When Lancelot caught me watching, I looked away.
TWELVE
In the sudden cool, the empty hall revealed itself as my eyes became accustomed to the momentary dark. Wooden poles along the length of the center aisle supported a surprisingly lofty roof. At the far end of the cavernous chamber, a long table sat on a raised platform, its wooden chairs facing out over a cold fire pit. A row of windows opened to the air high on the eastern wall, admitting individuated shafts of light. The same windows were likely responsible for the birds that roosted in the rafters and dotted the benches and trestle tables with droppings.
I wished for a mirror. I wanted to brush the hair away from my eyes. I had not butterflies, but killer bees in my stomach.
Caius led our procession along the far wall to the opposite end of the hall. Partly to show their power over me, partly to help me remain upright, Agravain and Gareth held my arms. We made our slow approach to an archway where two armed but not armored guards stood at attention. They made no move to stop us. Perhaps they already knew we were coming. Either that, or they were merely decoration. Caius stepped aside while the brothers helped me to labor up two stairsteps into a plain room that was at most twelve feet square. One small window, open to the elements, lit the tiny space.
Lancelot, Bedwyr, Medraut and Sagramore followed us into the room and positioned themselves along the walls wherever they could. When Caius was satisfied, he called through a faded, red curtain into the room beyond. “Sire, they’re here.”
I heard a slight rustling and the plop, tap, shuffle of small items being moved about or set down. Then nothing. At last, a chair scraped on the floor. The next sound was loud panting.
A white, wolf-like hound burst through the red curtain and bounded into the room, ecstatic to see everyone, especially me. With my arms held behind me by the brother guards, I couldn’t fend him off. As the beast pressed his wet nose into my crotch, King Arthur chose to enter.
“Cavall, away,” he said, in a voice at the same time harsh and quiet. I immediately recognized my square-jawed, grizzled friend. I half expected him to speak in that strange, foreign tongue he’d used in the woods. But the savage murderer had become a calm, collected bear in boots. His hair and whiskers, the color of the dark Cadebir soil sprinkled with gray, framed an expression of bemusement on a face made interesting by deep lines. He seemed to tower above the others, not because of his size, though he was tall, but because of his presence.
The dog backed off, leaving me teetering.
“Release her,” the king said calmly. “Cai, send for water.”
The guards let go of my arms. Gareth steadied me with a gentle touch on my elbow, making sure I could stand on my own before he moved aside.
Gareth needn’t have worried. King Arthur stepped forward and took my hands in his, giving me an extra point on which to balance. Though he had gripped my hands in the bloody forest, this gentler gesture shocked me in our more civilized surroundings. Was there a convention I was expected to follow? Should I bow or curtsey? Afraid to meet his eyes I looked at my red-polished, chipped nails enfolded in his rough palms.
His grip warm and sure, the king led me to the bench near the doorway, where Caius had stationed himself, and helped me to sit. Movement aggravated my migraine. I tilted my head back, allowing the cool wood of the wall to support it. Opposite me, Lancelot leaned, languid, in the corner. I thought he was watching me but in the dimness I couldn’t be sure.
Having placed me, the king turned to his men. I would have to wait to know my fate. “Bedwyr, your report.”
Bedwyr stepped forward. “About a dozen escaped us, Sire.”
“We’ll return for the stragglers. How many did we kill?”
“Seventeen, Sire, with Lancelot’s help.”
“Our casualties?”
“No serious injuries among the survivors, Sire,” said Bedwyr. “Three dead.”
The king’s forehead clamped down over his brow. “Their names,” he demanded.
Bedwyr seemed to be holding his breath. “Dead are Tore, Fergus and...Dynadan, Sire.”
I felt the king’s weight tip the bench forward when he sat. “Failure,” he said.
The dog circled, settling at his master’s feet and closing his silver eyes with a sigh. The king looked around the room, visiting each man with his eyes. “There’s a spy among us.”
“No, Sire!” Outraged, Medraut placed his hands on his hips. His resemblance to his father showed in the smooth but still square angle of his jaw.
