Camelot & Vine (22 page)

The Tor of Ynys Witrin glowed pink in the
west, sponging up the sunlight. Maybe the life of a priestess would
be more suitable for me than the life of a wizard. I lacked faith
in gods and goddesses, though I had a better chance of finding that
than I did of finding magical powers. I was beginning to think I
needed both.

-----

Our route took us straight north, leading
west of where I’d originally landed instead of directly to the
spot. To maintain secrecy we avoided roads and towns, using paths
that were all but overgrown. At times we created our own path,
single file, our shoes brushing the high grass. Late in the day we
entered untraveled woods so thick our legs scraped moss off the
trees as we picked our way through.

My movie riding experience had consisted of
short takes for the camera. Never before had I been on horseback
long enough for the ache in my behind to surpass merely
uncomfortable and become downright painful. I tried leaning forward
to take the weight off my posterior, but there was nothing else to
sit on but my own derriere.

To make things worse, Lancelot and his
menacing cousin rode near me all day. It was to be expected, as
Lancelot was Arthur’s close confederate. Although Lynet’s
announcement that I’d saved Elaine and Galahad had delighted King
Arthur, it had served to make Lancelot like me less, and he wasn’t
much enamored of me to begin with. When Arthur’s attention was
elsewhere, Lyonel found opportunities to casually sideswipe Lucy
with his horse, or to steer around and cut me off in front. He even
tried “accidentally” reining right up to Lucy’s hindquarters. Any
other mount would have thrown me, but being a rental horse, Lucy
was accustomed to trail riding and comfortable with other horses
nudging at her personal parts.

Lancelot found ways not to notice. He
occupied himself in conversation with King Arthur. He rode behind
to check on his men. He examined the trees. I wondered if he’d put
Lyonel up to it, but I couldn’t know.

We found no clearing, nor did we need one. A
stream was sufficient, with tender shoots growing alongside for the
horses to munch on. At midday we came to a place in the forest
where the trees stood straight and sparse enough to ride two and
three abreast, though there was no path. When Bedwyr called a halt
to eat I was overjoyed, though my thighs were so stiff I
embarrassed myself with a clumsy dismount.

I found a place far from Lyonel and Lancelot
where I could sit in peace and eat my hard, dry bread and dry, hard
meat.

“Sit over here, Lyonel!” called a
soldier.

“If I wanted to hear from an ass, I would
fart.” This got Lyonel a big laugh. “He thinks he’s Caius, keeping
everyone organized.”

“You mean Gassius Assius?” Gareth’s response
got an even bigger laugh, which Lyonel didn’t seem to mind.

They continued roasting Cai with fart jokes,
most of which I’d heard in Hollywood if not junior high. I moved
off to find a private place to pee. “Don’t leave without me,” I
told Bedwyr, tapping his shoulder as I slipped into the trees. He
winked a crinkly-cornered eye at me.

I walked away from the warriors, keeping the
stream beside me so as not to get lost. At a distance from the men
I stopped. Kneeling at the shore I cupped my hands and drank. Then
I drank more. I’d been avoiding the well water, and as much as I
liked wine and mead it surprised me how delicious the stream water
tasted.

The forest’s quiet quenched a different
thirst. Before coming to Cadebir I’d been accustomed to being
alone. As much as I liked my role in the camp’s small spotlight I
sometimes felt the need to snatch minutes for myself. It was
especially true after being dogged all morning by Lyonel.

My shoes crunched the bits of leaves and
dirt that made up the forest floor. My palms read the texture of
each tree I passed, this one rough and so hard a hammer wouldn’t
dent it, this one smooth, with bark that came away like candy
wrappers and smelled of gin. I slowed my stride and listened.

Something large splashed in the stream. A
thick trunk served as a good blind for peeking, and there I hid. A
man sat on the bank in shadow, his back to me. To get closer I
stole from tree to tree, taking time to place my steps for
silence.

King Arthur sat cross-legged on the shore, a
pile of stones arranged in a circle beside him. He took up a stone,
held it in both hands and spoke to it. Then he closed his hands
over it, thought for a moment and tossed the stone into the stream.
He selected another rock and repeated the ritual.

