In a slow drawling voice, he said that inside the table room there were banners on the walls with the devices of the individual knights.
“A dragon for the king, of course,” he said in a way that made even that information sour.
“Of course,” Gawen agreed, though secretly wondered if a bear might not have been more appropriate. There was something very bearlike about Arthur, shaggy and strong.
“And a heart for Lancelot, the kings true man, and a lion rampant for Tristan, and...” Geoffrey drawled on and on.
Gawen stopped listening to Geoffrey’s litany, despite only moments before being desperate to know everything about the table and the room it was in. Now Gawen suddenly wondered, Can I get in on my own? Can I see for myself? Merlinnus had been right to demand that Gawen tell of going into the tor with Arthur and the soldiers in its barest form, unadorned and unornamented. No one ever told things straight.
Gawen began making a dozen plans, plans of how to get in to see the table, to touch it, to sit in one of the Companions’ chairs. All of the plans were much too complicated and dangerous.
“Is that what you wanted to know?” Geoffrey asked suddenly, a hand to his mouth, yawning.
Gawen was brought back from all that scheming with a mental thud, and nodded. “Yes, thank you.” But it was not what Gawen wanted to know at all.
Who could tell the truth? Only one person.
Gawen escaped from Geoffrey and climbed up to the tower room, taking the steps as Arthur did, two at a time, on legs too short to make such going comfortable for more than one flight of stairs.
At last at the top, Gawen knocked on the door. Three times, then once, then three times again so that Merlinnus would know who was there.
“COME,” MERLINNUS whispered, frustrated to be interrupted at his work. Setting down the beaker he had been holding, he carefully washed his hands in the stone basin. He recognized the knock as Gawen’s, and while he liked the boy, had not expected him for hours.
The liquid in the beaker made a fizzing sound. Luckily he had not yet started to heat the infusion.
“Come,” he said a second time, louder.
Gawen pushed into the chamber and, without adornment, asked, “Can you get me into the Round Table room, Magister?”
“In time,” the old man said. “In time.”
“But how much time?”
Merlinnus laughed. “Thus speaks a boy.” But when he saw Gawen’s face close down and get a strange, secretive look, he guessed there might be mischief afoot unless he gave a real answer. He did not want to lose this helper, for in these past few days the boy had become miraculously indispensable, not only following instructions to the letter, but even anticipating some of them. The boy was not a magic worker; clearly his skills lay elsewhere. He was attentive, smart, careful, observant, and able to speak to the mighty and the small. He was also, it seemed, becoming a favorite of the king’s, for he made Arthur smile. “You will be under my protection and therefore one of the pages to serve during the next meeting of the Companions.”
“But that is two days from now!”
At first Merlinnus thought the answer was a complaint and was ready to caution the boy again. But then he saw how Gawen’s eyes had cleared, how his face seemed lit from within as if a candle had been set there. Then the mage understood that the boy was thrilled that it was such a short time till he got into the table room. He smiled. “Arthur has called the Companions together earlier than the Solstice. He means to tell them about the sword and the stone and what it all portends.”
“The legend on the side is not enough?” Gawen asked.
“A legend is never enough,” Merlinnus answered. “There must be explanations and exegesis; there will be arguments and counterarguments; there must be anger and sadness and friendship.” Merlinnus’ mouth pursed. “In short, it will be like every other Round Table session.”
Gawen sighed. He looked ecstatic. “And I will be there.”
THE TWO DAYS seemed to fly by, though Gawen worked so hard, there was scarce time to contemplate what was to come.
First duty, of course, was helping Merlinnus—which meant bringing him food as well as getting his robes cleaned. Gawen came up with the idea of sorting out the mage’s books and scrolls, which were higgledy-piggledy all over the tower room: on tables and under them, behind the bed and under the covers, on windowsills and even in the slops closet. The order Gawen settled on was putting the books on the shelves of an empty wardrobe in alphabetic order, starting with An Advisory to the Getting of Wisdom.
