hasn’t been here long; perhaps that’s why. It’s odd, though. He’s the one I’d pick. He’s strong and quick and could talk circles around any half-brained bishop.”

  Arthur considered. “He is all that, and more. I don’t understand it. Gawain keeps dropping dark hints about him. Gareth won’t sit near him. Even Agravaine seems uncomfortable around him. They’re his brothers. What’s the matter with him?”

  Cei shrugged. “Maybe some childhood quarrel never settled. Modred is the youngest by quite a bit. The others could feel that he got too much of their mother’s attention.”

  “Are you speaking from our own past?” Arthur prodded. Cei drew himself up with dignity.

  “We always fought it out like men, Arthur. My father wouldn’t let anyone have favorites.”

  “I know. Ector was a good father to me, too,” Arthur smiled. “And he gave me a good foster-brother, even if you did rub my nose in the dirt more than once.”

  Embarrassed, Cei shuffled some papers and changed the subject.

  • • •

  Guinevere had spent the morning properly engaged in a trip to the woods to search for herbs and mushrooms. She had been accompanied by most of the other ladies and all of the younger children. The conversation on earlier such trips had of necessity excluded her, since, after herbs, the main topics were children and the vagaries of husbands. She had no children and common sense forbade her discussing her husband with the wives and mistresses of those he commanded. But now that she had Galahad, the circle had opened to her. Much to her surprise, she found that she liked it, and the women who had been just a pregnant and nursing mass to her before became people with whom she shared more than she could have thought possible.

  Still, there were areas that were forbidden. She knew by the discreetly lowered voices, the curious, sideways glances. She pretended that she didn’t notice, but it was a relief to be back in her own room with Lydia to report on the domestic arrangements and Risa to bring her cool cider and gossip.

  “What do you think of the last of Arthur’s nephews?” Lydia asked Risa. “Oh, don’t look surprised. Everyone knows he was in your room last night.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Risa answered. “There are no secrets here. It seems he had overheard Gawain and Agravaine talking about me and he wanted to find out for himself.”

  They waited.

  “He’s very talented, but I don’t trust him. I think he wants to use me to find things out about Arthur.”

  “But that’s silly, Risa,” Guinevere protested. “What could you tell him that he couldn’t find out elsewhere?”

  “Nothing, of course. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. But why should I tell him that? It’s rather amusing. Men are so odd. Modred is just like most of them. They assume that if I’ll go to bed with them, I’ll do anything else they want out of sheer gratitude.”

  “Cheldric doesn’t,” Guinevere interrupted.

  Risa grimaced. “I know." He’s good with the children, too. Never even asked which ones were his, just l
oves 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 G
awain 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.”