Bloodthirst was not all that Goewin and I had in common. One autumn afternoon, while she was roaming the colonnaded porch that opens off the atrium, she came upon me sitting on the wide stone steps that lead down to the Queen’s Garden. I was fitting feathers to arrows, and Goewin sat next to me to watch. It is a task I enjoy, calling for deft hands, and perfect judgment and balance. Goewin sat companionably for a few minutes without speaking or interrupting me; then suddenly she asked, “How did you hurt your hand?”
I loo Custakiked at the hills in the distance for a moment, then glanced at her briefly. “Stag hunting on foot,” I said. I will not lie. “I was nearly killed. The bones of my fingers were… set badly, and had to be broken and set over again.”
She answered as coolly as I had spoken to her. “They don’t bother you.”
“No longer.”
“Your arrows are beautiful,” Goewin stated simply. I really did look at her then, and smiled a little in honest appreciation.
“I wasn’t changing the subject,” she added.
“I know,” I said. “But the hand looks worse than it is. It doesn’t hinder me.” I bent to my work and added in jest, “Though my arrows would be beautiful in any case.”
Goewin laughed. “You sound like Lleu.”
“How?”
“Sure of yourself. Lleu is so sure of himself! How do you bear his insults and commands with such grace? Sometimes he makes me want to strike him.”
“Well… Diana and Apollo may quarrel,” I said.
“Who are they?” Goewin asked, interested.
I smiled. “The old Roman goddess and god of the moon and sun. They’re twins, like you. There is a story where they argue over which of them is the better archer; there is not much doubt in your case.”
“Who will notice Lleu’s poor aim,” Goewin said, “now that he can defend himself against Britain’s greatest swordsman?”
“You’re not jealous?” I asked.
Goewin scooped a handful of brown, dry leaves from the flagstones and spread them over her skirt. It was a gown she had worn for two years, and was too short for her. In spite of the chill she was barefoot. But no one ever scolded her for that as they did Lleu; suddenly I saw her a little neglected. “No,” she answered me. “After all, I could never manage a sword.” She scattered the leaves about her dusty feet. “Only…”
“Only you could manage a kingdom,” I said.
In a voice so soft it was almost a whisper, Goewin said, “Yes. I think I could.”
“You see, Princess,” I said quietly, “you and I are not so different.”
When we walked inside together Lleu was sitting on the floor of the atrium beneath one of Ginevra’s pot-bound lemon trees, toying with an unfinished corner of the mosaic. The chips of colored stone glinted in the heavy afternoon sun that poured through the old glass windows. Lleu was absorbed and at ease, vaguely graceful even in the way he sat, head bent, thinking, motionless. When he noticed Goewin he leaped to his feet and whirled her in a short, wild dance across the tesserae, scattering a few unused tiles that clicked beneath their feet and shot across the floor like thrown stones skimming over ice. The twins half sat, half fell into one of the stone ledges set in the windows as seats. “What is it?” Goewin laughed.
“I’ve beaten Bedwyr,” Lleu announced.
“You’ve what?” Goewin said, hardly able to take him seriously.
“Four times today I disarmed him.”
Astounded, Goewin said, “Today? You di Cy?four times today?”
Lleu’s dark eyes sparkled and his face glowed. He nodded. He would never say such a thing if it were not true.
“How on earth did you manage that?” Goewin asked shakily.
“From learning all that tumbling. He didn’t know where I’d be—he couldn’t hold me. Oh, Goewin, we were so pleased!”
“Lleu,” Goewin said carefully, glancing up at me, “Bedwyr is considered the finest swordsman in the kingdom.”
“I know,” Lleu said softly.
“But you must be—Lleu, you can’t be that good in one summer’s training!”
“Ask Bedwyr,” Lleu said. “Anyway, it isn’t really one summer. I’d learned to use a sword before Bedwyr began to teach me. He teaches skill.”
“He couldn’t ever teach Caius enough skill to disarm him,” Goewin said. She stared at her twin. “You must be simply brilliant. And nobody ever noticed it!”
“I’ve never been well enough before,” Lleu said. “Oh, Goewin, I can’t tell you how”—he laughed—“how remarkable I feel. Aren’t I?”
Goewin tried to push him out of the window seat; but she could no longer best him in strength. She laughed instead. “Yes, you conceited creature, you are remarkable.”
But I could not laugh.
Artos was not in Camlan when this happened. He was making his seasonal progress through the south of Britain, checking defenses and supplies in the small towns and cities. Lleu wrote to tell him of the occasion, and Artos wrote back exulting: “Lleu, my Bright One, you will make a king, after all—think of it, the finest swordsman in Britain at fifteen!
“I’ll begin to train you as I’ve trained Medraut… Stay strong, grow wise, and I’ll crown you with pride in the spring.”
Such love in those words, such love and joy. It was never Lleu’s name that I envied.