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

vigor. As he reached the gate he glanced up with that fine, level gaze that marks him so clearly as Igraine’s son. I was jumping up and down, waving my scarf and cheering along with the rest, and when he saw me he grinned and gave the Roman “thumbs up” sign before passing under the arch. I turned and raced down the steps, hurrying along the back streets to avoid the crowd as I rushed to the portico of the basilica.
    The mob was pressing into the archway of the forum’s plaza, clogging the entrance and bringing the royal stallion to a fidgeting halt. The trumpeter had to blow several flourishes before the people parted and by then I’d skinned in the back door and was waiting for the public welcome.
    The crowd rippled aside as Arthur made his way toward me. The rest of the Companions were strung out behind him, caught in the crush of people still funneling into the plaza. It was impossible to see who was there and who was not, but at that moment all I cared was that my husband had come home in one piece and was glowing with triumph.
    As queen and spokesman for the people I intended to give him the traditional greeting but when a squire hurried forward to hold the warhorse, Arthur leapt from the saddle and bounded up the steps to my side. Without waiting for the time-honored words, he slid one arm around my waist and swung round to salute our subjects, then lifted me off my feet and kissed me soundly as the crowd went wild.
    “Now that,” he shouted over the uproar, “is more like a welcome home!”
    Held firm against the length of his body, I threw my head back and laughed with him, happier than I’d ever been before in my life.
    We rode the crest of exhilaration through the joyful public display, and it was only later, after the ritual bath had soaked away the dirt and bruises of the Road, that I told him about Igraine’s death. He turned and stared out the window, his face as empty as the twilight sky above the treetops. One hand reached up, unbidden, to touch the amulet he wore around his neck—the charm Igraine had sent with him when she gave him up. Then with a sigh he turned and smiled slightly at me.
    “Thank you for going to her—between you and Morgan, I’m sure she had the best of care.”
    “Morgan wasn’t there,” I answered, wondering how he thought she could have made the trip from Lakeland to Logres on such short notice.
    “Not there? You mean she stayed here and let you go alone?” Suddenly Arthur was standing before me, both hands on my shoulders. “Morgan is here, isn’t she? She must be.”
    When I shook my head he turned away with an oath. “I can’t understand it. The best healer in all of Britain, my own half-sister and High Priestess to the Gods, and she isn’t here when I need her. I specifically requested that she join you.”
    Arthur’s voice was sharp with frustration, and he quaffed his wine in a single draft while I bit my lip and looked down at my hands. Apparently Morgan’s anger at me had not abated—no doubt she would have been glad to come to his camp, but because he’d asked her to wait here with me, she’d chosen not to respond. And there was no way for me to explain without the whole story coming out, making me the gossiping little snitch she claimed. So I listened in silence to my husband’s lament and squirmed inwardly at being caught in such an impasse.
    With a sigh Arthur sank down at the long table and stared moodily into his cup. “I was counting on her to save Bedivere.”
    “Bedivere!” I scrambled over to the bench where Arthur sat, trying to remember if I’d seen the lieutenant in the tumult of greeting just past.
    “Aye, Bedivere.” Arthur poured himself another goblet of wine, not even noticing when he spilled some. “He fell in the last encounter…damn near died on the spot, it took every skill we had to staunch the bleeding, and if it hadn’t been for Lance, we wouldn’t have gotten him this far.”
    By now my husband was on his feet,