During the time he’d slept on the old dead beggar’s mat, he’d twice had to leap up to thwart thieves trying to lift it from his scabbard. He could hardly blame the would-be robbers. Even he had considered keeping Arthur’s grand, enchanted sword for himself. Its workmanship was like none other, and the jewels on its hilt made it worth a fortune. And then there was the matter of its enchantment. He’d often seen Arthur bloodied in battle only to be miraculously healed. The lethal blow Mordred had dealt him had to have occurred because of some exceptionally strong dark magic. For its great value, its sentimental worth, and its magic, Bedivere longed to keep Excalibur and was sorely tempted to do so. But I am a knight of the Round Table, he reminded himself at the times when his desire to possess the sword threatened to overwhelm him. Although he now lived in a world that might scoff at his idealism, his high standards regarding honor and duty, it still meant everything to him. The code of the Round Table defined who he was in his own mind.
