Camelot & Vine (28 page)

We remained on the bench with a space of
quiet between us, a quiet punctuated only by the blacksmith’s
hammer, until Cai and his helpers returned carrying a stretcher and
muttering about logistics. I silently thanked Cai for having the
respect to bring the priest. Even simple, squirmy Pawly deserved a
blessing.

-----

Arthur left when Cai’s men came. I stayed to
think things through. I had long suspected Guin and Lance met for
their trysts somewhere in the barn, taking romance where they could
get it even if that meant making love on a pile of straw amid
smells of animal and human industry. Apparently Medraut suspected
something similar but not exactly the same—not in the barn, but
near it. This I guessed because he’d been searching the copse
outside the wall when Pawly was killed. I also guessed the killer
had seen Pawly get too close to the lovers’ hiding place.

Outside the wall, Medraut had heard
something. He must have hurried around through the gate and arrived
at the paddock too late to save Pawly, but not too late to
interrupt the murderer. Otherwise why would the killer have left
the body in the open, so easy to find?

Had Medraut and Pawly found the hiding place
without realizing it? From my seat on the bench I searched the
paddock’s wide space of black earth, muddled by hooves and muddied
by rain. Beyond the smithy to my right, the ground opened to the
southeast corner of the pasture. In the opposite direction, a log
fence separated the paddock from the main path and the northeast
gate, with its guard shack and potential witnesses. Directly behind
me, the barn might have held a hiding place. But Medraut and Pawly
didn’t think so, and they’d gotten close.

Yet I saw nothing but dirt, wall and
vines.

Maybe the trysting place was beyond the
wall. I’d seen the lovers enter the copse when Myrddin had toured
me around the hilltop that early day at Cadebir. But Medraut had
been searching there, and he wasn’t the murder victim.

Maybe the hiding place was between copse and
paddock. On the wall. Or in it.

I’d never walked that part of the wall. On
our morning walks we climbed down the ladderway at the construction
site and walked around the pasture to the gate, never traversing
the section behind the barn. The wall was made up of stones and
dirt below and the timber walk above. But what if a breach hid
under that walk, behind those vines? Such a spot lay open on the
south wall, where the slaves worked. It was possible.

The one person who would know was Sagramore.
The barn and paddock were his domain. Where was he? No one had
remarked on his absence, making me wonder if he was a suspect.

But I suspected Lancelot. Lancelot had
threatened me. He could as easily have threatened Sagramore.
Keep the secret or die
.

With that thought I saw Sagramore’s
perpetual sadness in a new light. Pawly’s murder was proof that
Lancelot was capable of making good on his word.

I had to find Sagramore.

When Cai and his men carried the body away I
went with them. I didn’t know what I was going to do with the
swatch of white cloth I’d put in my pack, but I thought it might
come in handy.

THIRTY-SEVEN

No fire burned in the workroom’s fire pit.
Laundry and mending lay untouched in piles on the floor, like
bodies after a battle. When I backed away from the window the
scruffy dogs scattered behind me, barking and yipping.

In the kitchen, the workers were as busy as
the flies. Carcasses for the evening meal dangled from the ceiling
like bloody chandeliers.

“She’s with Agravain,” said Heulwen, when I
asked about Lynet. “They’re guarding Gareth’s spirit. You won’t see
her ‘til after they’ve put him in the ground this afternoon.”

“Guarding his spirit?”

Heulwen frowned as though I’d uttered a non
sequitur, then shook her head. “Ah. Sometimes I forget you’re a
Saxon. It’s what we do. Gareth’s spirit will not be left alone ‘til
he’s safely in the ground.”

“A good custom. Are Elaine and Guin with
them?”

“I suppose the queen’s there. Elaine’s
gone.” Heulwen pounded a heap of brown dough, sending up clouds of
flour. “Her husband thought it best. A woman with a babe’s no use
‘round here.”

I noted her sarcasm. “Where’d she go?”

“The coast. Tintagel.” Heulwen flipped the
dough. “She and Galahad will be safe there.”

Tintagel. The poster I'd seen, so long ago.
The luxurious castle Lynet had mentioned. The coast might not be so
bad. “It must be a dangerous trip for a lady and a baby.”

