Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn by Persia Woolley Page B

mysticism and miracle, stopping to visit with any old hermit and sometimes staying in deserted chapels to pray the afternoon away. Still, it made me uneasy.
    Not that I had anything against the White Christ himself. Indeed, as Brigit had explained it, he was a sort of archdruid, able to commune directly with the Father God. Nor did I mind the holy men like the teaching monk, Illtud—he was a loving person who was both practical and caring. It was the Roman Christians I found distasteful, with their belief that all other gods were evil and their followers blasphemers. The very notion sent a chill down my spine, and I was glad when Palomides began talking about his family.
    “It was among the tents of the Ghassanid that I found an old man who had known my grandfather—remembered the day he and my father, who was only a lad, were captured and dragged away by slavers. I suppose my parents met later…”
    Palomides’s voice dropped as he withdrew into some quiet, private place within himself. I wondered how much he remembered of his own days as a slave.
    The turbaned servant had come to Palomides’s side, a small trunk hoisted on one shoulder. The lamplight rippled on the muscles of his arms when he placed the coffer at Palomides’s feet. The Arab stared at it absently, as though it contained the relics of his quest. Finally he turned and lifted his gaze to us, his face composed in a soft smile.
    “So my mission was finished, for there was no one close enough for me to call family. I traveled on a bit more before deciding to return to Britain. But I bring with me not only this fine, adventurous fellow from Ethiopia”—he gestured to his servant as the man opened the trunk—“but also a few small gifts.”
    Excitement crackled through the Hall as the servant reached into the treasure box. He lifted a glass vial with gold thread twined about its neck and Palomides carefully bestowed it on me. Lance used his dagger to break the wax seal, and the fragrance of roses filled the air when I removed the stopper. I thanked the Arab for his gift but made a mental note to give the perfume to Vinnie; roses are fine for pretty women and fancy, but I prefer the clean, cheerful scent of lavender and never use any other.
    There was an exquisitely painted icon for Lancelot, and a dagger from Damascus which was put aside for Gawain’s return. The Hall buzzed with oohs and aahs as one exotic gift followed another, but when Palomides personally lifted a bundle wrapped in sheepskin and advanced toward Arthur, the whole Fellowship went quiet.
    “From the last stop on my journey, the Court of Clovis, King of the Franks, I bring you a ceremonial Gift of State.” Carefully pulling the covering back, the Arab disclosed a gilt-and-silver helmet, conical in shape and covered with ornate designs and metalwork. “He would have you know it’s the best spangenhelm in his treasury.”
    Arthur rose to accept the present. “May it be worn only in show, and never in opposition to the Frankish leader,” my husband announced, lifting the thing high so that all might see it. A gasp of amazement went up from the Fellowship.
    At last, with a smile, Arthur turned back to Palomides. “It would seem, dear friend, that you have traveled the world for us, and we are grateful that you have brought so much back with you.”
    The Arab bowed his head and reaching for his goblet, turned slowly to address the whole of the Round Table.
    “It has been a fine adventure, and I’m very glad I went. But the most important thing I found came not from the treasuries of kings, or even the history of my own people. It is the discovery that ‘home’ lies within my own heart—not out there, someplace else.” He paused once more, his dark eyes shining. Slowly he raised his goblet. “By blood I am neither Celt nor Roman, but I am British to the core, and my heart belongs here, with Arthur and the Champions of the Round Table.”
    He gestured gravely to the circle,