by Joan Wolf
Arthur handed Dun over to one of the guards on duty in the courtyard and entered the palace through the main door. The door led into a vestibule, with another guardroom off it, and from the vestibule Arthur passed into the main public room of the palace: the great hall. This room was always busy with traffic: servants passing through on errands, people waiting to see the king, or Cai, or the queen. The floor of the great hall was tiled and it was decorated with some of the best statues from the praetorium in Venta. It was a huge room, with a floor space of five-thousand square feet, and most of the public reception rooms of the palace opened off it. Behind the pillars of the indoor colonnade were the doors to the dining room, the council room, the king’s office, Cai’s office, and several reception salons.
Arthur walked through the hall unhurriedly, scarcely noticing the groups of people gathered there. At the far side of the great hall was a corridor which led to the second part of the palace, the little or private hall, which was the center of the family part of the house. The little hall was only three-thousand square feet in size, and off it were three separate suites of rooms. One belonged to the king, one to the queen, and the other was shared by Bedwyr and Cai. Extra bedrooms opened off the corridor, and these were used as guestrooms for important visitors. Corridors ran off to the left and the right between the two parts of the house, and these led to other rooms and to the kitchens. The servants, of which there were many, slept in various places. Personal servants slept near their masters and mistresses; most other servants slept in the attics.
The little hall was as crowded as the great hall, but mainly with women. Arthur went directly to the anteroom that led to the queen’s suite, down a small corridor, and into her office. It was in this room that Gwenhwyfar interviewed her staff, and in general ran the complicated mechanism of the palace’s private functions. Most public functions were delegated to Cai, but both of them had been working together on the upcoming festival.
Gwenhwyfar was seated behind her desk, a stylus in hand, frowning thoughtfully at the scroll before her, when Arthur came into the room. “Working on the festival?” he asked lightly as he crossed to the chair opposite hers. He sat down. “There’s ink on your chin,” he added.
Gwenhwyfar stared at her husband. “You’re back early,” she said. He had ridden out of Camelot two days ago in an ill-concealed fury. Now he was making jokes about ink on her chin.
“The abbot from Glastonbury is coming to see me this morning,” he reminded her.
“Oh, yes.” She looked down at her scroll. “I’ve been trying to sketch out the field for the games.”
“Let me see.” He came around the desk to stand behind her, leaning forward over her shoulder to see the paper spread on her desk. “What is wrong?” he asked after a minute “It looks perfect to me.”
She could feel the heat from his body, smell the faint male aroma of sweat and leather and horse. “I don’t know if there is enough seating,” she said. “I was wondering if perhaps I could squeeze some more benches in here.” She pointed.
“No.” His answer was quick, decisive. “That would make the entry to the field too small. It wouldn’t be safe, not with the horses.” He straightened. “If we’re short of seats, some people will have to stand.”
“There are just so many people!”
He laughed. “Is anyone in Britain staying at home?”
“I don’t think so.” She watched as he returned to his seat. “It’s what you wanted, after all. You can’t impress the country with the splendor of your new capital if no one comes to see it.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “True.”
The last time she had seen him, the look on his face had been enough to congeal her blood. Now he was smiling at her with that rare small-boy grin that was her favorite of all his expressions. Gwenhwyfar put two and two together. “I gather that Morgan is not going to marry Urien.”
He shook his head and his hair fell across his forehead. “No,” he answered with mendacious regret. “I’m afraid Morgan will never marry, Gwenhwyfar. She is too dedicated to her work” His voice warmed with real enthusiasm. “She has begun to write a compendium of herbal medicine. Isn’t that a marvelous idea? There has been nothing done on the subject since Dioscorides wrote the De Materia Medica four hundred years ago.”
Gwenhwyfar schooled her voice. “It should be a very valuable work, considering her success as a healer.” She looked away from his face. “Morgan is fortunate to have resources few other women possess. I know I have been wishing more and more frequently that I knew how to read and write. It’s such a nuisance, always having to rely on Marius to be my scribe.”
