“Give it up.”

A little gasp of disbelief. “You are off your form, Arthur. Give it up for what?”

“A crown at Camelot.”

Stunned surprise. She wasn’t ready for that. “What—?”

“One or the other, Gwen. A little crown here, a big one at home. But not both.”

She’d recovered, her guard closed again. “Under you?”

“With me.”

“My power restored?”

“AH of it.”

“In writing? Sworn on relics?”

“In marble if you like. But no more north as a family toy. Let

340

Firelord

someone else have a chance. They’ll think you’re gracious as hell while we rule them together.”

“Well,” Guenevere admired. “After al! these years, you can still surprise me.”

The charm didn’t fool me. That quick mind was sifting choices and the value of each. Guenevere lifted a gloved finger. “And total pardon.”

I bowed my head to her. “Total and humble. An apology here and now and to be published later.”

Guenevere was still not completely convinced. “You always did humility well. It’s the peasant in you.”

“Wait till you hear me today. I’ll make the Sermon on the Mount sound like arrogance. Bargain?”

“Oh, don’t rush me. I’m uncomfortable enough as it is.”

I pushed it gently. “Come on, lass. You were always an advocate of the bird in the hand. Bargain or bloodshed?”

Guenevere looked around at the forces poised against each other, biting her lower lip in concentration. A gamble, yes. Her wise instincts as a ruler against the personal habit of power. Opposed, we were a threat to Britain. Together, a fortress.

“Bargain, husband.”

I took her offered hand. “So be it.”

“Poor Agrivaine,” she remembered. “He’ll be so disappointed.”

I backed my horse. “Break the good news and watch me.”

Guenevere turned the gray and raised her voice to Agrivaine and Lancelot. “Rejoice with me. The king has satisfied my demands. There will be no war.”

Some of the knights on both sides sent up a ragged cheer of relief and approval through which lanced Agrivaine’s piercing dissent.

“I don’t trust his bargains.”

“You’re not required to,” Guenevere squelched him. “Only to obey.”

“We came to fight.”

“We came for justice.” My wife’s voice turned suddenly hard as a whiplash. “And we have it. To your men, my lords. The king in his own words will exonerate me and all my cause.”

While I fumbled at my saddle-purse, Bedivere and Gareth surrounded me with their doubts.

“High king, it all seems too easy. What happened?”

“You’ve got ears,” Bedivere growled. “He gave away the

Modred and a Crait

341

whole pasture, he did. The north free under Guenevere. We’ll be ; fighting till we’re too old to ride.”

I sighed, leaning on the saddle hom. “You two are worse than old women. The north goes nowhere. Guenevere will give up the : Parisi crown and return to Camelot.”

Bedivere shook his head. “To Caerleon, I say. But when did you ever listen to me?”

“With Agrivaine and Lancelot in the north? We’ve tried that and it doesn’t work. Without the Parisi crown, it’ll be in her interest to hold the new prince to us—and I can keep an even closer eye on her.”

“But, Artos, you told her—”

“Ah, Bedwyr, don’t be thick! I promised the Parisi a writ.” “That you did,” he maintained. “All their old selfish rights.” “And if Gwen drafts this writ, how much power is she going to give away?”

He’s a straightforward man, my Bedivere. The dawn broke slowly but the light was beautiful to behold. “Oh-h-h, yes.”

Kings can learn much from a merchant. When a man doesn’t meet his first price, he doesn’t bash the bugger over the head. He merely pretends great sacrifice and offers the price he intended all along.

“And now, lads, I have to make a few angels blush. Bear with me.”

I drew Peredur’s Grail from the saddle-purse. Instantly Gareth and Bedivere dropped to one knee and crossed themselves.

“Jesus God,” Gareth flustered. “The Holy Grail, and he carries it like an oatcake.”

Gawain sat his horse, at ease but intent on his brother across the field in huddled conclave with some of his lieutenants. “Go you out alone, Arthur?” “It’s better.”

“Take me with you,” said Gawain in a low tone. “No, it will be well.” I mounted, the Grail in one hand. “But be ready. It’s about cooked but not out of the oven yet.”

I started forward over the moor, veering toward Lancelot and halting where most of the men could see and hear me.

“I speak to all of you! Orkney, Parisi and Dyfheint. Since Guenevere has shown herself as wise and selfless a ruler as ever I hope to be, I give her full and unconditional pardon for the execution of Morgana which was, but for my personal anger, an act seen by all as done for die good of Britain.”

342

Firelord

Modred and a Grail

343

Cador was right. You have to be a king to lie with that kind of style. Guenevere sat straight and proud in her vindication, and I wondered how long before my queen realized that, benevolently and for the good of Britain, she’d been had.

