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   "Fine, Arthur. That is all I am asking."

   "Good. Keep it that way."

Meanwhile Britomart assembled the military escort and returned Guenevere and Lancelot to Corfe. Once again no carriage was provided; the prisoners had to ride on horse­ back, and the queen made no secret how unhappy she was. When she complained Brit told her, "Be grateful Arthur isn't making you walk." There was not much conversation on the journey, not even between the treacherous lovers.

   But at one point Geuenvere reined her horse next to Brit's. "You are loyal to your monarch, Britomart. That is an admirable trait."

   Brit smiled sardonically. "Admirable enough for you not to want to subvert it?"

   "What a blunt woman you are."

   "I'm a plain-talking military commander. And I am no one's fool. Least of all a prisoner's."

   "We have allies, Britomart, powerful allies. If you come to our side, your future would be ensured."

   "Thank you for the offer, but I don't much fancy a future of imprisonment in Corfe Castle. Not that the company would be unpleasant." She smiled sarcastically.

   Guenevere glared. "Arthur is not fit to rule. My erstwhile husband has always been a wittering, half-drunken dolt. And an easy target for any assassin." She hesitated, realiz­ ing she might have said something ill-advised. "What is it about him that inspires such ill-placed loyalty?"

   "If you've never understood that, Guenevere, you are the fool, not Arthur."

   "Do you mean to tell me people take seriously all his nonsense about justice and freedom and the rest?"

   "They are ideas worth taking seriously."

   "To a philosopher, perhaps—to someone like that old fool Merlin. But you are a soldier. Look at the world, Bri­ tomart. Look at Justinian's rule. Do you know the exquisite tortures his people have devised? Do you know what they do to their prisoners' genitals, for instance?"

   "Then shouldn't you be happy that Arthur listens to someone like 'that old fool'?"

   Guenevere began to lose her temper. "Look at the facts, for God's sake. And there is only one fact that matters in the world—power. Justinian has assembled the most powerful empire in half a millennium. Arthur sits in a stolen castle built by a madman and drinks while his prime minister plays with ravens. We are going to win, Britomart. The idea of rulership, the idea that some are born to rule and others to serve and to follow—that is one of the cornerstones of civi­ lization. Destroy it and you destroy everything."

   "Justinian may win—someday. I wouldn't be too quick to include myself in his plans, if I were you."

   "Suppose they are my plans?"

   "Does that make a difference?"

   Guenevere was rapidly losing patience; she was not used to being spoken to this way, and it showed. She forced her­ self to speak calmly. "I was born to rule. Royal blood flows in my veins. Arthur was the unwanted son of a mud-soaked warlord; open his veins and you'd find hayseeds and alco­ hol. My parents raised me and schooled me to be a ruler. Arthur . . . Arthur is no one. If you want a strong, stable England, join me."

   "So all of this is about your feeling that you married be­ neath your station?"

   "If you want to put it that way. You know it is true."

   "A strong, stable England is what we have. There is only one person working to destabilize it, and that is you, Guenevere. Besides, do you seriously expect me to believe that Lancelot was born to rule, too? I shudder to think what flows in his veins. Sap, maybe."

   "He is my husband."

   "Not under the law. He is handsomer than Arthur, that I'll grant you. But a mind for governance?"

   "He has me to advise him. I would be the real power, not him. You do see the advantage of having a woman rule England, don't you?"

   "That would depend on the woman. Is it true that when you were still a girl people called you the She-Wolf of France?"

   "Wolves eat what they please. Join us. Release us. Help me to assemble the army I need. Trust me to rule England as it should be ruled."

   Brit reined her horse around a pothole in the road. "Ar­ thur trusted you. In fact, I believe he genuinely loved you. Look what it's gotten him."

   That ended the conversation. Guenevere rode her horse back to Lancelot and the two rode side by side without talk­ ing much.

Corfe Castle was one of the oldest in the country, if not the oldest—so old it did not have a protective outer "curtain" wall. The central keep, an octagonal structure of heavy stone, was rumored to have been built by the Romans, though no one knew for certain, and it did not resemble other Roman architecture in England.

