“Whatever did you say to her?” I asked, never thinking it was an invasion of privacy.
The priest gave me a reproving look, then grinned. “I reminded her of the litany of Celtic Queens, just as I used to remind you.”
I laughed, hearing in memory the many times he’d coaxed me through something I didn’t think I could face, didn’t want to do, wasn’t sure I could—“What kind of Celtic Queen says, ‘I can’t’? Of course you can!” If anyone could give Isolde the necessary courage to do what had to be done, it was Kevin.
***
As the days shortened, the new larders filled with apples and cabbages, turnips and salt beef; smoked hams and haunches of venison were hung from the rafters; even a fair supply of salted butter was put aside to see us through ’til spring.
Lance and Tris arrived in time for Samhain, and Kevin agreed to winter over with us on the condition that he be allowed to say Mass regularly for those who were Christians in our Court. Many, both Christian and Pagan, grew very fond of him, but Tris was not among them, for he held the Irish priest responsible for Isolde’s leaving.
“I don’t care whose wife she is, the holy man had no right to steal her away from me,” Tris complained, distorting the facts entirely. He glared around the Hall, drunk enough not to care what he said, still sober enough to best any man who challenged him.
Lance, who was the only one Tris would listen to these days, talked him into taking up the harp, and he serenaded us with wonderful music until the wine got the best of him. Laying his instrument aside, Tristan sobbed himself to sleep with his head pillowed on his arms on the table.
It was a scene that was repeated more and more often as Tris wallowed in self-pity, holding everyone but himself accountable for his misery. Then one night he went too far, turning his anger against Isolde, claiming she had played him false, led him on, deluded him with dreams of love when at heart she was a faithless bitch.
Palomides rose to his feet and stalking purposefully across the Hall, stopped in front of the Harper. “How dare you besmirch her reputation,” he spat out contemptuously. “Everything she did was what you wanted. So take back that slander or meet me in single combat tomorrow morning.”
“Why wait for morning?” Tris snarled. “I can whip any man in the Hall right now, yourself included.”
Palomides lifted his chin and stared disdainfully at Isolde’s lover. “I am a man of honor and do not fight people who are drunk,” he announced. “Tomorrow, at dawn.”
“There will be no feuds within the Round Table,” Arthur bellowed, intent on stopping a senseless letting of blood. “Tristan, it’s time for you to let go of this passion of yours and get on with your life.”
“You don’t understand,” cried the big Champion, turning furiously in a circle as though to dare all comers. “She is mine, forever. My life and my death. Fated we are, and no one, not priest or Cornish King or Arab, shall come between us.”
He pounded his fist on the table, sending a clatter of plates and glasses to the floor, then whipped around and launched himself on Palomides like a whirlwind.
A gasp ran through the Hall, for Tris was the best wrestler in the realm. The Arab crouched to defend himself, and as Tris leapt at him, the smaller man twisted away.
Palomides fought only to restrain Tristan without hurting him, though they both came up with massive bruises in the end. But in spite of his drunkenness Tris was the victor, pinning the Arab to the floor and hooting his triumph before passing out.
Lance and Dinadan carried him to his bunk while the rest of the men gathered around Palomides, praising him for his courtesy and grumbling about the Comishman’s unruly behavior.
Next day Arthur asked Bedivere to take Tristan to Brittany when he went to serve as an emissary to King Ban’s Court. “Surely Tris can make a place for himself with one of the local Princes,” Arthur added. “With any luck, he’ll start a new life there as well.”
After that we settled into a winter dazzling in patterns of gold and white,
full of love and laughter and so much hard work. Riding through the frosty days with Lance, laughing and playing and glorying in the fullness of life while candlelight pours through the doors of the Hall and we dance with the people on nights of festival and merriment…working with Arthur every day, snuggling together at night beneath the comforter while the stars glitter like flashing ice in the night sky above Somerset. And every morning the two men make the rounds of the fortress, checking with the sentries, discussing the plans for the day, deciding what is to be done.
