Camelot & Vine (23 page)

I tiptoed to where the stream burbled away
from the dim campsite into absolute darkness that sounded like
water caressing rocks, creatures crawling in mud, and gods of the
ancient, wild unknown whispering in a language long forgotten.
There, the forest canopy broke and revealed a sliver of moon. No
rabbit or deer or fiercer creature appeared in the thick of trees,
though their scurryings betrayed their presence. I climbed the
bank, removed my clothes, and draped everything over a branch.
Naked, shivering, and with mud squishing between my toes, I hurried
to hang my shoes, high up because I didn’t want to find spiders and
mice in them later, hurrying because I didn’t want the king to
worry and send someone to find me.

The water was cold but I forced myself in,
wading to the center of the cold stream where I was able to stand
but it was deep enough to swim. The water lapped quietly against
the banks with a soft
fwap, fwap
. I stood, shivering, and
listened to so much animal activity in the underbrush I wondered if
I’d ever be able to sleep in the tent. But I was too nervous to
sleep.

I held my breath and went under. No sight.
Muffled bubbles and groaning brook, no animal scratchings or tiny
footfalls, my senses altered for the cold, rapturous instant of
fresh water flowing through dirty hair. I stayed under as long as I
could, and came up with a gasp.

“...wonder if barbarians make the mating
like we do.”

I knew Lyonel’s voice, stilted with that
stiff, Gallic accent. He was close. I wiped the water from my eyes
and made a frantic search but couldn’t find him. I could see the
dim outline of my clothes where I’d left them hanging on the
branch.

A splash. The furtive movements in the
underbrush had stopped.

“It is an odd question.” Lancelot’s voice
came from further downstream. I didn’t know whether to be relieved
or more terrified.

“But aha!” said the nearer voice. “Here is a
Saxon. I shall ask her.”

Lyonel’s voice came from between me and my
clothes, but I couldn’t see him in the dark. I didn’t like the idea
of returning to camp naked and besides, conditions looked bad for
my getaway.

The water moved and I heard Lancelot swim
toward me. He emerged from the woods with head and shoulders white
against the black murk of the stream. What I had thought was a
boulder became Lyonel when he stood, not ten feet from me. The
water didn’t quite cover all his pubic hair and the triangle of his
pelvis glistened wet. “Tell us, Casey,” he said, his eyes hot
beyond flirting. “How does a Saxon woman, a wizard, mate? Do you
have magic to please a man?”

“Of course not,” I said, outrage beating my
heart as much as fear. “We’re all the same.”

“Oh? Will you test that tonight?”

Lancelot, still mostly submerged, said,
“Cover yourself, cousin. You are rude.” When Lyonel did not obey
him, he went on. “Perhaps she is not a wizard. She takes well to
the water.”

My teeth chattered. I glanced past Lyonel’s
shoulder at my clothes.

“Don’t worry, Casey,” said Lancelot, “no one
will touch you. You are the king’s property.”

I stared at him, more shocked than
afraid.

“You have done service to me and my family.
I would not allow even Lyonel to hurt you under any circumstances,
except those you and I have discussed.”

“Which—?”

“Do you not recall? I must make myself more
clear.” His voice was calm, sweet. “Pose a danger to my king or my
country and I will kill you.”

I remembered. By a different stream on a
different day, he had threatened something like that.

“Get your clothing.”

I stayed in the water.

“Turn away, Lyonel.”

The two faced away, Lancelot still submerged
and Lyonel standing, brashly naked in the frigid stream.

THIRTY

King Arthur knelt at the edge of a circlet
of embers outside his tent. Otherwise, the camp was dark.

“I almost sent Bedwyr to find you.”

“I wanted a bath.”

“It’s cold. Come in under the blanket.”

I stooped under the rope. No fancy traveling
pavilion for the king; the space was the size of a pup tent, with
barely enough room for the two of us. King Arthur crawled in behind
me.

“Here, face this way.”

Clumsy, I scooted and bumped. It was
impossible to lie next to the king without touching him, though I
tried. With Sagramore’s cloak to cover me I finally squirmed to
face the fire, lying on my stomach.

King Arthur rose on his elbows. “Do not
stray again without informing me. It’s your duty to stay close and
keep me safe.”

