Chapter Eight
Eight
And so the knights came to Camelot, those who had committed marvelous feats of chivalry and were passing brave, those who were keen and sharp of mind, and some who were not sure why they were there at all, and all were well met by the King in his hall with great joy and love.
—FROM AN EARLY DRAFT OF THE QUESTS OF KING GAbrIEL AND HIS ROUND TABLE BY SIR FLORIAN ARDEN
Gabriel was hovering at the edge of his father’s old council room, watching ten men roll an enormous slab of oak into its center as rain pattered at the windows and wind gusted heartily down the large, stone chimney.
“Lovely,” said Lady Oakley. “Oh, I think it’s perfect. What do you think, Your Majesty?”
Nobody ever just let you skulk silently in the shadows once you were king. Apparently it was bad for court morale and made it look like you were “up to something.”
“It’s very round,” Gabriel said, stepping forward to observe. “And … big.”
“I like it,” said Master Buchanan. “Puts one in mind of totality of self … timelessness … life as an infinite circle.”
“Oh, yes,” said Gabriel. “And … er … holes.”
“Mmm,” said Master Buchanan amiably. “So very true.”
“I suppose we could have just said we had a round table”—Gabriel cringed slightly as he watched one of the workmen struggle under his load—“without actually needing one? Most people wouldn’t have known. We could have had it … etched.”
“Are you joking? We can charge admission for people to come and see this, finally get the roof in the east wing fixed.” Gwen had entered with two steaming cups of something hot in her hands.
Gabriel was about to reach for one, grateful, when she handed it to Lady Oakley instead, taking a sip from the other herself.
Behind him, he heard a short and urgent flurry of whispers from some attendants, which he ignored.
“Besides,” said Lady Oakley, “if you’re going to do a thing, do it properly. We want this to go as smoothly as possible. You shouldn’t have to invent a round table in your mind every time somebody asks you about it.”
“Does it look like the original?” asked Master Buchanan, as the workmen heaved in unison and managed to secure the bulk of it in place on its frame.
“Yes, but it’s smaller to suit the number of knights, and we haven’t had the names inscribed at each place yet.”
This was Lady Oakley’s diplomatic way of saying that they weren’t going to add the names until everybody had confirmed that they were answering the summons.
Sirs Bowen and Leonard had responded, using the same expensive scribe, so both letters had been decorated with equal flourishes and some very fetching marginalia of squirrels and swans.
Sir Hurst was of course already on board, and Adah from the mews had accepted, despite a certain amount of obvious trepidation.
This had made Gabriel feel slightly better.
Florian had also responded, with much less embellishment, agreeing to come to Camelot. This was making Gabriel more nervous than the rest of it put together.
“They’re not going to say no,” Gwen said, but her expression betrayed her unease.
Gabriel became aware of a repressed wheezing at his elbow. He looked around to discover an out-of-breath attendant proffering a cup of tea.
“Oh,” he said, taking it with such haste that he spilled a little on his tunic. “Thank you, um … Eric.”
The almost imperceptible twitch of the boy’s eyes before he smiled back and bowed made it clear to Gabriel that his name was absolutely not Eric.
It was at this moment that the door swung open and Lady Bridget Leclair entered the hall, her squire walking in step behind her, both of them looking a bit wild and muddied.
Everyone turned to watch. Bridget was as broad of shoulder as ever, possibly even broader, wearing a sodden dark gray cloak over leather jerkin, breeches, and boots, all of it dripping.
Her hand was resting on the pommel of her sword. When she walked, she creaked.
The effect was very dramatic.
Gabriel looked to Gwen without meaning to. The hand that wasn’t clutching her cup so tightly it looked in danger of shattering had gone to touch her hair, found the length wanting, and ended up awkwardly touching her fingertips to her collarbone instead.
“Lady Bridget Leclair, Your Majesty, and her squire,” one of the attendants announced, somewhat belatedly, as both of the new arrivals bowed.
“Good afternoon, Bridget,” Gabriel said, realizing he sounded like a jovial uncle and unsure how to correct it. “You’ve come then? You’re here? I mean, you are here. So…”
“Yes.” Bridget nodded. “I’ve come. I’ll join your table.”
There was something very impressive about her; she looked battle-worn and hardened, rough around the edges from her time on the road, so much more real than everyone in this room standing about in their perfectly laundered jerkins and polished boots.
Gwen was openly staring, her cheeks pink, her eyes bright with panic.
Or perhaps love. There was often little difference between the two.
“Excellent,” said Gabriel, stretching the word out to compensate for the awkwardness of the moment. “Right. Do you want something to … drink? Or perhaps a bath?”
He’d said the wrong thing, obviously, but Bridget just smirked very slightly. “Yes. Thanks.”
“Hello,” Gwen said finally, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat, blushing even deeper, then added hurriedly, “Um, so, this is Lady Bridget. Bridget, this is Lady Oakley.”