“Merlin had advanced ideas about the education of women,” Arthur said. “All his daughters learned to read and write. But it’s not too late for you to learn, Gwenhwyfar. I agree that it would be an advantage to you. I’m afraid I have given you a great many responsibilities. You shouldn’t be so competent—you would have less to do.”
It was how he got them all to kill themselves for him, Gwenhwyfar thought. A few measured words of praise, a carrot for the workhorse. And it worked. “I don’t know,” she said a little sulkily. “I suppose I could get Marius to teach me.”
“I’ll teach you,” came the prompt reply.
“You?” She had never expected this. “You wouldn’t have the time, Arthur.”
“I’ll make the time.” He rose to his feet. “I wonder what complaint Gildas has for me this morning.”
“He wants you to keep a priest in the palace and he wants more money for his grain,” Gwenhwyfar replied.
“I wouldn’t bet against you.”
The door closed behind him and Gwenhwyfar began to roll up her scroll. When she had finished she placed it neatly in a basket beside her, straightened, and sat back in her chair, her eyes wide and unfocused as she stared at the door.
She had thought he no longer had the power to hurt her. It was frightening, and humiliating, to discover that she was still so vulnerable.
All of Britain thought he loved her. She was childless and he had refused to put her aside. He had been approached to do so, she knew. But he had refused. They thought he loved her. It was only the very few, the people who lived with them, who served them most closely, who knew the truth. The truth that it was Bedwyr, not Arthur, who went to her bedroom at night.
Arthur and she had never exchanged a word on the subject. He had known about her and Bedwyr almost immediately, though. He had not slept with her since.
And yet . . . he trusted her. She had joined Bedwyr and Cai in that inner circle of friends with whom he could simply be Arthur and not “the king”
It was a very great deal. She had thought it was enough. Until she had seen Arthur’s reaction to Urien’s request for Morgan’s hand.
Morgan. That small brown-eyed witch who held Arthur’s heart. She never came to Camelot, but a week rarely passed without Arthur making a visit to Avalon. The farms and orchards of Avalon supplied a great deal of the food consumed at Camelot, and since Ector’s death the previous autumn, Arthur had supposedly been helping Morgan run the estate.
Gwenhwyfar had not even bothered to suggest that Arthur appoint a steward to replace Ector. She knew well enough why her husband went to Avalon.
He would never let anyone marry Morgan. But she . . . He had been happy enough to hand her over to Bedwyr.
She felt a dark understirring of jealous hatred and tried desperately to push it away. She had found happiness with Bedwyr. She must not lose that now.
There came a knock at the door. “My lady.” It was the head carpenter. “You wished to see me?”
“Yes,” said Gwenhwyfar, and forced her mind to the matter of benches for the festival.
Gildas not only wanted more money for his grain, he wanted to be the one to bless the festival. Arthur told him pleasantly that Archbishop Dubricius had already been requested to open the festival with a blessing, but that the abbot could bless its conclusion. Gildas, who thought Glastonbury
should be the premier church in Camelot because of its proximity, was not happy.
“He’s never happy,” said Bedwyr half an hour later when Arthur had gone down to the cavalry school to watch the men practice. “In fact,” the prince went on, “he’s one of the reasons I’ve never been tempted to become a Christian. He’s such a censorious, sour-faced old bastard.”
“I can’t dispute that with you,” Arthur returned with amusement. Then, more seriously: “But any religion would be found lacking if judged solely by its human servants”
Bedwyr looked curiously at the king’s suddenly grave face. “I suppose that’s true.” The two of them were leaning on the wooden fence that encircled the cavalry training ring. Inside the ring a group of horses and riders was going through the timed exercise they were performing for the festival. “What do you believe, Arthur?” Bedwyr asked abruptly.
Arthur’s face did not change. “Do I believe in anything beyond the church’s civilizing mission?”
“Yes.”
