Now we are home

Thanks to all those who have me on alert and, of course, to my reviewers, especially Binne Inksong. I hope all of you enjoy this chapter. Please review!

Chapter Six

The fortress of Camelot was a magnificent sight even from a distance. Tall and proud it rose on top of a steep hill, overlooking the little village of Camlann sprawled at its feet.

A winding path led up the hillside, dusty on sunny days and a veritable river of mud whenever it rained.

The fortress' wall was made of solid stone, crowned by wooden battlements with a single watchtower rising over the massive gate and another on each corner. Overlooking all that was the main building, a hulking structure of indeterminable age. It looked a lot less Roman than the fortress of Badon Hill had, and, befitting its new king, seemed more of a blend between Roman and British architecture.

Two months had passed since King Arthur, proclaimed and crowned by Merlin and the his council of tribe leaders, and his men had taken up residence at the fortress. The people of Camlann had regarded them with a certain distrust at first, unsure of whether or not they should trust this Roman who had just like that declared himself king of Britain, but within a month, they were won over.

King Arthur demanded no more than he was due as liege lord of Camelot, but his firm hand and wisely dispensed justice soon had a calming affect on the village.

A flock of women descended on the fortress during the first week, cleaning it from top to bottom, casting out rats and other vermin and dispelling the dust and staleness Camelot had accumulated during its vacancy. Next were droves of craftsmen who repaired what needed repairing or fashioned anew what was beyond salvaging. And within the brief span of one month, Camelot had turned from the empty shell of a fort into the castle of king, where everyone had a decent bed and a living space befitting their rank.

Riders were sent to every corner of the isle to proclaim Arthur king of Britain, each one of them carrying a banner, so new its colors gleamed in the sunlight. It was the same banner that flew over the gate of Camelot, caught high in the morning breeze, telling all who went past that the king residing here was a man to be reckoned with: a red dragon on white.

OooOooO

"Why exactly did it have to be a dragon?"

Lancelot examined the fluttering banner with a crooked little smile. He and Arthur stood next to the training area, where Gawain and Bors were sparring.

The king, who had been concentrating on the two fighting knights, turned to Lancelot and frowned for a moment in confusion, before he saw what his knight was looking at.

"Oh... Well, as you know, it was a gift from Merlin. And he claims the people of Britain will be more likely to unite beneath the banner of the Pendragon than, say, the cross of the Holy Roman Church."

Lancelot gave a rather undignified snort. "Even I would not fight for you with the bloody cross flying over my head. Fine, the dragon it is. And success proves Merlin right, after all."

Arthur nodded and shrugged at the same time. Not many riders were back from their errands, yet those who had returned brought with them the assurances of loyalty from village leaders and Roman lords who had chosen not to return to their homeland when the roman army had left. But there were bound to be some who objected to the perceived foreigner calling himself king, tribe leaders who saw any rule above their own as oppression. And then there were the bands of Saxons roaming the British countryside. Those men had survived the battle of Badon Hill and had gathered into small parties of bandits, terrorizing the roads and making it unsafe for anyone but an armed patrol to travel the lonelier paths of Britain.

Hunting down those men was a main goal of the new king, once his rule had been somewhat established.

Soft laughter and the sound of clear, female voices tore both men from their musings and made them look around.

Guinevere and a small number of her friends were ambling past, Gweir's daughter Marian among them. The new queen did not distinguish between noble and commoner when choosing her friends, she simply insisted that the ladies keeping her company were interested in more than embroidery.

They were quietly talking among themselves, laughing and giggling now and again. Arthur watched them with a fond smile until they turned a corner.

"You look happy," Lancelot observed, careful to keep the bitterness in his voice to a minimum.

"I am," the king admitted, a hint of surprise at his own good fortune audible in the deep timbre of his voice. "Married life is more pleasant than I ever would have guessed." He shot him a sideways glance. "You should try it, you know. Really. You should get married."

Lancelot pulled a grimace as if he had been punched in the gut. "Arthur... You're my king now, so I won't speak my mind."

Behind them, Galahad was laughingly cheering for Bors, who had abandoned all weapons and had gripped Gawain in a headlock.

Arthur regarded his knight intently for a moment, before placing a hand on his shoulder and walking a few paces with him, a little further away from the everyday hustle and bustle of the developing fortress.

"Has something changed between us, Lancelot? Haven't you always spoken your mind to me, you, who knows me better than anyone?"

"True," the knight agreed, "but back then, you were my commander, not my king, and no one would fault me for calling you an idiot."

"And no one would fault you now."

"Fine. Arthur, you're being an idiot."

They looked at each other and burst out laughing at the exact same time.

OooOooO

Rhian sat on a stool by the window, a half-finished shirt of Eadwig's on her lap, and stared blankly through the room. She had never felt less at home in this house, which she called her home ever since her wedding day.