“It can’t be!” I thought Sagramore’s chin quivered.
Lancelot stopped leaning and stood up, at last interested in the proceedings.
“You were all fighting for your lives, as was I,” said the king, “but they knew me, I’m sure of it, either by my dress or my face. They sent their strongest warriors and separated me from the rest of you. I killed two men but was overpowered by the third. I couldn’t see how to save myself.” He turned, and I felt his eyes on me. “Then help came from the sky. An angel saved my life.”
Cloth shifted against skin and leather slid across wood as all turned their eyes to me. Stunned, I tried to think back: hurtle through space, see the grizzled man, bump into a hard thing, fall.
“How did she save you, Sire?” asked Bedwyr.
“She flew at me with fury in her eyes. With great might she forced the Saxon upon my sword.” King Arthur gazed at me in wonder. “I am forever in your debt.”
The fury in my eyes had been terror. The shadow I’d bumped into with my head had been a man—a man I’d killed. King Arthur was forever in my debt. He probably wasn’t going to kill me.
A servant appeared with a cup of water and offered it to me.
“Thanks,” I whispered. I tried to calm my breathing so I could drink.
“Tell me your name, mistress,” said the king.
I swallowed. “Casey.”
A soft chuckle rose up among the men. Someone said, “Oh no,” and someone else said, “It’s the gallows, then.” The king blinked and suppressed a fatherly grin.
Caius bent down from his considerable height to whisper, “You will address the king as ‘your majesty.’”
“Oh. I’m sorry. It’s Casey, your majesty.” My voice sounded timid, not like a furious, avenging angel.
“Kay-see,” the king tried it out on his lips. “An unusual name. You are most welcome here, Casey. Have my men ill-treated you?”
They just wanted to go home and get some sleep. It was in the look Bedwyr exchanged with Sagramore and in Agravain’s yawn, and the way they all slouched against the wall. By then not one of them was holding himself up with his own power.
“No, your majesty, they’ve been nice.”
He shook his head. “I’ll forgive you that lie because you don’t know me yet. I can see they’ve been rough. You will be honest with me henceforth. I do not accept lies.” He turned on the bench to face me squarely. “I owe you my life. I wish you no harm. I only wish to keep you. With your powers, you can be of great help to me.”
Lancelot cleared his throat.
“What is it, Lance?”
“The stream did not frighten her, Sire.”
“That is inconclusive.”
Bedwyr spoke up. “Sire, if I may.”
“Bedwyr.”
“The lady has given her word to stay and has abided by it so far. She accompanied us the latter part of the day without chains.”
I wanted to say, “Where else would I go?” but I sensed I shouldn’t speak until spoken to, regardless of my magic powers.
The king folded his arms across his chest. To me he said, “Will you allow my wizard to nurse you?”
I nodded, then remembered, “Yes, your majesty.” I thought I might pass out again if I didn’t get something to eat or at least a place to lie down and let the migraine finish its evil work.
“Good. Cai will see to it that you get to the dell. Order the cart to the kitchen door, Cai.”
Caius
disappeared through the archway. The dell, whatever it was, had better be nearby.
“Can you walk?”
“I think so, your majesty.”
Careful of my chafed wrists, the king helped me to my feet, holding my elbows with his big, bear hands. He put a protective arm around my shoulder and we moved with halting steps through the archway, down the stairs and into the hall, leaving the others behind. I held myself up, wanting to give over my strength to him yet not sure I should.
“I’ve never seen a hauberk like yours,” the king whispered as we made our measured steps to the back door. “Is it magic armour? Can you make more of it?”
“I...I’m afraid I can’t, your majesty,” I said, glad he’d at least mentioned my armor so I had a general idea of what “hauberk” meant.
“Who made it? Perhaps I can persuade him to make more for my men. The hood is especially fine.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, forgetting myself in migraine and exhaustion. “I got it at the Gap.”
He stopped, turning me to face him, gripping my upper arms too hard. His gray eyes held mine, eyes that made me hope Guinevere, if indeed she existed, was not his wife. I’d never seen gray eyes before, at least not up close. Within them, relics lay buried. Chasms ran deep with hope, loss, and too much knowledge.