I didn’t want to disturb him, but I’d never
seen this ring of stones thing before and I wanted to hear what he
said to the rocks. I tiptoed closer to watch from behind the
nearest tree. Hugging the trunk as close as I could, I leaned
forward to listen.

With a sudden pounce, he leapt behind me and
drew his knife against my neck.

I believe I said, “Whup!” I had never
experienced a choke hold before.

King Arthur let go. I stumbled to a fallen
log and sat to catch my breath while he laughed, loud and long.

“I hope you’re a better wizard than you are
a spy.” He sheathed his knife.

“Me too.”

“It’s rude, you know, to listen to my
prayers.”

“I didn’t know you were praying, Sire.”

“But you knew you were spying.”

“Yes.”

“Never do that,” he said, suddenly angry. “I
might have slit your throat.”

“Yes, Sire.”

He calmed his temper with a deep breath. “I
prayed to the gods for victory.”

“Not...God?”

“Bah. The people may worship as they choose,
but I pray the old way. There may be some good in this new god. But
the ancient rituals have muscle. They give me power to reach across
the centuries and touch my ancestors.”

He sat beside me. The dead log had been
lying there so long it didn’t move with his weight. The king’s
forehead wrinkled and his lips opened and closed while he reached
inside himself to come up with the words he wanted. “We were once a
wild people of poetry and art. Every tribe had a bard. Magic lived
in the forest.” He looked to the treetops, remembering. “That is my
disappearing world. I am but a remnant of it. That is why you mean
so much to me. You are proof that magic lives in the future.”

He stood and offered his hand.

It was my chance to tell him the truth. It
was wrong to lead him on any further. But the truth would break his
heart. And he would kill me.

I let him help me to my feet.

“Sire, my magic is nothing.”

“It’s everything,” he said. “You’ve returned
my hope to me.”

-----

King Arthur reined Llamrai to a stop,
sniffed the air and smiled. The sky, soft gray in the forest’s
diffuse light, was beginning to darken to a cooler blue. The stream
we’d been following, full from the previous week’s rain, bubbled
nearby, and the ground was soft with decaying leaves.

The king sent the order back along the line
to dismount and make camp. I slid down from Lucy’s saddle and fell.
After riding all day, my legs were too wobbly to hold me. Maybe
some of the men saw but no one said anything. I had righted myself
and was picking leaves off my tunic by the time Bedwyr found his
way to Arthur.

“Bedwyr. Good, good,” said the king to his
sergeant. “Medraut will camp to one side of me and Lancelot to the
other. They may tent with what companions they will. The others may
suit themselves.”

Bedwyr nodded and strode off to carry out
the king’s orders.

“Keeping close your best men or your
enemies, Sire?” I asked.

“To do both is wise.” He tossed me a heavy
rope and indicated with his chin. “Do as they do.”

Across the clearing, Gareth and Agravain
tied a rope taut between two trees at about chest height. They
threw a blanket over it and tied down the ends. In minutes they had
a tent.

After watching the brothers for my
instructions, I found a likely tree and wrapped the rope around it,
fumbling. The rope's thick fibers splintered my fingertips and I
couldn't tie it tightly enough to make it stay.

“Have you never tied a rope?” The king
watched me, arms folded across his chest.

“I haven’t done much camping, Sire.”

“That’s the weakest knot I’ve ever seen.” He
smiled, almost flirtatiously. “I’ll tie the knots. You get a
blanket from Bedwyr’s cart. He should have saved a large one for
me.”

I felt my cheeks blush hot. I liked the way
he smiled at me. I smiled back.

-----

Medraut and Pawly offered to hunt for our
dinner but Bedwyr had already sent Hew, the soldier from the wall,
and the red-haired boy who’d driven my cart the first day. Instead,
Bedwyr ordered Medraut and Pawly to gather dry brush for camp
fires, fires Arthur allowed because we were still far enough west
not to alert the enemy.

Sixteen men and one woman settled in as
night rested on the forest. I felt safe as long as I stayed near
the king. The tall trees surrounding our campground hid from view a
forest as yet untrammeled by the likes of us. Tomorrow we’d push
further in. For the night, the men stayed by the fires, perhaps as
much in need of a safety anchor as I was. Animals crept near but
not too, clicking and chirping outside our periphery.

