Downfall of Cornwall by Tracy Cooper-Posey

Author:Tracy Cooper-Posey [Cooper-Posey, Tracy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stories Rule Press Inc.
Published: 2013-07-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Anwen’s mother leaned closer to her father and said in a voice designed not to carry too far, “Our first night here, I thought we must surely be the last to arrive at Camelot, yet there are new arrivals every day. Where are they all coming from?”

“From the four corners of Britain,” Idris murmured back, with a note of satisfaction. “They honor Arthur and King Mark, and Britain, by bringing themselves here.”

“You sound pleased by that,” her mother replied.

“I am proud, woman,” Idris shot back. “Arthur deserves every accolade and honor Britain can bestow upon him. Now shush.”

Rhiannon just smiled and rested her head against his shoulder.

Anwen’s father didn’t react. But his hand captured her mother’s.

Anwen turned away from them to study the latest king to present himself to Arthur, while the court stood in attendance. The old man who moved toward Arthur was stiff with age. His head was still full of hair, even though the hair was completely white. His gait said each step was painful, yet his chin was up. His eyes were the blue of a summer sky and they remained steady upon Arthur as he advanced along the aisle.

Behind him, a boy of perhaps ten years of age followed, as well dressed as the king. He had golden curls and black eyes that seemed familiar to Anwen.

She let her gaze drift from the new arrivals, across the hall to the small table in the back corner. Sagramore stood with his shoulders squared, his gaze on the procession. Dinadan had his arms crossed, wearing the little smile that made it seem as though he was thinking up his next mischief. Tristan stood, but his head was down as he stared moodily into his wine. He raised the cup and drank, even though Arthur had not yet seated himself.

Anwen saw that Sagramore was staring at her. She pulled her gaze back to the newly arrived king, who now stood before Arthur.

“Pelles…it has been far, far too long since I saw you,” Arthur said, without waiting for anyone to present the king to him.

“You’ve grown up, Arthur.” Pelles’ voice wavered with age. “About time, too.”

Arthur gave a soft laugh. “While you have not changed an inch.” He stepped forward and embraced the man. “It must be all those conversations you have with your god.”

“I pray for your soul, not mine,” Pelles replied, his tone crisp.

Arthur stepped back again. “And who is this?” He looked at the boy.

Pelles drew the boy forward. “This is Galahad, Arthur. My grandson. I would have him learn how to fight the way you and your officers do. I would have his father train him. Galahad agrees with me.”

Arthur peered at the boy. “His father is here in Camelot?”

“Indeed, he is,” Pelles replied with dignity. “He’s only the finest captain in your army.”

Arthur frowned.

“My father is Lancelot, my lord,” the boy said.

Anwen drew in a startled breath, but the sound was lost beneath the rustle and stir of the hall, as everyone turned to those beside them and exclaimed or whispered.

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