She wore an iron cross at her breast.

The kiss we exchanged before she took her place was largely for the court, the murmured words for me alone.

“I don’t know why I endure this, Arthur.”

“I want to see my son, is that so difficult?”

“You’ve heard Peredur’s opinion.”

“Your brother remains celibate and hears mass three times a day. I don’t question his peculiarities. Leave me mine.”

“Well.” Guenevere sat. “Let’s get on with it.”

“We won’t drag it out, Gwen. Remember, if one of them puts hts hands on your stomach, it’s a mark of respect.”

“Like flowers on an o!d grave.”

At my signal, Bedivere set the dragon ensign in its socket and crossed to the main entrance. He spoke briefly to someone beyond it, then announced in a clear voice: “Queen Morgana. Her son, Modred-Belrix. Her honored husbands, Cunedag and Urgus. Her nephew, Drost.”

A sibilant reaction rippled through the hall as Morgana entered with her old energetic stride. Here and there 1 heard a choked titter. Her uncut hair was more gray than black now, the small body still lean and cat-agile. She wore a blue cloak, obviously cut for a man, that trailed the floor as she walked, overhung and jangling with far too many ornaments looted from God knows where.

She reached the center of the hall and planted herself, throwing

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back the oceanic cloak. Another gasp from the women of my court; underneath was an open sheepskin vest that concealed nothing at all, and a short skirt of fringes and tassels.

The men were dressed much the same, plain wool girdles and vests covered by mantles garish as Morgana’s and an armory of bangles. I winced at the gaudy sight of them. Bedivere was right. They looked like children who robbed a parent’s chest to play grown-up.

My attention riveted on the young man who hovered on Morgana’s left. Twenty-three last Brigid-feast, my age when I took the crown. Modred was Morgana reborn—face, coloring, small bones, even the same pale gray eyes flickering watchfully about the hall. No resemblance to me at all.

I rose, moved down to Morgana and placed my hands on her stomach. “Welcome, Gern-y-fhain.”

In a second she wiped away the years as her hands shot aloft in her old impulsive greeting. “Belrix!”—and she sprang to hug me tight, weatherbeaten cheek against mine, hard and strong as

ever.

“Belrix, Belrix, so long a time. Oh, but … but must not cry in front of second wife. Here, kiss thy wealth who’s named for

thee.”

Modred’s head didn’t top my shoulder, but close up I saw what distance concealed. Not his features but his expression sometimes hinted elusively of my own youth, some look that was not Prydn.

“Well, boy.”

“My father. Morgana’s told much of thee.1’

I pushed aside his vest. “Thee’s scarred.”

“Venicones,” he remarked with some pride, “Dead ones.”

I embraced him. Modred suffered it with dignity and reserve. “We will talk,” I said, turning to the others. “Brothers!”

With a shout they descended on me as if we’d parted yesterday. Cunedag and Urgus, grizzled leather like Morgana, the look of those who spend their lives in the open. Broad-shouldered young Drosl playful as ever—oh, dost remember our game, boy? Thy mother was the sweetest of women, do grieve she’s gone. And look where Urgus still bears the burn scar from Bel-tein. Aye, what news of Nectan and Bredei? Oh, my good brothers.

They ringed me about, hooting and pounding my back while the court shuffled in embarrassment, a little put out at this raucous familiarity with the emperor’s person. Only Modred remained aside, aloof and cautious.

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Then Morgana asked, “Does not second wife come to greet me?”

1 escorted her to the dais where Guenevere waited with frigid composure. “Morgana, here be Gwynhwyfar, Gern of Britain.”

Morgana didn’t even incline her head-The respect was due her, she felt, as first wife.

Guenevere drew on a lifetime of tact. “We welcome Morgana and her people.”

Morgana assessed her openly. “Be fair enough, Belrix, but hast no wealth to show me?”

“And dost grieve for it,” I murmured, glad Gwen couldn’t follow most of the exchange.

Morgana beckoned in a jangle of ornaments. “Modred! Do greet and honor the adaltrach of Belrix.”

Too late. It was said and everyone heard it. Many Prydn words are retained in British, though meanings have changed through the centuries. To Faerie, adaltrach means only a second wife. To modems it has come to mean an adulteress. To Guenevere—I won’t labor the point.

Her smile froze. She visibly shrank in the chair when Modred placed his hands on her stomach and repeated the word that sealed the tragedy of errors.

“May adaltrach have many years and child-wealth.”

Guenevere rose with such revulsion I thought she would strike Modred, but her venom leveled at me. “You taught it to say that.”

“Gwen, you don’t understand.”