“I mean, I got it at the Gap, your majesty.” Stupid, stupid, I thought. Remember where you are. He doesn’t know about retail.
But his eyes brightened with revelation. “I see!” He looked over his shoulder toward the men, then back at me, lowering his voice to a whisper. “We’ll speak of it when you’re well. Now go to the dell. Myrddin will know what to do with you.”
THIRTEEN
Sick of rolling, sick of wheels, sick of feeling sick, I lay in the bed of another cart, this time unchained. On the downhill lurch I slid against the wagon side, bumping my pounding head. The cart rattled under branches of forest canopy while twilight crept over me, like an animal padding over a bed of fallen leaves. I wanted to pull myself up to look around but could only wonder at the great height of the trees, while details of their leaves diminished into darkness.
After time, long or short, someone lifted, moved, floated me to a surface where at last movement stopped. I lay listening to the whooshing in my temples, until a tiny light invaded the space. Soft footsteps padded toward me.
“Help me, Drostan.” A rumbling, confident voice.
Strong arms propped me up to sit.
“Drink this.”
A veined hand offered a steaming cup containing hot water and what looked like a bit of tree bark. The concoction burned my tongue and tasted bitter. It would cure me or kill me. Either would be a relief.
“Drink more.”
“Whzzt?”
“Bark of the white willow. Good for aches, especially of the head. Drink every drop.”
I did. The helper laid me down.
They moved away. When I opened my mouth to say “thank you,” my stomach retched and my body curled in convulsion.
His robe swishing, the deep-voiced one returned to my side. “Some don’t take well to willow bark,” he soothed. “Pail to your left.”
-----
If I dreamt, I didn’t remember. I woke, wildly hungry, on a comfortable cot in a clean hut. Sun and birdsong beamed through a window, opened to them with no glass to keep them out. Most of me was still filthy but my wrists and ankles had been cleaned and salved.
I rose slowly, allowing my joints to release their stiffness like paper once scrolled and reluctant to unroll. My feet, now bare, felt like they’d spent the last few days in vice-grips instead of expensive boots. With tentative steps I crossed the room and opened the door to peek out, jumping back when I nearly broadsided a small woman who rushed by. She wore an off-white tunic and carried an armload of clean rags.
“Good morning,” I said. She ignored me and trotted past, disappearing down a path that was shaded by a pergola overgrown with woody vines. I followed her, meandering between huts and enjoying the morning’s soft air until the path opened onto a sunny garden. The woman had disappeared. Across rows of vegetables and greens, an old man in an off-white robe watched me from the doorway of a large hut. When our eyes met he waved me to him. I cut between rows of lavender, rosemary and poppies, inhaling the mixture of their scents as I crossed the garden, my feet warm on the earth. The old man watched my approach, his pate reddening in the sun, his thin lips framed by a white beard.
“You’re better this morning,” he said in his rumbling voice. “You must be hungry.”
I followed him into the shade of what I at first thought was a kitchen. Herbs hung in bunches from the ceiling to dry, giving the place a wild, fresh smell. Every surface was cluttered with bowls of seeds, vials of powder, and organized arrays of bones. I turned away from what looked like an odd biology experiment but turned out to be the dissection of a hapless squirrel. Not a kitchen. A laboratory.
The old man gestured a skinny arm to a table laden with food. “Sit and eat.” He padded in bare feet to the corner, his dingy robe dragging on the packed dirt floor. He picked up a couple of stones, smacked them together, and blew gently on the sparks they created in the fire pit. It seemed like magic.
He looked up. “Eat,” he said. “I’ve eaten already. I hope you don’t mind.”
I took a seat at the table. He dipped a cauldron into a barrel of water and hung it over the small flame.
“Are you...?” I had so many questions.
“Am I what?”
“Is your name...?”
“Myrddin,” he said. It sounded like Merthin, just as King Arthur had pronounced it. Almost, but not quite, Merlin. Without looking, he took pinches of herbs from a bunch hanging above his shoulder and tossed them into a pair of mugs. “This time it’s only tea.”