Arthur rested his elbows on the fence. “I think I do,” he answered thoughtfully.
Bedwyr looked from Arthur’s profile to the men in the ring. “I don’t need religion,” he said. “I’ve got the cavalry.”
The austerity left Arthur’s face and he laughed. “We are not all so singlehearted as you, Bedwyr.”
Silence fell as the two men stood side by side in companionable silence, watching the maneuvers. The riders, aware of the king’s eyes, strove for perfection. The horses trotted in pairs down the center of the ring, separated, and then began to cross the ring on different diagonals, meeting and crossing precisely in the center. Arthur watched them thread through each other with perfect cadence and timing and said to Bedwyr, “Very nice.”
“Yes. This festival has proved to be a boon. The men have been working very hard for it.”
A faint smile touched Arthur’s mouth. He did not answer, however, but continued to watch the drill. The horses all curved in a great arc and returned to the center to form a circle within a circle, each circle trotting in a different direction. Bedwyr watched intently. “We’ve just put that in. I like it.”
“I like it too.” Arthur turned away. “Well, I must get on over to see Valerius. He has a group of men who can put up a whole camp in half an hour.”
“Are they going to do that at the festival?”
“I think so. Valerius says it is very impressive.”
“Well,” Bedwyr returned, “that’s what we want to do. Impress.”
“Precisely.” Arthur pushed away from the fence. “Much as I would like to stay and admire your drill, Bedwyr, I had better get on over to admire Valerius’ men.” He threw Bedwyr a humorous look as he signaled for his horse. “The foot get jealous if I spend too much time with the cavalry.”
The sun beat warmly on Arthur’s bare head as he guided Ruadh toward the level field they had dug into the hill for the foot to practice drilling. If the busy, purposeful atmosphere in the foot camp was the same as it was here with the cavalry, he would be well-assured that the festival was indeed doing what it was conceived to do: keep the army busy.
The idea had come to him one rainy January evening when he and Morgan were in the library at Avalon with the lamps lit and the brazier glowing and the rain beating hard as sand against the closed shutters. He had been telling her about the army. “I must keep a standing army, there’s no way around that” he had said. “An army is my only insurance against rebellion by one of the lesser kings. If I keep an army, we will have peace. If I disband the army, there will be rebellions and Britain will lose its only chance to regain its former prosperity. The only problem is”—he had raised his brows half in frustration and half in amusement—“the army has no one to fight.”
“I see your difficulty,” Morgan had murmured. “The whole purpose of having an army is to fight.” She had thrust out her lower lip a little, the way she did when she was thinking hard. “Are the men restless?”
“Not yet. But it will come if I don’t do something to channel their energies.”
He was never quite certain which of them first made the suggestion to have a great festival to commemorate the building of Camelot. Their minds were so in tune that sometimes it was difficult to separate one’s thoughts from the other’s.
He had presented the idea of the festival to his circle of captains as a way of impressing the regional kings and princes with the continued readiness of the army. The only person besides himself and Morgan who understood his chief motive for going to all this trouble and expense was Cai, who had guessed.
Even if the festival itself proved less than spectacular, it still would have done its job, Arthur thought. The entire population of Camelot had been busily employed in preparing for it since February. The great occasion itself was to be held the third week in July.
As Arthur listened to the sound of purposeful activity humming through the warm June air, he thought ruefully that when this festival was over he would have to think of something else.
Chapter 30
IN late June the King of Lothian, Pellinore, had a fall down some stone stairs, broke his neck, and died.
Gawain, as Lot’s eldest son, was next in line to be king, but Gawain had been away from Lothian for years and had never shown any inclination to return. It was Gaheris, Lot’s second son, who had acted as Pellinore’s heir. The prevailing sentiment in the country was for Gaheris to become king.
“Gawain must be given a choice” said Morgause to her sons the afternoon after they had buried Pellinore. The four of them were sitting in the stone hall of the king’s house, where it was chill even on a sunny day in June. “If he wishes to come home to take Pellinore’s place, that is his right,” she continued.
