Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn Read online

  When we were all settled and Claudius was lying by my feet, Arthur signaled for the tournament to begin.

  The trumpeter, so necessary in battle for conveying the commander’s wishes to hard-pressed warriors, gave the notes of assembly a lively, playful air.

  Two by two the standard-bearers of the nobles came forth, bridles jingling, pennants lifting in the freshening breeze as they paced the length of the meadow to present us with a formal salute before trotting briskly to their positions at the edges of the turf. The flags were almost as colorful as the pennants we hang from the backs of the chairs in the Hall, and when they were all in place they formed a bright, impressive ring.

  Another trumpet flourish announced the entrance of the High King’s standard as Bedivere and his squire rode onto the grass. The Banner of the Red Dragon was unfurled in all its glory, and the boy who held it concentrated on keeping the pole steady as they cantered to the center of the turf. The two riders came to an abrupt and solemn halt, then pivoted their horses slowly in place. The flags of the client kings dipped respectfully; it was a rippling progression that made me think of field poppies bowing before the wind.

  After completing the maneuver, the one-handed Champion advanced to the reviewing stand where Arthur and I sat and gave us a proud salute.

  Slowly and majestically Arthur and I returned the greeting, and once Bedivere dismounted and brought the Banner to its place beside us, Arthur declared the tournament open.

  When Lancelot led the cavalry out for a display of precision riding, a gasp went up from the crowd. This was the first year we’d been able to mount all the Companions on the black horses specially bred by Gwyn, and they made a most impressive sight. Each man carried his own colors on his shield, naturally, but Arthur and I had presented a pair of golden rondels set with red enamel to each Companion, to grace the headstall of his bridle. The handsome bosses gleamed rich and elegant against the satiny-black horses’ heads.

  Going through their drills, wheeling and turning and regrouping in close quarters and at high speed, the Companions were a wonder to behold. I had no doubt the more distant tribes would be inspired by the stories of Arthur’s mounted warriors and decide to make treaties with us instead of war.

  When the cavalry work was over, Lance came to take his usual place beside the High King, along with Lynette, who sat by me. Lynette—more urchin from the streets of London than noble of either Celt or Roman lineage, she was the youngest of my maids-in-waiting, and the most mischievous as well.

  “Move over, you big scamp,” she admonished the wolfhound as she plunked herself down on the stool and scanned the crowd. Peasants and townspeople and visiting nobles milled around the tents, found places to sit on the sidelines, and even—in the case of the more adventurous youngsters—climbed into the surrounding trees for a better view. As the field cleared and preparations for the individual trials of skill were being made, Lynette suddenly reached across and tugged Arthur’s sleeve.

  “Your Highness, my cousin holds a small fortlet by a river ford—nothing fancy, just a fortified steading, really. But ever since her father died last winter, the local warlord has been pestering her for marriage. With only a few farmhands to protect her, she’s asked me to find a Champion to put the fellow in his place. Do you think, with so many warriors here for the tournament…”

  The girl’s voice trailed off hopefully and Arthur shrugged. “You’re free to ask whomever you wish,” he told her. “Got the best in the realm to choose from, I’d say.”

  The ancient call to battle, sounded on silver-rimmed aurochs’ horns, was booming and rippling around the glade. There is no other sound like it, and every Celt knows in his blood it is the signal of life and death. Although this was only a tournament and test of skill, each of the contenders who hoped to prove his prowess before the King raised his head expectantly at the sound.

  Like the nobles, these warriors came in all shapes and sizes—young and hopeful, mature and confident, some with rich trappings and fancy mounts, others dressed in sturdy homespun and riding country nags. One freckle-faced lad made his way from group to group, offering his service as a squire to anyone who would accept him. A cadre of southern dandies hooted in derision and sent him packing, but later I saw him talking earnestly with Pellinore, who gave him a jovial clap on the back and sent him over to see to his armor.

  Lynette was carefully scanning the group, looking for a likely Champion. At last she turned away, dissatisfied. “If only Gawain were here,” she murmured. “He’d help me in a minute, I know.”