Laid out before me was enough food for four people: small pies, baked buns, sliced apples, nuts and berries. No silverware. No matter. He was right, I was starving. I plucked up a warm roll with dirty fingers and inhaled the aroma of freshly baked grains.
“Are you a wizard?” I asked.
“You first.” He brought my tea to me and took his to a desk in the corner, behind which leaned precarious shelves overloaded with bottles, scrolls, and rusted tools. There he sat and regarded me.
I chewed, hungry but self-conscious, not sure what to say, wondering what the king had told him about me.
“Did you come from a star?” asked Myrddin. “We have legends of people from the stars. Did you really appear out of nothing? Arthur mentioned a gap. You received your garment there?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Is it a gap in the sky?”
I picked up a piece of pie. “No. I think it’s a gap in time.” Egg pie, it looked like. With cheese.
Myrddin brought his fingers to his lips. “I like that. Explain.” He rested his chin on bony hands and waited.
My instinct was to trust him. I hadn’t felt that instinct in years. Though Myrddin was old and cheerful unlike my young, sad father, my dad was the one who had listened, like that, with his chin resting on his hands.
“All I know is I was riding Lucy in the rain and a car came along. Lucy panicked, the car slammed on its brakes and I flew. When I landed it wasn’t the twenty-first century anymore.”
“Carrrr,” Myrddin muttered, taking up a quill and scratching it on a flat piece of leather. “Brakes. Twenty-one.” He stopped. “Lucy. A horse?”
I nodded.
He glanced back at his notes and frowned. “You came from the twenty-first century?”
“Yes.”
“By what reckoning?”
“Well...have you ever heard of Jesus?”
“Why?” He eyed me with suspicion.
“Years since Jesus lived. That’s kind of how we count it.”
“That bodes ill.” Myrddin sighed. “Poor, fatherless boy. Tragically misunderstood. He’s all the rage with the young people these days.”
“What year is it
now?”
“By the same reckoning?” He bent over his scratchings. “Alas, from his death I calculate...oh, five hundred years. Or so. Perhaps fewer. Certainly not more.”
I put down the meat pastry I’d been munching. Myrddin laid his quill on the desk. We gazed at each other. I wondered if he’d almost stopped breathing, like I had, at the thought of it.
I’d lost fifteen hundred years. My nose tingled.
Myrddin’s black eyes glowed. “Your people must be looking for you.”
“I don’t think so.” Mike had his wife and baby. Hollywood and Gone! were finished with me. My mother wouldn’t notice I was missing until she didn’t get her Christmas e-card. I didn’t matter to anyone in the world. My eyes misted. Among the apples, pastries and nuts on the table was not one, single napkin.
“You didn’t choose to come here?”
“No. I don’t know how I got here, or how to get back. I could die here.” My stomach churned and sank like a dying motor. I was a negative. I had to get back, even though I had left nothing of importance behind. “Myrddin, have you ever heard of Camelot?”
“No. What is it?”
“It’s the greatest legend of all England.”
“Angland?” He stiffened. “Don’t tell me the Angles are going to win?”
“Oh—uh, I’m not a historian.”
Myrddin glared.
“Well. They don’t exactly lose.” He continued glaring and I hurried to mollify him. “The trouble is, not a lot of detail is known about how it happens. King Arthur and you, you’re legends in my time. But there’s no proof of your real lives.”
“That is not to be tolerated.” He stood, surprisingly agile, and began to pace. “You shall take proof back with you. You certainly brought things—your horse, your pack, your clothes.”
“But I don’t know how to go back.”
“Well, you can’t stay here.” He stopped pacing, towering above me, eyes gleaming. He must have been fearsome in his youth. Even then I cringed at the foot of his power. He calmed, speaking almost apologetically. “You and I are intelligent people. We know how to solve problems. We shall study this one together to determine exactly how you got here. When we know that, we’ll know how to return you to your time.”
Camelot & Vine Page 7
