Camelot & Vine (13 page)

He laughed. “Did they mistake my name as
well? What did you call Medraut? Morbid?”

“Mordred. They call you Merlin, but I’m
pretty sure it’s you.”

“Close enough. So?”

“Sorcerer, poet. Some say you live
backwards, getting younger. There’s one that says a sorceress
imprisons you inside a tree.”

“Is she pretty?” He wriggled his eyebrows,
making me laugh.

“I don’t think she’d manage it if she
weren’t. You’d better look out for her.”

“I will, most certainly.”

“You should already know who she is. The
legends say you can see the future.”

“Hah! Now that you’re here, that’s
true.”

“Would these be the barracks?” We were
passing the buildings along the sunken path near the gate.

“Avoid them,” said Myrddin, “unless you take
delight in drinking and fighting.”

“Where do the king and queen live?”

“Their private quarters are above Arthur’s
office.”

I'd seen the ladder. It couldn’t be much of
a place up there. Considering the size of the office, the royal
bedroom was merely an attic. “Do they—Guinevere and Lancelot—do
they know their crime is punishable by death?”

“Shh! Of course they do.”

Arm in arm, we strolled out of the northeast
gate, the one through which I’d entered as a prisoner my first day.
The guards were not the least bit surreptitious about observing our
progress to the top of the zig-zag path. Several yards below us on
the hillside, servants filled jugs at a wellspring, their voices
wafting our way.

If there was such a thing as safety in that
land, perhaps it could be had at Cadebir. King Arthur’s stronghold
stood at the highest point for miles. One couldn’t approach it
without being spotted. Two riders on the road far below were easy
to see, dark against white stone. Any ruler would have chosen the
hill, being able to tame the countryside by virtue of living above
it. The city of a thousand tents smoked and seethed in the
southeast, an adjunct to Cadebir Town with its huts and merchants.
In the northwest, across the shimmering marshes, one prominent hill
rose above smaller ones like the back of an enormous, sleeping
beast.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“That is Ynys Witrin,” said Myrddin, “the
Tor. A settlement of priestesses lives there. Women of the old
ways.”

“Druids?”

“Not that old.”

The last sliver of sun gleamed metallic on
the marshes. I shivered.

“It’s almost time to dine,” said
Myrddin.

I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. There had
been no mention of lunch. We turned to re-enter the gate.

Far to our left, in the shade of the wall, a
couple tiptoed in the grass on the topmost rampart, their arms
around each other. I could barely make them out in the fading
light.

“Isn’t that—?” I stopped myself when I
recognized Lancelot. With him was the dark-haired beauty I’d
watched him undress with his eyes outside the hall a couple of days
before. The pair disappeared into a thick copse of trees.

Myrddin tugged my arm. “You don’t see a
thing,” he said.

SEVENTEEN

Two rows of fiery torches lit the pathway to
the hall. Myrddin and I stood beyond the light, watching the crowd
file in. My stomach burned with nervous dread, as though I were
about to enter a Hollywood party where I didn’t know anyone, and
knowing who was who meant everything. But all parties were like
that. I had long been in the habit of keeping to myself. To have
friends one had to reveal bits of one’s self, and my bits were best
not revealed.

“I have a gift for you.”

Myrddin drew from his sleeve a small, golden
scabbard about eight inches long, etched with intertwined symbols I
couldn’t read. He offered it on his extended palm. The bone-handled
knife I drew from it had a shiny, black blade—uneven, imperfect.
Not like something you’d buy in the housewares department. Not a
knife like a thousand other knives.

It stopped my breath for a moment. “It’s
beautiful. Thank you.” I hooked the scabbard to my belt.

“You’re welcome. It was made right here at
Cadebir,” Myrddin bragged, “although the gold was imported from
Dolaucothi. Keep it with you. At dinner, watch what I do with mine.
Actually, eh, watch somebody else. Watch a lady. Watch the queen.
Ready?”

“No.”

His black eyes shone. “You will appear to be
ready, even so.”

I thought about how a defecting sorcerer
would act in the hall of Britain’s king. Grateful for amnesty but
confident, sure of her power. I threw back my shoulders, lifted my
chin and hoped I was up to it. Saxon wizard was a more challenging
role than Mrs. Gone had ever been.

