I followed her outside. We came alongside the kitchen garden and stopped.
Guinevere floated by in the lifting fog, flanked by half a dozen soldiers who held their heads high, more like somber grooms than prison guards. In her isolation Guin seemed to see nothing. But with her concentration forced on each inevitable step, her pace took on a measured grandeur, her skin a hint of the sky’s blue.
Captivated like fans at a celebrity sighting, Cadebir’s hundreds watched, some in dismayed silence, others whispering and wondering. It was too soon for the trial to be over. The whispers reached us: Guinevere, unable to bear the strain, had confessed. Heulwen buried her face in my shoulder and shook with tears.
Guin and her guards made funereal progress down the slope toward the oubliette where, anything but forgotten, she would await her death.
-----
I leaned against the splintered wall in the cool quiet of the hall. The pounding of hammers and the crew boss’s shouts receded into background noise. Cai had wasted no time in directing Rufus to set the slaves to work building a pyre. The exercise yard was the perfect place to burn a queen because it already had a viewing stand.
The hall had been set to rights for the evening meal; now it was empty of diners and servants. Even the dogs had abandoned the place. No torch burned, no rats chittered in the corners.
A sentry blocked my way at the entrance to the king’s quarters. “State your business, mistress.”
Was it my business to ask the king to pardon his wife? “Tell his majesty Mistress Casey is here to talk truth.”
The sentry gave a slight bow and clumped off through the antechamber. Sighing, I sat on the steps to wait. When I considered what I was about to do, I felt as much fear as I’d felt the first time I waited outside the king’s quarters, chained and caked with mud, not sure whether the next minutes would make me prisoner, slave or corpse.
I couldn’t have changed the course of events if I’d tried. I’d had no choice but to show the evidence. Yet I couldn’t escape the feeling that Guinevere’s plight was my fault. Even if it wasn’t, I had to do whatever I could to save her. Yet I didn’t know where to start with King Arthur, and what scared me most was that I had no control over the results.
My life’s early confrontations had brought such painful consequences I’d long since avoided such encounters. My last one was when I was about thirteen, and I’d figured out what was wrong with our little family. It wasn’t only my mother’s cheating that made us unhappy. What set our icy table was the silence. My parents never spoke of infidelity. There was no discussion, no disagreement, no confrontation. No lies, even, because my father never forced my mother to tell them.
One afternoon, with daylight reflecting off the snow outside onto the stacks of books at my father’s elbow, I sat across from him in his study, pretending to read. The green blotter under his papers was patterned with rings from a hundred highballs. I became bored with the book in my lap and began to toy with the pencils and pens in the clay mug on his desk. Already awkward with other kids, I was suddenly awkward with my dad, my best friend. Searching for the words I wanted, I tried my youthful best to do the confronting I wanted him to do, by broaching the subject that was the undercurrent of our lives.
“Please make her stop acting like an idiot.”
My father slowly closed his book. He downed his scotch, replaced the glass on the blotter and looked at his hands.
“I can’t change her.”
“King Arthur would defend his family.” My dad’s hero. Dirty trick.
The muscles churned in his cheeks. “King Arthur didn’t have a kid.” He stared out the window. “You can defend yourself. Her I don’t care about.”
“He did so have a kid.”
He shook with what I took for anger. Then he fell, because what shook him was not anger at me but at everything else: the lies my mother had not told, the lie he lived and the lie he had just told me.
As a kid I believed our conversation led to his seizure, and his death. As an adult I knew better. But since then, I hadn’t had the stomach for confrontation.
“His majesty will see you, mistress.”
I pulled myself to my feet with the help of the post I’d been leaning against, and followed the guard. Precious little light made it through the single window into the black corners of the tiny antechamber. Hesitating by the faded red curtain, I wondered if I should announce myself.
“Enter.” Arthur’s voice came from deep within.
I pulled the curtain aside. Arthur brooded at his desk, slumped in his chair. Late afternoon light shone through the tall windows, glinting gray-gold off the Saxon helmet that hung on the wall.
