on the moonstones at her neck and wrists.
"So, sir," Arthur asked, his clear gray eyes on Sweyn. "What is your holding here?"
He wants money, the Earl thought. Or men. "Indeed, my lord-" he gave a hopeless smile—"a few poor acres of sandy soil, fit only for goats."
Arthur searched his face. "But your lands are extensive, are they not?"
Sorrowfully the Earl shook his head. "Serfs and petty farmers who never pay their rent—alas, these wretches hold most of it, not I."
"But if you have tenants-" Arthur reached for his goblet and drained the thin red wine—"how many men can you summon to the horn?"
"The horn?" the Earl repeated, as if he had never heard the word.
"The trysting horn, my lord," said Arthur patiently. "When you call your men to war."
The Earl gave a feeble shudder. "The Sweyns have avoided war for many years."
Arthur laughed grimly. "Do you hear nothing of the world beyond Castle Sweyn? Ireland is attacking Cornwall even as we speak, and God alone knows how they are faring there. And year after year, the men from the North break like waves on our eastern shore. They ravish our women and kill all the children and men, they burn down the houses and carry off all the grain. We need men and money to keep these sea wolves at bay."
Guenevere leaned forward, a thousand lights from the candles shining in her eyes. "And that's not all," she said earnestly. "We want to make the land safe from rogue knights and outlaws here at home. But the lords who should help us are often selfish and cruel themselves."
With this remark came a look that Earl Sweyn chose to ignore. "We have suffered, too," he said loudly, working himself up into a state of complaint. "Three bad harvests in a row, then the plague last spring carried off half my men. All I have left are cripples and ancients who can barely lift a hoe—"
"Not quite, my lord."
The Earl paused. He did not like the amusement in Guenevere's tone. "Madam, I—"
"Your grandson, sir, is more than all of this," Guenevere said joyfully, putting her arm round young Sweyn.
The child gazed up at her with a sturdy self-regard, and the Earl showed his teeth in a smile. "True, madam, he is the hope of our house. As you say, we have been blessed in him."
The boy put a trusting hand in Guenevere's and leaned into her to speak. "You are the Queen, they say."
Guenevere beamed at him. "They say true. And what do they say of you?"
The boy regarded her with a child's age-old eyes. "I am called like my grandsire, Sweyn. He is a great lord, you know."
A great lord…
The Earl glanced from the boy to Arthur, and a glow warmed his shrunken soul. The same fair hair with its promise of red-gold, the same wide, blue-gray eyes, sturdy body and lofty frame, all marked the child as Arthur's from head to toe. Lovingly he traced the resemblance and his thin lips twitched. Young Sweyn was a true heir of Pendragon and would follow the same destiny. With the help of his grandsire… The Earl's inner vision bloomed.
Farther down the table, Gawain looked at the Earl and dug his elbow into Kay's ribs, "If the King thinks he'll get men or money here, he's come to the wrong place!"
For once Gawain's right, thought Kay with unease. Sourly he took in the worm-eaten table and the meager feast. Below the salt, the viands had run out, and the lowest diners were feeding on bread and herbs. Kay's lip curled and he nodded to Gawain. "Who would have thought a wretch like that could be grandsire to such a fine boy?"
Gawain peered up the table with feigned interest, and laughed approvingly. In truth he had had eyes only for Lienore, and could not shake the conviction that she was watching him.
"Truly he looks more like our kin than like the Sweyns," he said to Kay. Then his eyes returned to the mother, a woman with the face of a cherub but, he would swear, the instincts of a polecat below. Gawain's broad face creased in a sensual grin and he flexed his massive shoulders contentedly. He could always
"So, sir," Arthur asked, his clear gray eyes on Sweyn. "What is your holding here?"
He wants money, the Earl thought. Or men. "Indeed, my lord-" he gave a hopeless smile—"a few poor acres of sandy soil, fit only for goats."
Arthur searched his face. "But your lands are extensive, are they not?"
Sorrowfully the Earl shook his head. "Serfs and petty farmers who never pay their rent—alas, these wretches hold most of it, not I."
"But if you have tenants-" Arthur reached for his goblet and drained the thin red wine—"how many men can you summon to the horn?"
"The horn?" the Earl repeated, as if he had never heard the word.
"The trysting horn, my lord," said Arthur patiently. "When you call your men to war."
The Earl gave a feeble shudder. "The Sweyns have avoided war for many years."
Arthur laughed grimly. "Do you hear nothing of the world beyond Castle Sweyn? Ireland is attacking Cornwall even as we speak, and God alone knows how they are faring there. And year after year, the men from the North break like waves on our eastern shore. They ravish our women and kill all the children and men, they burn down the houses and carry off all the grain. We need men and money to keep these sea wolves at bay."
Guenevere leaned forward, a thousand lights from the candles shining in her eyes. "And that's not all," she said earnestly. "We want to make the land safe from rogue knights and outlaws here at home. But the lords who should help us are often selfish and cruel themselves."
With this remark came a look that Earl Sweyn chose to ignore. "We have suffered, too," he said loudly, working himself up into a state of complaint. "Three bad harvests in a row, then the plague last spring carried off half my men. All I have left are cripples and ancients who can barely lift a hoe—"
"Not quite, my lord."
The Earl paused. He did not like the amusement in Guenevere's tone. "Madam, I—"
"Your grandson, sir, is more than all of this," Guenevere said joyfully, putting her arm round young Sweyn.
The child gazed up at her with a sturdy self-regard, and the Earl showed his teeth in a smile. "True, madam, he is the hope of our house. As you say, we have been blessed in him."
The boy put a trusting hand in Guenevere's and leaned into her to speak. "You are the Queen, they say."
Guenevere beamed at him. "They say true. And what do they say of you?"
The boy regarded her with a child's age-old eyes. "I am called like my grandsire, Sweyn. He is a great lord, you know."
A great lord…
The Earl glanced from the boy to Arthur, and a glow warmed his shrunken soul. The same fair hair with its promise of red-gold, the same wide, blue-gray eyes, sturdy body and lofty frame, all marked the child as Arthur's from head to toe. Lovingly he traced the resemblance and his thin lips twitched. Young Sweyn was a true heir of Pendragon and would follow the same destiny. With the help of his grandsire… The Earl's inner vision bloomed.
Farther down the table, Gawain looked at the Earl and dug his elbow into Kay's ribs, "If the King thinks he'll get men or money here, he's come to the wrong place!"
For once Gawain's right, thought Kay with unease. Sourly he took in the worm-eaten table and the meager feast. Below the salt, the viands had run out, and the lowest diners were feeding on bread and herbs. Kay's lip curled and he nodded to Gawain. "Who would have thought a wretch like that could be grandsire to such a fine boy?"
Gawain peered up the table with feigned interest, and laughed approvingly. In truth he had had eyes only for Lienore, and could not shake the conviction that she was watching him.
"Truly he looks more like our kin than like the Sweyns," he said to Kay. Then his eyes returned to the mother, a woman with the face of a cherub but, he would swear, the instincts of a polecat below. Gawain's broad face creased in a sensual grin and he flexed his massive shoulders contentedly. He could always
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