  The gamin was probably right, for Arthur’s nephew had recently taken a vow to protect all women and was still full of enthusiasm over the idea. He was also one of the most famous warriors in the land; his absence at the tournament meant the field was open to all comers, and there was much speculation as to who would win the prizes of the day.

  The contests began easily enough, with Cei carefully pitting men of equal skill against each other. Lance’s cousin Bors, as blond as Lance was dark, was a fierce and showy swordsman, well matched with Gaheris of the Stag’s Head, while Bors’s more taciturn brother, Lionel, fought ably against the sly and wiry Dinadan of Cornwall.

  Gradually, as the less familiar names were called out, there was more room for unexpected surprises, and when the herald announced that Lancelot’s protégé, Beaumains, would take the field, a stir of excitement went through the crowd. Beaumains had been at Lance’s steading in Northumbria for the last year or more, and no one knew he had returned until this very afternoon.

  “He’s developed so well at Joyous Gard,” Lance explained proudly, “I thought it was time to introduce him to the rest of the warriors. I have no doubt he’ll qualify for the Companions.”

  Certainly the young man who took the field was a far cry from the boy Lance had found wandering on the Road several years back. Although he was still tall and willowy, he no longer had the half-starved look of a waif, and while that youngster was unfamiliar with more than the rudiments of horsemanship, this lad had an excellent seat.

  There’s always a group of old men who gather to gossip around a forge, but this afternoon they moved away from the fire, their interest piqued by this Fair Unknown. Even the Smith laid down his hammer and came forward to watch.

  Beaumains rode onto the field carrying an unmarked shield and wearing an old Saxon helmet, which gave him an air of mystery. The audience murmured curiously, trying to place him among the many squires at Camelot That he was introduced as Lance’s student spoke well of him, but they would withhold judgment until they saw what he could do. The boy acquitted himself handsomely, and by the time he had unhorsed two opponents, the crowd was shouting its approval.

  It was only when he stepped forward to receive his prize that he took off his helm. The pale blond hair tumbled down to his shoulders and a murmur of recognition ran through the gathering. Arthur smiled broadly, delighted that the youth who had earned his first year’s keep in our kitchen should so excel.

  Lance was equally pleased. “I couldn’t ask for a better student. Whoever that lad’s family is, they can be proud of him.”

  Arthur leaned over the edge of the reviewing stand and bestowed the prize of a golden bracelet on the young man. It was a gesture that both congratulated him on his victory and brought him up to the level of warrior fit to receive gifts from his overlord. Even Lynette greeted him warmly, surprised to see him after so many months.

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” Beaumains spoke calmly and clearly as he slid the bracelet onto his wrist. “But since there are no wars to fight, I need to prove my prowess some other way. I beg you give me a mission that will let me show the world what I can do.”

  Arthur looked puzzled for a moment, but remembering Lynette’s request, I suggested the boy go to the rescue of her cousin in the Welsh Marches.

  When he heard what the problem was, Lance’s pupil began to beam. “I’ll not only rid the lady of this warlord’s pestering, I promise to send him back
to swear allegiance to you as well.”

  “Will you now?” Arthur mused, stroking his mustaches as he sized up the lad.

  I turned to Lynette, thinking the girl would be glad of the offer, but instead she was scowling ferociously.

  “My cousin needs a Champion, not an untried boy,” the girl declared. “A hero proven in battle and able to strike terror into the blackguard’s heart.”

  “What’s this? Beaumains isn’t good enough for you?” Arthur was both bemused and surprised that the lass should be so picky.

  “I’m sure he’ll become a fine warrior, someday,” Lynette hedged, rounding on him with an air of practicality. “But right now he’s only the boy I worked with in the kitchen—a brave fellow, and quick to boot—but not very impressive. You have to admit that, M’lord…not nearly as impressive as Gawain or Lancelot, for instance.”

