Free Queen of the Summer Stars by Persia Woolley Page B

though his honor had been damaged, when in fact it was only his pride that was hurt. As if by tacit agreement, no one brought the subject up.
    “At least,” Arthur noted, “Tris has the sense to keep out of the way; I gather he spends most of his time at the infirmary with Bedivere.”
    The tall Cornishman was a fine harper and seemed to enjoy entertaining the invalid. Like all warriors he had a following of young boys but there was one in particular, a scruffy shepherd lad named Taliesin, who idolized Tristan not because of his fierceness as a fighter, but because of his beautiful music.
    Taliesin trailed after his hero like a smudged shadow, eager for a chance to carry the small traveling harp, or change a broken string, or oil the satiny wood. He was a quiet lad who watched the world around him intently but rarely spoke. I couldn’t tell if he was shy by nature or simply awed at finding himself in the High King’s Court.
    One morning I came on the boy carefully polishing the harp with my Damascus scarf, which I must have left in the Hall the night before. I was so surprised, I forgot to be angry.
    “Sir Tristan says a harp’s a living thing, M’lady,” Taliesin said reverently, quite oblivious to the fact he had appropriated his Queen’s property. “Like a beautiful woman, or a proud god, it needs to be cherished and treated with respect.”
    I listened to him, fascinated, for his voice was rich and vibrant, and he spoke with a passion quite astounding for one so young. Apparently his love of the subject was powerful enough to overcome his usual reserve.
    “Music was created in the Beginning, when there was only the Word, sung by the nymphs of the sacred wells,” he went on, jumbling up all manner of religions. “Why, even the Greeks worshiped the Harper because he sings the sun up in the morning, along with the birds and other beasts. And when I have a harp under my fingers, the music takes me everywhere and I become every living thing.”
    The boy had spun a web of poignancy with his voice, as though striving to express the ineffable. Then just as unexpectedly, his tone changed to that of any other ten-year-old. “Sir Tristan says I’ll be a player of songs as well as a bard of history, when I grow up.”
    Tris came into the room just then, and Taliesin leapt up to greet his mentor. With a bare nod in my direction, the two of them set off to see Bedivere.
    I retrieved my scarf, shaking my head in bemusement and wondering who had given the lad the Cumbrian name of Shining Brow.
    ***
     
    As the days shortened toward winter, the rituals were all observed—Arthur sacrificed a white bullock on the morning of Samhain to begin the slaughter of those beasts that could not be kept over for lack of forage. By evening the soft pall of smoke from curing fires hung over the meadow, marking the making of jerky, sausage, and hams for the larder.
    I hurried on my rounds from spinning room to kitchen, kennel to infirmary. The Irish wolfhounds Brigit’s family had given Arthur as a wedding present had grown into great, shaggy beasts. The white bitch, Cabal, would be whelping come spring, so I took her whatever kitchen scraps might be good for her. Her devotion to Arthur was one reason she was being trained as his war-dog; she’d wag her tail politely and deign to accept my gifts but never let me forget that her loyalty was to Arthur, not me.
    You and that Breton, I thought testily.
    Bedivere grew strong enough to join us in the Mansion, sitting by the hearth and practicing the harp with the use of a gauntlet equipped with hooks to replace his hand. He sometimes spent hours at a time staring into the flames in silence but never, that I heard, complained of his fate. Whenever Brigit was near his mood lightened noticeably, and I watched their quiet courtship happily, for I could not imagine a finer mate for the Irish girl.
    But on a gray, drizzly day the world caved in on Arthur’s foster-brother and after he told me, I