When not obligated to welcome guests of the High King, I am on occasion sought to accept clandestine individuals into Camelot. Rarely do I make such an occasion, but I suppose I have done enough to have developed a secret reputation. This very night am I beckoned by a daughter of Afallach, an enigmatic arrival whose business with Arthur is her own. Had the Lady of the Lake not led me to do otherwise, I might have turned her down just as quickly as the others. This is not ordained by Sovranty, however, and I will not resist her.

I deliver the raven-haired woman called Modron to an apartment east of Ehangwen. It is an intimate, well-furnished dwelling that opens into an atrium, with a well, and comes with a servant. After assuring that I will be by in the morning to wait on her, I return to the feasting hall.

Cai is there, much to my surprise, as are many of the Bwrdd Crwn, Arthur's most trusted and skilled compatriots. Like the fianna of old in the Gaelic islands, the Bwrdd Crwn are comprised of mainly outlaws. They are seasoned warriors, beirdd, and derwyddon, all weaned on the ancient Celtic arts and tempered with schooling in the long, Roman tradition of the gladius and comitatus.

The rowdy company of soldiers, courtiers, generals, princes, and their ladies are all standing, raising their cups to the High King. Arthur, himself, is standing upon the longest table in the hall, receiving shouts of praise.

"Where have you been?" Cai's scolding is drowned by Ehangwen's din.

"You have your business, Cai; I have mine," I answer defensively.

"And what sort of business would that be, then?" Cai asks condescendingly. "What is your Coven of Fangs conspiring now? A new reputation-shattering satire for some prince or other?"

"Prince? No. Our easiest targets are big-headed majordomos."

Cai grunts. "Well, you happen to have missed another of Arthur's addresses." The seneschal drains his cup and heads to the opposite end of the hall, and I follow. "You've been here only a short time, Luned, but it will behoove you to become as familiar with our High King's philosophies, policies, and edicts as quickly as possible. Our ways are changing across Britain, and her sons will look to you -- a steward's wife -- as the standard."

There goes Cai talking marriage again. Not making a formal proposal, mind you, but rather a horribly misguided assumption. I have no intention of marrying, least of all Cai. But I've also no intention of entirely refusing him as my alliance with him has opened doors for me that would not have otherwise been. As the daughter of Rigadaf of Tarddell Beli, I am no more than hostage to the High King. As a sister of Ysgrithrau, I am a respected courtier. And as Cai's mistress, every door throughout Camelot is open to me.

At far end of the hall sits a lavish table with a kingly spread. It is as though this corner of the hall was in another world entirely, separate from and impartial to Ehangwen. The Red Knight of Glastenning sits there, surrounded on every side by devoted rhyfelwyr, cup-bearers, pages, and several admiring, young ladies.

Cai once again puts on his diplomatic sycophancy and bows before the Red Knight. "I hope your every need has been met this evening, my lord," the seneschal smiles nervously.

The man called the Red Knight never looks at Cai but answers him only with, "Other than having to endure another of Arthur's long-winded speeches, I cannot complain." Cai and company laugh tensely. The resplendent warrior is clothed in crimson, Celtic finery. A scarlet, woolen mantle is pinned with a gold, dragon brooch over his red hauberk, tunic, trews, and boots, all of varying shades and highlighted with sun-gold embellishments.

Unlike so many other sacred cows of Britain, the Red Knight of Glastenning continues to rule Britain from behind the scenes. While the religion of the old gods has become superstition, and great kings such as Vortigern have passed into mediocrity status since the rise of Arthur, the Red Knight's majesty remains inexplicably hallowed in every corner of Britain. I would expect such reverence from the older generals of the Comes Britanniarum, but not from those such as Arthur and Cai. One might wonder if the New Age of Britain has a place for the Red Knight. Time will tell.