  My husband’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Well, Gawain isn’t here, but you’re welcome to ask Lance to be your Champion.”

  “Not my Champion, my cousin’s,” Lynette responded, then ducked her head at the realization she was correcting the High King.

  “My dear,” Lancelot put in, “you could not find a more upright and honorable fellow to take up your cause.”

  Beaumains flushed at the praise, but he looked steadily at Lynette. “Who was it who put out the fire when the coals spilled out of the oven at Martinmas?” he asked.

  “Yes, I know it was you…I said you were quick.”

  “And who netted the mad dog when it came foaming and frothing into the kitchen garden?”

  “So you’re brave and fearless too…I never said you weren’t, Beaumains. All I said was you aren’t very impressive.”

  The new warrior snorted indignantly. “I dare you to come along with me, and see how impressive I can be. I bet you’d turn tail at the first sight of a bandit.”

  “Would not!” Lynette hurled back at him, stamping her foot emphatically.

  “Then it’s settled,” Arthur announced firmly, before the two youngsters got into a free-for-all. “Beaumains will undertake to relieve your cousin of her problem, and you’ll go along to show him the way—and observe his behavior.”

  The youth bowed deeply before us, and the audience cheered happily, but Lynette turned to me with a look of pure horror.

  “You mean that’s really what’s going to happen?”

  “So it would seem,” I answered, giving her hand a pat. “I’m sure you’ll find him more impressive than you think.”

  But the girl just stared after him, obviously not convinced.

  Cei took Lance’s place next to Arthur when the Breton rode onto the field and challenged all comers, only to discover no one would come forth.

  “Everyone knows he’s invincible,” the Seneschal muttered and I fetched him a sharp look. Over the years he’d proved a genius at ferreting out hard-to-find items, and his loyalty to Arthur was beyond question, but his acid tongue and frequent moodiness were often wearing. “No point in going against a man who can’t be bested,” he complained.

  When Lance had to retire for lack of takers, Cei suddenly climbed down from the dais and called for the crowd’s attention. Standing in the middle of the list, he challenged the King of Devon to swordplay on foot.

  A buzz of excitement went up, for Geraint had a reputation as a fine warrior as well as a military genius, and his skill with the blade far exceeded Cei’s. But instead of picking up the challenge, the southern king tactfully declined.

  “I came to be entertained, good Seneschal, not to draw my sword,” he said good-naturedly.

  Cei frowned at the answer, and turning suddenly, demanded that Beaumains take the Devon king’s place. “Wouldn’t want the scullery boy to go into battle against that fellow up north only to find he’s not experienced enough,” he explained.

  Concerned, I glanced at Arthur. It was Cei who had derisively named the lad Beaumains—“Fair Hands”—when the boy declined to give us his family name. Many a man, young or old, has cut his ties with the past because of personal misfortune, and we made it a policy to respect such people’s privacy; Arthur was one for judging people by their present conduct, not past circumstances. Still, Cei had looked on the lad with scorn, and I was worried that he would take out his anger at Geraint’s rebuff on the boy.

  I had misread the Seneschal, however. He fought both bravely and with courtesy, for all that he received a thorough drubbing. Next to the lithe young man, it was clear the Seneschal’s years as Court gourmet had thickened his waist and slowed his arm. But he took his defeat with good grace, and even congratulated Beaumains on his prowess afterward.

  So the first day of the tournament was clearly Beaumains’s.

  On the second it was Pellinore who took the prize. The warlord of the Wrekin came at his opponents like a whirlwind, long hair flying and great voice howling savagely. Despite the fact that his myriad of grown children had made him a grandfather many times over, he managed to unhorse everyone who rode against him, including Bors. When the fierce blond Breton graciously saluted him as victor, the crowd gave them both an ovation.

  Pellinore had stood in my father’s place at the Bride Blessing before Arthur and I were wed, so he was counted as my kin and I took a special pleasure in presenting him with a large gold and enameled brooch from our treasure.