“Sit.”
Cavall lay curled on a pillow by the cold fireplace. As I stepped past the dog he sniffed my ankle, dampening my calf with his nose and stamping his approval of my passage. I took one of the chairs facing the desk.
“Do you bring comfort?”
“She asks your forgiveness, Sire.”
“I have always forgiven her.”
“There must be something you can—”
He raised his hand to halt my speech. “They broke the law.”
“You’re the king.”
He slapped his hand on the desk, raising a cloud of dust. Apparently I wasn’t the first to make that protestation. “I am war king, dux bellorum, not emperor. The law decides.”
Cavall stood and shook himself, then circled his pillow and sat again with a sigh. I waited for the dust to settle.
“Is there hope for a judges’ reprieve?”
“No.” The king rubbed his temples. “Why did you take the evidence, Casey? What was your plan?”
“I didn’t have a plan. I just didn’t want anyone to see it.”
“Then why did you show it?”
“You demanded it, Sire.”
He threw his head back and moaned. “Come away from the door.” We stood and he took my hand to lead me to the open windows. Outside, dutiful servants lit torches against the twilight. Arthur closed the shutters, then the curtains, cloaking us in darkness. He pulled me near to him, his callused fingers touching my elbow, careful of my sling.
“Did you not understand my signal?” he whispered. “I wanted you to make the cloth disappear.”
“But you said never to—”
“I’ve changed my mind. Save her. If you don’t, she burns at dawn.”
My stomach rolled. I thought we’d have a day at least for prayers, plans, something. “Won’t Lancelot come?”
“He’ll be too late. Casey. Friend,” he put his lips to my ear so the guard wouldn’t hear. “My Guinevere loves her Lancelot. I can’t change that. I will give her happiness if I can. I rescind my order. Perform your magic.”
“Sire, I—”
“Call me Arthur.”
“Arthur.” Speaking his name felt like breathing for the first time. “I’m Cassandra.”
“Ah. An exotic name for a prophetess.” His gray eyes brimmed with trust.
“It’s just a name.” I inhaled deeply and reminded myself the truth would not kill him. What it would do to me I didn’t know. “Arthur. I have no magic.”
His grip on my elbows tightened, hurting my wounded arm. “Are you ill?”
“No. I’ve been wanting to tell you, needing to. I never had magic. But I was afraid you’d kill me.”
“I might.” His smile was gone. “Are you the spy?”
“No. I am from the future. I’m just not a wizard.”
“But the protection...”
“You and your men did that, not me.”
“Did you not kill the Saxon and save my life?”
“I did. Saving your life was the only good thing I’ve ever done. But it was an accident.”
He released me and fell back hard against the wall. “I could have caged you or killed you. Instead I gave you friendship. You’ve repaid me with falsehood.”
“I’m sorry. I lied to save my life.”
&
nbsp; His laughter surprised me. “You charged into battle unarmed. You risked your life to lie.” Mirrored in his incredulous gaze, I saw how strange I looked to him.
“I can’t lie anymore,” I said, and I meant it. “I’ll do anything to save Guinevere. I’ll beg the judges. I’ll help her escape. I’ll ride to Poste Perdu and tell Lancelot to come.”
“You’ll die in the attempt.” He wasn’t laughing anymore.
“I got through the battle in the woods.”
“A single traveler will be attacked by bandits. And Medraut is at large.”
“But he went with—”
“You think Lancelot will take him in? He won’t. You haven’t a chance.”
“Let me take Lucy. She’s fast.”
Arthur pushed away from the wall and strode to the desk. His fingers traced the rounded shape of the horned helmet. “Did you lie about the legends?”
“No. I told you what I know.”
“Then I will save Britain? I will be victorious?”
I had fudged the part that mattered most to him. History said his people would be defeated by outsiders. Britain would become an Anglo-Saxon country in the end. Angle-land, Myrddin had called it. England.