“I’m overjoyed that you’re here,” Lady Oakley said, with a curtsy. “I’ve heard so much about you. And you’re the first to see the table! Isn’t it magnificent?” God, she was good at smoothing over a situation. Maybe they should have knighted her, and put her on the round table. Or the throne.
“Nice,” said Bridget, nodding as she took in the new furniture, which was probably the most effusive compliment they were going to get out of her.
Gabriel had rarely heard her utter more than a few short sentences; he imagined that when they were together, Gwen was probably the one who did all the talking.
There was a moment of group discomfort so palpable that Gabriel considered just walking out and leaving everyone else to suffer—and then, incredibly, things suddenly became about a thousand times worse as Arthur walked in with Sidney Fitzgilbert at his side.
The attendant looked like he might be about to announce them both, but Arthur caught his eye and shook his head.
“Your Majesty,” Sidney said dramatically, dropping to one knee. He had also clearly been traveling; he flicked quite a lot of mud on Gabriel’s trousers when he flung out a sweeping arm. “I have come to be made your most faithful knight. I’ll fight for king, country, whatever. I’m ready.”
“I’m not going to knight you right here in the middle of the floor, Sidney,” Gabriel said, with a panicked sidelong glance at his sister, who only had eyes for Bridget.
“Right. Course.” Sidney got clumsily to his feet. “But my answer is yes.”
“It’s not too late to change your mind, you know,” Arthur said to Gabriel, not quite meeting his eye.
“Oi,” said Sidney.
Arthur raised his hands defensively. “I meant about me!”
He’d dressed up for the occasion in dark, rich blues that made his skin glow, the very picture of a romantic hero—and Gabriel had tea on his tunic and mud on his trousers.
How was it that he was literally the king and he still always felt like he was the one getting everything wrong?
The feeling transcended both God and office.
“I don’t think we actually summoned anyone to this room specifically,” said Lady Oakley, glancing over at the table still under construction, “so perhaps we could all retire to our quarters or go and be … elsewhere for a while, and then when the time is right—”
“Leclair! Oh, thank God,” Arthur said, going over to her and clapping her soundly on the back, which she took in good humor, giving him a single pat in return like he was a dog and she was slightly allergic. “I’ve missed these shoulders. You all right? You smell like a dead puddle.”
Lady Oakley cleared her throat. “As I was saying—”
“Lord Florian Arden, Your Majesty,” the attendant shouted in a rush. Everybody turned around; Florian had entered through a small side door, which had confused proceedings entirely. There was actually no telling how long he’d been standing there, with the attendants all facing the wrong way.
He didn’t look much like his father. He was tall, with inky black curls and wary eyes under thickset brows. There was something quite Mediterranean about him; he reminded Gabriel of a Greek sculpture, if someone had decided to fashion one intended to capture the emotion of suspicion.
He gave a short bow, as if he didn’t want to take his eyes off all of them for too long.
“Cousin?” Gabriel said in greeting, not meaning for it to sound like a question. He knew who his cousin was. Or who was … the son of his father’s second cousin by marriage, which was too much in the way of cousin mathematics to be reasonable.
“Your Majesty. It seems we’re all … arriving,” said Florian, looking around at the others and nodding.
Gabriel couldn’t imagine how he felt, surrounded by his father’s enemies.
Bridget had killed the man, for God’s sake, and she was standing only ten feet away.
Did Florian know? If he did, he wasn’t letting on.
Lady Oakley seemed politely concerned. “Lord Arden, was there nobody to greet you? I will send someone to ensure your attendants know where to bring your things, and then show you to your chambers personally.”
“I brought no attendants,” said Florian. “Thank you. I will carry my own things.”
As somebody who wished pretty much everybody would leave him alone almost all of the time, Gabriel respected this, even if it seemed to cause Lady Oakley some consternation.
Florian bowed again and exited, and Gabriel clapped his hand on his thigh, about to say, “Right then,” to convey that this social occasion had concluded, before he was interrupted.
“Oh no, he’s so handsome,” someone blurted out in a loud whisper. In this high-ceilinged and mostly empty room, it carried.
It appeared to have been Bridget’s teenaged squire, because she was leveling a glare at him that would have caused Gabriel to abdicate the throne at once had it been aimed in his direction. The squire didn’t seem too perturbed.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “But he is.”
“No, no, you’re right,” said Arthur. “Don’t apologize for calling a spade a spade. Or … a dish a dish, as the case may be.”
“Arthur,” Gwen hissed reprovingly. Gabriel wondered if this was an attempt to defend his heart, or honor, but of course there was no need. Arthur could think Gabriel’s father’s second cousin by marriage’s son was beautiful. Why not? Things couldn’t get much worse.
“I wasn’t the one who said it!” Arthur protested. “I was just thinking it. As were we all.”
“Everybody to your chambers,” Lady Oakley said loudly, doing the same sort of chivvying clap Gabriel had attempted and achieving much better results. “New arrivals, the staff will show you the way, and you can get settled in. We will reconvene when all is ready.”
Gabriel knew he wasn’t included in this directive but, king or not, he was all too happy to be sent to his room.