I was not terribly impressed and a little confused. “Well, it was summer. Beyond the weather, what does it prove?”

“Something so simple, anyone could miss it. Would a pilgrim approach the holy of holies without some thought to propriety?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Peredur plucked at his garment. “This is a pilgrim’s robe, the

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same for men and women, winter and summer. Now I kneel before you.” He did. “What falls open? Nothing.”

Peredur was already in a light sweat from excitement. I tried to coax him back onto the couch, but he resisted.

“Bother that; don’t you see?”

“Perhaps she wasn’t wearing a pilgrim robe.”

“Your crown against a radish, she wasn’t.” One finger raised like a debating scholar, shaking at me. “And she bloody well wasn’t on pilgrimage, either. A plain peasant girl? What do they wear in summer? Something that fastens snug over one shoulder or ties at both. Neither likely to fall open to the carnal eye— unless she loosened it herself.”

I thought I followed his reasoning. “You think they were making love?”

“Oh, good God, no!” Peredur rocked with high, excited laughter. “But you’ve seen peasant women in summer. About as modest as cows. They strip to the waist and bathe outdoors. Bathing, Arthur! Not on Wyrral Tor, but at the well. At the bottom of the hill.”

Well, you could argue it. The Grail could be there, so far as that went, or in a hundred other places if any at all. But seeing Peredur’s joy of excitement, tinged with terminal desperation, I would have been cruel to dampen it. The enthusiasm only brought out more starkly the pallor of his illness and how close Peredur was to the end.

“The well. Yes. Brilliant, Arthur.” His spurt of energy burned out, Peredur wilted back onto the couch. “Worthy of me and as useless. I am your prisoner. But,” he looked up at me urgently, “you might get word to Eieyne. Perhaps …”

He let it trail off into silence. As I stood watching him, I made another decision from the heart rather than my head, but one I’ve never regretted.

Shortly before three, the guards admitted me again to Peredur’s quarters. I gave him no smile, let him see only the apparent heaviness of my spirit.

“What is it, Arthur?”

“Peredur, certain conditions have become too dangerous.” I let him reflect on that. “Do you understand?”

He eyed me closely. “I am dangerous?”

“While you live.”

Peredur stood up. The natural fear flickered in his eyes for a

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moment before the habit of a lifetime quelled it. “I see.” A pause. “May I have a confessor?”

“Peredur, a life like yours never earns more than five minutes in purgatory. You have time to pray.” He couldn’t believe it. “Not even a priest?” “I’m sorry. This must be done quickly. You might do the . same thing in my place.”

And indeed he might. Peredur knelt in front of the small altar installed for Guenevere and made his contrition in a low voice tfiat never faltered. I opened the door to see Lord Bors striding across the courtyard toward the house. “Come in, Bors.” ;. Inside, the young knight glanced curiously at kneeling Peredur. . “Sir, Lord Gareth sent me. You have orders?”

“Questions.” I put my hands on his shoulders. “When I charged my queen with treason, you spoke out for her.”

“Yes, sir,” he admitted hesitantly. “I—I did feel in my conscience she was right.” . “How then are you loyal to me?”

Bors flushed and corrected me straight. “Sir, I rode with Gareth atHadon. There’s fingers and toes that still have little ; feeling from the long cold. With respect, sir, that’s not a question ;•’ to ask me.”

I nodded in approval. “Then I’ll ask one more to the point. Is ; there an edge to your sword?” “• “That a hedgehog could shave with, sir.”

“Then draw it now and strike off Prince Peredur’s head.” His mouth dropped open. I took advantage of the shock and pushed it.

“Come, he’s under my sentence, shriven and prepared and : kneeling for the blow. Draw your sword.”

He still hung back; for a moment I wondered if he would obey. Then Peredur helped him.

“Come, boy. Don’t keep a prince waiting.” Bors extracted his sword from its scabbard like something unclean. “My lord,” he mumbled to Peredur, “forgive me my duty.”

“I forgive it. Take my blessing.”

Peredur bowed his head forward. Bors stepped to one side, set himself and raised the longs word. “Hold,” I said.

Bors froze. The look of death was still on Peredur as he I straightened up slowly.

“I never meant it to be, Bors. But I had to know you could.”

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Bors shook. “Thank God.”

“Get up, Peredur.”

Instantly Bors was there to assist the frail prince. “Let me help. If you knew my admiration, sir. There’s no more Christian prince than you.”

“And none more relieved.” Peredur patted his arm. “Arthur, you can be cruel.”

“Right.” I clapped my hands sharply to dispel the sepulchral mood. “Bors, impress ten combrogi with good mounts, order a galley at the quay. You are to escort Prince Peredur from here to the mouth of the Brue, thence to Ynnis Witrin. You’ll afford him every courtesy except the chance to escape. And you will assist him in his mission.”