Secondarily, Gawen helped out in the kitchen.
“Ye have a talent for baking, a light hand,” Cook said, taking full advantage of the fact.
And thirdly, Gawen helped scribe three Actes for Arthur: one about the stone, one about a pilgrimage to the Holy Well of Saint Madron’s, and one about taxes. Kay was too busy getting things ready in the table room to do it.
“Besides,” Kay had explained to Gawen, “you have a better hand for scribing than I.” He said it honestly, but there seemed quite a bit of regret in his voice. “Must be all that time with the monks.”
So Gawen headed to the throne room, where Arthur seemed to be in a foul mood, glaring down at his desk.
“The people,” Arthur said gloomily, ripping yet another precious sheet of vellum in two, “the people hate taxes.”
“The people hate starvation even more,” Gawen said. “Perhaps you could explain that their taxes go to things like granaries to be held against the time of need.”
“What a good idea,” Arthur said. “I thought their taxes went to armories to help defend them in times of war. But granaries is a wonderful idea. How did you think of it?”
“It is done in my... where I come from,” Gawen said.
Arthur stared at Gawen for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Which is where exactly?”
“Far, far from here,” Gawen said truthfully.
“North?” Arthur asked.
When Gawen did not answer at once, Arthur’s eyes got even narrower, but he held out the scribblings on the two torn sheets.
“You draft it, then,” Arthur said.
“You trust me to do so?” Gawen’s breath seemed caught somewhere between throat and mouth.
Arthur nodded and abruptly turned back to the other sheets on his table.
“FROM HOW FAR north does Gawen come?” Arthur asked about three hours later when Merlinnus came into the throne room. Gawen had gone back to the kitchen at Cook’s behest, having scripted one and a half of the Actes and promising the king he would return quickly.
“Along the coast,” the mage replied. “Why?”
“I was thinking about the North Queens assassin,” Arthur said.
“He is dead.”
“I think not.” Arthur’s face was closed down, as if shutters had been drawn across it.
“Ah...” Merlinnus waited.
“That old thief had not the subtlety to be the queens tool. And he seemed as surprised by the dagger as I. Perhaps even more so.”
Merlinnus nodded. “I never thought him her prime man, but I am glad to hear you think not, as well. Do you suspect the assassin to be her son?”
“Gawaine?”
“The other one.”
Arthur shook his head. “Agravaine is not smart enough. Besides, I have made him mine.”
That news startled the mage. “How did you do such a thing?”
“Ah, Merlinnus,” Arthur said. “You know magic and I know men.”
“The twins?”
“The twins are too young.”
“No one is too young for the North Witch to corrupt,” said Merlinnus with a bitterness he did not even try to disguise. “But I thought we agreed the assassin was inconsequential.”
Arthur stood and stretched. “I still want to know.”
“Well, young Gawen is not the one,” said the mage. He suspected many things about the boy, but being an assassin was not among them.
?
??Are you certain?” Arthur walked over to the hearth and held his hands out to the embers. “It is important to me.”
The mage knew it was warmer outside than in, that the stone walls of Cadbury held in the cold. He joined Arthur at the hearth. Then, making a sudden decision, he said, “There are things about Gawen that puzzle me, Arthur, and you know I do not like puzzles.”
“Hah!” Arthur replied.
Merlinnus ignored the king’s outburst, and kept on. “Gawen knows too much for a youngling. His skills are odd ones, versatility without much depth. And there is some raw wound he has not yet staunched that bears upon the North Queen’s eldest son.”
Arthur grew quiet and listened.
“But I am certain he is not an assassin. Nor do I believe he would harm you or yours. His loyalty to you, Arthur, is without question.”
For a moment Arthur was still. Then he threw his arm around the mage and gave him a hug. “Thank you, old man. Thank you!”
The display disquieted Merlinnus since he did not know what to make of it. But he did not ask. Asking direct questions of the king might get him an answer he did not want to hear.