“She has an escort.” Heulwen’s strong hands
rolled the bread. “Sagramore will see her safely to the castle.”
Her cheeks went red.

“Well. At least that went right.”

“Aye,” said Heulwen, winking. “It’s high
time something went right for Elaine.”

-----

Alone in my hut I combed my hair with my
fingers, pulled it back from my temples, and tied it with the
ribbon Elaine had given me. I chose the blue tunic, hoping it would
set off the color of my eyes. Perhaps there would be a chance to
speak to the king that night, when he was full of roasted meat and
wine.

I reached for the bracelet Lynet had given
me and saw on the table a plain, red clay bowl that hadn’t been
there before. It was just a bowl, but even mundane items were
scarce at Cadebir. The queen must have secured it. A gift in
exchange for a potion.

At a restaurant in North Hollywood, a
certain salad on the menu was said to make a woman fertile. I’d
always avoided that salad and ordered the individual pizza instead.
I couldn’t remember the ingredients, except lettuce.

I scooped up the loose bills and coins I’d
left on the table and put them in the bowl.

Myrddin said there was no pregnancy potion.
That was the truth I would tell Guinevere.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Night poured down on the mead hall like a
hard rain. Smoke drifted from the fire pit, seeking escape through
the clerestory windows. Finding comfort in their numbers, warlord
kings, soldiers of rank and a few women crowded into the hall to
fete Gareth. They would stay late, fortifying themselves against
events foreseeable and unforeseeable, with glass after glass of
mead.

I steered my trencher out from under a bird
that perched in the rafters, waiting to swoop at the scraps.
Agravain, Lynet, Medraut and Guinevere were late. Perhaps they’d
stayed long over the grave. King Arthur had been at the burial,
too, yet he managed to be present at his nephew’s funeral feast.
Lynet and Agravain could be excused in their grief. Medraut might
be too humiliated to show up. But it was bad form for the queen not
to be prompt. Drinking wine and more wine, the king watched the
doors for her, brooding.

I thought his anxiety unnecessary until I
considered who else was missing. Where once Lynet had brought order
to the masculine chaos of her group, only shadows flickered at the
empty corner table. Hew now sat across from Bedwyr, his slim
shoulders hunched where Sagramore’s broad back had once blocked my
view. The tables at the rear, where the Belgic soldiers feasted and
drank, were sparsely populated with fewer than a dozen men, who had
remained at Cadebir instead of returning to Poste Perdu to await
the festival of Calan Awst. Among them sat Lyonel, hulking over his
mead.

Myrddin was still at Ynys Witrin. Besides
his and Guinevere’s, two other chairs sat empty at the king’s
table. I knew where Elaine had gone. But there was no reason for
Lancelot not to be there.

Before I could trap myself in worries, a
murmur arose near the door. I sought Guinevere’s white tunic in the
shadows. Instead, a man I didn’t recognize strode into the hall
under the flicker of torchlight, followed by Agravain and Lynet. If
the man’s confident entry hadn’t made him stand out his height
would have done so, as would the mud on his boots and on the hem of
his black robe. His dark hair hung loose to his shoulders. When he
strode down the center aisle toward King Arthur, Lyonel and the
other Belgae stood and drew their knives. Arthur’s men greeted the
stranger warmly and Lyonel's gang sat again, but the mood of the
crowd remained wary.

King Arthur stood, opening his arms in
welcome. “Forgive my surprise, Gaheris. How could you have known to
be here so quickly? Join me and drink to your brother on this sad
day.”

The resemblance was there, in the dark hair
and dark eyes. The stranger was one of the brothers Gareth had
bragged about, come to see his kindred king.

Gaheris skirted the fire pit and knelt
before King Arthur with a swift motion more insistent than
beseeching. “Sire, it’s by accident that I’ve arrived in time for
my brother’s funeral feast. Only hours sooner I’d have seen him
laid in the ground.”

“You are welcome in any case,” said Arthur.
He glanced at Lynet. She looked as though she’d fall into a heap if
Agravain were to ease his grip on her. But like a second backbone,
he held her up. “Come,” said the king. “Take some food.”

“I’m on a different errand, Sire.” Gaheris
rose, but made no move toward the table. He lowered his eyes from
the challenge but his urgency could not obey. “I’ve brought my army
because you have not sent yours. Why have you not responded to my
brother Gawain’s request?”