Gratitude and confusion. “Aye, sir. And what might that be?”

“Tell him, Peredur.”

“The Holy Grail,” said Peredur. “I know where it is.”

Bors crossed himself. “With my life, sir.”

“Attend me outside. I’ll be a moment.”

Dazed, Bors stumbled out the door. Peredur waited with arms crossed and a wondering sjnile.

“You’re a bit of a saint, Arthur.”

“And you’re still a prisoner. Try to escape and he’ll bury you at Witrin.”

“And something of a bastard. But heaven will reward this.”

“Just let them spare me the fervent. You true believers are no end of trouble.” I hugged his wasted frame to me. “There, now. Go find your silly cup. And no trouble, mind.”

“I’m too sick for trouble.”

“Sick my royal butt. I wouldn’t trust a son of Cador two weeks after I buried him. Come, get ready. We’ll dine together before you go.”

I left him collecting papers in his leather bag, eager, happier than I’d seen him in years.

“It’s got to be there, Arthur. It’s got to be.”

Yes, I prayed. Someone who heeded fallen sparrows might take a moment for Peredur.

Outside, I hooked my arm in Bors* and walked him toward the palace. “Help him all you can, lad. It’s still cold, make him wrap his chest.”

“For the Grail, sir? Anything.”

“Just be gentle with him and believe with him. He doesn’t have much time.”

Gareth became my new lord-milite, his first task to inspect the itness of the combrogi for a new campaign. He rendered a sorry report. Some horses were lame, others too sick or wounded to rise tn their stalls. Some men were abed with wounds, others still hobbling on crutches. Almost all suffered the aftermath of exposure and frostbite. Gawain’s Orkney were no better off. A letter to Maelgwyn brought the reluctant promise of a hundred fit men, no more.

l” We might have drawn on the other allied tribes, but they’d be

•more hindrance than help against Agrivaine’s cavalry. We had

numbers on our side, but the superiority consisted of six hundred

; worn-out men on half-lame horses. Desperately, hour by hour, I

‘t searched for a way to avoid it, to find a compromise where,

miraculously, Britain lost nothing. How to deal with Guenevere.

She was the key.

,; The days melted into weeks while we waited out the mending. Winter dissolved to sudden, early spring with brilliant sunshine and a warm wind over Severn rich with the scent of flowers. Fishing boats bobbed and tilted on the river, the smell of new-turned earth wafted from the fields. Boys and girls ambled hand in hand through the trees or along the riverbank. Men and women stopped sometimes just to smell the air, eternally surprised at the new life hidden in a cold, dark world.

Bedivere came back on such a day, fresher, the set of him fuller and softened from the too-keen edge of war. He brought news of his family and one of Myfanwy’s fresh-boiled puddings for me. I held the halter while he dismounted, and together we walked the horse toward the stables.

“So, are the young ones married?”

He glowed. “Are they not? And what a wedding. Part Church and part old ways. Such cakes and wine, and the doves sacrificed!”

“Doves, no less!”

“The priest would’ve had a fit if he wasn’t too drunk by then to see them. Och, Myfanwy goes to mass, sure, but you know. When it comes to a wedding, the old way’s best.”

Oh, and his jewel, his Rhonda! Like a sprite come fresh from the woods, barefoot and with the flowers worked through her hair. The groom was nervous and Myfanwy cried and came close to war with the servants over the laying out of supper, and Bedivere hovered about the edge of it all, feeling superfluous.

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‘*But now there’ll be grandchildren. I wanted that.”

He sounded wistful and reflective, only grunted when I mentioned Peredur’s mission.

“That doesn’t fret me half so much …”

“As what?” 1 prompted.

He started to speak but changed his mind. “It’s not my place, Artos.”

“When did that stop the Gryffyn?”

Bedivere halted, patting the horse’s nose, avoiding my eyes. “Well, have you thought who’s to follow you?”

Frankly, I hadn’t. I didn’t yet really accept growing older, if the truth were known, much less a successor even if the choice were wholly mine to make. I gave Bedivere the easy answer.

“There’s only one could, and she’s at war with me.”

“Aye, and who else? Kay dead, Peredur who won’t see another year. Maelgwyn a good man but too old, Mark in his dotage.”

“Nor this one, nor that,” I agreed. It wasn’t a thought 1 liked. Who would come after? Where was there another grubby young tribune with a Merlin at his ear?

Bedivere called for a groom at the stables, gave him the reins, and sat down on a mounting block. “I’ve thought of going home soon. To stay, Artos. I mean if …”