This story may not burn with the white radiance of Stewart's Merlin trilogy, but it is, nevertheless, a joy to be allowed to re-inhabit ancient Britain, if only for a while.
A sweetly told story, though there is little here by way of a driving force of plot or action. It is, in some ways, the equivalent of one of her 'modern' mysteries, transplanted into Arthurian legend.
Stewart's writing, on the whole, also lacks the radiance I remember, though I begin to wonder if it was ever truly present. Is she, like MacDonald, a mythmaker rather than a writer? Did I mistake the glory of her story for the glory of a well turned phrase? It's been long (too long) since I've actually read any of her Merlin books, and I wonder if I have misremembered the quality of their word-crafting. The vision of her story may simply have burned so brightly, it engulfed the words as it poured through them.
There are some beautiful images, especially of the British landscape, but there is also something lurking that almost borders on the juvenile -- on writing that is young, and unformed.
As for the story itself, of the young, hot-headed knight, and his predictable (and immediate) love for the beautiful, gold-headed angel he one day encounters (after many missteps) -- well, what really is there to say? It is hardly the climax of the story, the life of which is contained in the scenes of Jerusalem and Tours -- shepherds mistaken for Christ, and young princes, with lions' manes, brutally murdered by their uncles. Do not read this story for its romance -- at least not in the modern sense -- or you will be disappointed. Read it, rather, for the beauty of the journey and the celebration of unexpected roads that lead one, eventually, home.