Read Online Queen of the Summer Stars by Persia Woolley - Free Book Online Page B

of comprehension swept over the dark features—its bright flash reminding me again of Kevin—and he nodded gratefully.
    “May I strive to be worthy of your trust always,” he responded, his voice now rich with life and enthusiasm.
    For a moment I thought he would include me in the dazzle of his pleasure, but he rose and turned away without even glancing in my direction. Stung, I stared after him, wondering what sort of manners the Lady had taught at the Sanctuary.
    Dagonet was calling Agricola to the fore, and the patrician King of Demetia’s glad recognition of my presence made up for the rudeness of King Ban’s son. Perhaps, I told myself, the Breton feels shy and ill at ease so far from home.
    At the end of the presentations I signaled the servants to bring forth the first of the venison, accompanied by the tuneful lilt of elder pipes and the rumble of a hand drum. A procession of platters was paraded solemnly around the inner circle of the Round Table, each laden with meat or fowl or fruit. All were met with boisterous cheers and exclamations of pleasure, for next to fighting, warriors love feasting best.
    After dinner, when Riderich the Bard was tuning his harp, one of the children came pelting across the Hall, the wine in his serving flagon slopping from side to side.
    “Whatever are you doing!” Cei cried, horrified at seeing his precious hoard treated so carelessly.
    “There’s a stranger demanding admission of Lucan the Gate Keeper,” the boy shot back. “But the fellow won’t leave his weapons outside. He’s got a Pictish name and claims he must see the High King immediately.”
    “Tristan?” Arthur prompted, motioning the lad to approach.
    “Maybe.” The child scowled uncertainly as Arthur relieved him of the half-empty pitcher and handed it to me. “He’s a real tall man, and there’s blood all over his shield.”
    “Tristan,” Arthur affirmed, glad that the lanky warrior from Cornwall was whole and alive, for his was the last of the war-bands not accounted for and we’d begun to worry. Giving the boy a pat, Arthur sent him back with the message that the stranger could come in.
    It was indeed King Mark’s nephew and he had his cohort Dinadan with him. The two men strode into the Hall side by side, Tristan all arms and legs while the smaller, wiry chap trotted along next to him. Many made fun of these Cornish knights because they looked so like a rangy wolfhound and sleek terrier making their rounds together, but I grinned and rose to give them a royal welcome.
    Tristan’s shield was smeared with the blood of a recent engagement, and his head bore a hasty bandage. A bright red stain was seeping through the linen wrappings on his arm. Yet in spite of this the warrior was in high spirits.
    “I bring word of the Irish Champion, Marhaus,” he called out gaily. “Thought you’d like to know I sent his head back to his family in a small, wooden box.”
    A roar of amazement rose from the Companions.
    “Took him on in single combat,” Tristan went on while Dinadan bowed formally to Arthur and me and tugged at his friend’s sleeve until the other warrior followed suit.
    “It must have been quite a battle,” Arthur noted wryly as Tristan made a cursory bow.
    “Oh, it was. Hardest fight of my life…so far.”
    Tris’s boyish charm and confidence was infectious and he moved to the center of the gathering, eager to give a full account of the fight.
    Whatever other differences his Pictish father had passed on to his son, modesty was not among them. He reeled from point to point in his story, encouraged by a crowd that proffered full goblets and drinking horns at every opportunity. By the time he came to the decapitation, the audience was wild with cheering; it was a virtuoso performance that touched the heart of all the Companions.
    All, that is, except Gawain.
    When the applause began to fade, the redhead from Orkney leaned forward and called out loudly, “You say you sent Marhaus’s head