Knights Of Guinevere Quotes

They had a year of joy, twelve months of the strange heaven which the salmon know on beds of river shingle, under the gin-clear water. For twenty-four years they were guilty, but this first year was the only one which seemed like happiness. Looking back on it, when they were old, they did not remember that in this year it had ever rained or frozen. The four seasons were coloured like the edge of a rose petal for them.

I am never in the dark when I am protecting you.

The next day brought more visitors. Sarah was eating a simple luncheon with Charis, Ariel, and Guinevere and was experiencing for the first time in her life the pleasure of talking freely with other girls she trusted. It wasn't that they talked about anything of importance. Indeed, most of their conversation was hopelessly trivial- Mordecai would have shaken his head sadly over such frivolity, Sarah reflected with an inward smile. But to talk so openly, and to laugh so unrestrainedly, was somehow far more significant than any single thing that was said.

If I don't read page ninety, it won't have happened to them. Black Beauty will still live with all his friends at Birtwick Park … The knights will be able to go on having jolly adventures without Lancelot meeting Guinevere and bringing the whole Round Table crashing down into ruin on their heads…

Britt said "If you will excuse me, My Lady.” “You leave?” “I do.” “How can you?” “Quite easily, I assure you.” Tears welled up in Guinevere’s eyes. “Will you not give me a token to remember you by?” Britt frowned. “You’re nuts aren’t you?” she said before recovering and adopting the proper words. “Forgive me, My Lady, but we have met for but a few moments. What is there to remember?

Arthur was building something new. Something good. Something truly noble. And it drew those who could find that nowhere else. That was why most of his knights came. They could not find the justice and fairness they longed to defend in their own countries.

I don't give a fistful of ashes!

His very first story, he told me as he was dying, was set in Camelot, the court of King Arthur in Britain: Merlin the Court Magician casts a spell that allows him to equip the Knights of the Round Table with Thompson submachine guns and drums of .45-caliber dumdums. Sir Galahad, the purest in heart and mind, familiarizes himself with this new virtue-compelling appliance. While doing so, he puts a slug through the Holy Grail and makes a Swiss cheese of Queen Guinevere.

This time the crashing through the trees was not beast, but beloved. Arthur rushed toward them. He grabbed Guinevere from the horse and crushed her to his chest. "We found your hood, your cloak. There were more tracks, more boar prints. We thought - I thought you were taken. Dead." Guinevere held on to his just as tightly. Something inside her broke and healed at the same time, as she felt how much she mattered to him by the strength of his embrace. She allowed herself one moment to cherish it.

Hic Jacet Arthurus Rex Quondam Rexque Futurus Arthur is gone…Tristram in Careol Sleeps, with a broken sword - and Yseult sleeps Beside him, where the Westering waters roll Over drowned Lyonesse to the outer deeps. Lancelot is fallen . . . The ardent helms that shone So knightly and the splintered lances rust In the anonymous mould of Avalon: Gawain and Gareth and Galahad - all are dust. Where do the vanes and towers of Camelot And tall Tintagel crumble? Where do those tragic Lovers and their bright eyed ladies rot? We cannot tell, for lost is Merlin's magic. And Guinevere - Call her not back again Lest she betray the loveliness time lent A name that blends the rapture and the pain Linked in the lonely nightingale's lament. Nor pry too deeply, lest you should discover The bower of Astolat a smokey hut Of mud and wattle - find the knightliest lover A braggart, and his lilymaid a slut. And all that coloured tale a tapestry Woven by poets. As the spider's skeins Are spun of its own substance, so have they Embroidered empty legend - What remains? This: That when Rome fell, like a writhen oak That age had sapped and cankered at the root, Resistant, from her topmost bough there broke The miracle of one unwithering shoot. Which was the spirit of Britain - that certain men Uncouth, untutored, of our island brood Loved freedom better than their lives; and when The tempest crashed around them, rose and stood And charged into the storm's black heart, with sword Lifted, or lance in rest, and rode there, helmed With a strange majesty that the heathen horde Remembered when all were overwhelmed; And made of them a legend, to their chief, Arthur, Ambrosius - no man knows his name - Granting a gallantry beyond belief, And to his knights imperishable fame. They were so few . . . We know not in what manner Or where they fell - whether they went Riding into the dark under Christ's banner Or died beneath the blood-red dragon of Gwent. But this we know; that when the Saxon rout Swept over them, the sun no longer shone On Britain, and the last lights flickered out; And men in darkness muttered: Arthur is gone…

She had often wondered if her parents had considered committing wholly to the bit and calling her Guinevere to match him, but had chickened out just in time and chosen Gwendoline instead, the uncomfortable legacy of the former’s extramarital affairs with roguish knights staying their hands.