“I, Arthur, ask her forgiveness and that of every lord who stands in support of her cause. Let you now support us together. My queen will take her throne again, and the Parisi will choose a new prince according to their ancient right.”

I thrust the Grail aloft for all to see. “I sue to you all for peace among Britons and bring in token this Holy Grail, lost four hundred years and only now found by a saintly prince whose life was spent in reclaiming it.”

The wave of awed whispers spread through the Dyfneint knights. “What is it? … Let me see. Does it shine? Nay, it does not. But he says …”

“Surely its revelation now is God’s wish that there be peace between us. Why, if not, did God let me win at Badon against odds of more than six to one? Why did good Peredur fall my prisoner until the weight on my conscience sent him free to Ynnis Witrin? Why then his own last words that he loved us all, dear sainted man, and would have us at peace?”

“It must be true; the prince would speak so. .He was ever blessed …”

“Witness this company. I am not worthy to hold this best treasure of heaven and earth. And I return it to him who was Peredur’s friend in life, who himself carries the charge of the Sinner King.”

I held out the Grail. “Lord Ancellius, take this holy vessel from me, for my sins make it too heavy to bear.”

Profound silence. Then leather creaked and mail rattled as men among the Dyfneint and Parisi dismounted, kneeling in respect. No other sound broke the tranquillity of the still, warm afternoon. Lancelot moved out to meet me, slipping from the saddle as I did.

“Thank you, Arthur.”

I passed the Grail into his reverent hands, saw the familiar disappointment cloud his eyes.

“This?”

“I know it doesn’t shine. But Peredur found it and Eleyne sent it to heal your heart. She wants you to bring it home.”

Lancelot turned the shabby old vessel in his hands. “This?”

“It could be, man. It could be. If not, then where and what?

Take it back to Eleyne. Peace you can find; that’s not holiness, just growing up. Finding what’s really meant for us.”

Then Bedivere: “Artos, mind out!”

We both spun, saw Agrivaine start forward, the Orkney squadron behind him. Straight at us. Lancelot tossed me the Grail and flung himself into the saddle as my commanders moved quickly to cover me. Jesus, the bloody fool, he’s starting it and in three more seconds our men would attack, signal or no. Two seconds. One. The orders rang out behind us as Agrivaine’s men rumbled forward, still too close-packed for speed.

That alone saved us. In that fraction of time before my men put spur to flank, Guenevere’s horse streaked out in the path of the Orkney, halted, and my queen planted herself like a rock. Her back was to me, but her voice carried to every man with withering fury. She stood erect in the stirrups, one imperious arm raised. Magnificent.

“You dare,” she quivered. “You dare, Agrivaine? Without my order, you attack your king?”

He hadn’t expected this and lost the initiative. Behind him the Orkney milled and shuffled in confusion. In that vital moment, Lancelot was at Guenevere’s side, lance couched and bearing on Agrivaine.

I muttered to my captains: “Quick, let’s get up to her. Let them see us together. No, Gawain, wait!”

I grabbed his bridle, stopping him before he plunged dead at his brother.

“He’s shamed me, Arthur, shamed me all my life. He’s no blood of mine. Nor the rest of them.”

We eased toward Guenevere, careful not to make any sudden move.

“This comes of my brother’s lenience.” Guenevere pointed at Agrivaine. “The dog let into the hall and petted until he thinks he has a right.”

“I have a right,” Agrivaine fumed. “We came for a war and the war is just. I say finish it, with Guenevere or without her.”

“You’re a watchdog, Agrivaine,” my queen said casually. “Kenneled and fed until we need your teeth. But when the cur turns on its master—”

“As you have turned,” Agrivaine threw it back at her. “Using your brother, your husband. Your Lancelot.”

But Guenevere knew she was in control again. “It’s absurd to think of you as the son of a king, Agrivaine. You have no feel

344

Firelord

for state, you never did. Brave, yes, that you are. But an unbroken hound hinders the hunt. What will you do now? Run me down to get at Arthur? Your lances are crouched, but the Parisi will not point theirs at me.”

“Nor Dyfneint,” said Lancelot. “Don’t be a fool.”

“You’re alone and you’ve chosen,” said Guenevere. “You are no longer lord-milite of the Parisi.”

“And no more of Orkney!” Gawain roared. “Come you no more home.”

It was too far to see Agrivaine’s expression as he turned on his brother. ^‘You had to be born first. My perfect, protecting brother.”

Gawain’s great, thick body slumped. He was crying. “God help you, Agrivaine. No more.”

“Quit this field,” Guenevere ordered. “And the land of the Parisi. I will not look on you again.”

The hate wasn’t worth it, but Agrivaine still clutched his ounce of right. An ancient right, out of style, but it cast the shape of his few remaining days.