Camelot & Vine (36 page)

Inexplicably, Arthur poured vinegar on his
meal. “The ring’s been in my family for as long as anyone
remembers. I’ve never seen another one ‘til yours.” He wiped his
hands with his napkin, pulled his bifocals from his shirt pocket
and lifted my hand to examine Guinevere’s ring. “Yours is exactly
the same only smaller, as though they were made to be companions.
Sorry.” He returned my hand to where he’d found it. “I assume you
bought it in England?”

I swallowed. “It was sort of a gift.”

“Sort of? From whom?”

I sat there with my ears ringing, wanting to
tell him, but not wanting to tell him, how I got Guinevere’s
ring.

Arthur shook his head. “That was prying.
Sorry.”

“No.”

“It was. Mind you, not all my questions are
prying, but that one was.”

He picked up his glass and, resisting the
urge to ask more questions, dabbed his napkin at the puddle it left
behind. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him with my story and even
if I could, I didn’t know how to begin. Is there a good way to tell
someone you went back in time without making him think you’re nuts?
I took another bite of fish. I hadn’t had much salt in a while and
my mouth watered indecently. I gulped my water and splashed a
little onto my shirt. I couldn’t find my napkin.

“This must be difficult,” Arthur said,
breaking the silence. “Your holiday marred by an accident and now
all these questions.” He toyed with his—King Arthur’s—ring. “At
least I assume you’re on holiday. Or do you intend to stay?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“You must have come to Small Common for a
reason. As opposed to London, for example.”

To lose myself. “It’s funny. I meant to
visit King Arthur sites.”

“Why is that funny?”

“I guess I got sidetracked.”

“Well, I’m your man. I’m his namesake.”

“Of course you are.”

“Where would you like to go?”

Having the pleasure of Arthur’s company
beyond lunch was an appealing prospect. “Is there a hill?”

“Lots of hills.”

“Big one. Flat.”

“That would be Cadbury Castle.”

My breath went shallow. “That’s it.”

“It’s said to have been Camelot.”

“There was no Camelot.”

“Not much of a King Arthur fan, are you? All
facts and no fantasy.”

“I’m more interested in the history, what
really happened.”

“Fine. But we must stop at the stables
first. They’ve agreed not to press charges if you settle the rental
fee and pay for the farrier.”

“What charges?”

His eyebrows went up. “Horse theft, my
lady.”

“Oh.”

He leaned forward, with an expression of
curiosity rather than accusation, and whispered again, “How
did
you get the horse inside the fence at Stonehenge?”

“I don’t remember.” I wasn’t going to tell
him there was no fence when I got there.

He was sympathetic. “Is it a total
blank?”

“I rented Lucy. It started to rain. Your car
came along, I remember that. Then lightning. I think that’s what
frightened Lucy. Then I don’t remember anything ‘til the hospital.”
My voice wavered on the lie.

Bellorham leaned back against the leather
seat. His upper lip curled with a hint of mischief. “A month is a
long time,” he said. “It’ll come back to you.”

-----

Lucy thrust her long, gray neck out of the
stable window and neighed.

I hopped from the car and limped over to
kiss her velvet muzzle. She knew me, all right, and I knew by the
way she nibbled my hair that she was happy to see me. I wished she
could talk. I wondered if she was as confused as I was and if she
missed Llamrai as much as I missed my friends.

“You’ve bonded with that horse, haven’t
you?” said Arthur.

“Yeah.”

“It’s as though you’ve been through a trauma
with her.”

“Maybe I have.”

The livery owner was happy to see me but for
different reasons than everyone else’s. I paid with a credit card,
which suited him. Outside I kissed Lucy again and promised to visit
her, knowing I’d keep the promise.

Arthur and I settled into his car once more.
We turned south onto Old Wigley Road, the same winding road Lucy
and I had taken a month before. “There’s where my car almost hit
you,” said Arthur, as we approached an intersection where a gravel
road met up with the paving alongside a row of bushes. There was
indeed a gap in the bushes. I craned my neck to look back as we
passed. On one side of the bushes, a gravel road. On the other
side, a plowed field.