   From each of its eight facets a long "arm" stretched hun­ dreds of feet; several of them had fallen into disrepair. The underlying strategic concept seemed to be that anyone attack­ ing the keep would have to advance between two of these "legs" and was therefore vulnerable; this was not a building plan that had been repeated anywhere in the country. Yet, ap­ parently, it had stood for centuries, guarding a strategic port. And for as long as anyone could remember, this odd, eightbranched building had been known as the Spider's House.

   Brit installed her two prisoners there under tight guard. Then she went directly to meet with the commander, Cap­ tain John Dalley, who had moved from the royal garrison in the town of Corfe to the castle to oversee security there.

   Dalley had arranged a full military parade in Brit's honor. Once the pageantry was over, the two of them retired to his office.

   "You have brought them?" he asked.

   "Yes, the royal spider and her mate are back at home, presumably producing more venom."

   Dalley was unaware of the diplomatic plot Guenevere had hatched—he only knew about the marriage—and so Brit explained it. He listened carefully and whistled softly when she'd finished. "I've been here for years, watching the pair of them. And I've always thought this a thankless post. But now! I mean, I've always assumed she was scheming. But I never envisioned anything on this scale."

   "I don't think any of us have. Her sheer audacity would have protected her if that Byzantine ship hadn't run aground in the storm."

   "A good military lesson: Never underestimate your op­ ponent."

   "Indeed. But I'd like to meet Petronilla while I'm here."

   "You don't know her?"

   "I've read her intelligence reports, of course. But we've never met face-to-face."

   "She's probably busy with Guenevere—getting her rein­ stalled here and helping her adjust to her life under lock and key. She functions as Guenevere's secretary, you know. But I'll arrange for her to meet with us in town this eve­ ning. If we do it here, she'd almost certainly be seen. That would be the end of her work for us."

   "Excellent."

   And so after dinner Brit and Dalley walked into Corfe, to the garrison where they could meet in relative security. Later, under cover of night, wrapped in a black cloak, Petronilla arrived and was admitted through a side gate. A guard ushered her quickly to Dalley's office.

   Dalley introduced the two of them and they sat. "So." Brit smiled conspiratorially. "You are our agent at Corfe Castle."

   Petronilla was a young woman in her early twenties. She had dark hair and bright blue eyes, and she spoke with a strong French accent. "And you are the commander of Ar­ thur's army. I'm pleased to meet you."

   "Your reports have been quite invaluable."

   "Thank you. But gathering intelligence at Guenevere's court isn't exactly hard. She is quite sure of herself. Except for that correspondence with Byzantium, everything she's done has been done in the open. I try to tell myself it is not because of her sex, but every plot she hatches, she babbles about—to me, to her knights, to anyone who will listen. She actually thought of sending heralds into town here to announce her foolish wedding. I persuaded her not to."

   "And she thinks she's fit to play diplomatic games with the Byzantines. The arrogance of power." Brit laughed. "Except that poor Guenevere doesn't actually have much power."

   "She thinks that will change."

   "She can reign over the mice in her prison cell, then. But she trusts you, Petronilla?"

   "Yes. I've never been certain why, except that she seems impressed by a woman with a formal education."

   Brit smiled. "We are rare, aren't we?"

   A kitchen servant came and Dalley ordered meat and wine for the three of them. "Brit, did you know that you have a connection to Petronilla?"

   Brit's puzzlement was obvious.

   "My little brat of a brother," Petronilla said with a grin. "I hear he has become your squire."

   "Petronus is your brother?"

   She nodded. "I can't imagine he's much of a squire, though. He's never been good for a thing."

   "He's a bright boy. He's been a lot of help to me and to Merlin. You heard about Mark of Cornwall and how we caught him?"

