Still, it was a good place to find things out. He found he could ask more there, before he was told to go away. One day he caught Gareth, one of Arthur’s nephews. Gareth had only recently become a knight and seemed willing to talk. Percival didn’t know that Lancelot had told his friend especially to be kind to the feckless newcomer.
“The King and Lancelot must be very good friends,” Percival opened.
“Of course. After all, Lancelot is the greatest knight at Camelot; the strongest, the bravest, the most religious. Arthur depends on him. And they also go hunting together and play chess and that sort of thing.”
“I thought Sir Gawain was the strongest knight,” Percival ventured.
Gareth frowned. “Only in the daytime. Old Gawain can’t stay awake past sunset and even before then, he’s almost too weak to crawl to bed.”
“What happened to him?”
“Nothing. He’s always been like that. We used to play some great tricks on him when we were boys, but he was a rotten sport.”
“Did you grow up with him?”
“For a while, until Mother sent him away to Cador. He’s really nothing special; just one of my brothers. Are you going to wash or just sit there, Percival?”
• • •
But Gawain fascinated Percival. He was so energetic. And he had the courage to walk right up to Queen Guinevere and pick her up and swing her around, or pull her braids loose, or steal a comb so that she had to chase him all over the gardens to get it back. They were just like children together and nobody seemed to mind. Gareth said it was because Guinevere had been fostered with Gawain, so that they felt more like brother and sister. But Percival still couldn’t understand it. He was in awe of both of them, but especially Queen Guinevere. She glistened in the sunlight as she walked, her silk skirts shimmering about her. He doubted that he would ever have the courage to speak to her. He noticed that even Lancelot was different around her. Once Percival came upon them as they stood watching Galahad at play. Her hand was on his arm. She spoke and Lancelot looked down at her. Something in the stillness or something in their faces made Percival shrink back against the wall, hoping he hadn’t been seen. He wondered about it for a long time.
Autumn was early that year and the roads had iced over before everyone was safely transported to the winter quarters in Caerleon. There were more people than ever, and the old Roman fort, though large, was hard put to hold all those who had now become indispensable to the running of Britain. Arthur had started to consider creating several mini-capitals in which he could leave regional administrators all year round. There were men holding such positions now, unofficially. The trouble was that the very men strong enough to be left to do a job on their own were also the ones who might decide it was unnecessary to answer to a High King. And the good men he trusted were too useful to have them gone nine months of the year. Still, the congestion was breeding petty animosities that got on everyone’s nerves. Every day, it seemed, there was some sort of argument brought into the hall at dinner. The seating arrangements had been changed so many times to accommodate the feuding that Arthur wasn’t sure anymore where he sat, himself.
Percival didn’t notice any of the bickering. Caerleon was even more fascinating to him than Camelot. It was so old and the stones of the walls were so large. Giants must have lived in Britain to make such a fort. There was more work to do here, too. He had to clear out after the animals and spread hay and rushes on all the floors. He helped in the kitchens and carried hot ale to the shivering guards. One day he was sent to curry the horses. But after a few minutes he threw down the brush and swung around, aching to punch something.
“And what war are you in, boy?” The harsh voice stopped him cold. Percival looked up. Caet, the horsemaster, was staring at him with disdain. Slowly, he opened his fists. But his anger wasn’t stilled.
“I came here to be a knight and they have me doing slave work. Lancelot said he’d teach me, but all he does is stare at the Queen,” the boy muttered.
Caet was a small man, but he caught Percival up in hands of iron and shook him until his ears rang.
“No man here is a slave! But my horses have better sense than the likes of you. Get out of here and don’t ever let me see you around them again. And watch your tongue, young gossip, or you’ll never be a knight. What do you know about the Queen? She’s far above anything you’ve ever seen. Now, get out!”
Stunned by the force of the man’s anger, Percival scurried out and hid for the rest of the day behind the storage bins. He was found there by one of the serving girls.
“What’s the matter with you? Seen a ghost? They say the old soldiers still march up and down the watch by night.” She laughed at his face. "Well, you can’t stay here anyway. Come on, what’s wrong?”