“But if he does not, then he must hand the kingship over to Gaheris.”
“He won’t come,” said Agravaine. “He would be a fool if he did.”
Gaheris stared with dislike at his golden-haired brother. “There are worse places in the world than Lothian,” he said.
“Name one,” came the instant, malicious reply.
“Now, Agravaine,” Morgause said placatingly. She was always stepping in between these two sons. “You may not be happy in Lothian, but that does not mean others don’t find it pleasing.”
Gaheris’ blue-gray eyes were hard. “You are leaving, I presume?” he said to Agravaine.
“I would have left years ago if the old man had let me. You know that.”
They all knew that. What they didn’t know was Pellinore’s reason for keeping Agravaine tied to Lothian: “I don’t trust him,” Pellinore had said to Morgause. “He is not as innocent as Gawain. He will see immediately the resemblance between Arthur and Mordred, and he would not be put off with a story of a likeness to Igraine. No. Agravaine must stay in Lothian.”
And so Agravaine had stayed, and had hated Pellinore for keeping him.
Gaheris’ eyes became even harder. “Just where were you, brother, when Pellinore fell down those stairs?” he asked in a voice to match his eyes.
“Gaheris!” It was Mordred’s shocked voice. Then, to Agravaine: “He did not mean it, Agravaine. He is just upset by Pellinore’s death.”
“He meant it, all right.” There was a white line around Agravaine’s mouth. He looked at Morgause. “I will leave in the morning, Mother.”
“Leave for where?” she asked.
“For the center of the world.” His dark blue eyes gleamed. “Camelot.” There was a pause as he looked at Mordred. Then: “Why don’t you come with me, little brother?”
Morgause shifted her weight on her hard wooden chair and looked worriedly at her youngest son. It was Mordred who was the cause of Pellinore’s deliberate severing of Lothian from the rest of Britain, although the boy certainly did not know that.
Pellinore had guessed that Mordred was Arthur’s son when the boy was but two years of age. The child’s face even then had borne an uncanny likeness to the high king’s. Pellinore was th
e only one in Lothian who had been familiar enough with Arthur to see the resemblance, however, and he had made certain that no one else from the north was likely to come into contact with the king. And Arthur himself had, for whatever reason, stayed away from Lothian. So the secret had been safe. But if Mordred went with Agravaine to Camelot. . .
“We were invited for the festival, after all,” Agravaine was saying. “It is not too late, if we leave immediately.”
Mordred’s face was alight at the thought. It had gone hard with him when Pellinore had refused the invitation to the festival. Mordred was content in Lothian, but that did not mean he would not like to see Camelot and meet the king. “Would you really take me?” he was saying now to Agravaine.
Agravaine smiled and answered lightly, “Why not?”
Mordred was the only one of his brothers for whom Agravaine had any affection. Morgause thought it was because Mordred was beautiful. Agravaine demanded beauty in the people he surrounded himself with. It was because he was so beautiful himself, his mother thought as she looked at her third son’s smiling face and brilliant eyes.
“Do you want to go to Camelot, Mordred?” she asked.
“Could I, Mother?” The light gray eyes turned to her with sparkling anticipation. “Just for the festival, you know. And I could go to Avalon to see Morgan. She says it is not far from Camelot. I wouldn’t stay. I would come home before the winter”
Morgause stared at Morgan’s son. If Mordred went to Camelot, the secret she had kept so well for fifteen years would be out. Or then again, it might not be. Gawain had believed Arthur’s explanation that Mordred must look like Igraine. Why should that not suffice for others as well?
Morgause also had been disappointed by Pellinore’s refusal of the invitation to the festival. “I think I will go too,” she said. “It would be best for me to see Gawain personally and find out what it is he wishes to do.” She looked at Gaheris. “If he does not wish to come home, I will get him to execute a document formally relinquishing his rights to you.”
