Kay and Geraint? Ask that of any other man in Britain, I told them, but not those two.

On the fourth day, the rain let up. Slogging through the last of it came my blessed brother and a hundred Dobunni, bedraggled young coxcombs with plumed helmets and garish cloaks. Some from the remote hills of Kay’s domain even painted themselves stylishly with old-fashioned woad.

And dear little Kay with his now luxuriant beard, whooping and grappling me to the ground in rough affection and a tumble of breathless greeting punctuated with punches.

“By the gods! My own brother to be king! My big! useless! vagrant! horse’s butt of a brother!” •

“How long’s it been, Kay?”

“Caerleon, a thousand years gone,” he said.

Bedivere caught Kay’s arms and locked them tight with the homely greeting, “Sut mae’r mab, Cai?”

“The Gryffyn, is it?” Kay twisted free, collared Bedivere and

To Wear the Crown

165

wrestled him off his feet. “Na, who’s this Lord Bedivere we hear of, who has not—”

“Get off me, you fat ox!”

“—sent one stinking word to his cousin Myfanwy these two long years?”

Bedivere writhed, never able to take a rib-tickling. “Owt stop. Stop, you rotten little bugger, you know I can’t write.”

“Ach-y-fi,” Kay let up on him. “Ignorance is a pale excuse.”

Another day passed and then another while the rain began again. We took damp solace that it mired the other princes as well. Bedivere wondered, but I knew Geraint would come. His very failings as a leader would bring him: his sense of personal honor over everything else and his demonic lack of caution.

The rain ceased again. On a day of fresh-washed blue and gold, Geraint came leading the men of Dyfneint. 1 recognized him at a great distance easily; only Geraint could dress so dashingly in a mixture of red, brown and attempted purple. Behind him the burnished helmets, jaunty with flowers, flashed in the bright sun. We turned out beyond the monastery gate to welcome them. Bedivere shaded his eyes, peering at the far column.

“His sister’s with him.”

“You’re daft,” I said.

“Look for yourself.”

I did. She was. Now, why in hell—?

What would we do with her? We planned to move as soon as they rested, a hard ride with perhaps battle at the end of it. Eleyne would have to be kept safely in the rear in case of ambush. If anything happened to her, it meant a rift between Dyfneint and myself, ill affordable now.

More immediately it demanded one of my own lords as escort, and as Geraint drew nearer, the problem grew larger. Touchy tot, the Dumnonii. Geraint would want a prince as escort. I had three, but how suitable? Kay would talk horses and pick his nose. Gawain’s arrogant condescension would stand out like a rash. Fatherly Maelgwyn would Imply Eleyne was a child to be kept at someone’s knee rather than an eligible princess.

Bedivere? Out of mercy, no. A man’s man, blue of speech now and then, and he couldn’t stand Eleyne. Not Pwyll, too crude for a sensitive girl. Of .course Eleyne’s sensitivity protruded like a sharp horn. Who, damn it, who?

Gareth? Yes, perfect. Warm and kind, personable, devoutly

166

Firelord

Christian, implacably married—and half a day north nosing for signs of Agrivaine.

Trystan? Good God, no. Geraint would froth at the mouth. That lecherous, cuckolding whoremonger to escort his sister?

Standing near me, Trystan perhaps read my thought. “I’ll withdraw a little, Arthur. One’s heard of whores, but yonder comes the only woman in the world to make a profession out of virtue.”

Smiling officially as they drew near, I raged inwardly. Why did he have to cart her along? Even without danger she’d have a miserable trip.

Then they reined up amid shouts of greeting all around, the rainbowed Geraint leaping from the saddle to surround me, a one-man siege of affection and a breath-defying monologue begun before his boots hit the ground.

“… And well met, by God’s grace. Would I wait one minute after the hearing of your message, even with Marcus breathing down my back? Ha! said I to him, you’ve had our support for years and ourselves of older blood, if the truth be told. But when it comes to the Mother of God crown of Britain, look you, Dyfneint will choose for itself. What’s to eat, Arthur? And would the good abbot mind a suggestion as to supper? In faith, I can’t abide lentils or turnips. Well, said I to Marcus, when it comes to a voice in the crowning of a king, will not mine go up for the man who stood with me at Neth against a hundred or more? Nothing for it then but to mount and ride, and here I am, and no more but to ask the name of this misguided fool waiting at Humber in the vain hope of stopping men like us.”

Geraint looked around quizzically in the nonplussed silence that followed his torrent of energy, and found himself gazing up at the Olympus of Orkney.

“My brother,” said Gawain.