  Rough and rugged as ever, he beamed up at me as I put it in his hand. “I’ll wear it till the day I die, M’lady,” the massive man assured me.

  “Me too,” piped up Perceval, who had wriggled away from the grasp of the freckle-face squire and trotted to his father’s side.

  “We both of us thank you,” Pellinore announced as the tot, suddenly turned shy, wrapped his arms around his father’s leg, half hiding behind it. After giving me a formal bow, the warlord of the Wrekin turned to walk back to his tent. He shortened his stride to match that of the toddler, and I smiled fondly to see the youngster hopping along at his father’s side, tiny hand engulfed in Pellinore’s huge one. We would do well to have several generations of Pelli’s sons among the Companions.

  Arthur was about to signal the closing ceremony of the day when an unannounced rider galloped onto the green. He wore a jerkin covered with what looked like dragon’s scales, and on his head was a long white veil which hung down his back and fluttered at the sides of his face. A fine black cape streamed out behind him, its hem and shoulders covered with rich golden embroidery worked in mysterious patterns. He carried a black shield, and the horse he rode was white, with fine lines and a delicate head. But most amazing of all was the turbaned servant who ran, stripped to the waist, next to the mount as Saxon warriors are said to do. The fellow was sweating, having run for who knows how many miles, and the afternoon sun glinted off his shiny skin…which was purple-black!

  “What on earth…” Arthur exclaimed as Lance’s hand dropped to his sword hilt.

  The rider reined in so abruptly that his beautiful steed came to a crouching halt, haunches bunched and tail sweeping the ground behind.

  “Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain,” the stranger called out, “I bring you greetings from the Emperor of the East, as well as a present from the King of the Franks.”

  The man swung off his horse and tossing the reins to his servant, made his way toward us as the audience held its breath, fascinated by such a spectacle.

  “Is that you, Palomides?” my husband asked, bounding to his feet.

  “Aye, M’lord, just returned from Byzantium.”

  Palomides, the Arab knight—dark-skinned, shining-eyed, he was the silent courtier. Born into slavery in the Mediterranean, he’d been brought to Britain as a boy and was freed when his owner died. Arthur took an interest in him because of his idea for stirrups and his fine horsemanship. With his exotic look and shy—almost introverted—ways, he’d caught many a lass’s notice, but he gave his heart only to Isolde, the beautiful Queen of Cornwall. It was to forget that unrequited love that he’d gone back to Arabia, searching for some
sense of home and family.

  Now his dark countenance was lit by a flashing smile and he dropped to one knee as Arthur strode across the green to meet him. The Arab stared long and steadily at his King. It was a look I had seen often before—that of a warrior pledging his trust in his warlord. It held hope and love, fidelity and joy in equal measure and Arthur responded in kind, for the bond between a fighting man and his leader must be strong enough to overcome even the fear of death itself.

  “Well come home, my friend,” the High King cried, pulling the Champion to his feet and clapping him heartily on the back, all the while telling him how glad we were to see him again. “But enough—get yourself to the baths, and when you’ve soaked away the grime of the Road, come join us at the feast so that everyone can hear of your travels.”

  News of Palomides’s arrival spread through the Round Table like excitement through a beehive when a new patch of flowers has been found. The tournament was all but forgotten as everyone rushed to dress for dinner, eager to take their place in the Hall before the Arab began to recount his adventures.

  It seemed incredible that one of our own had been to places most of us knew only in song and legend…and had lived to come back to tell us about it!

  Chapter III

  Palomides

  When Arthur and I arrived at the Hall for the feast we found Palomides surrounded by a gathering of kings and warriors, proudly displaying a fair-sized falcon that perched on his wrist.

  “In the East many nobles use these birds for hunting. It is a fine sport, and this is a magnificent specimen,” he explained.

  The raptor glared at us with the fierce, untamed look of its kind, and even after it was hooded and moved to a wooden perch, it never lost its air of wildness. I was sorry to see such a creature of freedom restrained and tethered under my roof, hemmed in by the press and push of humanity.