“I’m guessing your women don’t, though. Where are they?”
Guy laughed. “Off in their quarters, where they belong! Even my Ardana has only accompanied us this far out of courtesy to you. Farewell for now, my beauty, and I’ll see you later.”
She left without a murmur. Lance had no time for astonishment. Arthur was gesturing to the empty seat beside him. Guy gave him a poke in the ribs. “He’s waiting for you. Go on!”
Guy was right. The only man who looked up when Lance took his place was Arthur himself. “Here you are,” Art said, a touch too heartily, and Lance saw that the brightness of his gaze had less to do with torchlight than fever. “Thank God. A civilised face amongst all these squabbling heathens.”
Lance thought Art had the table under fair control, given the combative nature of the guests. The only jostling for position seemed to be taking place among Art’s own men, the chieftains of the various tribes who had joined him on campaign. He noticed the direction of Lance’s gaze and sighed. “Those are the brothers from the Out Isles—Gareth, Gaheris and Gawaine.”
“You wrote to me about them. You said the endless nights of their northern winters had driven them mad.”
“I can’t believe you got those letters. I sent them off like doves across a wilderness. I can’t believe you somehow managed to reply.”
“Mixing my eggs up with my sheep.”
“I don’t believe you’d make that mistake now, my Lance. You have the air of a learned man.”
“Well, I had little to do with my own long winter nights than to teach myself. And I had the best of reasons.”
Once more Art’s face altered, as it had on the stairs when Lance had boldly kissed the fingers pressed to his mouth. “I’d best tell you who the others are,” he said, a little unsteadily. “On the other side of the table, looking properly appalled by the Out Isles brood, we have Bors of Gaul, who lost his land to the Saxons and came to help me defend what’s left of ours here. Beside him, Drustan. He too is from Cerniw, though he’s much better bred than I am, and rightly thinks he’s too good for this mob. Gareth, for heaven’s sake!”
One of the Out Isles brothers had actually succeeded in nudging his neighbour off the end of the long bench where they sat. Art gave the table an admonitory tap, and smiled as they all lapsed to shamefaced silence. “This is Lance, son of King Ban of Vindolanda,” he said. “I’ve told you about him. He gave me Excalibur. Please treat him as your brother—or better, if you could, Gareth of the Isles.” A ripple of laughter went round the table, in which the squabbling princes had the grace to join. Lance stood to acknowledge the introduction, then was glad to subside back into the rising tide of music, chatter and argument.
“I’d like to think they’re anxious to be close to me,” Art said wryly, filling Lance’s cup from a magnificent bronze mead jug, “but the fights are all over rank and precedence. Who should sit higher—the hereditary prince of a tiny rock off the coast of Cerniw, or a Roman client king who until five years ago was ruling half Gaul? I need another of Elena’s round tables here, and in all my strongholds.”
“They do solve many problems.” He looked at Art slyly over the top of his cup. “Of course they mean nobody gets to be king.”
“Have you been sent to cut me down to size, Lance?” Art enquired politely. “Did word reach you in White Meadows of my arrogance?”
“Surprisingly, no. Only of your success, like a riptide sweeping up from the south. How have you done it?”
“Oh, I’ve sold my soul a dozen times over. If only these damn kings weren’t Christians—if only I wasn’t—I could have married all their daughters, to seal up our deals. As it is, I’ve poured out more gold and oratory…” He paused, eyes kindling. “It’s been such a three years, Lance! You wouldn’t believe it. I’ve got a hundred stories.”
He fell silent. Lance would have listened to every one of the hundred stories and more. But Arthur’s attention had come to rest, with all its old unsettling thoroughness, upon him. “And I might just tell you a few,” he went on eventually, “once I’ve heard yours. Mind you don’t leave anything out.”
Lance found it surprisingly hard. Unused to finding words for his own situations—for such a long time, he’d had no-one to talk to but children and sheep—he began to stumble through the tale of his own past three years, his journey here, his encounter with Ban in the wilderness outpost on his way. The telling of it all was hampered further by Art’s expectation that he eat as well as talk: a whole pig was roasting on a spit over the fire, and generous portions of this, as well as other delicacies—rich, dark rye bread, slices of black pudding—kept making their way to his wooden trencher.
It was Lance who noticed that their neighbours at the table were growing restless. Art had already waved aside as many interruptions as he diplomatically could. Quickly Lance brought his observations about the strange, burned fields around Din Guardi to a close. “Now talk to Coel and Mor,” he added quietly, “before you undo all your good work in the debates this afternoon.”
“Nonsense, Lance. I’ll talk to whomever I…”
Lance gave him a gentle kick to the ankle. Art’s eyebrows went up, but he glanced around with a rueful half-smile of surrender, then turned to Coel. “Your musicians are in good form tonight, Your Majesty.”
“Ah, yes. A pipe, a drum and three on the strings—there’s nothing to beat it. I call for them whenever I feel melancholy. Now, did I ever tell you about the time when I travelled as far as Caer Lir on the western coast, just to hear a man play a thing called a rebec? Now, a rebec differs from the oldlira da braccio, in that the number of strings can vary from one to five, and the tuning should be done in fifths, not…”
***
It was late by the time the meal was over. Even when the kitchen servants began to clear away the last remains, the warlords lingered, reluctant to leave the company and the warmth of the fire. Coel’s long disquisition on instruments and tones had given Lance leisure to look properly at Arthur, and when the old man at last got up to order hot wine to the table, he reached out and touched Art’s wrist. “Is this your first meal down here since you were injured?”
“I was propped on my pillows eating gruel at this time last night. See what a tonic you are?”
“I can’t work miracles, though. You ought to be in bed.”
Art pulled a face. “I can’t, not until this lot clears off. A true king can down his tankard of hippocrasandsit up carousing till dawn. I have to try and repair my reputation.” He lowered his voice, brow creasing. “I tell you what, though—there’s a prize for the knight who can make me forget I got pretty much speared through the bollock a fortnight ago.”
Lance considered. There were all kinds of distractions he could offer—questions of military strategy, logistics, the sheer graft of keeping a standing army in hostile terrain. He rested one elbow on the table, laid his chin on his fist. “This duck walks into a tavern.”
Arthur blinked. “A duck?”
