Searching for Arthur (The Return to Camelot #1)

by Donna Hosie

  And just when I thought we may have a connection, Byron would make a grumpy little humph noise in the back of his throat, scowl, cross his arms and look thoroughly miserable at being in my company.

  As the hours passed, strange smells like sweet, stewed fruit started to waft through the tent, accompanied by laughter and small explosions outside. Mordred and the druids were getting high on their own weaponry. Instead of inspiring dread, it encouraged my excitement.

  Tomorrow I would see Arthur again, I was sure of it.

  Mordred popped his head into the tent at one point. I pretended to be asleep. Byron didn’t reveal my true state of consciousness; he just growled at Mordred like a guard dog. Eventually, the druids stopped playing with their toys, and silence fell outside, except for a couple of chattering birds that called to each other from deep within the forest.

  Byron wasn’t sleeping. He was sat up with his arms and legs crossed, like a school child on the reading carpet. The flap to our tent was closed, but every so often Byron would take a peek outside.

  It wasn’t long before I realised that every time he looked out, it coincided with the call of the birds. They appeared to be getting nearer and greater in number as the minutes passed.

  I sat up, and Byron scowled at me. Then another bird call sounded, and his stubby little fingers reached for the flap.

  “What’s going on?”

  Byron placed a finger to his lips and motioned to me to be quiet. Sensing danger, I crawled across the ground on all fours and sat down beside him. Bryon flinched back, as if I stank of body odour, which I definitely didn’t because I had long become obsessed with checking my armpits for smells.

  “Help me, Byron.”

  He scowled, and then pulled out a knife from inside his fur skin waistcoat. I flinched back, thinking he was going to stab me.

  Then I gasped. The knife was the one Talan had given me. The same dagger I had plunged into the leg of my attacker at the Solsbury Hill monastery, and Byron was offering it to me.

  Two more bird calls echoed in the evening air, and then for the first time, Byron spoke to me in a cackling deep voice.

  “When I give the sign, you are to run, m’lady.”

  “What? Run where?” I whispered, closing my fingers around the hilt of my knife as it lay flat on Byron’s hand.

  Three more bird calls, even closer than before. The druid camp was being stalked on all sides now. Deep in my chest, my heartbeat quickened. It was the most delicious feeling. Like being in love, without the pain that comes with it.

  Five calls sang out. The numbers were increasing, as was my anxiety, but still Byron sat cross-legged on the ground. I rose to my feet, and Byron nodded his approval.

  “Where do I run, Byron?” I asked again.

  “To the one who would die to protect you, m’lady.”

  Bedivere. He was here. Happiness burst from my heart. I was so excited I wanted to jump into the air, but I was afraid Byron would think I was a bit stupid, so I didn’t.

  “I don’t understand. Are you not on Mordred’s side then?”

  Byron didn’t answer. He had just peered out of the tent on the sound of six bird calls. Concentration was carved onto his face, as the deep folds of skin on his forehead threatened to drown his big bushy eyebrows. He opened the flap to the tent so I could see outside. There was nothing but darkness.

  Then Byron jumped to his feet and ran at me.

  I heard the sound of slicing flesh before comprehension caught up with my senses. Byron had thrown himself onto the sharp point of my dagger. I screamed in shock as hell suddenly broke loose outside the tent.

  Male voices cried out in the darkness, as blazing arrows flew through the air, igniting the other tents in a whoosh of flames. Hooded figures threw themselves out of the burning structures. Several Gorians were ablaze. Their sacrificial screams magnified through the night air as they threw themselves onto the ground. Bodies rolled around in a vain attempt to put out the flames. Animals bleated and neighed with fear as a firestorm rained down on the camp, quickly followed by the clanking rush of men clad in chain mail. They sliced through those fleeing.

  I fell down beside Byron. The dagger had gone through his shoulder blade, but when I attempted to help he pushed and flapped me away.

  “Run.”

  “NOW?”

  He pointed to his bloody shoulder and the dagger, which I was still holding in my sweaty palm.