26
Round Table
TRUE TO HIS WORD, Merlinnus chose Gawen as one of the pages to serve at the Round Table, and so Gawen was let in with the twelve other boys who were to be personal messengers for the knights. They were dressed alike, in blue tunics colored with woad, soft camisias underneath, and leather breeches. They were each given a gold brooch shaped like a bear to wear at the neck.
“Thirteen be a wicked number,” said Cook when he was told. Gawen had burbled about the appointment to everyone that morning while helping with the baking.
“Not in this case,” Gawen replied, refusing to be cast down from the heights of delight.
“Mark my words,” Cook answered back, lifting his long wooden stirring spoon like a stick of judgment, “summat bad will cum of it.” Then he dipped the spoon into the soup he was making for supper and gave Gawen a taste.
“Needs thyme,” said Gawen.
“So do ye, boy,” said Cook, laughing. “So do ye.”
WHEN THE GUARDS opened the doors to the Round Table room, the boys galloped in like colts let out to pasture. A bit shy, Gawen held back and thus was one of the very last to enter.
Though Gawen knew what to expect—having questioned all the boys and halved their answers—that first glimpse of the round hall and its great table was awesome. Gawen went in with the others to wait instructions from Kay. The boys were made mute by the place, their usual high spirits well contained. Hardly anyone spoke, and the few words they exchanged were in whispers.
What struck Gawen most about the place was the light that slanted through the high corbelled windows and coursed like blazons across the Round Table.
The table itself was painted with a pattern of lines radiating out of a central circle. Around the table’s circumference were inscribed the names of the twenty-four knights, with Arthur’s name at the place opposite the entrance to the room. On his left one place stood empty.
“The Siege Perilous,” said Geoffrey, whispered in his gloomiest voice. “The Seat of Great Peril.”
“No one,” explained another boy, named Ciril, who had a wandering left eye, “no one can sit there who is not pure of heart.” The eye notwithstanding, Ciril was a handsome boy, with the often astonishing golden beauty of the northern tribes.
“Have you sat in it?” Gawen asked them, both shyly and slyly, for certainly if any were pure of heart, these two boys were. They were both less than thirteen and though they had spent their years at Cadbury, they seemed to know very little.
“Do not even jest about that!” warned Ciril in a harsh whisper.
“Knights only,” Geoffrey added. “In fact, only he who will be the Grail Knight dares sit there.”
Gawen held up a hand and, in a quiet voice, stated, “I have no intention of going near the thing. I was just wondering.”
At that moment Kay came in, dressed in striking red.
“There went a year’s supply of madder root,” whispered Geoffrey, and Kay glared at him.
The boys were silenced anew.
Stroking his mustache before beginning to speak, Kay gave them each a long, slow look, then handed out their chores.
“Ciril—check with the master of swords to see that all are ready.”
Ciril took off like a thrown spear.
“Mark, you must speak with Mistress Elaine to ensure that the bedchambers are prepared.” Kay nodded at the boy, who was out of the room as quickly as Ciril.
One by one the others were sent away, and Gawen, the last of them, was told to remind Cook that the flagons of wine had not yet been sent up to the hall.
“White, red, Malmseyn, and the new Rumneye are all to be included,” Kay said.
“Yes, my lord,” Gawen said, making a quick bob toward the seneschal, winning a big grin.
BY THE TIME Gawen returned from the kitchen, where Cook had grumped about the reminder, the Companions were already seated around the table. None of them was as brilliantly dressed as Kay in his reds, favoring instead the plainer woad blues or the green from dyers weed.
Gawen was disappointed, hoping to see some sort of parade, with drums and banners and shields and the hammer of spear butts pounding on the floor, the way it was done elsewhere when knights of a kingdom got together. This seemed no more than a meeting of fighting men, with bread and cheeses in wooden trenchers on the table before them and, soon after, the forgotten wine to keep their spirits up and their tempers down. Still, the glorious hall and the table itself lent a kind of majesty to them all.
