A full moon had breasted the snow-covered hills, and in the glittering blueness of the night only the biggest of the stars remained to be seen. Down below both forest and wildwood lay black against the land, while here and there the little golden glow of a steading’s light offered a warm touch of humanity.
I focused on one in particular, wondering about the people who lived there. Were their lives happy or sad, lonely or fulfilled? What had they known of grief and loss, hope and wonder? Had they ever been deeply touched by love—were they among the blessed whose lives were shaped by love? Or is it that we shape love to fit our lives?
The idea was new to me, and I puzzled over it, seeing it both ways. Take Morgan, for instance, with her impulse toward love and ambition so tangled together, not even she could undo the skein of her scheming. It seemed impossible for her to think of one without the other.
By contrast, there were Griflet and Frieda, stolid and quiet in their feelings for each other but just as committed as Morgan would ever be. I thought of the Kennel Master and Saxon girl with a special fondness and prayed their lives never became as complicated as Lance’s and mine had.
Or Tristan and Isolde. Now there were a pair of tragic lovers for you! The very memory of their willful, selfish ways brought pain and aggravation in equal measure, and I turned my thoughts to Pelleas and Nimue. Like Enid and Geraint, the story of their marriage was only just beginning to play out, and I wondered how such different partners would fare over the years. Or, for that matter, whether durability and length of contact is the true measure of love. Maybe in some couples it denotes more stubbornness than long-lasting affection…
Nor does love have to be shared to reflect one’s moira—the Lily Maid’s was both brief and unrequited, yet I could not say it was not beautiful, at least for her. Or Palomides, who cherished an ideal of Isolde that had little to do with the real woman. The pain of knowing he could not have her was real enough, however…it had sent him off to the unknown East, searching for something to take her place.
And what of those who were rejected outright? Bedivere, quietly absorbing and accepting Brigit’s choice; Gawain, turning cynical and dissolute after losing Ragnell…all reflections of loving, in one way or another.
Indeed, it seemed to me we had each of us been altered by it. The how and why, in which way or for what reason, were still beyond my ken—maybe always would be. But the power and universality of it was both amazing and faintly ludicrous…after all, it was my love for a man who made me feel beautiful and vulnerable and worthy of protecting that had led me up here to sit under the moon and freeze!
You’re likely to come down with pneumonia if you don’t stop this, I told myself, and with a rueful smile to the sentry, slowly made my way back down the stairs.
Clearly the subject of love was bigger than I knew what to do with; it was enough to know it existed, and was lodged firmly in my heart.
***
“I think,” Arthur announced one evening in April, “that we should hold a tournament next summer—combine it with a horse fair and give Gwyn a chance to show off his new stock. Might as well convene the Round Table then, too.”
It would be the first time we’d officially hosted the Fellowship at Camelot, and I smiled at the prospect. I could think of no more fitting way to show that our home was finally complete.
“Besides,” Arthur added, giving me one of his sidewise looks, “it’s been ten years since we married, and I’d like to celebrate.”
The very fact that he’d stopped to count made me laugh with pleasure.
They came streaming in—heroes and Champions, Kings and nobles and representatives of all our allies. A large contingent from the south and west arrived: Geraint and Enid, Mark and Isolde, and Constantine of Cornwall. His father, Cador, would not attend, having fallen from a horse and broken his collarbone. The son was fully accepted in his father’s place, however.
Even Pellinore came, though I noted that Lamorak remained behind at the Wrekin, where he now lived. With Gawain having come back to Court, I thought it a wise choice.
Pelli had grown grizzled and gray, though his back was still as straight and his eyes as merry as in years past. He strode through the Hall with a toddler on his shoulders, basking in the pride of paternity. Considering that his grown children had made him a grandfather many times over, I found his adoration of this youngest child to be both amusing and touching.
“I’ve finally given over the quest for the perfect woman, M’lady,” he offered by way of explanation. “The Goddess is a hard mistress, and I’m not getting any younger. Now that I’ve got this little fellow, I’m going to raise him to be the best knight of all. Say hello to the Queen, Perceval,” he prompted as the tyke crowed happily and tugged on his father’s ears.
We housed our guests everywhere—in the Great Hall, in the village, even in camps scattered through the open woods. Pavilions popped up in the meadows around the base of the hill-fort, and Cei erected a reviewing stand beside the field at the foot of the hill that had been set aside for the lists. It looked to be one of the most splendid gatherings we’d ever had, and Cei was well set and organized for it.
On the first morning Arthur and I stood hand in hand and waited for the trumpeter to call the tournament open. As gay as any gathering at Caerleon, as grand as London, it was the flowering of all we’d ever dreamed to do. I only wished that Lance were here to share it with us.
“Would you believe,” my husband marveled as the silver notes lifted in the bright air, “that it would come to this?”
“No…yes…” I laughed, remembering how young and unknowing we had been and thinking that as long as Arthur lived, anything was possible in Britain.
The opening of the tournament began with Gawain leading a procession of Champions across the field. Single file they came—warriors dressed in splendor, horses sleek and shiny, the rondels on their bridles glittering gold and crimson in the morning sun. Each had a page riding beside him, holding aloft the standard of his house. Bright as a May Day dance, the flags and pennants streamed out on the breeze when they formed a circle around the edge of the green.