Often I’d watch them tramping across the courtyard, matching stride for stride in the pristine whiteness of a new snowfall. Heads bent in conversation, oblivious to all else, they work together to guard and shape our world. Arthur was well filled out now, ruddy and solid and full of direct energy, while the lean, dark shape of Lancelot moved with sinuous grace beside him; they made me think of good sturdy wool and glimmering sealskin.
I could not imagine not loving them both.
We put our energies not just into the development of the citadel, but on the Cause as well. It was that winter we found the solution to making the Roads safe again.
“Everyone needs salt,” I said one blustery day as we sat at the long table with maps and charts, records and tables spread before us. “There’s so few places making it, compared with the inland settlements that need it. And transporting it is so dangerous…”
Lance looked up from a scroll that contained a Roman tax collector’s report. “The Empire taxed the salt wagons, and used that money to keep the Roads clear. If only we had coins, we could do the same…”
I was wondering how hard it would be to establish a mint when Arthur spoke up.
“We could barter for the service—offer to make sure the salt gets to those towns and warlords who keep the Roads safe and free of obstacles. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a capital idea,” Lance concurred. “And everyone would benefit—travelers and merchants, and the royal messengers as well.”
We all rushed to look at the map, tracing the routes the tax rolls had shown and debating which client kings would be cooperative, which resistant. In the end the system worked well and was one of the best ideas we ever had.
***
With the first hint of spring Frieda decided, at long last, to become a Christian and marry Griflet, and they asked Kevin to perform the ceremony. Much to everyone’s surprise her mother and sisters came for the wedding, which led to great rejoicing. There was pain as well, however, for Frieda’s father disowned her entirely. It was an act that hurt the both of them deeply, for she had been his favorite child.
Palomides was as courteous as ever at the festivities, yet there was an air of sad withdrawal around the man. Later he confided to Lance that while he wished the newlyweds every happiness, their joy only made his own loneliness harder to bear. “It seems,” the Breton added, “he still grieves over his hopeless love for Isolde.”
As the bluebells bloomed beneath the beeches and the cuckoo filled the night with longing, the Arab grew more and more restless. So I was not terribly surprised when he asked permission to leave Court.
“The Irish priest and I have been talking a lot lately,” Palomides explained. “And I’ve decided I’d like to go to Arabia…to find out what it’s really like, and if I have any kin there. Besides, I’ve always had an itch to see new places—the remnants of Rome, the city of Constantine…”
Arthur’s consternation at the notion of losing one of his best Companions showed clearly on his face, but he was never one to hinder the fulfillment of another’s moira. “I’ve heard some interesting things about the Byzantine laws—things that might be useful here. Perhaps while you are in the East you could look into them for me?” he asked.
Palomides agreed readily and began preparing to go to Exeter where he hoped to catch a ship for the Mediterranean. We provided him a letter of introduction to various Kings across the Continent and a special note for the Emperor Anastasius.
The day before the Arab was to leave, Kevin came to see me, asking if we could have a private chat.
“Let’s take the horses out,” I proposed, remembering how often we’d raced and ridden over the fells of Rheged.
We headed along the track that leads to Glastonbury. Featherfoot was growing old but was still strong and ready for a run, and it was only after a pounding gallop through the forest rides that the animals settled into a casual walk.
When we reached the edge of Gwyn’s pastures, we paused to admire the mares that were grazing in the meadow. The man from Neath had ponies as well as large horses, and for a few minutes Kevin and I compared notes on the animals.
“I think I’ll join Palomides on the trip to Devon,” Kevin announced casually as we turned for home. “I’d like to visit Castle Dore and see how Mark and Isolde are getting on.”
It had taken a while to get used to seeing my childhood love in the garb of a holy man, governed by spiritual tenets that set him apart from the flow of everyday dreams and desires. Yet once I accepted the change in him, it seemed so natural to have him at Court, I assumed he would remain with us indefinitely. The idea of his leaving jolted me from my complacency.