“Well...for now, but ultimately...”
I didn’t have to finish. The knowledge crossed his face like clouds crossing the moon. Britain was already lost.
“Traitor!” He dashed the helmet to the floor and charged. Cavall growled. The few feet between Arthur and me disappeared in a second. As easily as if I were a pebble, he picked me up and threw me across the room. I hit the wall and landed in a heap at the foot of the ladder with pieces of Guinevere’s mirror raining down on me. Arthur loomed over me like a storm. At the last second he controlled his fists, shivering with the lust to beat me. Cavall continued to bark.
“Your majesty?” the guard called from the antechamber.
“Hold!”
Arthur crouched over me, saliva seething from the corner of his mouth. “Do the Saxons win?” he growled. “Or do I die and return from Ynys Witrin to save Britain?”
I had resolved to give him the truth. “They win.”
He stood, and his words tumbled over each other. “Mistress Casey, at dawn you will witness as the queen receives her punishment. Then you will stand trial for treason. Guard!”
The soldier threw the curtain aside and rushed in, searching the room with anxious eyes. His chest heaving, Arthur strode to the desk and tossed a look in my direction. “There’s your prisoner. Ask Caius where to put her. Do not house her with the queen.” He sat, took up a quill and, with fervent strokes, pretended to write.
The guard pulled me to my feet without considering my bandaged arm, which had come loose from the sling. I struggled for footing, stumbling among shards of mirrored glass. The guard dragged me past the king’s desk.
I whispered the weightless words, “I’m sorry, Arthur.”
Arthur didn’t look up. “Call me ‘your majesty,’“ he said.
FORTY-ONE
I landed face first on the cot. While the soldier who’d shoved me swiped the oil lamp from the lopsided table, his partner tore my make-shift curtain from the window, letting in the night. The two made a cursory check of the hut. Their bulk took up most of the room.
“What’s this?”
“A bowl of parchment, looks like.”
“Written on already.”
“Spells?”
The soldier dropped the bowl, spilling English coins and bills.
“Get the money.” They squatted to pick up the coins. “Won’t do her any good where she’s going.” Spoken as if I weren’t there.
The door slammed when they left. I heard pounding as they nailed it shut.
I grabbed a spare tunic from the pile under the bench and hung it on the window. In seconds a fist thrust in from outside, followed by a head. “We have orders to watch you,” said the guard. He threw the tunic on the floor. I left it there.
My shoulder throbbed. The guard walked away but soon passed my window again, peering in to make sure I wasn’t making magic. He was circling. The camp being a convention of chieftains and officers, Cai had no choice but to jail me in my own quarters. A lot of good it did me.
I sat on the floor by the cot to give them a clear view. Let them watch me. I had nothing left to hide. Truth was my big solution to my problems but I hadn’t thought it through. I didn’t know what Arthur’s reaction would be, but I’d harbored a secret hope that he’d love me for my honesty. If I’d thought about it I might have remembered what century I was in and which king I was talking to. Falsehood might get you somewhere in Hollywood, where life was scenery and make-up and pretense. But Arthur lived a reality of dirt and blood and fire. Lies existed there, but they couldn’t endure. The Dark Ages were not exactly an enlightened time or they would have called them something else. It was unrealistic, to say the least, to expect King Arthur to say, “Thanks for telling the truth, Casey. I’ll let Guin go. She and Lance can have their happy ever after and you and I can be in love. Maybe you’d like to be queen.”
What a fool. Arthur didn’t love me. And what if he did? Look what good his love had done for his wife. Cadebir was a barbaric place and Arthur was a man of his time. I should have known better than to play tricks on such a man.
It was too late to wish I hadn’t lied. Yet my last visit to Arthur’s office had one bright spot. Telling him the truth had been the right thing to do. Except now he was going to kill me. He had called me “traitor.” I knew what happened to traitors at Cadebir. In Arthur’s eyes, death at the stake was fitting punishment. I deserved punishment, but no one deserved that.
