father was out. If Millicent had not delayed her she’d be in the forest now.
Glancing in the kitchen window, she saw Millicent fiercely plucking the feathers from a chicken while Helen pounded and kneaded a mound of bread dough. Mary led two servant boys into the kitchen and put a pile of cutting utensils before them for sharpening on a stone.
Rowena rolled off her stockings and padded across the slate courtyard in bare feet. She was quickly through the opening she’d made in the wall and once again wandering through the forest.
There was so much she wanted to think about. Everything that had happened in the past days was so confusing. Who was the mysterious soldier who had touched her heart so profoundly? Did he even exist? Had he died in that battle? Why had she seen him, even changed places with him?
The thought that he might be dead made her shiver, and she cast it aside. She had already fallen so deeply and inexplicably in love with him that the idea of his death was too terrible to be considered for even a moment.
And what of the bowl she’d found and the trip into the underground cavern that had followed? Was Eleanore correct—was the figure in the bowl really their mother? If so, what was she trying to convey to them?
Rowena came upon the boulder she’d rested on the first day she came out into the forest, the one on which she’d had her vision of the battlefield. If she sat on it again, would she once more see the face of her beautiful knight?
Stretching out on the boulder, she rested her cheek on its sun-drenched surface. Its heat soothed the scratches on her forest-roughened feet.
She closed her eyes letting the sunlight create sparks of color behind her lids. Soon the colors formed patterns, falling into place like a puzzle.
And then she was in another part of the forest. She was coming off a road. She felt such inner heaviness, such despair within her. She knew she was no longer in her own body; surely she had never known this kind of hopeless sadness.
In the next moment, something ethereal inside her lifted up and was able to look down. It was her knight, no longer in armor, looking like the poorest of beggars—but she recognized him just the same.
And yet, he was so different!
Now that she saw him without his helmet, she found him to be even more handsome than she had thought. But a scruffy growth of beard now covered his chin and cheeks, and his face had grown gaunt.
In this vision he was moving through a forest much like the one she was in—coming closer at every moment.
C HAPTER F OURTEEN
Bedivere’s Fight
Bedivere wanted nothing more than to rid himself of Excalibur. During the time he’d slept on the old dead beggar’s mat, he’d twice had to leap up to thwart thieves trying to lift it from his scabbard.
He could hardly blame the would-be robbers. Even he had considered keeping Arthur’s grand, enchanted sword for himself. Its workmanship was like none other, and the jewels on its hilt made it worth a fortune. And then there was the matter of its enchantment. He’d often seen Arthur bloodied in battle only to be miraculously healed. The lethal blow Mordred had dealt him had to have occurred because of some exceptionally strong dark magic.
For its great value, its sentimental worth, and its magic, Bedivere longed to keep Excalibur and was sorely tempted to do so. But I am a knight of the Round Table , he reminded himself at the times when his desire to possess the sword threatened to overwhelm him. Although he now lived in a world that might scoff at his idealism, his high standards regarding honor and duty, it still meant everything to him. The code of the Round Table defined who he was in hisown mind. It didn’t matter how low his fortunes fell or how demoralized he became—he would forever retain the values of a knight of the Round Table. And, as such, he could not keep his king’s sword if he had promised to return it to this Lady of the Lake.
After the second
Glancing in the kitchen window, she saw Millicent fiercely plucking the feathers from a chicken while Helen pounded and kneaded a mound of bread dough. Mary led two servant boys into the kitchen and put a pile of cutting utensils before them for sharpening on a stone.
Rowena rolled off her stockings and padded across the slate courtyard in bare feet. She was quickly through the opening she’d made in the wall and once again wandering through the forest.
There was so much she wanted to think about. Everything that had happened in the past days was so confusing. Who was the mysterious soldier who had touched her heart so profoundly? Did he even exist? Had he died in that battle? Why had she seen him, even changed places with him?
The thought that he might be dead made her shiver, and she cast it aside. She had already fallen so deeply and inexplicably in love with him that the idea of his death was too terrible to be considered for even a moment.
And what of the bowl she’d found and the trip into the underground cavern that had followed? Was Eleanore correct—was the figure in the bowl really their mother? If so, what was she trying to convey to them?
Rowena came upon the boulder she’d rested on the first day she came out into the forest, the one on which she’d had her vision of the battlefield. If she sat on it again, would she once more see the face of her beautiful knight?
Stretching out on the boulder, she rested her cheek on its sun-drenched surface. Its heat soothed the scratches on her forest-roughened feet.
She closed her eyes letting the sunlight create sparks of color behind her lids. Soon the colors formed patterns, falling into place like a puzzle.
And then she was in another part of the forest. She was coming off a road. She felt such inner heaviness, such despair within her. She knew she was no longer in her own body; surely she had never known this kind of hopeless sadness.
In the next moment, something ethereal inside her lifted up and was able to look down. It was her knight, no longer in armor, looking like the poorest of beggars—but she recognized him just the same.
And yet, he was so different!
Now that she saw him without his helmet, she found him to be even more handsome than she had thought. But a scruffy growth of beard now covered his chin and cheeks, and his face had grown gaunt.
In this vision he was moving through a forest much like the one she was in—coming closer at every moment.
C HAPTER F OURTEEN
Bedivere’s Fight
Bedivere wanted nothing more than to rid himself of Excalibur. During the time he’d slept on the old dead beggar’s mat, he’d twice had to leap up to thwart thieves trying to lift it from his scabbard.
He could hardly blame the would-be robbers. Even he had considered keeping Arthur’s grand, enchanted sword for himself. Its workmanship was like none other, and the jewels on its hilt made it worth a fortune. And then there was the matter of its enchantment. He’d often seen Arthur bloodied in battle only to be miraculously healed. The lethal blow Mordred had dealt him had to have occurred because of some exceptionally strong dark magic.
For its great value, its sentimental worth, and its magic, Bedivere longed to keep Excalibur and was sorely tempted to do so. But I am a knight of the Round Table , he reminded himself at the times when his desire to possess the sword threatened to overwhelm him. Although he now lived in a world that might scoff at his idealism, his high standards regarding honor and duty, it still meant everything to him. The code of the Round Table defined who he was in hisown mind. It didn’t matter how low his fortunes fell or how demoralized he became—he would forever retain the values of a knight of the Round Table. And, as such, he could not keep his king’s sword if he had promised to return it to this Lady of the Lake.
After the second
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