Queen of the Summer Stars by Persia Woolley Page B

the Realm. Many find his sharp tongue unpleasant, particularly when he’s collecting taxes from them. But I admire his dedication to Arthur and his ability to ferret out hard-to-locate items amid a hundred ruins and unnamed sources.
    He embraced the idea of a feast enthusiastically. “The basilica’s not in bad shape, except for the corner where the roof’s fallen in. Have to get rid of the owls…” Cei frowned for a minute, then brightened. “You look to the guests, M’lady, and I’ll take care of the festivities.”
    So Silchester became a beehive of activity. Arthur took out daily hunting parties, which kept the warriors occupied and added to Cei’s menu at the same time. And in the sewing room the women plied their needles, furiously embroidering each newcomer’s name on the pennant that would grace his chair at the feast. These were the symbols of acceptance within the Fellowship, and every man must have one.
    Even the Saxon milkmaid Frieda bent her blond head to the task, though her stitches were rough and awkward. “Now you know why I prefer to work in the milk-barn and kennel,” she grimaced.
    “ Macht nicht ,” I assured her. “ Es iss sehr gut .” Patient as she had been in teaching Arthur and me her language, I could be lenient about her handiwork.
    Cook collected all the usual edibles from the countryside while Cei pillaged ancient gardens for such rarities as walnut trees and late-bearing figs.
    Two days before the celebration the Seneschal stood before the long table in our work chamber, scowling at a glass bottle with a rag in its neck and a layer of oil floating on the top of the contents. “It’s the best to be had under the circumstances,” he reported dubiously.
    “I’m sure it will be fine.” Arthur barely glanced up from the horse-breeding chart. “This is a reunion of rowdy warriors, not elegant nobles—most couldn’t tell good wine from bad.”
    I grinned at that. Having been raised on cider and strong brown ale, I’ve never developed an appreciation of the vintner’s art and can rarely tell the difference between wines, unless one of them is vinegar.
    Cei continued to frown at the bottle, then shrugged, as though resigned that it would have to do. “Shall I set up the Round Table?” he inquired.
    “By all means.” Arthur’s attention was suddenly engaged. “Ever since Merlin’s prophecy, the men have talked about the Round Table as though it has a magic of its own.” My husband let his glance slip sidewise, sweeping me with the conspiratorial look I love. “Never did meet a Celt who could resist the promise of fame and glory.”
    I laughed, for Arthur was fond of teasing me about my Celtic heritage, though most all Britons were Celts to begin with, just as later we’d all been proclaimed Roman citizens as well.
    “But Arthur,” the Magician had said, “will be a king for all Britons; Roman and Celt, Pict and Scot…yes, even the Ancient Ones will look to him for justice. And the Knights of the Round Table will become part of a glory that shall be sung for all time.”
    It was a grand and stirring prophecy—and one we had no notion how to fulfill.
    ***
     
    I thought of it again when the British warriors came streaming into the basilica for the feast—men like Geraint and Agricola, who spoke an antique Latin and wore whatever badges of office had been handed down from ancestors honored in the days of the Empire. Mingling with them, equal in courage and stature, were the rough-hewn warlords who had returned to the earthen forts their ancestors carved out of the hilltops. Heroes in homespun and hides, they’ve never learned to read or write, but sang and bellowed at each other in the tongue of the Cumbri.
    Pellinore of the Wrekin was one such. A warrior dedicated to the pursuit of all the women in the hope of finding the Goddess incarnate, he swaggered into the Hall full of cheer and ale. When I waved a greeting he came forward immediately.
    “That’s a mighty