A different soldier looked in to check on me. I lowered my eyes so as not to appear defiant. The soldier moved on, but in lowering my gaze I’d already caught sight of my fanny pack under the bench. The guards had missed it in their haste. And I saw something else I hadn’t noticed in a while. A small pile, long forgotten: my clothes. Not the tunic and underdress of a Dark Ages wizard but the chain mail sweater and cargo pants of a twenty-first century woman.
They meant to burn me. But I wasn’t any use to them dead.
-----
From one end of the bench I could peek out the window and see the path that led through the promontory village. Soldiers huddled by Cai’s hut, their knives flashing in torchlight, their voices an indistinct rumble.
From the other end of the bench, near the door, I could watch people pass behind my hut on their way to the evening meal at the hall, their eyes flitting toward the soldiers, their quick mouths flapping speculation.
If I squatted by the door I couldn’t see out the window at all, which meant unless someone stuck his head all the way in, he couldn’t see me.
I lay on the cot, huddled in Sagramore’s cloak. From there I counted. The intervals between soldiers were more than thirty seconds but less than a minute. I counted them over and over again. I decided on thirty, to be safe. When I was sure, I waited for a soldier to pass. Then I ran to the bench for tunics and underdresses and took them back to the cot to stow under the cloak with me. On my next trip I grabbed the muslin gown and leggings Lynet had given me when I first arrived.
I bunched the clothes and stuffed them under the cloak at each opportunity. Then I lay still, marking my breath while the next man walked by. I watched through my eyelashes and tried to ignore the pain in my shoulder. The guards didn’t look in every time they passed, but I couldn’t predict when they would.
Soon there wasn’t enough room under the cloak for both me and the clothes, so I hid by the door when the guard passed. Only once did I lose my concentration and my count. Still at the cot when the soldier came by, I rolled underneath it, clutching my arm and hoping the light from the window couldn’t reach there. Under cover of darkness, between passings of guards, a fake Casey took shape on the cot.
I waited as a guard passed, grabbed the bowl from where the soldiers had dropped it and scooted back to the hidden place by the do
or. When all was clear I crawled to the cot and put the bowl under the cloak for fake Casey’s head. I took a second to appraise my work, silently thanking Guin for procuring the bowl from Heulwen’s kitchen. In the dark, it might be enough.
On my next forays I gathered money and credit cards and even found my passport in the shadowy corners where my things had fallen when the soldier dropped the bowl. I left the visible bits where they lay so as not to arouse suspicion. Back by the door I squatted and removed the sling. I would leave it behind. My arm hurt as much as it had the day Lancelot tore it from its socket, but the sling marked me.
I breathed softly against the pain as I dressed. Modern, synthetic fabrics chafed my skin. My cargo pants felt like tents around my legs. The Rodeo Drive boots I had once thought of as fashion necessities were as comfortable as thick boards strapped to my feet.
I was ready.
I wished I could leave a note for my friends. I had missed my chance to tell them I loved them. Whether my plan worked or not, I wouldn’t return. When they discovered I had escaped or died trying, would Sagramore know how grateful I was for the use of his cloak? Would Bedwyr find the remains of his charred brooch in the ashes and know what his kindness had meant to me? Lynet and Elaine had shared clothes, a ribbon, a bracelet—precious things they’d brought from home. I placed the ribbon and bracelet on the table, next to Drostan’s sprig of thyme. Guinevere couldn’t know the bowl she’d left in my hut had become Fake Casey’s head and, if my plan worked, helped to save us both. Their generosity had changed me. If I succeeded, the evidence of their gifts would be lost.
And Arthur. I would take with me the gifts he gave—lessons to sort out when I had time to think.
They wouldn’t know I thanked them. They might not know I loved them, nor would they know I had tried to save them. But that couldn’t figure into my plans.
Myrddin’s knife would not be found in the rubble. He’d understand why I took it with me.
Camelot & Vine Page 23