The king stiffened. “I’ve had no word from
Gawain.”

“He sent a messenger at the last full moon,
Sire. Did the man not arrive? Saxons gather in the north. Gawain
needs your armies to help to hold them off. He hasn’t supplies for
a siege. His stores are low after the fires.”

Agravain’s body straightened to alert.

“No messenger has been here,” said King
Arthur. “I know of no fires.”

No one moved. King Arthur took his seat one
muscle at a time, taking short breaths through his nose.

“Sire. Two granaries went up in flames at
Beran Byrig last month.” Gaheris spoke more gently, in response to
the king’s shock. “Gawain sent to you for help, but when he could
wait no longer he got a dispatch to me at Essa. I’m only stopping
on my way.”

Agravain screwed up his nose like he smelled
something rotten. Something about the story seemed wrong to me,
too.

“Sire—” said Agravain.

“I’ve caught them!”

Agravain whirled around.

Medraut charged into the hall, shouting,
“I’ve caught them in the immoral act!”

Benches toppled at the back of the room,
setting the dogs to barking. A torch clattered from the wall and
someone stomped out the fire. Medraut shoved his way through the
hall, pushing people aside. Half a dozen soldiers followed him.
Hanging their heads and shuffling their feet, they herded two
glassy-eyed prisoners. Guinevere and Lancelot were leashed like
dogs, with leather collars around their necks and hands tied behind
their backs. They stared at the floor like criminals, which was
what they were.

The king shot from his chair, overturning
it. “Seize him!” Every soldier in the hall rose to his feet if he
wasn’t standing already. I stood, too, instinctively wanting to
reach out for Guinevere. One by one, King Arthur’s men drew their
weapons. Outnumbered as they were, Lancelot’s warriors drew as
well, ready to fight. Lyonel puffed out his chest, daring someone,
anyone, to start it. No one knew whom to seize until the king said,
“Seize my son!”

Bedwyr was close enough to grab Medraut’s
arms and strong enough to hold on. Medraut wriggled and cried out
his innocence. “What’s to hold me for? I’ve brought the traitors
before you!”

“Peace!” said the king. “Put away your
weapons, all of you!” He waited for his order to be followed. No
one wanted to be first. It was a standoff until Gaheris sheathed
his knife with a flourish. Agravain, who had shielded Lynet behind
him, followed. Then the others quickly put up their weapons. Lyonel
held out until last, finally stowing his blade with ostentatious
deliberation.

“Now,” said King Arthur, “We shall rule with
law, not swords.” All eyes turned to the king when he shouted,
“Medraut! I accuse you of the murder of Pawly. You used your friend
as bait to trap these innocents and when that failed, you killed
him.”

“These are no innocents, father.” Medraut
writhed in Bedwyr’s clutches, more to express himself than to
attempt freedom. He pointed his chin accusingly at Guinevere and
Lancelot. “They are lovers. I caught them together. Lancelot killed
Pawly to prevent him from discovering their hiding place. Who else
is strong enough to kill a man with his bare hands? When I
suspected he and the queen were together—on Gareth’s funeral day of
all days, Sire!—I took these soldiers with me to protect my life.
They’re witnesses to the lovers’ treason.”

Lancelot’s shirt hung open, an apparent
admittance of guilt. Guinevere’s white underdress was torn at the
hem where I knew it would be. Surrounded, the two of them stared at
the floor. No one said a word. A servant girl bit her lip to stop
tears. A soldier hung his head and sighed. Lancelot and Guinevere
had lied to them all.

“Proof,” King Arthur demanded.

“If the testimony of these witnesses and
your own son is not enough,” Medraut sniffled, “ask your friend
Mistress Casey for proof. I saw her take it from the barnyard and
put it in her pack.”

Everyone inched forward.

I hadn’t made a plan for the scrap of white
cloth. I thought no one had seen me pluck it from the vines. I
thought its destiny would be my choice. I figured I’d show it to
the king when I finally got to tell him everything. Or I’d give it
to Lancelot, to prove I meant him no harm. Or I wouldn’t show it to
anyone.

“Reveal it.” Arthur’s expression was
unreadable. Low flame and shadow flickered across his eyes.