Right at that moment, she was very grateful that Eadwig had built them this house in the village and had not insisted that they live in the mill by the river, since it meant that she was alone while he was working. The women she, as the midwife, had to tend to lived in the village, she had argued, and especially during the winter, life or death for a mother or a newborn child could depend on how long it took for help to get to them. Eadwig had consented, as he usually did, without a single word of protest. Indeed, there was nothing he would not do for his beautiful wife.

Slightly disgusted with herself, Rhian tossed the shirt onto the table and got up. She brushed her hands down her front, smoothing her dress and trying in vain to suppress the trembling of her fingers. Everything she had kept bottled up for the past three years came flooding back to her in a wave of emotion. She remembered everyone of Tristan's kisses, his fingers on her skin, his eyes when they made love, his voice, low and soft in her ear, as she drifted off to sleep in his arms on a sunny afternoon, hidden away in the shade of a weeping willow by the side of a river...

The door closed with a soft thud and Rhian had to bite her lip to stop a frightened shriek. There, as if summoned by the power of her love, stood Tristan himself, hazel eyes looking at her and beyond, as they always did, face half hidden behind the braids and strands of his unruly hair and the faint smirk on his lips disguised by his beard.

Rhian frowned.

"Just what are you doing here? What if people saw you? What if Eadwig comes home?"

Tristan waved her protests aside with a lazy flick of his hand and stalked towards her, a distinctly predatory quality to his movements.

"Your husband won't be home till nightfall," he answered calmly, "and nobody saw me."

It was probably true, Rhian knew. Tristan could be as silent and invisible as a shadow, even in broad daylight. Still, she swatted at his hands as he tried to put his arms around her.

"Stop that!" she told him sharply. "I am married, and not to you! You can't just come in here and..."

"Oh, can't I?" he interrupted, pulled her resolutely into his arms and silenced any answer she might have had with a demanding kiss.

OooOooO

Even the sunsets here at Camelot were different than they had been at the Wall. Ordinarily, Lancelot was not the type to wax poetic about the beauty of the setting sun, unless it might entice a willing girl to his bed, but even he had to admit that there was something quite stirring about the view from the western watchtower. It reminded him a little of home, the way he had described it to Guinevere.

...the sky... bigger than you can imagine...

He slung the fur-lined cloak over one shoulder, propped his elbows onto the wooden balustrade and continued to watch the sun dip ever lower, already half sunk behind the thicket of trees on the horizon, its last rays casting glittering reflections onto the calm surface of the river that lay like a silver ribbon a short distance from Camlann.

Lancelot knew that some people were wondering about him, his brothers certainly among them. He had changed ever since their fateful mission north a few months ago, but then, so had all of them, all of Britain, even. But perhaps his change was more pronounced than theirs. He kept to himself most evenings, refusing to join his friends for a drink, he ignored the advances of most women, though they still came.

The dark knight sighed and shook his head. He was not in the mood to ponder the depths of his own soul. Neither was he in the mood for company, which was why he refused to turn around and acknowledge the intruder into this quiet time when he heard the approaching footsteps.

"I was told I'd find you here," Guinevere remarked softly and came to stand next to him, laying her delicate hands onto the balustrade. "It really is quite beautiful."

Lancelot gave an affirmative grunt. "Heaven, you once called it. I remember."

She looked at him, a slight smile on her lips. Her impossibly long lashes cast fragile shadows onto her high cheekbones and the dim light of the setting sun made her skin gleam like bronze.

"And you called it hell," she said, "and yet you stayed. You must have a reason for choosing Britain as your home, after all."

He turned his back on the beautiful view, crossing his arms in front of his chest and and staring instead at the training ground, now abandoned and muddy.

"This is not home," he answered at length, "but the knights... I suppose they are more family to me than any blood relatives I might find or might not find in Sarmatia. Does that answer your question... my lady?"

The queen smiled impishly, quite obviously aware of the fact that he disliked the topic of their discussion.

"Almost," she conceded. "You once told me that you had no right to your own sons. But now this is your home, whether you call it that or not, and your future is entirely different than you once thought it might be. That being the case, you should reconsider that attitude."

Again, he felt like throwing something, choosing instead not to answer. The dark look he directed at her left the slender woman totally unimpressed, however.

"How did you know I was here, anyway?" he asked, seeking to steer the conversation back into safer waters. "My lady," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Marian saw you come up here," Guinevere explained. "Gweir's daughter."

Lancelot rolled his eyes. "Meddlesome child."

"Indeed," the queen agreed, a slight edge to her voice. "She simply had to meddle when you lay bleeding in front of her, stuck like a pig on a roast. Maybe she should have left that bolt in your chest and spared you all that trouble of living."

Leaving a totally flabbergasted Lancelot behind, Queen Guinevere swept towards the staircase.

"But... I thought... Gweir had...," the knight sputtered behind her.

She paused and looked back at him over her shoulder, the very picture of grace and regal bearing.

"Sometimes," she told him coldly, "you men should just leave the thinking to your womenfolk."

...to be continued...