But if Cei was taciturn and secretive, the people of London were open and friendly, thrilled that we were going to hold the Round Table in their city. They lined the Road to the double gates and leaned over the parapet of the walls to shower us with flowers and goodwill.
Lynette, the daughter of the Grounds Keeper, appointed herself my escort as we went through the Imperial Palace. “My family did the best they could, Your Highness.” She grinned up at me, her ten-year-old face smudged with dirt. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff we carted out of this place.”
With a sweep of her hand she indicated the most cavernous room I’d ever seen—the mosaic floors were pocked with holes where fire pits had been dug, the walls were sooty from years of smoking torches, and the jumble of furniture piled in corners only made it seem more deserted. Still, I had no doubt Cei would find a way to turn it into a splendid Hall.
“Come see the Park,” Lynette begged. “We cleared out the brambles and even replanted the old garden.”
Sure enough, though the farther corners of the grounds were still festooned with ivy and bindweed, there were cabbage and turnips, new lettuce and fresh beets, all thriving in well-laid beds. Sage and thyme and rosemary clustered near the broken fountain while banks of marigolds filled in the basins. A stand of foxglove lifted thick lavender flowers along a path to the orchard.
“And behold, what used to be the Bishop’s cherries!” Mischief lurked in Lynette’s eyes as she pointed to an enormous old tree. “Fusty old man prized them pretty high, setting boys to scare away the birds and not letting anyone else have any. But when we heard you were coming, my father declared this was a royal garden and no one but you could pick from it—so all the cherries are yours alone.”
I couldn’t help grinning at the thought of the churchman losing his precious fruit to the Queen he pretended didn’t exist.
Lynette chattered away in between pointing out medlar and pear, apple and mulberry, then suddenly turned serious. “My father says the city council will ask His Highness to make London part of Logres—do you think he’ll accept?”
I smiled at the child’s candor but sidestepped the answer by assuring her Arthur would consider any idea brought before him this summer.
The people of London were as determined to state their case as Lynette had been bold in asking, and several mornings later Arthur looked at me ruefully over breakfast.
“It appears we’re going to be King and Queen of London,” he allowed, munching thoughtfully on a bannock. “Taking it under our protection isn’t a bad idea. The camps I regarrisoned after the Lincoln campaign are well placed to guard the likely routes of attack. And London itself acts as a wedge between the Saxons to the north and those of Kent and Sussex—keeps them from joining forces. Besides, the people are so eager for a leader, I’m loath to throw them back to the limbo of the last decades.”
“Doesn’t seem we have much choice.” I grinned. “Bedraggled they may be, but they’re certainly determined to have us.”
Arthur nodded and popped the last of the bannock in his mouth, then rose and gestured for me to follow. “Let’s go take a look at the pavilion Lance is putting up by the ruins of Caesar’s Tower.”
He strode off before I was even on my feet, and I had to lift my skirts and run down the corridor to catch up with him. The heavy robes of state were not meant for keeping up with the likes of Arthur.
A flock of ravens rose, croaking, from their roosts as we approached the Tower. Judging from the size of the nests amid the broken walls, the birds had long since claimed the spot for their own. They wheeled and soared overhead in amazing acrobatics, and I watched their antics with delight as the Breton joined us.
“Sacred to the Old God Bran.” Lancelot gestured to the knoll on which both ruins and tents now stood. “This is where they buried his head, to protect Britain from invasion. I wonder if the Romans knew that when they built this tower?”
Arthur and I laughed at the irony, but I paused to make a hasty prayer—after all the work that had gone into preparing for this gathering, I hoped Bran could tell the difference between Saxon raiders and invited Federates.
***
One after another the leaders streamed through London’s gates, their presence announced by the newly appointed Town Crier. He marched before them, ringing a bell and calling out name and rank so that the people in the streets would know what royalty they were beholding. It also gave us warning that another guest was about to be presented at the Palace.
