Queen of the Summer Stars by Persia Woolley Page A

rubbing his shoulders while he talked.
    “There’s one who stands out above all the rest, Gwen,” he said with a yawn as I began to tug at his tunic and finally pulled it over his head. “Lancelot—King Ban’s son from Brittany. Seems he was educated by the Lady of the Lake at the Sanctuary; studied medicine and science and history as well as warfare and swordplay. Thank heavens he learned his lessons well; he’s the one who saved Bedivere on the field.”
    I folded the tunic thoughtfully and put it on the table. When I was a child Vivian had been the Lady of the Lake, and she had asked that I come live at the Sanctuary to study with the other princelings there, but my parents had refused. If I had gone, no doubt this Lancelot and I would have grown up together. I looked forward to asking him all sorts of questions, for I’ve always wondered what I had missed.
    Behind me Arthur stretched again and I glanced down at his feet, which were still propped on the bench. When he wiggled the toe that poked out of a hole in his sock, I paused to assess the damage, sure there would be a huge pile of mending after a summer of hard wear.
    “Got you!” he cried, grabbing me by the waist so unexpectedly that I let out a yip of surprise. He pulled me, laughing and sputtering, down onto his lap.
    “You didn’t really think I could be all that tired, did you?” he teased, holding me firmly.
    I giggled and struggled, trying to twist around so that I could face him for a kiss, but we knocked over the chair in our tussling, and then we were making love among the rushes and bracken fronds that covered the floor.
    It was a rowdy, boisterous coming together, full of Arthur’s usual enthusiasm and directness, and by the time we separated we were both relaxed and happy.
    ***
     
    But, I thought ruefully, if we’re going to make this a habit, I’d best replace the rushes with a rug.

Chapter IV
     
    The Fellowship
     
    When Arthur’s men divided up to chase the Irish across Wales, they agreed to rendezvous in Silchester at the autumn equinox. Now the war-bands began to straggle in, anxious for news of comrades and eager to celebrate the end of the campaign.
    I met the men as much by accident as by intention, in one case literally bumping into a pair of them when our paths crossed in the barnyard.
    “Ohhh!” I sputtered, trying to keep from dropping my basket of eggs, but burst out laughing as I recognized Palomides.
    The Arab who had brought the use of stirrups to Arthur gave me a mischievous smile and bowed with a flourish. “Pelleas,” he said, turning to his companion, “behold the High Queen.”
    I looked at the newcomer curiously, for Arthur had said he had the makings of a superb horseman. Thin and awkward, he went down on one knee and began stammering out an apology for not having recognized me.
    “That’s all right,” I assured him. “Palomides mistook me for a page the first time we met.”
    The Arab and I laughed at the memory while Pelleas gawked in disbelief and when Palomides leaned down to give him a hand, I hurried on to the kitchen.
    Next morning, as we were getting out of bed, Arthur announced we should hold a victory celebration. “Something grand, like the reunion at Caerleon…” He was splashing at the water bucket and went on talking as he dried head and face with a towel. “Think you could arrange it for a week from now?”
    “Dear man, do you have any idea how long it takes to put on a feast?” I slipped out of bed and crept up behind him. “Never get it done in time,” I declared, yanking the corner of the towel so fiercely that he spun around in surprise.
    “Of course you can,” he responded, hanging on to the towel in spite of me. “Cei will help you.”
    And then we were in a tug-of-war, laughing and playing, with all plans for the feast forgotten. So it was midday before I located Arthur’s foster-brother.
    It was Cei’s fine eye for detail that had led Arthur to make him Seneschal of