  “That was the sign.”

  “Stabbing yourself was a sign? Couldn’t you have just said run?”

  “I like to be dramatic,” groaned Byron. “Now run, before they have time to summon the blue flame.”

  I bent down and kissed Byron on his crinkled pug dog face.

  “I won’t ever forget this, Byron.”

  “Alas, neither will I,” he replied, with a grimace so deep, his face was in danger of imploding.

  I ran.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Day with No Date

  Terror and confusion swept through the druid camp as the knights surged forward. Every tepee was now ablaze, with the exception of the dragon hide tent that I had been held in. Burning arrows were falling down on it like comets from the sky, but the flames were extinguished before they got to within ten inches of the skin. An invisible, fire retardant force-field was covering it, and by accident – because he still remained bleeding inside – Byron the Dwarf.

  I stopped running once I reached the perimeter of the camp. I needed to think. The blood-smeared knife was still in my hand, and so I started hacking away at the bonds that tied the terrified goats. I had to do something useful and that was a start. The animals stampeded away, trampling down one Gorian as he tried to stop their escape.

  The fighting in the camp was now at a ferocious level. The knights were outnumbered five to one, but their anger was an army in itself.

  The first knight I recognised was Talan. His round grey eyes were alight with hatred as he battled three Gorians, two of whom were armed with long spears topped with blue blades. A third was standing back, but I could see that his eyes had gone white.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I screamed, and I charged at the magician. My head and shoulder collided with his chest and sent him flying back into a wooden cart filled with potatoes. Flames were licking at its enormous wheels, and the druid fell straight into their wooden spokes.

  “Lady Natasha,” cried Talan, as another druid screamed with pain as the Irishman’s sword cut off his hand. The hooded figure slumped to the ground, cradling the stump which was pulsing bloody waves through his long-nailed fingers. The other druid in the trio, sensibly realising he was now outnumbered by Talan and myself, ran for his life.

  I threw my arms around Talan’s neck and hugged him tightly.

  “You’re safe. I was so worried.”

  Talan pulled me away and grinned broadly. His cheek was still seared and swollen from the attack by the Ddraig, and he now had a bloody scab on his forehead.

  “Trouble seems to follow you like the plague, Lady Natasha.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  I shook my head.

  “No, I’m fine, but there’s a little man, a dwarf I think, called Byron, he…”

  Talan put his hand over my mouth, cutting me off in mid-sentence.

  “Ssh,” whispered Talan in my ear. “Sir Mordred must continue to believe Byron is one of his. The dwarf will be safe.”

  Another knight then ran over to us – it was Tristram. Sweat had glued his curly blonde hair to his face and neck.

  “We must make for the horses before the Gorians have time to regroup,” he yelled. “Make the call, Sir Talan.”

  “Knights of the Round Table,” boomed the Irishman. “The folly of the Gorians has been their shame. We have our quarry. Ride on, ride on.”

  The silver figures stopped fighting and charged for the perimeter. I counted seven, including Talan and Tristram. But which one was Bedivere? I couldn’t
tell, as Tristram grabbed my hand and dragged me from the burning camp for the dark protection of the wood.

  Suddenly a pair of arms was around my waist, and I was lifted off the forest floor.

  “Are you hurt?” said an anxious gruff voice. “I swear if they have harmed you I will go back and kill them all.”

  I squealed and buried my mouth into Bedivere’s neck.

  “You came for me,” I sobbed, twisting my fingers into his straggly long hair.

  “Always,” choked Bedivere, and he threw his sword onto the ground and took my face in his hands.

  “Sir Bedivere,” cried a male voice, and I recognised it as belonging to Archibald, the man in black who had embraced Bedivere as a brother on the steps of the monastery. I looked around, and saw the furious expression on Archibald’s face. A blue sheen had covered him.

  “Get down,” I screamed, and I pulled Bedivere to the ground.

  Just in time. Two seconds later, a blue ball of flame shot through the air, skimming the top of our heads.