“Yes, Sire. I’m sorry.”

He picked dried leaves from the ground and
tossed them out of the tent into the fire, sending up sparks. “You
seem to like bathing. Is it popular in the future?”

“Where I come from it is, Sire.”

He faced me squarely, sizing me up. “Are you
truly from the future, Casey?”

I’d been at Cadebir three weeks and already
Los Angeles seemed not future but past. I pictured traffic backed
up in the Cahuenga Pass along the Hollywood Freeway, jets taking
off over the Pacific Ocean from LAX, and my iPod, for which I’d
never downloaded a note of music, hidden amidst the detritus of my
purse on a soft bed in a cozy B&B in an English village. “All
my memories before you are of someplace different,” I said. “It’s
the future. I’m pretty sure.”

“It must be fantastic.”

“It’s...busy.”

“What is this land like in the future—my
land?”

“I haven’t seen much of it. But there are
more people, more towns, more roads. It’s beautiful, though.”

“Peaceful? Prosperous?”

“Yes.”

“Who is king?”

“Uh, it’s a democratic government, elected
by the people. There’s a queen, but she’s not really in
charge.”

“A queen. How modern. And is it still called
Britain?”

When I’d said “England,” Myrddin had
bristled. “Britain. Yes. Or the United Kingdom.”

“Oh!” He threw his head back with a short,
incredulous laugh. “How many years in the future, did you say?”

“About fifteen hundred.”

He shook his head in cheerful disbelief. “I
must pray thanks to the gods. ‘United Kingdom.’” He let his smile
fade. “But your family must be worried about you.”

“I don’t think so, Sire. They’re not
expecting to hear from me any time soon.”

“You don’t live with them?”

“In my time it’s common for adults to live
on their own.”

“No husband, no lover?” His lips formed a
slight smile and the word “lover” at the same time.

An image of Mike and his cheekbones flitted
through my brain and was gone. “No one, Sire. I’m my own
master.”

His eyebrows went up.

“In my time, Sire.”

“Woman as her own master, and Britain with a
queen. The future is indeed strange.” King Arthur thought on that
while he gazed at the fire. “I wish...well. I feel awkward
asking.”

A rush started near my nose and worked its
way down my torso, through my groin and along my legs, not stopping
at my feet but turning around and heading up again, shaking me so
hard I was afraid King Arthur would see it in the dark.

“You can ask me anything, Sire.”

He threw a handful of dust on the embers,
dousing a corner of the fire. “I wish to speak of the legend.”

I gulped, glad he couldn’t see my
embarrassed blush. Lying beside him, awkward and speechless, was
like living in Hollywood, where stardom was always in reach. I’d
never known how to reach for it and I was terrified of what would
happen if I did. “I’m sorry I don’t remember the legends in detail,
Sire.”

“Do you recall anything I’ve left out,
anything I should do that the stories say I did?”

“They say you championed chivalry.”

“And that is...?”

“It meant the Knights of the Round
Table—your men—were merciful to the enemies they defeated. They
treated ladies with respect. They were nice to servants. Slaves,
too, maybe.”

“Sounds outlandish.”

“I guess. But that’s what the legend says.
And the table was an interesting idea. You and your most trusted
men supposedly sat at a round table so everyone was equal.”

“Hm. Equality for my allies and mercy for my
enemies. I wonder if you tell me these things because they’re true
or because you’re a Saxon spy?” He smiled, waiting for a
comeback.

The fire outside spat a spark that landed
close and made me jump. Having King Arthur’s smile to myself
unnerved me with pleasure. I had to look away.

His voice softened. “No. It’s truth you
bring, more directly than my ‘most trusted men’ would dare.” He
sighed and rolled onto his back. “Perhaps we can build a round
table during the winter, after we fight.”

He lay quiet for a time. I watched the
flames die, but he was still awake.

“Whom do the legends say are my ‘most
trusted men?’“

He needed to know that, maybe more than
anything else the legends had to say. I pictured the large print of
my storybook and wished I’d read further on the subject.

“I remember Bedwyr’s name, and Sagramore and
Kay. I’m guessing that’s Caius. Gareth and his brothers, I think.
I’m pretty sure. And Galahad.”

