Arthur smiled knowingly. “Any knight would suffice with my approval.”
“If it’s acceptable to you, I would be honored if Sir Percival performed the ceremony.” Gawain’s eyes flicked back to the ground.
Arthur beamed as he extended his sword to Percival, whose cheeks went a deep shade of crimson. He stepped forward, his expression that of a man who’d won an award he didn’t feel he deserved.
“Gawain,” Arthur said, “for your acts of selfless heroism on the battlefield, for your dedication to the betterment of magic in the kingdom, and for your valiant service with no expectation of reward or recognition, I, Arthur, King of the Britons, name you a knight of our great kingdom.”
Arthur nodded at Percival.
“I, Sir Percival, charge you to serve your king and your people justly, with honor and generosity.” Percival held the flat of Arthur’s blade on the tops of each of Gawain’s shoulders. “Arise, Sir Gawain.”
Vera blinked, and the first tear rolled down her cheek, which ached from how broadly she smiled, but there was no escaping the quiet nag at the back of her mind.
Sir Gawain.
Even for her, for someone who didn’t know a fraction of the nuances of Arthurian lore, there was no way that the stories should have gotten so many parts right. She reflexively looked to Merlin. He knew it, too. Beneath the veneer of his anger, she saw fear.
As it happened, nobody had been knighted since the end of the war, and it was big news. Vera was bowled over by the number of townsfolk who wanted to personally come and congratulate Gawain as the word spread. She knew he’d taken his gifts for teaching magic into the village but hadn’t grasped the number of lives he’d touched. His off-putting demeanor hardly seemed an obstacle. In fact, it might have endeared them to him even more.
When the sun sank low and drew near to kissing the horizon, all the orbs through town flickered to life, signaling that it was time to gather for the evening banquet. It was customary that a crier announced the arrival of guests or performers, and tonight, Arthur’s visiting council of knights were the guests of honor. There were five of them, and as their names were called out, they each entered with varying degrees of comfort at the attention.
Vera and Arthur stood together at the front for the procession. She recognized right away that these knights were the ones from Guinevere’s memory in the great hall—the memory from before the final battle. She had incorrectly assumed that the two women at the table were wives of knights. They weren’t—they were knights.
First was Elaine, who had the air of a cowboy in an American western. It was a small tragedy that she didn’t have a revolver strapped at her hip, but one hand snapped to her sword as the other gave a flick of her wrist, more a salute than a wave. She stalked through the scattered tables to bow to Arthur and Vera (followed by a far less formal hug initiated by Arthur) and sat at the table with the local king’s guard.
Next came Tristan, with his bright green eyes striking as new grass in the springtime and soft brown hair that curled and stuck out at awkward angles but somehow made him look ruggedly handsome. He followed in the same way, not displeased by the attention but uncomfortable with it. He let out a prolonged exhale through puffed-out cheeks when he reached the front.
Edwin had grey hair cropped short, and he had a wise and steady way about him. Then Lionel, who was built like a tank that could steamroll any opponent but who had deep smile lines and a boisterous laugh as he egged the crowd on, like a footballer soliciting louder cheers after an exceptional play. Marian brought up the end, gracious and relaxed, her dark, long hair in a single braid. Her lithe legs and lean, muscular body drew the enamored stares of more than a few as she passed. She was resplendent in her flowing black gown, though the short sword dangling from her waist sent a clear message that she was far from defenseless. Marian beamed, squeezing the shoulder of someone she recognized on her way to the front.
When Arthur hugged her, she kissed his cheek and framed his face between her hands with a fond gaze. Vera made sure her smile didn’t twitch—though a deep part of her inwardly roared.
Vera’s jealousy melted when Arthur’s hand slid around her waist, holding her back as the others went to fill their plates. He leaned close to her ear. “There’s something I should tell you about Tristan.”
“The young one?” Vera glanced at Tristan in time to see his head tip back, laughing at whatever Elaine had said. He had dimples when he laughed. She somehow knew they would be there before they appeared.
“Yes.” Arthur paused as Lionel and Edwin passed by and took their seats at the farthest end of the table. “The two of you grew up together. Your fathers intended for you to marry.”
“Oh,” she said. “Fuck.”
He laughed. “And that changed when I expressed interest in your father’s partnership. And in you.”
“So, I dumped Tristan for you. Do I have that right?”
“Something like that,” Arthur said with a fleeting smirk. “He’s a good man. I’m honored to have him as a member of my council.”
She didn’t know why he told her that, and the opportunity to ask vanished as the rest of the knights descended upon the table. They were a rowdy bunch. Their table was the loudest by far as they told story after story.
When dinner finished, the night was still young, and the council knights and king’s guard had plans for the evening. They could have asked castle staff to prepare the big room for their after-dinner merry-making, but a unit of soldiers who hadn’t had any need for a mission in recent years acted as though this was their own covert operation.
Lionel swiped platters of food, and Elaine and Wyatt made off with pitchers of drinks in each hand. Arthur stepped in to advise against Edwin and Percival’s plot, goading Gawain to bring the giant marble statue as Marian stood nearby, happily watching the shenanigans unfold.
Lancelot attempted to use Randall as a silverware mule by dropping spoons in his pocket every time he passed. Randall noticed each attempt, perhaps owing to his sensory gift but more likely due to Lancelot’s inability to be discreet. Randall removed the utensils without so much as a glance in his direction.
After his failed flatware mischief, Lancelot caught Vera’s eye and gestured for her to follow him.
“Come with me to the kitchens to get the sweet cakes?” he said as she fell in step with him.
She doubted he needed any help, but that all his dearest friends were in one place, and he wanted time with her brought Vera a sort of happiness she didn’t know how to hold.