It was then that Bedivere brought forth the Banner of the Red Dragon. At the lieutenant’s side, riding smartly at attention, was Mordred. When they reached the center of the green they paused while the trumpeter gave out the notes of assemblage. Then slowly, majestically, the two of them turned their horses to each quadrant of the compass. As they did so the pennants and house flags of each client king dipped in salute, like a run of field poppies bowing before the wind.
Once the motion was complete, Bedivere and his page came directly to the foot of our reviewing stand. With grave precision Mordred led the salute to us, black hair gleaming in the sunlight, the badge of Orkney flashing on the sleeve of his yellow tunic.
Arthur saluted the child in return, and for a moment father and son stared into each other’s eyes. When Bedivere wheeled away and raced the Banner back across the green, I gave Arthur’s hand a squeeze and he grinned cheerfully.
The first three jousts went well, with much partisan shouting as the audience cheered on the combatants, but about midday there was a commotion at the edge of the green, and an Unknown warrior rode onto the list.
He wore no badge and his shield was without device. His helmet was unlike any I’d ever seen before—more conical than a Roman roundhat, with nose guard and cheek flaps that all but covered his face and a veil of chain mail protecting the back of his neck. Even the newcomer’s horse was unfamiliar, and a ripple of curiosity spread through the gathering.
The Unknown rode deliberately into the center of the field and, turning slowly to face all four sides, threw down a challenge to the men of the Round Table.
Nothing like this had ever happened before, and Arthur narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he scrutinized the stranger.
There was much hooting and jostling a
s the Companions vied for the chance to meet the challenge, until Gawain claimed his right as the King’s Champion and rode out to face the newcomer.
The two men met silently in the center of the green, nodded formally, and wheeled their horses away to opposite ends of the field.
When the lances were couched Arthur muttered something about the man’s technique being similar to Palomides’s. But we had recently received word that he was leaving Ravenna for Constantinople, so it surely wasn’t the Arab.
The competition between Gawain and the Unknown began well enough, but they made pass after pass with neither able to unseat the other. At last, showing signs of tiring, the stranger’s horse veered slightly, and Gawain’s thrust sent his opponent to the ground.
Wheeling his own steed around, the redhead bore down on the newcomer, lance lowered as though to skewer the fallen man. I caught my breath, wondering if, in the heat of competition, the Orcadian had forgotten this was only a tournament. At the last possible moment he raised his lance and hauled back on the reins so hard that his mount came to a crouching, rearing halt. By then the Unknown was on his feet, sword drawn and ready.
The contest resumed on foot, with the advantage going now to one, now to the other. Each was wearing a chain-mail tunic, and though they received minor cuts, there was little bloodshed.
Then suddenly it was over. Gawain slipped in the trampled grass, and the stranger was on him in a second. Astride the Champion’s chest, the victor leaned down and said something to him, then carefully stood up and extended his hand to his adversary.
Gawain hesitated only a moment before accepting the help. There was a flurry of back slapping and congratulations before the two of them turned to us and stripped off their helmets.
“Lance!” Arthur cried as my heart leapt into my throat and the audience let out a roar of acknowledgment.
Surprise and relief were coursing through me, and I leaned forward intently as the Breton went down on one knee before us.
“Indeed, Your Highness…I find I cannot stay away from Camelot after all.” Devotion sparkled in his blue eyes, and the joy of reunion on his face was matched only by that on Arthur’s. “No matter where I have gone, it is the Pendragon’s Court that calls me back.”
He turned without hesitation to smile at me, and we stared at each other with unabashed delight. Neither qualm nor guilt clouded our joy.
“You are my King and Queen, and I belong at your sides,” he said simply.
“But why come incognito?” Arthur queried.
“Just to keep them on their toes.” Lance shrugged and looked at me. “Besides, I wanted to surprise you.”
Arthur threw back his head with a laugh. “Can’t think of a nicer way to celebrate the completion of Camelot. Now come on up here and tell me where you got that helmet.”
So Lancelot joined us, seating himself on the other side of Arthur just as he had in the past. Handing over the strange headpiece, he explained he’d found it at the Saxon market in Canterbury—bought it with one of the gold coins Arthur had given him when he first came to Court. The peddler claimed it was in common usage among a Continental people called the Burgundians.
The two men immediately fell to examining the thing, oblivious to all else. Seeing them together again sent waves of joy and contentment through me. At last my dream was complete; everything I had ever longed for was gathered here—a child to raise, a love to share, a husband to admire, and a Court to serve.
I looked slowly around the green at the Fellowship…Men who saw themselves as members of the Round Table first, Merlin had said. Civilized men of law, Arthur had said. Champions of honor and courtesy, according to Gawain. The finest Court in the world, Cei called it. My own family, I thought with wonder.
***
My glance traveled up to many-towered Camelot, rising in splendor on its hill, then swept back down to the two men of my heart.
Clearly the best of all futures still lay before us.
About the Author
Persia Woolley is the author of the Guinevere Trilogy: Child of the Northern Spring, Queen of the Summer Stars, and Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn. Persia has had a career in journalism and television, and she has also written three nonfiction books. She presently lives near the northern California coast with her son and is currently working on an annotated version of her Guineveres for the use of students and scholars in the field.
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