Geraint’s answer was too full of compassion to hold an ounce of insult. “Ah well, sir. For your sake, then, I’ll not let him suffer. And now, Arthur, will you not greet my dear sister and herself come so far to see you crowned?”

I bowed to Eleyne. Perched on her marc, she gave me her sweet but self-possessed smile. Most men who knew the lady remember her as frail and clinging. Only a few noted the set of her mouth: unmalleable iron and God-given Right.

“Now that you are truly lord of men,” she condescended, “it

To Wear the Crown

167

is hoped you are to mass more regularly. Give you good day, Count Arthur.”

My men pressed around her, eager, pawing awkwardly at their overgrown hair to smooth it back. She was something they hdd not seen in some time, a woman of their own kind. Eleyne actually glowed with the male attention, though she returned Trystan’s gallant obeisance with a bare, frigid nod. Two years had defined her face more clearly. Not pretty but ripening. Caradoc would be hunting a husband soon if not already.

“And which of your higher lords will attend her?” Geraint asked, serenely sure I had an archangel on hand.

“Yes. Well—”

Bedivere became absorbed with the buckle of his sword belt. I looked about in desperation—and felt the hand of fate on my elbow.

It was Lancelot. “I’ve just seen the abbot, sir. Since we’re so many, he’ll hold mass presently in the courtyard.”

I gripped his shoulder, battened on it. “Of course. Prince, allow me to present Lord Ancellius, whom I hope it will please you to attend Lady Eleyne.”

Lancelot bowed formally to Geraint, who sized him up and said, “Is’t not yourself men call the Lancelot?”

“I have been called that, sir.”

Eleyne; surveyed him haughtily. I suppressed a giggle. Damn her little crust, she was being regal. Chin high, hand at her breast, she inspected Lancelot like a dish at table she might or might not sample, depending on the ingredients.

“Of what holding?” she condescended to ask.

Lancelot moved to her knee and swept down in a low bow. “Of none now, Lady. Here we serve God and Arthur alone.”

Only Lancelot could have managed such convincing humility, because he meant it. He stretched out his arms to help her alight. She seemed to weigh nothing in his grip. “Lady, will you hear mass with us?”

By the time she touched ground, Eleyne was not quite so self-possessed, even fluttered a little. “My lord, I—I will.”

“Saved,” whispered Bedivere.

Heroes are born, not made.

By pure accident I offered Eleyne the very mold from which her dreams were cast. You may remember they were married later. Eleyne wanted it most. She loved Lancelot with all the

168

Firelord

concentration of her constricted soul, cleaving to him with the grim fidelity of a barnacle. She even undertook to instruct him in Scripture. That he’d forgotten more of it than she’d ever read gave Eleyne not a passing qualm. I’ve mentioned the set of her mouth; she will no doubt correct God’s grammar on Judgment Day.

As her escort Lancelot was an inspired choice. They were both serious and fervent, and a warmth must have passed between them to form the initial bond. They rode in contentment behind my column, too far behind, and because of this Lancelot and I nearly died at the Caldor.

Freed of the helmet, Gareth’s sandy hair sprang up in all directions from his scalp. He rubbed it vigorously as he traced a stubby finger along the highway between Cair Daun and Kaelcacaestir on the map. Gareth couldn’t read but he knew the spider web of Roman roads on the chart.

“Right here, sir, that’s where I saw them.”

Correctly, Agrivaine guessed I’d choose the most direct route to Kaelcacaestir and deployed his forces across it in a wide net. Cool Gareth took his time and counted well: an entire cohort of Cador’s foot plus over a hundred cavalry. They must have drained the Wall forts, men from my old first and second squadrons. Men I knew, some of them friends.

“It’s God’s will you should be king,” Gareth sighed. “But so many good men will die because Cador can’t see it.”

His words haunted me as we drew closer to the trap. My objective was the crown, not a battle. The thought would not leave me alone.

At our next rest halt, I sent for Gawain.

He trotted up, shirtless in the day’s heat, beard and black body hair matted with sweat. Shaving would have helped, but he’d have none of my effete Roman ways. While the men walked their horses about us, wiping lather from flanks and harness, I gave Gawain the picture as Gareth reported it: if we kept on going, battle with Agrivaine was imminent.

“Would you fight your brother, Gawain?”

He wasn’t a man to speak hastily. He ruminated on the question, the great, sweaty continent of him, chewing on a stalk of grass.

“He’d have Cador for king,” Gawain owned finally. “And while the same is a fine prince, well—not that you’re always

To Wear the Crown

169

right, mind.” He glowered at me from under bushy brows. “But I’ll say this: devious and sly and over-given to thought as you are, did never see a lord more straightly do what he must. And did I not swear an oath?”