CHAPTER 58

“Genevere!”

“Here, Arthur.”

“Where?”

She laughed. “Where I always am.”

The chamber was bright with the last of the winter un, and snug and warm from the fire on the hearth. But outside the fields were spangled with frost, and as Arthur entered, an icy blast came in with him.

Guenevere looked up from the papers on her desk and laughed again. “Close the door, quickly, you’re making it freezing in here.”

Arthur bounded up to her, and took both her hands. He smelled of the outdoors, of his leather jerkin, of his horse. His face was ruddy from the cold, and his eyes were as bright as a child’s.

“Huddling indoors by the fire is making you delicate,” he said fondly. “You should have come out hunting with us instead.”

She smiled, and squeezed his hand. “Tomorrow I will. How was it today?”

Arthur pulled up a chair and sat down by her side. In their newfound closeness, he could never bear to have her far out of reach.

“Truly, Guenevere, you should have been there. Mordred excelled himself. The going was rough, and he never faltered once. Hedges, ditches, he took everything in his stride.”

“He’s a very good rider.”

“Horseman, swordsman, and fearless at the joust.” Arthur beamed. “He’s good at everything.”

Guenevere nodded. “Sir Ector has made him into a fine young squire.”

“Yes, wasn’t that wonderful?” Arthur marveled. “He’ll be a good knight when the time comes.” His face grew serious. “I think that was what made me see that Morgan meant well—that she sent Mordred for the same knighthood training as I had.”

“Mordred is a credit to you both,” Guenevere said.

“And to send back the scabbard—” Arthur’s eyes moistened, and his honest face registered a heartfelt thankfulness and simple joy. “Oh, Guenevere, wasn’t that good of her? It shows she must have been sorry for what she has done. She’s a different person now, I can tell.”

Guenevere paused and chose her words with care. “It is good to have the scabbard back again,” she agreed.

She did not want to remind Arthur how easily Morgan had stolen the scabbard before. But she had no doubt that whenever she wanted, Morgan could take it again. So she could not share Arthur’s faith that Morgan had changed. Privately she doubted that Morgan ever meant well. And for that reason, she could never be entirely easy about Morgan’s son. But Mordred was here now, and could not be sent away. And for the love of Arthur, she was determined not to disturb his ever-growing delight in his long lost son.

For in the weeks since Mordred arrived, Arthur’s mood had passed from the first shock and shame to a constant delight. Almost every day he discovered something that thrilled his heart. Sir Ector had instructed Mordred in everything that long ago Arthur had learned as a boy. So for Arthur, getting to know Mordred had been like revisiting his past and meeting his younger self.

“When we come to make him a knight, as we must in a year or two—” Arthur broke off and took her hand, plaiting her fingers in his. “Oh Guenevere, do you think he will take the Siege Perilous when the time comes?”

Guenevere sat still. She had known this moment would come. The great chair with its carved canopy came into her mind, and she could read the prophecy in letters of golden fire:

He Will Be the Most Peerless Knight in all the World—

Guenevere sighed. The small ghost of Amir flickered through her mind, and she gently put it away. “It’s a high destiny, Arthur. And only the Great Ones know if it will be his.”

A moment of melancholy gripped them both.

Arthur pressed her hand and stroked it lovingly. “I know we always thought it was meant for Amir. If you don’t want Mordred to be considered for it, tell me, and I’ll never mention it again.”

She wanted to weep.

Oh, my poor love, never free of the loss of Amir. But why should I use that against Mordred now?

My son lies in his grave by the sea. And another woman’s son should not have to su fer for that.

“No, Arthur, I would never ask you to hold Mordred back.” She smiled painfully. “And if that is truly his destiny, none of us could.” She was struck by a happier thought. “Why not ask Merlin when he comes back? He will know. It is already written in the stars.”

“Yes, indeed.” A smile split Arthur’s handsome face. “He may not tell us, but he will surely know. And he’ll tell us enough to decide what we should do.”

He heaved a wondering sigh, and shook his head. “Can you believe it, Guenevere? You here, my son restored to me, and Merlin back with us too? Dear God, I think I’m the luckiest man alive.”

Guenevere took his face between her hands, and kissed him tenderly. “You deserve it, Arthur,” she murmured. “You’re a good man.”

“I try,” he said gruffly. Tears stood in his eyes. “And I know how much I still have to do.”

She patted his hand. “We both do. We’re lucky that the Mother has blessed us with the chance to begin again.”

He kissed her fervently. “And we won’t throw it away.”

There was a knock on the door, and Ina slipped in, smiling with delight. “Prince Mordred is here.”

Arthur leaped to his feet and moved eagerly toward the door. “Show him in.”

I must love Mordred, and I will, Guenevere thought. It should not be hard to love anyone who could put that smile on Arthur’s face. The twinges of unease that she still felt would fade away, when there was so much to like about the boy.

She raised her eyes to the door. “Mordred?”

“Madam.”

The youth who bounded in had all of Arthur’s passionate energy and a more-than-boyish grace. He was tall for his age, and to judge by his slender frame, not yet full-grown. But already his well-balanced body and handsome face were turning heads. It was to his credit, Guenevere and Arthur agreed, that he never noticed it.