  “Make for the horses,” yelled Bedivere.

  Gareth and Talan were supporting Gawain between them; his feet barely touched the ground as the knights charged further into the darkness. Their sense of direction was astonishing. All seemed to know exactly where to run and what to avoid. Tree stumps appeared out of nowhere, but the knights dodged them with ease, despite the fact that they were weighed down with armour and chain mail.

  As we ran on, the outline of seven large objects came into view. I strained my eyes, and realised we had reached the horses. The knights had kept them well back from the fight, trusting in their own fitness in order to protect them.

  Tristram, David and Archibald reached the horses first, and quickly set about loosening the reins that had been tied to a low-lying branch. Gareth and Talan, with the barely conscious Gawain, were next, quickly followed by Bedivere and myself.

  “My brother cannot ride alone, Sir Bedivere,” said Gareth anxiously. “The fight has taken what little strength he had regained.”

  “You take him, Gareth,” I replied before Bedivere had a chance to speak. “I’ll take his horse.”

  “I want you with me,” argued Bedivere.

  “We don’t have time to discuss this,” I said, placing my foot into the stirrup strap. Another eerie blue glow was approaching.

  Bedivere gritted his back teeth but turned and helped Gareth with his brother. The others were already riding away.

  “Stay at my side,” said Bedivere, as he became the last to mount his horse. It reared as a blue spinning ball of flame erupted over our heads, spraying us with sparks and intense heat.

  “Where are we going?” I gasped, as the fireball sucked in the air around us, leaving Bedivere and I trapped in a vacuum.

  “Camelot.”

  We spurred our horses at the same time and galloped away into the darkness. It was only when I felt the cold night air on my face once more, that I realised I had not seen or heard either Mordred or Slurpy Morgana at any point during the rescue.

  Adrenaline is an amazing motivator. It cancels out exhaustion and helps you to forget hunger, thirst or pain. Only when I thought we were safely away from the druids and Mordred, did I start to register the aching weariness that was pumping through my body. I now understood why people could fight with such bravery. When you are in the midst of a battle, you don’t have time to acknowledge fear.

  Dawn had not broken when we stopped, although a pink haze was starting to spread across the horizon. Tristram had taken the lead, and had shown us to a long thatched building. Chickens flapped and squawked as our horses followed a path to the wooden doors. I walked through mud and cow manure to avoid them.

  Tristram, David and Archibald dismounted first and led the horses into the building. Talan and Gareth helped Gawain down and carried him in. Bedivere and I didn’t make it inside. The second we were off our horses we fell into each other, quickly making use of a conveniently placed stack of hay.

  We came up for air. Our heads had to be placed at an awkward angle for kissing because of my tender nose, but once we stopped, I could gaze into Bedivere’s lime-green eyes and forget myself, just for a moment.

  “I’ll need to apologise to Tristram,” I whispered, stroking Bedivere’s lips with my fingers.

  “May I ask why?”

  “He warned me about Morgana, and I didn’t believe him.”

  “Did the witch hurt you?”

  “She had a good try.”

  Bedivere’s fingers were on my face, gently tracing the cuts sliced into my skin by her magical miniature Ddraig.

  “I need to apologise to you too, Bedivere. For what I did to you at Solsbury Hill.”

  “I should have told you, my love,” he whispered, as he teased my bottom lip with his mouth. “I feared losing you. I was a fool.”

  “David said you…you were to marry Fleur.” The words were large and dry and became lodged in my throat as I tried to say them.

  “Lady Fleur and I are no longer matched,” said Bedivere gravely. “Sir Archibald rides with us to avenge his kin once Arthur is free to reign once more.”

  I sat up with a start.

  “Are you telling me that Archibald has challenged you to a fight because you’ve dumped his sister?”

  “It is customary for the brother of a forsaken maiden to challenge the one who has dishonoured her.”

  “But you haven’t dishonoured her.”

  “It is different here, Natasha.”