We housed the nobility wherever we could find room for them—mostly in the pavilions or better-preserved stone structures. The rest crowded into inns and taverns, and the warriors slept in the Park.
A few of the monarchs could not attend—my cousin Maelgwn because his wife was ill, and King Mark—who didn’t like to travel anyhow—used his new bride as an excuse to stay home. He sent Tristan and Dinadan as his emissaries, however, and we welcomed them gladly.
My father could not come because of his own ill health, but he sent Bedivere, and there were boisterous greetings all around. The lieutenant had regained his strength and humor and was now quite adept at the use of his hooked hand. When I told him that Brigit had gone to the convent, he nodded with a gentle smile. “May all the Gods bless her,” he responded.
***
Urien came to greet us and announced that Morgan sent her regrets. “She’s very busy, you know, what with so many Irish bringing in the new faith.”
I studied the King of Northumbria, wondering if he knew about his wife’s hostility toward me. I suspected he was a man who preferred not to look below the surface of things—a life full of horses and warriors, hunting and feasting, seemed to suit him wonderfully, and I was certain he would avoid anything that could disrupt it. At least Morgan’s absence meant one less problem for me—I had quite enough to think about already.
Many of the leaders brought sons or daughters to stay with us—the boys to study under Lancelot or Palomides, the girls to serve as ladies-in-waiting for me. It strengthened our ties with the parents but also meant I was responsible for a growing bevy of young women. I turned them over to Vinnie, trusting that the matron’s diligence as a governess would keep them out of trouble, and out of my way.
Vinnie reinstated the practice of afternoon tea, serving herbal brews and biscuits at the end of the day much as Igraine had when she was High Queen. It’s a nice custom and I joined my ladies for this whenever I could find the time.
Glancing about the room, I was surprised at how many there were and how few I recognized—girls from the north of Wales who had inherited the same plain face and apricot hair I have; sturdy youngsters from the dales and moors of the Pennines; and the delicate flowers of Cornwall’s steadings. Only Enid and Frieda were missing—they were too busy helping me run the Court to think of themselves as ladies-in-waiting.
“Oh, dear,” Vinnie sputtered as another newcomer curtsied before me. “I told Elaine to close her bodice with that brooch, not use it as an ornament in her hair!”
This was the girl from Astolat, and I stared at her curiously. Her father, Bernard, had described her as pious and shy, and in need of a mother since her own had died some years ago. But where I expected a timid, backward child, this maid was a full-grown woman with a startling look of abandon—her wild, tumbling tresses fell forward over the half-open bodice, and she moved with a languorous, provocative grace. Yet her eyes were downcast, and she drifted away with the demure air of one untouched by the world.
“I don’t know what to do with her.” The matron sighed, carefully pouring me the first cup of tea. “She’s not deaf, for she starts if one claps one’s hands. But she goes about in that distracted way, as though listening to voices others cannot hear. It’s enough to give one goose bumps.”
“If you ask me,” Augusta volunteered, “she’s not all right in the head.” The Roman girl from a midland villa stretched out a manicured hand for a biscuit, and Vinnie sharply reminded her to serve me first.
“Will there be a Beltane celebration at Court next year?” Augusta inquired, smoothly changing the subject as she extended the tray toward me. “Some say the High King keeps a Christian Court, and others not.”
“We allow all people to worship whatever Gods they choose. Bishops and druids, saints and priestesses are all welcome at our Court,” I responded, carefully not looking at Vinnie. The matron had long since given up trying to convert me, but she had a strong distrust of druids and their ancient powers.
“Beltane is my favorite time,” Augusta allowed, and several girls giggled because so many romances begin at the spring bonfire. The midland beauty soon brought the conversation around to romantic gossip and began teasing Ettard about Pelleas’s obvious interest in her.
“I suppose he’s nice enough.” The convent girl shrugged as she pulled apart a biscuit and drizzled honey on the pieces. “But he’s terribly poor, and awfully common compared to Gawain or Lancelot. Now that the Queen Mother left me land of my own, I must consider my station.”