   "Petronus was involved in that? Maybe I've underesti­ mated him. Anyway, when he defected to Arthur's court, my mother forced me to come here to take his place. Mother and Guenevere are old friends; they grew up to­ gether. But once I realized the situation here, I understood Petronus had made the right decision. And so I followed suit. I want to be of use to Arthur."

   "Believe me, you have been. But . . . Petronus has never mentioned you. Does he know you're here?"

   "We're not close, I'm afraid. Not the way a brother and sister should be."

   "Oh."

   "He used to ridicule me for wanting to learn to read. Said I should be content doing needlework."

   "Men." Brit glanced sideways at Dalley and was relieved that he seemed to take it as a joke. "But he's busy learning things himself, now. He heads the class in Merlin's school for the squires and pages."

   "You're joking. I really have thought too little of him."

   The servant brought wine and told them their venison would be ready shortly. Brit leaned back in her chair, looked from Dalley to Petronilla and sipped her claret. "So how do the two of you work?"

   "Mostly," Petronilla told her, "it's been a matter of me slipping notes to Captain Dalley or one of his aides, fur­ tively, whenever the chance presents itself. When we pass each other in town, or when Captain Dalley visits the cas­ tle. This is the first time I've actually come to the garrison."

   "But now that I'm stationed at the castle," Dalley added, "things will be a lot easier."

   The three of them chatted for a while about various top­ ics of small talk—Arthur, Petronus, politics. Then when the hour began to grow late Brit suggested they return to the castle, one by one. "You are performing a great service for England, Petronilla. Please believe that our gratitude will be made concrete when the time comes. In the meanwhile, you must be careful. Guenevere has always been a danger­ ous woman. She has conducted more treasons against Ar­ thur than anyone sane could. The idea of rule seems to have made her mad. And now, caged, she will be even more dangerous. She is not above murder."

   "I will be as careful as I can."

   "Excellent. I hope when your undercover work is fin­ ished we can get to know each other."

   "I hope so, too, Britomart."

And so things in England began to settle, at least on the surface.

Guenevere and Lancelot, resigned to their confine­

ment—at least for the time being—gave no signs of making more trouble. Captain Dalley, with covert assistance from Petronilla, monitored all their correspondence. He sus­ pected they must have plans, at least tentative, hopeful ones, but there was never any evidence.

   As the summer went on, Lancelot made several at­ tempts to escape his confinement—interestingly, without his "wife"—but was always captured and returned. On one occasion they even caught him dressed as a woman, trying to buy passage on a ship to France.

   Guenevere, on the other hand, seemed serenely resigned to life as a prisoner in Corfe Castle. To appearances, at least, she hatched no plots, schemed no schemes; she was a compliant and obedient prisoner.

   She made a point of trying to befriend Dalley. "You are an efficient, resourceful officer, John." She flirted; she flat­ tered. And she was dismayed when he remained aloof, a professional jailor.

   "You aren't being used well," she told him once. "You are a military leader, not a warden."

   "I still command the Corfe garrison—plus all the sol­ diers assigned here to the castle. And there will be more of them when the conference happens. My status has actually increased."

   "You are being wasted. A wiser monarch than Arthur would recognize your abilities and put them to better use."

   "I know of no wiser monarch than Arthur. He has Merlin to advise him."

   "You haven't traveled much, have you?"

   He laughed.

   "You are a handsome man, Captain. How is it that you have no wife?"

   "Don't waste your time trying to seduce me, Guene­ vere. I have no ambition to become a prisoner instead of a jailor."

   "But Captain—"

   "You already have two husbands, Guenevere. A third would be laughably redundant to everyone, even to the two you already possess."

   "Believe me, Captain Dalley, someday soon it will be my face on England's coinage, not Arthur's."

   "Then I must handle my money well, mustn't I?"

   She snorted to show her contempt for him and stormed out of the room. But she never let up, apparently convinced that her charms would win him over sooner or later.

   Meanwhile Petronilla kept giving him reports of the queen's other activities, very few of which came to any­ thing. But Dalley sent them all dutifully to Brit, along with his own reports on Guenevere's failed flirtations.