Bedwyr, a good supply sergeant in any
century, had brought extra blankets. I used one to cushion my sore
behind. The small creatures we roasted were a welcome change from
our dry lunch. We sat in a circle around the fire and picked at
their sides, leaning across the flames at our peril to pluck a
piece with a knife or grab with blistering fingers.

“I will tell you nothing of my strategy,”
said King Arthur when asked, his voice low so only those nearest us
could hear him over the crackling fire. “You will await
orders.”

“But Sire...” Lancelot’s mouth was full.

“I do this for your safety, friends. This
way if there’s a spy among us, as well there could be, our plans
cannot be leaked to the enemy, because I’m the only one who knows
them.” The king leaned across me to spear another piece of
bird.

“I think it’s ingenious, father,” said
Medraut, wiping his sleek chin. “How many of the enemy do you think
we’ll find?”

“Not as many as on the River Douglas,” said
Bedwyr.

“Thank the gods for that!” Gareth laughed
out loud.

“Quiet, cousin,” said the king. “Let’s not
alert the entire woods to our presence.” Gareth covered his
mouth.

“How many did you take on at the River
Douglas, Bedwyr?” asked Hew.

“Thousand.”

“No!” The red-haired boy gaped in awe. I
reminded myself to ask his name as soon as I got the
opportunity.

“It wasn’t a thousand,” said Sagramore.
“Perhaps eight hundred.”

“Eight hundred, then,” said Bedwyr, flipping
a blond braid over his shoulder, “and we had not five hundred men.
It was slaughter.” He let the word hang in the clearing like an
overripe plum, dangling from a bough. “They hadn’t a chance.”

Everyone laughed, covering their mouths to
suppress their noise.

“They’d need more than double to best King
Arthur’s men.”

“Saxon bodies
everywhere
.”

“The river ran red!”

“Lancelot’s army was there, too,” said the
king. “You haven’t seen Lancelot fight, have you, Hew?”

“No, your majesty.” The young soldier
flushed, suddenly awkward, leading me to think he’d never before
been addressed directly by the king. I knew that warm feeling of
being singled out by his majesty.

“Watch him when we meet our enemy. Watch
your back first, son, but when you can, learn from the greatest
fighter I’ve ever known.”

Arthur and Lancelot shared a look of mutual
admiration, maybe even of love. I recognized my reaction:
jealousy.

“I follow the greatest leader Britain has
ever had,” said Lancelot. “That is enough to make any man
great.”

“Hear, hear.” The men raised their flasks
and drank a solemn toast. I drank, too.

“Now, off to sleep,” said the king. “We’ve
another day’s ride tomorrow, and I want all of you to be as good as
Lancelot when we fight.”

In a shuffle of leather and clink of knives,
the men picked up their blankets and saddles and moved off.
Lancelot and Arthur lingered, sipping from their flasks. My flask,
issued from the supply wagon, held stream water.

Bedwyr tossed dirt on the fire. “What about
the lady, Sire?”

“Hmm?”

“Where shall Mistress Casey sleep?”

“In my tent, of course.”

My stomach took a leap and refused to land.
I reminded myself the king thought of me as his protector and would
keep me close.

“Yes, Sire,” said Bedwyr, keeping his
reaction to himself.

Lancelot corked his flask.

-----

I squatted behind a bush, away from camp in
the black woods but close enough to keep the fire in view. I was
less fearful of the unknown among the blue-black trees than I was
of what awaited me in King Arthur’s tent.

What did the king expect of me? Was sex
required? What if I didn’t want to give it? I had sworn off married
men. Could I refuse King Arthur?

What if I didn’t want to refuse?

My mouth hadn’t had the benefit of toothpick
or mint since the night before. My most recent bath was a distant
memory. It wouldn’t do to remove my clothes so near to camp. But if
I stayed with the water I wouldn’t get lost. I hiked up my tunic
and underdress, and waded along the edge of the cold stream,
following it as deep into the woods as I dared. My passing made
little waves on the shore, and sent small-footed creatures
skittering. Their noises crawled across my skin and made me jumpy.
I told myself not to fear. I could brave a mouse or two to be clean
for the king.