The Chessboard Queen by Sharan Newman Page B

rebirth. And you will be its Queen, Guinevere.”
    He held her tightly and swung her around, kissing her over and over in his joy. At last he set her down. Both of them had become entangled in her unbound hair. With gentle, trembling fingers, he parted the snarls and kissed her again, whispering, “But even more, you will be my Queen, Guinevere.”
     
    • • •
     
    After everyone had seen and been awed by the Table, Arthur declared a day of celebration. It was a week to Midsummer’s Day and the afternoons were hot and humid. It was only sensible to build the roasting fires for the meats out of doors and to take the amphorae of wine and ale down to the stream to chill. The elders, the children, the farming landholders who lived at Caerleon in winter were now back on their lands. That left the most active, the strongest, the most restless to inhabit Camelot. There were fosterlings, sons and daughters of all the great families, there to be trained according to their station. Some brought their own servants; others fended for themselves or recruited cheap service from the household staff. Strangers also appeared at Camelot, people with no family connections at all. They were traders often, traveling jugglers, or peripatetic monks. Some young men arrived, each—as Lancelot had planned—with only a sword and a shield, hoping to win honor and loot in the fighting. Later, when Arthur’s fame had spread beyond his realm, there would be more exotic visitors, with dark skin and rich and bizarre clothing, who spoke Latin with musical accents and knew no Celtic language at all. But that day was far in the future. Today Camelot was still a tight family, young, brave, and sure of its destiny.
    Gawain heard the music and laughter as he guided his brothers through the barricades that wound, mazelike, up the hill to the gates. He urged his horse on.
    “Agravaine! Gaheris! Hurry! It sounds like there’s a festival at Camelot today and I don’t imagine that it’s in honor of your coming. Let’s get up there and get our duty introductions over before the best wine is gone!”
    “Festival? What for?” Agravaine worried. “Damn! Mother never would let us learn about the old days. It’s probably some Roman holiday that everyone else knows all about.” He chewed the corner of his moustache. Agravaine was shorter than Gawain, but broader in the shoulders. His dark hair, gray eyes, and square chin marked him as a true son of King Lot, probably the only one of the five who was. Lot was partial to him for this reason, but allowed himself to show no overt favoritism, reasoning that the boys were not to blame for their mother’s behavior. Agravaine had always felt cheated by knowing his own father, for all his kindness. The others had spun wild tales of their possible parentage and each of them had some trait, some hint of mystery, that he had always longed for, even if it meant living only half a life, as Gawain must. His certainty about himself had made him determined to be certain about everything else. He wanted to know his proper place at all times, to be aware of what was occurring and, most of all, to be in control. He spent a great deal of time being nervous.
    “I’ll drink to any holiday they like,” Gawain answered. “But if we don’t get out of these blasted earthworks soon, everyone will be too drunk to tell us what to toast. I know this is supposed to make the place impregnable, but I wish there were a back door for friends to use.”
    Gaheris made no comment. He rarely did. He may not have been listening. He noticed the fresh dirt dislodged to create the barricades. Where the sun hit the top of it, wildflowers had begun to sprout.
    Gawain was greeted with loud cheers and catcalls. He and his brothers left their horses and gear with one of the stableboys and hurried back to the wine table. Geraidus was there, happily tapping a beat on the wood with an empty cup. As they neared, he stopped and yelled into the air.
    “I