“And Lancelot?” He rolled onto his side,
bringing his face within inches of mine.

“He’s loyal to you, Sire, in all ways but
one.”

“Thank you. You’ve been discreet.” The
wrinkles at the corners of his eyes came as much from worry as from
years. “What about Medraut?”

“He sits at the Round Table, too, Sire.
But...” I wasn’t sure how to phrase it.

He waited. The honor of his trust inflated
me. It was my knowledge that made me valuable, not some imaginary
magic I wielded.

“Sire, the legends say Medraut is your
downfall. He must never have proof of Guinevere and Lancelot’s
affair.”

“I told you never to speak of it.”

“And I haven’t, Sire.”

“Not even to me.”

“But Sire, your life depends—”

“I’ll not hear it even whispered. There is
no proof.”

I hung my head. Why didn’t he have the
lovers arrested, or banish them? As soon as I thought the question
I knew the answer: because he loved them, because of his pride, and
because if his allies knew his wife was unfaithful it would damage
his PR and diminish his power. He was a king, but his position was
not unassailable.

He heaved the kind of sigh you heave when
you feel cornered into explaining. “I can force them not to see
each other,” he said, staring into the fire. “I cannot force them
not to love each other.”

The pang in his voice crumpled my heart. At
the same time it made me bold. I believed I understood him. This
was why he’d brought me along, why he’d tented with me, why I’d
braved the woods and Lancelot’s unruly cousin for a bath.

He allowed me to stroke his hand. His skin
was leather-tanned and rough.

“I am your property,” I said.

His breathing changed, deepened.

“We don’t do this where I come from,” I
continued, “—I mean, people don’t own people.” Too shy to face him,
I watched in firelight while my fingers moved across his skin. “But
I like you. So if you want to mate—”

He stopped my hand with his. “Casey. You’re
my wizard, not my woman.”

I looked up to his amused but compassionate
eyes. “Being king does not privilege me. Quite the opposite, it
restricts me. I must be better than the others.”

“I’m sorry. I misunderstood.” Feeling
patronized, I blinked away tears of embarrassment and stared down
as though my cloak were the most riveting thing in the tent.

“I’m sorry as well. I haven’t had so
tempting an offer in a long while.” With that mixed message he
released my hand, pulled his cloak up to his square, stubbled chin
and rolled over, turning his back to me.

The sensual warmth that had pulsed up and
down my legs was replaced by a rush of angry adrenaline. What sane
man turns down sex? No man I knew. Why did the king flirt with me
if he didn’t want me? It’s not like I was in love with him. He was
a sexist, for one thing, and his face was too square for my taste.
“Being king doesn’t privilege me.” What an evasion, what bull. He
was privileged enough to toy with me.

I huddled in my cloak and turned away.

I had never been so insulted in my life.

He was right.

He was right to turn me down.

With Lancelot and Lyonel out there in the
night, maybe even listening to our conversation, he had to be
prudent. And worse, Medraut, who, at least according to legend,
would prove lethal to King Arthur if he got hold of the least bit
of dangerous information.

But even if there were no danger of
discovery, King Arthur wouldn’t have made love to me. He would not
cheat on his wife. He was righteous, virtuous, a man of his time.
There was nothing wrong with King Arthur.

There was something wrong with me.

THIRTY-ONE

I awoke in darkness to the clank of metal
upon metal. Arthur was gone. I peeked out of the tent. Warriors
donned chain mail and hung helmets from their belts in the blue
pre-dawn.

Wrapping Sagramore’s cloak around me, I
shuffled to the supply wagon. Bedwyr saw me coming. “Didn’t bring
your magic hauberk?”

I’d left the chain mail sweater folded
neatly on top of my cargo pants beneath the bench in my hut. “I
guess I didn’t think of it.”

“I’ll see what I’ve got.” Bedwyr dug around
in the wagon and came up with a small pile of steel that turned out
to be a shirt of mail, probably made for a boy. He held it over my
head and dressed me like a little kid. The mail weighed so much it
was a chore to lift my limbs.

“I suspect you’ll need your arms,” said
Bedwyr.

“I’d better go without.”