“Mordred, welcome.” She extended her hand to be kissed. “You had a good day, I hear. The King tells me that you outdid yourself.”

Mordred threw Arthur a glance of ardent love. “My father is too kind to me, I think.”

“Nonsense!” cried Arthur happily. “You’re setting a great example to them all. Gawain was puffing so hard today that I think he must be getting old. Even Lucan had to exert himself to keep up. And Sagramore—” He burst out laughing at the memory. “He’s probably still trailing home with the stragglers. We shan’t see them till owl-light!”

“Sir Sagramore was not well horsed for a country ride,” observed Mordred tactfully.

Arthur burst out laughing. “At his weight, the Great Ones never yet made a horse for Sagramore!”

Mordred turned to Guenevere. “Ride with us tomorrow, madam, if you can,” he urged. His eyes went to Arthur and back again. “It’s the finest thing I know, and to have you there—”

To have a mother and father, poor boy, for the first time in your life? Guenevere nodded. “Tomorrow, yes, I will, I promised the King.”

Mordred turned to Arthur. “There you are, sir,” he said, beaming. “We can hold the Queen to that.”

“And you shall,” Guenevere laughed. “Now be off, the pair of you, or I shall never finish these papers today.”

“Very well.” Arthur took her hand and brushed it with his lips. “But I’ll be back in time to take you down to the Hall.”

Guenevere smiled in anticipation of the feast to come. She had always loved the evenings in the Great Hall, especially in winter, when the wine went around by candlelight and the fires on the great hearths played off the red and blue and silver of silk and mail.

She gave Arthur her hand. “Till then, my lord.”

She stood for a moment and listened to them clattering out. Before they had reached the door, Mordred’s light voice was already deep into some question that required Arthur’s ear. The conversation between them had started as soon as Arthur took Mordred to his heart, and showed no sign of ending, in this life at least. She could hear Arthur’s rumbling tones dying away. “Well, my son, I believe—”

My son.

Yes, Arthur was a father now, at last. And who in the world could begrudge him that? Mordred could bring many blessings into Arthur’s life. Morgan’s malice must sleep now that her long abandoned child had come into his own. And despite Guenevere’s lingering concerns, there was no sign that any of her dark power had passed into her son.

Sighing, she turned back to her papers and worked on. It was some time later that she heard Ina’s discreet cough. “Two knights are here, my lady. Will you see them now?”

She knew at once it would be Bors and Lionel. They were plainly dressed for the road, but an air of suppressed excitement hung about them both. Above the dull gray-green of their riding cloaks, Lionel’s skin glowed and Bors’ eyes were bright.

“It’s harsh weather, sirs, to take to the roads tonight,” Guenevere ventured with a smile.

To her relief, Bors smiled back. “It will be good for us, madam, to go adventuring again. We never concerned ourselves with the weather when we were boys.”

Lionel laughed and tossed back his long hair. “Better to catch cold on the roads than grow idle at court.”

There was a silence. “You’re going to Lancelot,” she said with soft certainty.

The two knights exchanged a glance.

“To look for him, madam, at least,” Bors corrected. “We don’t know where he is. He said he did not want to burden us with his quest.” He gave a short laugh. “Indeed, he did not even tell us what it was. All we know is that he has a great and worthy task to fulfill, and one he thinks that he must do alone. But we—” He nodded to his brother.

Lionel laughed tenderly. “We beg to differ,” he said. “We are sons of Benoic, and his nearest kin. So we mean to find him, and assist his quest.”

Guenevere stood still. He did not tell us where he is, Bors had said. That meant they had heard from him. She drew a shivering breath. “You have news of Lancelot?”

Bors inclined his head. “He was traveling northward when he sent to us. He was well, he said, and fit from life on the road. His journey had been uneventful, and he told us that the pivot of his day comes every evening, when he sees the love-star rise. Then he faces the west, looks into the setting sun, and prays for his star, his sun, his love.”

A sweet sadness filled Guenevere from head to foot. She trembled on the brink of joy and tears. “When you find Sir Lancelot,” she said tremulously, “tell him that I too watch for the evening star.”

“We have seen the candle in your window, lady,” Lionel said softly. “We shall tell him that your flame calls to his, wherever you are.”

“Thank you.” Guenevere smiled. “May the Gods go with you, sirs,” she said fervently. “And the Mother herself guard every step of your way.”

She stood and watched them as they left the room. Outside, an early evening darkened the wintry sky. Warm memories and dear hopes, fond thoughts and tender dreams danced around her head and filled her heart and mind. She stood still and let them come.

To love and be loved—to see love growing between those she loved—what greater joy than that? In the living moment she felt herself at one with the soul of things, with the spirit that lived in the mountain and the earthquake, in the heart of the violet, in the gaze of a newborn child. It came to her then that she knew the voice, the touch, the kiss of that secret now. She was part of that still center, that ever-expanding circle of life itself.

Life, love, and the sorrow and joy of them both.

“Guenevere!” called Arthur from below.

She moved to the window and lit the candle standing there. Its small flame flared up and burned steadily as the love-star rose and bloomed brightly in the west.

“I’m coming, Arthur,” she replied.