Most of the crowd had already gone inside. I
wiped sweat from my forehead with my sleeve. Myrddin frowned,
giving me a final appraisal. “Posture’s good,” he said, speaking
over the noise that wafted to us from inside. “Chin down. No need
to frown. That’s better.” He offered his arm.

My heart thudded.

“Please don’t grip so hard.”

“Sorry.”

Up the aisle of torches we walked at a regal
pace, agonizingly slow. Three or four yards felt like a mile.
Finally, we stepped into the hall.

Torches blazed in sconces along the walls. A
fire glowed in the pit. It illuminated the crowded cavern with
jagged edges, and blackened the shadows by contrast. The smoke that
stung my eyes smelled of burning oil and cooked meat. For a second,
the dinner conversation of a hundred and fifty tribal voices
assaulted my ears. Then all eyes turned to us and the noise
stopped.

Myrddin patted my hand, which reminded me to
stand up straight, and we stepped down two stairs into the shadows.
Except for the occasional burp from the benches, the swish of our
clothing was the only sound.

Soldiers, chieftains and the intermittent
lady stared, having stopped mid-sentence or -sip, making no attempt
to hide what felt to me like rudeness. Here and there a glint of
earring or bracelet flickered in firelight as men and women turned
to gape at me, unmindful of the dribbles on their chins. Only the
skinny dogs continued their arguments over bones in the corners of
the hall.

How did movie stars stand such scrutiny? It
made me squirm. But Myrddin was determined not to rush. I focused
on the head table on its raised platform opposite the door, and we
proceeded down the center aisle. Four men I didn’t recognize sat at
one end of the table, their expressions arrested between smiles and
frowns. The two empty seats at the middle were presumably reserved
for the king and queen. At the other side of the royal chairs sat
Lancelot and Elaine, Lancelot smiling politely at me and Elaine
looking back and forth between us, blinking. Two more empty chairs
waited at Elaine’s side.

Myrddin and I headed for those. We skirted
the fire pit and stepped onto the platform, passing a wide-eyed boy
who stood in the corner, clutching a zither-like instrument to his
chest. Myrddin pulled out a splintery chair for me to sit beside
Elaine, who granted me a shy smile. Then, to my delight, Myrddin
glared at the crowd and made a sudden shooing gesture, startling
the gawkers. Like flighty pigeons, they turned quickly away, and
conversation began to buzz.

“Play your instrument, young man,” Myrddin
said to the boy. The terrified lad strummed with all his might.
Myrddin took his seat at my side.

Almost immediately a chair scooted, then
others. Myrddin stood again. Everyone did, so I did, too.

King Arthur entered from his quarters with
Guinevere, his petite, dark-haired queen. It was indeed she who had
peeked at Lancelot from around the side of the hall. It was she I’d
seen with him on the rampart. Now she aimed her adoring gaze at the
king. She was dressed all in white, the better to set off her
coffee-colored hair, pink cheeks and pale skin. She was barely
eighteen, but it was more than age that made her King Arthur’s
opposite. She was a rose, he was a bludgeon. Yet he held her hand
as though holding the sweetest bud, and the pang of jealousy that
heated my throat came to me as a surprise.

-----

Because Guinevere was seated on the king’s
far side where I caught only the occasional glimpse of her, I used
Elaine as my exemplar of table manners. She ate methodically,
spearing each morsel of stew with her delicate knife, then lifting
it to her pouty lips. She and Lancelot stared over the assembly and
conversed in rare, quiet snippets.

I watched Lynet’s example as well. Seated
between Gareth and Agravain at the table just below ours, she drank
mead and joked with the men, obviously comfortable being the lone
female in her group. Gareth flirted with her, though their
playfulness only seemed to make Agravain quieter. Medraut and Pawly
huddled at the same table, Pawly relishing Medraut’s every word.
Everyone was arms to elbows, thighs to knees, packed in on the
benches and shouting in close conversation.