She smiled encouragingly. Shyly, Percival smiled back. Stumbling a little over the words, he told her what he had said to anger Caet.
She shook her head at his ignorance. “Now look, just so you don’t make any more mistakes like that, I’ll tell you what I know.” She became abruptly serious. “It goes back to before I came here. But they say that Lancelot and Queen Guinevere have always been, well, very fond of each other, but she’s the King’s wife, you see, and we all love Arthur. I mean, he’s not to be hurt. Do you understand? We don’t talk about it much, even among ourselves. I don’t think even Guinevere and Lancelot want to hurt him. It’s more like they just can’t help themselves. You can’t hate them for it, really. It just seems so tragic.”
She sighed at the romance of it all.
Percival shook his head. “I thought Lancelot was still grieving for his wife.”
The girl’s eyes widened and she looked carefully around, to be sure no one else was near. Her voice dropped.
“I know about that; I come from Cornwall. Lancelot never had a wife. He was tricked by Morgan le Fay and her sister, Morgause, into sleeping with poor Galahad’s mother, Elaine. There’s some that say he thought she was Guinevere. Anyway, he accepted the son, but cast the mother out, sent her back to Morgause.” Now she was whispering hoarsely. “She killed herself, because of him, they say. But Lancelot didn’t care. He only loves the Queen.”
She stopped. She looked at Percival, waiting to see what he thought of such a story.
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” he said finally. “You must not have it right. I’ll ask Lancelot.”
The girl grabbed him with razor-sharp nails. “Are you mad? Don’t ever breathe a word of this to anyone. I’ll be sent home to my father if you do. You must promise me.” The nails dug harder. “Swear!”
Percival nodded as he tried to pry her fingers from his arm.
She relaxed a little, then smiled. “If you truly promise, then you must seal it with a kiss.”
He leaned away from her. “I never kissed anyone but Mother. Is that the custom here?”
“It certainly is, and, if you like, I can teach you some of our other customs.”
Percival thought. His mother had said to be dutiful to women. It occurred to him that this one was very pretty. He nodded and smiled. She smiled back.
• • •
For Arthur, the winter was a time to go over plans and study the problems for the next year. He tried to get men from all over Britain to come and tell him about the concerns in their lands. The north worried him. There were too many independent kings there whose tribes had never really been under Roman control. They needed careful treatment before they would agree to submit to Arthur. But who to send to them and what should they promise? He studied a list Gareth had compiled during his last journey north. But his train of thought was broken by the abrupt arrival of his seneschal, Cei, with his wife, Lydia, at his heels.
“Arthur, you’ve got to do something about that Percival!” Cei bellowed. “He just tried to attack Lydia!”
“What? Lydia, dear, are you all right?” Arthur looked from one to the other. Cei was red with fury but there was a look of exasperation about him. Lydia was clearly not damaged and seemed more as though she were about to burst out laughing.
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “Although Percival may be a bit sore for a few days. My husband saved me with more energy than was really necessary. But Arthur, dear, we really have to do something with the boy. He doesn’t know the first thing about how to behave around other people.”
“All right, tell me what happened.”
Cei began sputtering, but Lydia intervened.
“It was nothing, really,” she insisted. “I was trying to show Percival how to mend that tunic of his. I can’t imagine what his mother was thinking of, to send him away with such ragged clothes. He had just managed a rather crooked seam and I praised him; he seems so eager for approval. Arthur, I swear, I just gave him a sisterly hug and a pat on the back when, all at once, he was all over me. He grabbed me and started kissing my hands and arms and on up to my face. He seemed to think it was the custom here. I tried to push him off and explain that it just wasn’t done, but then my gallant husband showed up. Poor Percival, I don’t think he knows yet what hit him!”
“Poor Percival!” Cei exploded. “Arthur, he was slobbering all over Lydia, ripped her dress and everything.”
“It was just a tear in the sleeve,” Lydia added. “I’m sorry, darling. If it had been anyone else, I would have been more than grateful for your magnificent defense, but Percival . . . he’s no more danger than an overgrown puppy. He is as much nuisance, however. Someone really must take him in hand. Isn’t he supposed to belong to Lancelot?”