Augusta snickered at such pretensions.
“No, I mean it,” Ettard persisted. “I’m not interested in any man who is not at least of Champion status.”
I was tempted to remind her that she’d been a homeless waif herself once, but her tone was threatening to become whiny, so I bit my tongue and looked at Elaine instead, thinking the girl from Astolat was not the only one with a poor grasp of reality.
Augusta had led the conversation around to favorite heroes, and although everyone admitted to flirting with Lamorak, it was Lancelot who was considered the most romantically mysterious.
“You know him best, M’lady,” Ettard said suddenly. “What is the Breton really like?”
The question caught me by surprise, and I paused, wondering what to say. Lance was funny and tender, clever and serious, and had a wicked little way of looking at me as though there were a marvelous secret only the two of us shared. He could lift my spirits with a glance, as he had at Wihtgar’s gate, or be so preoccupied with an inner problem that he didn’t even hear my voice. He was, I realized, the most fascinating man I knew—but I had no intention of saying so to my ladies.
“The Breton is too hardworking and dedicated to Arthur to pay much mind to romance,” I responded, hoping it sounded less pompous than it felt.
There was a murmur of bemusement and the conversation moved on, but the definition of Lancelot stayed in my mind.
***
As the time to begin the festivities drew near both Arthur and I watched for Merlin, hoping he would make one of his remarkable appearances. Not only would it be splendid to show him what we had done with his idea, it would put an end to the questions about his whereabouts which were circulating even here. But neither the Magician nor Nimue came.
On the morning of the first day I climbed to the top of the riverbank wall. It was the only place where I could get away from what had become a constant commotion in the Palace, and I looked out over the Thames with a sigh of relief.
The Londoners had repaired the Roman bridge and a steady stream of country folk flowed through the gates, drawn by curiosity about the High King’s presence. Even the water teemed with boats—rafts and dugouts as well as wood-planked vessels of all sorts. A barge tied up at the wharf, putting ashore two peddlers and a man carrying an eye doctor’s case, while a farm boy hoisted crates of fowl onto the landing. Cei stepped forward to claim the squawking birds, followed by a whole parade of pages who hauled them away to the cooking area.
A group of Federates had rowed down the Thames, and the man standing in the prow of the lead boat was being hailed by a blond girl at the end of the wharf. It was Frieda, come to greet her father, who was honoring us in return for Arthur’s paying our respects at the ealderman’s pyre. The Saxon was a big man, and the joy that spread across his face when he saw his daughter showed clearly how much he prized her.
Turmoil suddenly erupted at the Colchester gate where a band of barbarians were demanding entrance. Once inside the walls they marched down the street in primitive splendor, led by a slave who held aloft an iron rod topped with a fan of feathers and fluttering ribbons. Next came the chamberlain carrying a large whetstone as though it were some sort of scepter. The leader himself was garbed in wolfskins and strutted proudly at the head of his war-band while the women and children followed in silence.
The Town Crier was announcing Wehha the Swede of East Anglia, so I turned and bolted down the steps, barely making it to the Palace in time to take my place next to Arthur before the entourage entered the refurbished Hall. As they walked the length of the room I adjusted my skirts and patted my hair into place—being elegant takes a lot more time than I would have guessed.
“You like my standard?” Wehha demanded, gesturing to the metal staff with its outlandish topknot. “Good as any Roman tufa, no?”
Arthur pronounced it “amazing” while I struggled to keep a straight face; the idea that someone so clearly barbaric should aspire to the trappings of Imperial insignias struck me as wonderfully funny.
Arthur explained that the Swede and his party were invited to a feast next evening.
“And we look forward to honoring your wife,” I announced, augmenting my limited Swedish with bits of Saxon and Latin. “When we are your guests, we follow your ways. Now you are my guest, you follow mine.”