When Lancelot leaned back or King Arthur
stood to greet someone I caught an occasional glimpse of Guinevere.
It was obvious why both men found her captivating. Chatting with
her husband’s guests, her white tunic bright in the firelight, she
was an oasis of poise in the chaos of the hall. Her expression was
open, as though she absorbed everything without judging. When her
companions spoke she listened, rather than pretending to appear to
listen. When servants came to replenish platters she looked them in
the eye and thanked them. They responded with familiarity,
comfortable with her.

My plate, which Myrddin called a trencher,
was a square piece of wood with a little trough carved around the
edges to capture drippings. Myrddin and I got into a brief
discussion about the qualities of wood. I thought to tell him it
was the wrong material for dinnerware because the wood’s porous
quality made it a good place for germs to proliferate, but I was in
over my head. Germs were just one more subject I couldn’t fully
explain. If I started talking about them Myrddin would ask
questions I couldn’t answer, and if I allowed myself to think about
them I’d never get enough to eat.

I ate slowly, awkward with the knife. The
leeks and root vegetables were over-spiced but the meat, whatever
it was, was delicious and full-flavored. I was pleasantly surprised
by the wine, which was stronger than wines I was accustomed to. As
I emptied my goblet a servant appeared and filled it again. When I
followed the queen’s example and thanked him, I caught Guinevere
watching me with that open expression of hers. She stood, plucked
up her goblet and glided across the platform to stand beside me.
Elaine and Myrddin rose to their feet as she arrived, so I did,
too.

“Oh not so formal. Please sit. Good evening,
Myrddin. Hello Elaine, sweet. Mistress Casey, at last I’ve an
opportunity to welcome you. We’re so grateful you’ve chosen to be
with us.”

She held out her graceful hand. I wasn’t
sure what to do with it but I hadn’t seen anyone kiss it, so I took
it and bowed my head a little. The ring she wore was a smaller
version of the king’s, with the etching of Stonehenge on its
face.

“I’m grateful to be here, your majesty.”

“I trust everything is to your liking?” she
swept her arm sideways, presenting the table with goblet in
hand.

“It’s all delicious, thanks.” I raised my
glass. “Good wine.”

She lowered her alto voice. “Arthur gave
orders to the kitchen to show off. For the other guests, too, but
mostly for you.” Louder, she said, “Sorry we don’t have our usual
bard, but war makes everything difficult.”

“Well, I am impres—”

“I’ve never met a lady wizard before,” said
Guinevere. “It's exciting. don't you think so, Elaine?”

“Mmmhmm.”

Guinevere rested her hand on Elaine’s
shoulder. “The midwife has spells, but it’s not the same, is
it?”

I didn’t know if it was or not. I glanced
Myrddin’s way for help, but his attention was on his food. “There
may be some crossover.”

“Perhaps you’ll be of assistance when Elaine
has her baby.”

“I don’t think—”

“Will you be casting protection spells over
the fort?”

“Uh, no.”

“Good.” She smiled, revealing straight
teeth, another thing that made her stand out. “I wouldn’t want to
be fenced in. I like to go to Cadebir Town from time to time.”

“Or to stroll on the ramparts, my lady, as
you did this afternoon?”

The voice came from the table below us.

Guinevere spilled her wine.

Medraut continued, fending off Pawly’s elbow
from his skinny ribs. “Pawly and I observed you and your friend as
we rode in from town.” Lancelot began to rise from his chair but
changed his mind. Medraut ignored him and gazed sweetly up at the
queen.

Shouts arose from the opposite corner of the
hall, where two Belgic soldiers began to argue about something
unintelligible. Their drunken friends egged them on to fight.
People backed away to make space. Like water, everything in the
room shifted, pressing on everything else.

Pawly wriggled on the bench beside Medraut.
Across from him, Agravain watched Lancelot, waiting. Most of the
others at their table were concentrating on the fight, but Lynet
and Gareth, glancing side to side, only pretended not to listen to
what was happening at our table. I wondered if others might be
doing the same. The chieftains on the king’s opposite side gossiped
among themselves, peering occasionally at the queen.

The king had heard. “Take care, Medraut,” he
warned over the noise. While the fight began to rage in the corner,
the king and his son glared at each other. The queen’s face could
not have been more pink. Tension froze the high table into
silence.

“Strolling is healthy for women,” I said.
The authority in my voice surprised me.