Queen of the Summer Stars by Persia Woolley

moving restlessly back and forth across the rush-strewn floor. Concern for his best friend overshadowed even the season’s victory, and the tension built until he rounded on me sharply.
    “Ye Gods, Gwen, what would I do without him?”
    It was a cry full of fear and frustration and the unnerving realization of death’s nearness. Now that he had brought his men safely home, the war-leader was free to mutter to himself and quake in the face of what had happened. He refilled his goblet and resumed his pacing.
    “At least Brigit is at hand,” I pointed out. “And where Bedivere is concerned, that should make up for the fact that Morgan isn’t looking after him.”
    “Ummm…” My husband grunted noncommittally. “Don’t see how.”
    I started to point out that Bedivere was in love with my foster-sister and her presence now was bound to cheer him. But Arthur was intent on his own thoughts, so I held my tongue. Besides, love—our own or other people’s—was not something he paid much heed to.
    “What I’m most afraid of,” he growled, “is that Bedivere will just give up. It’s a dreadful thing to lose a hand, no matter who you are. But when you’re the High King’s lieutenant and a superb warrior besides, being left with only a stump could mean the end of everything.”
    “Or the beginning of something new,” I suggested. “Bedivere’s far more than your lieutenant; he’s been your councilor and confidant for years. Even if he never rides to battle again, surely he’ll go on being your best adviser.”
    “That’s true.” Arthur tossed off another cup of wine and putting down his cup, stretched noisily. “It was quite a campaign, Gwen…quite a campaign.”
    Igraine once told me that Uther always picked a fight with her on his first night home. She said it was the way he crossed from the outer world where he dominated all others to the inner world where he could drop his own defenses. I watched my husband and wondered how much he would take after his father. I’d never seen a dark, unruly side to Arthur, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
    Fortunately he wanted to share his memories rather than get into a row, so I listened carefully as he recounted the war.
    At the onset the remnants of last year’s rebels had banded together to meet the Britons in a pitched battle.
    “It might have been all over right then,” Arthur noted, seating himself at the end of the table. “The Irish wanted to settle the matter according to the Old Way, in single combat between two champions. Stupid business—almost as chancy as Trial by Combat. I wasn’t going to hear of it, but Gawain got his dander up—you know how he is when it comes to a challenge. And before I knew it, he was on his way out to meet the Irish champion, Marhaus, in a fight to the death. They went at each other from the cool of the morning until well past noon, with neither one able to get the upper hand. In the end both had to be dragged off the field, exhausted and covered with blood.” Arthur shook his head over such folly. “Thank goodness Gawain wasn’t badly hurt; he’s the best warrior I have!”
    After that the enemy had scattered, forcing Arthur to divide his men into independent groups to pursue them.
    “We chased them from the Brecon Beacons all the way to the ancient track on Presely Mountain, and from there down into the sea. Half the time my men would go out hunting for dinner and end up in a tangle with the Irish Boar instead.” He leaned back, absentmindedly propping a foot on the bench so that I could undo his boot. “Fortunately many of the men seem to be good leaders as well.”
    When I had finished with the first, Arthur raised the other foot. He continued describing the men who had come to join the Companions, and I listened with only half an ear, wondering how long he would go on talking and if he’d be too tired or drunk for loving. Dropping both boots under the table, I got up and went to stand behind him,