Arthur nodded. “Do you really want Lancelot to teach Percival how to behave?”
Cei and Lydia squirmed. They had grown to love Lancelot dearly, but there was no denying that he was still inclined toward some strange viewpoints and actions. Bringing Percival home with him, for example.
“There must be
someone
who can do it?” Cei broke the awkward silence. “What about Bedivere?”
“He’s a good man, but he hasn’t the patience,” Arthur answered. “Never understood that; he’s wonderfully tactful in negotiations but absolutely unforgiving of ignorance. What about one of the women?”
“We’ve done more than our share already,” Lydia insisted. “It was bad enough that he suddenly decided he was in love with me. But when Risa helped him get settled in the boys’ quarters and made sure he didn’t get into any fights about precedence, do you know what he said to her? That idiot child told her she was almost as pretty as his mother. His mother! You can imagine what Risa thought about that.”
In spite of himself, Arthur chuckled. “Especially when her eldest isn’t much younger than Percival. Well, we have any number of people here who are free for the winter. Suppose I ask for volunteers?”
“Do you really think anyone would take him on?” Cei was more than doubtful. “We need someone with considerable patience as well as manners. I can’t think of anyone here with both.”
“You know,” Lydia said thoughtfully. “Palomides could do it. He has exquisite manners. He’s traveled all over the old empire, and he doesn’t have any specific job to do this winter. He could civilize the boy to the point where the rest of us could take over and teach him about what we do in Britain.”
“I don’t know.” Arthur would never admit it, but he was somewhat in awe of Palomides, who had come from Constantinople via Africa, Greece, and (it took his breath away even to think it) Rome. The fact that the man had made his way to Britain specifically to put his mind and his sword at Arthur’s service abashed him still more. He was so damned elegant. It had been a long time since anyone could make Arthur feel like a country lout, but watching Palomides at dinner made him aware that his hands and face were greasy and his clothes were rumpled. Arthur wasn’t sure he could stand it if Percival became like that, too. One could tolerate it in a foreigner, but not in a raw recruit. Still . . . “He could probably teach the boy well. Do you think he would?”
“I’ll ask him.” Lydia was glad that the matter was settled. “He’s really very kind about doing favors. Now, don't worry any more, darling. You have enough to do around here.”
“That’s true enough,” Cei grunted. “But if that snot-face bothers you again, he’ll be breathing out of the back of his head.”
“Don’t be crude, dear.” Lydia kissed his cheek lightly. “If that’s taken care of, I must be going. Cole found mildew in the vegetables this morning and it will take all afternoon to empty the bins, clean them, and refill them with the sound food that is left.”
“That won’t affect the food supply this winter, will it?” Arthur asked.
“No, we caught it early enough. And we always have an abundance of turnips. There will be plenty left as long as your men make sure there is fresh meat all winter.”
“That we can do. It’s the best way I’ve found to get the men out and keep them active in the cold weather.”
“Then don’t worry. You certainly have better things to do than fret about mildew.”
Arthur nodded and she left. Cei remained to go over reports from the east and south, where Britons were living in uneasy proximity to the Saxons. Although there was a truce of sorts between the old people and the new, it took constant and delicate diplomacy to keep it going. Messengers crisscrossed the kingdom in every weather to keep the High King informed. Even in winter, Arthur felt submerged in the paperwork. But, in a way, that was what he had been working for. People knew now that they had someone to turn to. They no longer needed to fight their battles alone or suffer unjustly from their neighbors. Even the priests were coming around. Oddly enough, it had been Guinevere who had remembered the line about rendering unto Caesar. But then, she was much more well read than he was. He let his mind drift to his wife again, a ridiculous thing to do, considering they had been married nearly thirteen years. She still enchanted him with her elegance and mysterious, distant allure. She was like a spirit who had kindly consented to remain for a bit in human form, something never touched by mundane worries or needs.
As Arthur tried to focus his thoughts on the paper before him, the door was blown open by a small gold and green whirlwind, shrieking at the top of its lungs.