“How strange it will be,” I mused, “with Tristan and Bedivere, Pelleas and Gawain—now even you and Palomides—all off somewhere else.”
“And Lancelot, too, I think,” Kevin allowed.
Shocked, I turned to stare at him. He was watching me intently, and I blushed and looked away hastily.
“You don’t think I could have missed the fact that he’s in love with you, do you?” Kevin asked. When I couldn’t find the words to answer, he went on gently. “The Breton and I have spent a fair amount of time together, discussing many things. He’s badly torn between his love for you and his love for Arthur, so I advised him to leave your side and go in search of the Almighty.”
“You did
what
?” My voice found itself with a vengeance, and I rounded on Kevin with a surge of emotion in which anger and disbelief rode high. “How dare you interfere with my life this way? You, who ran away when all our future lay before us; you, who left me to be married off in a political union whether I chose it or not; you, who now spouts pious oaths and lectures on duty and have no more idea what it’s like to carry the mantle of royal responsibility than Elaine’s cat does! What right have you to advise Lancelot to leave me?”
“The right of a man who knows how futile it is to love a woman who is destined for another,” he shot back, his eyes never leaving mine. “The right of a man who understands his brother’s pain. For God’s sake, Gwen, you don’t think Lance can come to you and pour out his misery at watching you sit daily next to Arthur, move nightly to your chambers together, rise every morning refreshed and renewed, together? He can’t tell you how much he longs for you, needs you, worships you. And he certainly can’t tell your husband.”
He paused, and I lowered my eyes, no longer defiant. I had never considered how Lance must view those things, and the recognition that it could be so painful for him pulled me up short.
“I…I didn’t realize,” I whispered.
“I thought not.” Kevin heaved a sigh. “I’m not sure he will go on a spiritual quest, but I’ve suggested he think about it. He’s a man who needs a cause to believe in…Arthur has Britain, you have Arthur, but Lance needs something of his own. Surely you would not deny him that. Not if you love him…and you do, don’t you?”
I looked up slowly, remembering how close Kevin and I had been when we were young, and suddenly the whole story came tumbling out. “But I don’t see that there has to be a conflict,” I concluded. “I simply love them both in different ways…they are, after all, very different people.”
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to counsel you to put aside your love for him, would it?” Kevin asked, as though not even hearing my last words.
“No, it wouldn’t,” I flared. “As long as we are discreet in our behavior and don’t hurt Arthur, there’s no reason why we should deny our feelings.”
“You know better than that, Gwen…that kind of reasoning sounds like Isolde.”
His tone was firm and unbending, and I turned to glare at him, sorry I had taken him into my confidence. He hadn’t understood after all.
But instead of Kevin, it was Lance I saw. He sat his horse in silence, a prim, proper, Christianized shadow of the man I loved. The sparkle of humor, the touch of tenderness, the joyful sharing I had grown so used to, were gone, replaced by a righteous rigidity, as stifling as the sanctity within the hermit’s cave.
It made me ache to see the free-spirited Celt so leeched of life, and I wheeled my mare around in blind terror. Leaning forward on Featherfoot’s neck, I screamed in her ear and lashed her shoulders with the reins. She leapt forward like a yearling, neck extended and nostrils wide, and I clung to her for dear life as she carried me through the forest shadows.
***
So I went flying back to Cadbury, trying to leave that sad, dried, empty shell of a vision behind. But Igraine had been right—no one can outrun the Gods.
Camelot
Lance didn’t say anything about leaving that week or the next one, either, but by early May the strain on him was evident. I could not look up but what his gaze was on me, and sometimes, having caught each other’s glances, it was impossible for either of us to look away. Within me a tension of desire began to build, and there were times when I turned to Arthur in furious lovemaking although it was Lance I longed for. Typically, Arthur didn’t seem to notice either my passion or my distraction.