Then Arthur led them into his treasure hall-probably it had been intended to be an office, or a small bedroom. Three tapestries, flattened between clear sheets of something that might have been glass or Plexiglas, were hung on the wall. There were a couple of display cabinets along the wall itself.

“This is not a proper display,” he said. “These stay here all year long, so I can’t risk anything of real value. My more valuable artifacts don’t leave my home in Cornwall. I acquired all of these in the U.S. This tapestry is fifteenth century, and like many, it has a religious theme. You can see St. Stephen being crucified-upside down, as tradition holds.”

Anne looked at the stilted figure, a halo on his upside-down head and blood pouring from his hands.

“Cheery,” she observed.

He smiled. “It isn’t my favorite, either.”

The second one showed a woman sitting on a bench under a tree, sewing, with a large bird perched just over her head. The colors were faded, but brightened as the threads dipped below the surface. Once, thought Anna, this one was a lot more colorful than it is now.

“This one is Scots.” Arthur sounded disapproving. “Thirteenth century or thereabouts.”

“Barbarians, those Scots,” said Charles with amusement. “My father the Welshman says it exactly the same way.”

Arthur laughed. “All right, you caught me. I suppose that no matter how long I live, I’ll still, in some aspects, be a man of my time, eh? Just as you are, old friend. It is in unusually good shape, as it has been in and out of museums and collections for about two hundred years, and was well taken care of even before that.”

He walked on and made a flamboyant gesture at the final, and smallest tapestry.

“The third is my favorite of the three. It is also probably fifteenth century-I bought it in California from a private collection. It is in rough shape, and has been sewn onto an acid-free muslin to stabilize it. They are all hermetically sealed to protect them from the climate.”

Arthur was right, it wasn’t in very good shape. Only a section about two feet square had survived. A knight riding a horse who was galloping with all four feet off the ground, its mouth opened around the bit. He had a sword in one hand and it was raised at a slightly more than forty-five-degree angle.

Arthur touched the clear covering over the figure with gentle fingers. “As you can see, it depicts Arthur fighting with Excalibur.”

Anna couldn’t see why he was so sure it was Arthur until she took a good look at the sword. Of the word that had once been stitched on the blade there were only three letters left. An “x,” a “k,” and a “u.” She had to admit that she couldn’t think of many words that someone would stitch on a sword with those particular letters.

“He looks pretty unhappy,” Anna commented. “I wonder what he was chasing.”

“It might be anything,” said Arthur. “He was the Champion of England and fought dragons and other beasts as well as defending his homeland from the Saxons.”

The first display case was filled with a double handful of Roman artifacts. Anna suspected some of what he had was illegal. Though maybe a stone from Hadrian’s Wall had been okay to take back in the days when Arthur had originally collected it.

The second case held a chain-mail shirt covered with a bright blue tunic emblazoned with three silver crowns.

“That’s a replica,” Sunny said. “Though it is still worth several thousand dollars. The cloth was woven according to traditional methods and dyed with natural vegetable dyes, the silver thread is real silver, and the mail shirt is handmade.” She touched the case. “It’s King Arthur’s coat of arms-or at least what he should have worn on his shield, anyway.”

“Arthur’s coat of arms,” Anna said dubiously. She doubted the real Arthur had ever worn chain mail; maybe the British Master had read Le Morte d’Arthur a few times too many.

Sunny nodded. “King Arthur, not my Arthur. But my Arthur didn’t want to use his own family’s coat of arms-”

“A pig,” said Arthur over Sunny’s shoulder.

“A boar,” said Sunny, unperturbed. “There are still some members of his family about who might recognize him… a younger cousin and his littlest sister.”

“Who is eighty-four, this coming May,” Arthur spoke with obvious affection. “I’d visit her, but she’s still sharp as a tack and can shoot skeet without wearing glasses. So I chose The King’s coat of arms.”

He said it with implied capital letters, as if there had never been another king.

“There were no coats of arms back in the era of Arthur,” said Charles. “Wasn’t he supposed to be sixth century?”

“Or late fifth,” agreed Arthur. “The hero of the battle of Mount Badon, and that was in 518 or so. Heraldry and all its trappings were much later. Still, there is a tradition… and I had the whole thing made for fun, anyway.” His eyes were dreamy. Anna wondered if he wore it and played with the sword he’d dug up when no one was around to see him.

Her older brother used to sneak downstairs at night and take the old Civil War cavalry sword her father had hung up on the wall over the fireplace and fight invisible foes. And once, memorably, his little sister, whom he’d armed with a broom. She’d gotten sixteen stitches-and he a broken nose. Men, she thought, had a strange yen for long, pointy, sharp things. She kept her smile to herself.

“Now for the pièce de résistance.” Arthur paused. “I often find that people are disappointed with Excalibur. I think it is because of all the movies. This is not a prop, it is a weapon made for killing.”

He went down to one knee and moved the carpet and pulled up a section of hardwood flooring. Underneath was a floor safe. He put his hand flat on the safe, and after a moment it beeped and opened in a slow, steady motion. Inside was a narrow wooden case a little more than three feet long.

He picked it up and set it on top of the display table. The case itself was beautiful, a handcrafted blend of light and dark woods.

He opened the latches that kept the case closed and took the top completely off.

And she understood why a man might think that this… this was Excalibur. It bore as much resemblance to her father’s cavalry sword as a jaguar to a lion-both very effective predators.

Arthur’s Excalibur was shorter and wider than her father’s blade-and it was sharp on both sides. The blade was dark down the center, where it was indented, and she could see the patterns in the steel as if it were Damascus -and perhaps it was. The edges were smooth and bright, though, running parallel to each other for most of the length of the blade. The grip was made of steel and, in comparison to all those Excaliburs of film and TV Arthur had mentioned, was very utilitarian-and short. It was a sword meant to be swung with one hand, a sword meant to kill.

“Did they have steel in the sixth century?” she asked.

“They had steel swords, in some places, at least a thousand years before that,” answered Arthur. “ Toledo steel swords were mentioned by the Romans back in the first century B.C.”

“It is-” She was going to say beautiful, but that wasn’t right. Her father’s sword had been long and graceful-a weapon designed for beauty as well as function. This was different. “Powerful.”

“No gems, no gold or glittery parts.” Arthur sounded pleased.

“It doesn’t need them.” The impulse to touch it was strong, but she kept her hands behind her back.

“The sword wasn’t the only weapon that Arthur carried,” Arthur said, his voice fervid with passion. “Just the most famous. There was the Sword in the Stone, which recognized Arthur as rightful king. That is probably also the sword known as Clarent, which was used to bestow authority-such as kingship or rank. Some of the early Welsh tales mention the dagger, Carnwennen, with which he slew the Very Black Witch.”