“But I do.” She swallowed hard, trying to control the fury. “Perfectly. And I will not dignify these animals or you any longer.”

She hurried out of the hall, leaving me with my little fhain in the middle of shocked, disapproving Brits. Lancelot hovered among the Parisi knights, troubled but not stupid enough to compound the issue by following Guenevere. It was young Bors who bumbled forward to comment on the obvious.

“My lord! These people insult the queen.”

An understatement. “Bors, please attend her.”

He threw a huffy glance at Modred. “But really, sir!”

“Attend the queen, Bors. Say I’ll be with her presently.” I turned to the court, read the embarrassment in their averted glances. “The audience is ended. Thank you for coming. We give you leave to go.”

The hall emptied quickly, everyone glad to be done with it,

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hurrying past Bedivere, who leaned on his drawn sword at the entrance. Morgana knew something was terribly amiss, but not

why.

“What ails second wife?” she wondered. “Well, do thee go

love her. Will be well.”

Thai’s all it meant to her. She’d never see and Gwen would never see. Light and dark trying to understand each other. I lifted Morgana in my arms,

“Go to thy rath now. Will come later.”

She gave my nose a playful bite. “Promise?”

“Promise. Redhair will take thee. Bedivere, come.”

Modred darted a glance at the entrance as if suspicious of an ambush. “How safe befiain here, father? And for how long?”

“Safer than north of the Wall, and thee knows it,” Still, I felt proud my son was no fool.

I gave Bedivere instructions to stay with them until I came. He received the orders in silence, offering no comment on the shambles he’d witnessed.

As Morgana trotted out after him, she turned to gaze admiringly about the huge hall. “A braw big rath, Belrix.” She hauled the voluminous cloak over her small shoulder. “But where dost byre cattle a-winter?”

Then she was gone and I was alone.

“My lord?” Lancelot was at the entrance, two parchment rolls in his hand. He advanced to me. “This just came. Lucullus Aurclianus is landed at Castle Dore and sends his greeting.”

-I glanced absently at the roll. Of course Lucullus would stop with Marcus first since he was most likely to defect. Much more interesting was Lancelot’s suppressed emotion. He handed me

the other roll.

“This as you asked: my suggested order of battle against

Cerdic.”

“Thank you. How does the queen?”

He shifted from one foot to the other. “She rode out with her Parisj knights. To take the air, she said.”

“I see.”

Lancelot still hovered, then said it. “My lord, I would like to leave court as soon as possible.”

“Yes, that seems prudent.”

“For Badon, sir.”

“Of course.”

He remained tensed in front of me.

“Something else, Lancelot?”

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“What happened just now. This thing you have done—”

I pretended to peruse the schedules, keeping my tone casual. “You sound like a man about to say something acute regarding honor and shame.”

I raised my eyes from the parchment and gave him time to read their silent comment. No, he wasn’t ready to talk about that. “What shall we say about these things, Lancelot? Or not say?”

He was miserable, speaking out where he must and had no right, ambivalent as always. “You should not have done this to her.”

“Lancelot, I’ve learned to be frugal about guilt. I didn’t teach Guenevere to hate Faerie or them to be ignorant. If your own wife went to Morgana’s rath, she’d be as clumsy. I see by this order of battle you’ve placed your Dyfneinters near the front of our march. Good, they’re fine cavalry. Keep me informed. That’sail.”

He didn’t move.

“You may go, Lord Ancellius.”

He bowed and started away.

“Except, I dearly hope you find your Grail someday.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Whatever it is.”

When it grew dark I left to see my family. Preoccupied and troubled with feelings not yet sorted, I told no one, merely took a horse from the stable and departed by the west gate. Except for a groom and a sentry or two, the court thought I was still in Camelot.

The night was cold. I was chilled when I arrived at the small house along the riverbank, but my brothers had a healthy fire going in the pit. After the hubbub of greetings, I gave Bedivere leave to go home at last. No man deserved it more.

“Home to Myfanwy.” I walked him to the door. “Rest tonight and take a boat in the morning.”

“Shouldn’t I wait on you, Artos?”

“No, I’ve kept you too long, and I intend to be unkingly as hell for a few hours.”

“I’ll be at the palace then.”

A burst of laughter from my family. Bedivere looked back at them. “I know them better now. Sad in a way, such children. Well, sleep y’sound.”

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Children they were and unused to a house. They rattled loose in it, playing with their gifts, prowling like foxes in a coop, relieving themselves in the corners. No one thought to use the table for eating—Drost thought it was a bed—but squatted around the firepit, leaving a place for me at Morgana’s left.