“Just as you did at Vindolanda.”
Memories chased across Guy’s homely face. “It was one of Ector’s first rules, and Art obeys it faithfully. I know you have doubts about our Merlin, Lance, but he came at the right time.” Before Lance could reply, he forged on, making an expansive gesture towards the dining hall. “Come, then! Your place awaits you. The king discourages talk of politics at the table, but all other subjects are safe. And he knows Coel is fond of music, so we’ll have fine melodies to accompany our meal.”
“Very well. I’m happy for you both, by the way.”
“You’ll never be as happy as I am,” Guy said gallantly, holding out an arm to Ardana, “for there aren’t two such women in the world.” He set off. To Lance’s amusement, Ardana held out her free hand towards him, and so they entered the torchlit space three abreast.
Looking around, Lance wondered if he was still asleep and dreaming. Coel’s court musicians were working away in one corner, coaxing wild old music from their instruments—one of them a bone flute-pipe attached to a pig’s bladder, three wooden resonating chambers strung with sheepgut—while a long-haired, blue-tattooed drummer, naked from the waist up, kept time.
There was a space at Arthur’s right hand. As soon as he caught sight of Lance, he brightened, and no sight could have been more splendid than the young king in his gold-embroidered robe, effortlessly holding court amongst his nobles. He looked every inch the warrior still, his swordbelt still strapped round his waist, Excalibur’s hilt gleaming. His hair had been twisted into a thick braid, and a richly jewelled torc lay at the base of his throat. Lance threw Guy an alarmed look. “Does he mean me to sit there?”
“Of course. No-one will think it strange—they’ve all been prepared for your coming. Anyway, see how Coel is seated at his left? That’s the true place of honour, according to Bryneich tradition, being nearest to the royal heart. Coel’s sons are lined up in order of importance after that, and the mob from Camelet are filling up the rest of the places any old how. They’re used to a round table, thanks to you.”
“Doesn’t the Merlin eat with you?”
“It’s a matter of conjecture whether he eats at all. No-one’s ever seen him. He feasts on air and starlight, they say.”
“I’m guessing your women don’t, though. Where are they?”
Guy laughed. “Off in their quarters, where they belong! Even my Ardana has only accompanied us this far out of courtesy to you. Farewell for now, my beauty, and I’ll see you later.”
She left without a murmur. Lance had no time for astonishment. Arthur was gesturing to the empty seat beside him. Guy gave him a poke in the ribs. “He’s waiting for you. Go on!”
Guy was right. The only man who looked up when Lance took his place was Arthur himself. “Here you are,” Art said, a touch too heartily, and Lance saw that the brightness of his gaze had less to do with torchlight than fever. “Thank God. A civilised face amongst all these squabbling heathens.”
Lance thought Art had the table under fair control, given the combative nature of the guests. The only jostling for position seemed to be taking place among Art’s own men, the chieftains of the various tribes who had joined him on campaign. He noticed the direction of Lance’s gaze and sighed. “Those are the brothers from the Out Isles—Gareth, Gaheris and Gawaine.”
“You wrote to me about them. You said the endless nights of their northern winters had driven them mad.”
“I can’t believe you got those letters. I sent them off like doves across a wilderness. I can’t believe you somehow managed to reply.”
“Mixing my eggs up with my sheep.”
“I don’t believe you’d make that mistake now, my Lance. You have the air of a learned man.”
“Well, I had little to do with my own long winter nights than to teach myself. And I had the best of reasons.”
Once more Art’s face altered, as it had on the stairs when Lance had boldly kissed the fingers pressed to his mouth. “I’d best tell you who the others are,” he said, a little unsteadily. “On the other side of the table, looking properly appalled by the Out Isles brood, we have Bors of Gaul, who lost his land to the Saxons and came to help me defend what’s left of ours here. Beside him, Drustan. He too is from Cerniw, though he’s much better bred than I am, and rightly thinks he’s too good for this mob. Gareth, for heaven’s sake!”
One of the Out Isles brothers had actually succeeded in nudging his neighbour off the end of the long bench where they sat. Art gave the table an admonitory tap, and smiled as they all lapsed to shamefaced silence. “This is Lance, son of King Ban of Vindolanda,” he said. “I’ve told you about him. He gave me Excalibur. Please treat him as your brother—or better, if you could, Gareth of the Isles.” A ripple of laughter went round the table, in which the squabbling princes had the grace to join. Lance stood to acknowledge the introduction, then was glad to subside back into the rising tide of music, chatter and argument.
“I’d like to think they’re anxious to be close to me,” Art said wryly, filling Lance’s cup from a magnificent bronze mead jug, “but the fights are all over rank and precedence. Who should sit higher—the hereditary prince of a tiny rock off the coast of Cerniw, or a Roman client king who until five years ago was ruling half Gaul? I need another of Elena’s round tables here, and in all my strongholds.”
“They do solve many problems.” He looked at Art slyly over the top of his cup. “Of course they mean nobody gets to be king.”
“Have you been sent to cut me down to size, Lance?” Art enquired politely. “Did word reach you in White Meadows of my arrogance?”
“Surprisingly, no. Only of your success, like a riptide sweeping up from the south. How have you done it?”
“Oh, I’ve sold my soul a dozen times over. If only these damn kings weren’t Christians—if only I wasn’t—I could have married all their daughters, to seal up our deals. As it is, I’ve poured out more gold and oratory…” He paused, eyes kindling. “It’s been such a three years, Lance! You wouldn’t believe it. I’ve got a hundred stories.”