He was gleamingly, smolderingly beautiful, like a pure medieval knight or a young King Arthur stepping off the pages of a painting. Though it was always Lancelot who was shown with fair hair like Linden's, those long strands of dark gold and amber softening the hard planes of his warrior-strong face. Did Lancelot have a mouth like Linden's? Full and strong and sensual? Suggesting unspeakable delights if one could only unlock the man who possessed it? Was it a mouth like this which undid Guinevere?

She hurried through the dark, slick tunnel. When she came out the other side, she rushed to the horses' pen. To her surprise, it was not only Sir Tristan, mounted, waiting for her. "What are you doing here?" Guinevere asked Brangien, who was holding the reins of two other horses. "No lady's maid would allow her lady to go on an unaccompanied trip with a knight!" "But they would allow their lady to seek a dragon?" Guinevere mounted her horse, laughing. "Well, no. But I can only control one of those things." Brangien stuck out her tongue at Guinevere.

But if her idiot suitors were staying at Halstead Hall with her, then by thunder, he'd be here, too. They wouldn't take advantage of her on his watch. "We're agreed that you won't do any of that foolish nonsense you mentioned, like spying on them, right?" "Of course not. That's what I have you for." Her private lackey to jump at her commands. He was already regretting this. "Surely the gentlemen will accept the invitation," she went on, blithely ignoring his disgruntlement. "It's hunting season, and the estate has some excellent coveys." "I wouldn't know." She cast him an easy smile. "Because you generally hunt men, not grouse. And apparently you do it very well." A compliment? From her "No need to flatter me, my lady," he said dryly. "I've already agreed to your scheme." Her smile vanished. "Really, Mr. Pinter, sometimes you can be so..." "Honest?" he prodded. "Irritating." She tipped up her chin. "It will be easier to work together if you're not always so prickly." He felt more than prickly, and for the most foolish reasons imaginable. Because he didn't like her trawling for suitors. Or using him to do it. And because he hated her "lady of the manor" role. It reminded him too forcibly of the difference in their stations. "I am who I am, madam," he bit out, as much a reminder for himself as for her. "You knew what you were purchasing when you set out to do this." She frowned. "Must you make it sound so sordid?" He stepped as close as he dared. "You want me to gather information you can use in playing a false role to catch s husband. I am not the one making it sordid." "Tell me, sir, will I have to endure your moralizing at every turn?" she said in a voice dripping with sugar. "Because I'd happily pay extra to have you keep your opinions to yourself." "There isn't enough money in all the world for that." Her eyes blazed up at him. Good. He much preferred her in a temper. At least then she was herself, not putting on some show. She seemed to catch herself, pasting an utterly false smile to her lips. "I see. Well then, can you manage to be civil for the house party? It does me no good to bring suitors here if you'll be skulking about, making them uncomfortable." He tamped down the urge to provoke her further. If he did she'd strike off on her own, and that would be disastrous. "I shall try to keep my 'skulking' to a minimum." "Thank you." She thrust out her hand. "Shall we shake on it?" The minute his fingers closed about hers, he wished he'd refused. Because having her soft hand in his roused everything he'd been trying to suppress during this interview. He couldn't seem to let go. For such a small-boned female, she had a surprisingly firm grip. Her hand was like her-fragility and strength all wrapped in beauty. He had a mad impulse to lift it to his lips and press a kiss to her creamy skin. But he was no Lancelot to her Guinevere. Only in legend did lowly knights dare to court queens. Releasing her hand before he could do something stupid, he sketched a bow. "Good day, my lady. I'll begin my investigation at once and report to you as soon as I learn something." He left her standing there, a goddess surrounded by the aging glories of an aristocrat's mansion. God save him-this had to be the worst mission he'd ever undertaken, one he was sure to regret.

As they emerged into the sunlight, Guinevere's breath caught in her throat. There were more than a thousand men gathered on the green in front of her. "Mother of God," the abbeys said, "there's an army at my door.

As they emerged into the sunlight, Guinevere's breath caught in her throat. There were more than a thousand men gathered on the green in front of her. "Mother of God," the abbess said, "there's an army at my door.

Arthur might be a king, but he can’t make you come.

You were dreaming?” A hell of a dream from the looks of it. He released her arms. The moonlight flickered in her eyes, and even in the dark he saw her flush. “I know,” she said, staring at him. There was a breathy tone to her voice that made him think things he shouldn’t. God, she smelled good. What was it about her skin? He didn’t try to move and she didn’t either. “What was it about?” “You…me.” It was a struggle to keep from pressing closer to her. ‘What were we doing?” “I could show you.” His throat was as tight as his groin. “Show me.