  “So exactly how are you supposed to fight?” I asked, squeezing his hand.

  “Joust or duel,” replied Bedivere. “Sir Archibald will decide.”

  “It won’t be to the death though?” I cried. I wouldn’t lose him, not this way. I would give Bedivere up if it meant keeping him alive.

  Bedivere shrugged, and placed both hands behind his head as he stretched back. His tunic had risen up, displaying a gap of pale white skin across his taut stomach. My lungs contracted sharply. I wanted to kiss his skin so badly.

  “Did you not wish for my death, Natasha? Back in the gardens of the monastery?”

  “I didn’t mean it literally.”

  “Your words were truer than any ever spoken to me, m’lady. Your knee is a formidable enemy for sure. Such pain I have never known.”

  “And I’ve said I’m sorry,” I replied testily, “but I had just found out that you were engaged to some other girl, and then my brother sends me a letter saying to trust you. If Arthur had been there I would have kicked him in the balls as well.”

  Bedivere’s hand reached out and lingered along my bruised chin.

  “Your words are a constant mystery to me,” he said softly, “but I am willing to spend the rest of my days discovering their meaning.”

  I bent down, angled my head and kissed him again. My hands went exploring across his stomach. He moaned and my mouth reacted, pressing down harder as his fingers threaded through my hair. My words were a mystery but his were like poetry. I knew at some point I would start to lose track of the days spent in this land, but I felt like I had known Bedivere for a lifetime and more. Something was connecting us. I had been here before. I had been with Bedivere before. We were soul mates. Something time, life or death couldn’t destroy – not now, not ever.

  “I love you, Bedivere,” I whispered, my lips still touching his.

  “And I love you, my Natasha,” he murmured back. “With the breath of my body and every beat of my heart, I will love you until the end of days.”

  There are some dates in our history that remain inked into a person’s memory: birthdays, deathdays, events that are tragic, and some that mean everything.

  I knew that this day would become one of mine.

  Bedivere was gentle, and yet it still hurt. Not in a bad way, definitely not, but I wanted it to finish quickly. I had read the leaflets in the horrible sex education classes and so I was prepared – kind of.

  But this was still a big deal for me, and I wanted to remem
ber the date. Time had become confused, though, and had blurred into one mass. I was starting to forget my place in time. So this day that meant everything, had no date. It was just another dawn, competing in time with a million more. When I explained this to Bedivere, he smiled.

  “I have seen nineteen harsh winters, Natasha. I do not need to know the date of the first frost, or the date of the final thaw, to know they were cold. The same can be said for my heart. It is yours now, truly and wholly. The date of ownership is of little relevance.”

  I briefly thought back to Arthur’s letter. My brother had criminally awful taste in girls, but his choice in men was world class.

  What a damn shame Arthur wasn’t gay.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Camelot

  I had pictured Camelot in my mind from the very beginning. I had imagined a grand castle adorned with turrets, set on a grassy hill and surrounded by a murky-looking moat. Colourful flags would flap in the breeze, as the sound of song and laughter filtered through the wind. A medieval Disney-meets-Glee mash-up.

  The reality was more beautiful and terrible than anything my overactive imagination had concocted.

  Camelot was set on a hill, but the sides of the towering mound had been excavated away and lined with stone, so it looked like a giant rock dais rising out of the earth. I had also been expecting the castle to be made from the same pale stonework that had been used to build Caerleon and the other buildings we had passed on our journey from Wales. Yet Camelot was black and glossy, like every piece of stone had been coated in thick tar after being laid. It made it look magical, but not in a fluffy rabbit-out-of-the-hat kind of way. This was dark and dangerous. The kind of magic that would gouge the eyes out of your baby rabbit. There were no flags on poles either. Instead, the towering walls were lined with spikes. Several were topped with what looked to be deflating balloons. The whole structure was colossal in size, with towers on top of towers, like layers of a wedding cake that had been covered in glistening black icing. I shuddered as goose pimples appeared all over my body.