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242 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1999
"Does Guinevere love him?"
Gawain hesitated, then spoke gently. "Forgive me, sire, but I do not think the queen is able to love anyone very deeply."
"Anyone?"
"No, sire. For her, love is the trappings of love — love letters, whispered compliments, gifts. It is like Sir Griflet's notion of knighthood — strong on armor and banners and riding peacocky horses in tournament parades, but short on honor and sacrifice. I do not think that Guinevere has ever known love as you have known it."
Arthur looked absently at the forest. "And I am not easy to love, am I?"
"No. You are the king, the master of all you behold, the servant of none."
"And Lancelot?"
"He is her slave."
Slowly, a tear formed in Arthur's eye, then rolled down his cheek. Terence, ashamed to look on his king's grief, turned away. His own eyes misted. Gawain's eyes, too, were bright with tears. "Am I a fool to love her, Gawain?"
"If so it is a divine foolishness," Gawain said.
"Oh for heaven's sake, why can't women ever tell their left from their right?" Terence moaned.
Firelight glimmered in her hair, and Terence wondered with amazement whatever had happened to her freckles. They were gone, and she did not look at all like a child.
"[...] Nor could there be a more courageous questing lady than the Lady Eileen."
She wore a long dress of pale yellow that just matched her hair. Terence beckoned her in and, with a vague sense of surprise, realized that he loved her.
Her cheeks were always red and warm, even before the first fire was lit on a frosty winter morning; her lips were never far from smiling. Though she was young, her eyes already had the wrinkles at the corners that distinguish a merry life. I wanted to give her everything, but I never gave her as much as she gave me.