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easier to run barefoot than to scrape wet mud from boots over and over. The water in the baths was tinged with red and ochre earth despite the constant draining and refilling.
    Guinevere and Risa, her maid, climbed the hill from the town, their arms full of packages and their toes squishing happily. Below them they could hear cheerful blasphemy as a carter and four helpers tried to dislodge the wheels of his cart from the mire. Above them, Caerleon was hung out for all to see as bedding and hangings were washed and aired before being folded up for the trip to Camelot.
    Risa laughed at the sight of the multiform pennants.
    “They flap about in the wind like wild birds. I can almost hear them squawking.”
    “That’s probably Cei yelling at the children to get off the lookout towers. As soon as the sun comes out, they’re up on the roofs, spying for messengers and visitors. There is some sort of prize to the one who spots them first.”
    “Really? I had no idea you kept in such good touch with all the children at Caerleon.”
    “Galahad told me. He explained that it was a matter of honor that he take his turn with the others, even though he knows how it worries me. He promised to be extremely careful, however, and not hang over the edge.”
    “Well, if it’s a matter of honor . . . Some days that boy sounds just like his father.” Risa laughed at the thought of a miniature Lancelot.
    “They are much alike, only Galahad never worries about right and wrong. He just seems to know. I think he is the way Lancelot might have been if he hadn’t been raised so oddly.”
    “It was not the usual sort of family life,” Risa agreed. "Very few people are kidnapped by immortal . . . whatever the Lady of the Lake is, and wet-nursed by an outcast afflicted with religious melancholy. No wonder he worries so much about sin. Of course lots of us were raised by religious fanatics. It’s just the combination that seems odd.”
    “I don’t recall your family being especially religious.” Guinevere panted. The hill was growing steep near the end.
    “My parents weren’t; wrong generation. But Grandfather was a Pelagian and ridiculously proud of his heresy. I never understood a word of it.”
    “I hope it’s the mud that’s making this climb so hard, today. I would hate to think I was getting old.”
    “You!” Risa laughed. “You look the same now as you did twenty years ago when you came to Cador for fostering. I don’t know how you do it. But I am certainly older, and these pots grow heavier with every step. I hope there’s someone at the gate to help us.”
    As they aproached, they saw that Cheldric, one of Arthur’s guards, was there. He saluted them and then scooped all Risa’s parcels up in his one arm and motioned for someone to take Guinevere’s things.
    “My Lady, I will have these taken to your rooms,” he said. “The King wants you to come to him at once. There has been a message for you.”
    He spoke so stiffly that Guinevere was alarmed. Cheldric had known her as long as Risa had, and his arm had been lost protecting her. He knew he did not need to be formal when they were together.
    “Where did the man come from?” she asked.
    “The King will tell you,” he answered.
    “Go on, Guinevere,” Risa urged. “I’ll see that everything is taken care of.”
    Guinevere hitched up her skirts and raced across the slippery walks to the Great Hall where Arthur received guests and supplicants. She stopped at the door to catch her breath and smooth her hair. Her hands were cold and she tried to warm them in her skirts. Then she pushed the door.
    The hall was dark and formless after the brilliance of spring outside. She hesitated and then made out the group around the high table: Arthur, Cei and his wife, Lydia, Gawain, Lancelot, and a man who seemed familiar. She couldn’t place him, but he was clearly the one who had brought the message. As she approached, they all turned to face her and she knew him. It was