Behind the Companions, on wooden benches set against the wall, were their personal servants and close relatives. Gawen knew very few of them yet, except for Gawaine, with his blandly handsome face, and his three brothers behind him. Their noses and cheekbones were the same, and they all had the knotted look on their faces of sailors or folk who lived by the sea. Another man, with bicolored eyes, sat with the boys. A servant, Gawen thought, or a stepfather or perhaps an uncle. He seemed to be keeping them still.
Then Gawen caught the eye of the man seated at Arthur’s right, whose blazon was a large red heart. The man had a face of a fallen angel, both ugly and beautiful at the same time, with a sweep of dark hair that began with a long white streak at the widow’s peak and went straight back, like an arrow.
For a moment Gawen and the man stared at each other.
As though he recognizes me, Gawen thought uneasily. Knows me for who I am. But how can that be? We have never met. Gawen glanced down to break the look between them, unable to bear the implied connection.
Just then Merlinnus swept into the room. The boys all leaped to their feet, as did the servants, though the Companions did not.
For the first time since Gawen had come to Cadbury, Merlinnus was in full wizards garb. The black robe that Gawen had so carefully cleaned was now somehow spangled with strange stars, the sleeves lined with silver cloth. The mage wore a soft dark cap that covered his ears, and from the back of the cap a strand of golden orbs dangled.
“Magister,” Arthur said and nodded.
“Majesty,” the mage returned, bowing his head slowly.
The rest of the Companions nodded to him, too, but the mage seemed to ignore them. Sweeping around the table, he was silent until he was by Arthur’s left hand, standing behind the Siege Perilous. Then for the first time he spoke to the knights. Gawen watched the whole as if it were a dumb show, thinking how Merlinnus was masterful in the way he played the part of mage.
“My lords,” Merlinnus said, finally acknowledging them all by a single long look that was at once familiar and commanding.
The Companions stared back in silence.
Like a long, unwinding skein of yarn, the silence stretched on and on. It was Arthur who finally spoke, cutting the skein, knitting it up with easy familiarity. “Our mage has an interesting offer, my lords. Listen carefully. The fat
e of all Britain—for now and in the future—lies in this puzzle.”
The knights, and the men and boys behind them, began a buzz of inquiry, which Merlinnus stopped by raising his hand. “I wager it is no surprise to any of you that there are some kingdoms and some lesser kings who do not count Arthur as their liege lord.”
A number of the men turned to stare at Gawaine and his brothers behind him.
Merlinnus acted as if he noticed none of the accusatory looks, saying, “Some have indicated they want proof that Arthur is fit to sit on the throne of Uther Pendragon.”
“Who says he is unfit?” An older, somewhat heavyset and homely knight stood, his eyes hooded.
“Lord Bedwyr,” whispered Geoffrey on Gawen’s left. “He has always been the king’s true man.”
The man with the fallen angel’s face stood and drew his sword. This he carefully placed before him on the Round Table. Speaking in a low voice with the soft vowels of the Continent, he said, “I challenge any who would so say.”
“Sir Lancelot du Lac,” Geoffrey added helpfully.
Gawen thanked him with a nod.
The mage smiled and looked with steely eyes, first at Bedwyr, then at Lancelot, and both men sat down. But before Lancelot sat, his eyes sought Gawen’s again. This time it was the knight who looked away first.
Merlinnus began speaking again. “Do not draw swords against one another, my lords. Not in the chamber where you are brothers. Nor against the very tribes we would woo. Instead, Arthur will offer each and every man in each and every tribe in the kingdom the same chance to be High King.”
“Who...?”
“How...?”
“What...?”
The room blazed with sudden consternation.
“What nonsense is this?” Bedwyr was back on his feet. “I have no wish to be king. I follow Arthur and am satisfied.” His round face was flushed.