I tried to recognize landmarks but
everything goes by faster in a car than it does on horseback. The
sixth century woods where I’d landed must have been just past the
bushes in that field. Britons and Saxons had fought and died there.
King Arthur had stood on that very ground. But barns and hedgerows
tamed it now and I couldn’t be sure.

We stopped in the town of Warminster because
Warminster had a shoe store, and “You can’t climb a hill in those
sorry excuses for footwear.” I was in a hurry to see Cadebir so I
bought the first pair of comfortable walking shoes that fit. Arthur
said he’d never known a woman to buy shoes in such haste, and I
said I hadn’t either.

-----

Cadbury Hill dominated the landscape more
like a sagging, green layer cake than the proud battleship it had
once appeared to be. Where the ramparts had been imposing long ago,
they were now overgrown with trees and grass. But it was Cadebir,
and the sight of it in the distance simultaneously inflated and
punctured me.

Other than the location it occupied at the
foot of Cadbury Hill, the town of South Cadbury didn’t resemble
Cadebir Town in the least. The village marketed its English charm,
not to Disneyland proportions, but with tourist accommodations and
an inn called The Camelot. No soldier lurked, no chimney smoked.
Tourists in running shoes and shorts roamed the sunlit streets
snapping pictures of rose gardens, ancient walls and old
churches.

Arthur parked beyond a church at the south
end of town. We followed a shaded path up a mild slope and climbed
some steps to a gate in a stone wall, where a sign declared we were
about to enter “Castle Lane Leading to Camelot Fort.” Castle Lane
led straight up the hill without zig-zagging. Nor was it as steep
as I remembered. Fifteen hundred years of marching feet and erosion
had cut it deep. Trees towered above us and we walked in their
canyon of roots.

Minutes before, I’d been eager; now I
dragged my feet in my new leather walking shoes, afraid to arrive
at the top, afraid of how different the hill fort would be. My
heart bounced like a ball in a box, picking up momentum every time
it hit the sides. I stopped to breathe away the dizziness. Arthur
held my arm.

“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”

“I just need a minute.”

I tried to focus on him. The irony that I
approached Cadebir fort with a possible descendant of Arthur
himself was not lost on me. But this man wasn’t King Arthur. He
looked the same, but something about him was fundamentally
different from the king I had loved. I wondered if Bellorham felt
connected to the place or if I just wanted him to.

We went on. The top wasn’t far. When we
crested it, Arthur waited, sensing I needed to take it in.

Everything was gone.

Nothing remained of the gate where I’d first
entered the fort, or if it did, the guard house rested under years
of earth. No hall, no barn, no barracks, no wall. Summer’s sweet
air replaced the smoke of the smithy.

Yet traces remained if I allowed myself to
see them. The once dusty path that led up to the promontory had
given over to wild, green grass on a mild slope. Even the wall
could be imagined in the gentle berm around the hilltop. A few
people walked the perimeter, looking out over the countryside and
taking pictures. A big, white dog followed along behind a young
couple holding hands.

“We can see the ramparts best on the south
side,” said Arthur. “Too many trees on the north. Watch your
step.”

He touched my good arm to guide me along the
top of the berm, clockwise toward the south. My friends and I had
made a habit of walking in the other direction. The smooth ground
along the east side remained even where the breach had been, only
two nights before. Where once there had been a copse, few trees
grew; we strolled past it to the south wall and stood with the
pasture at our backs.

“There,” said Arthur. “The locals brag about
this view.”

The southern ramparts were in good shape,
their tiers more defined than those we’d seen on our approach from
the north. Arthur walked on and I followed slowly until I had to
stop. Squinting, I looked out across the years. Guinevere and I had
stood near this spot when, in our first private conversation, she’d
told me that everything I could see, including herself, belonged to
King Arthur. A country village sprouted where the road to her
childhood home had once cut through the king’s southwestern
territory.

“You’re not impressed?” Arthur stood
watching me, tossing a small rock from palm to palm.
I hadn’t
spoken since we’d arrived on the hilltop. If I opened my mouth I’d
cry. “Mmhmm.”

“Such unbridled enthusiasm,” he teased. “I
think you should rest. Not much shade here, I’m afraid. I’ll help
you down.”

He started down the berm and reached after
to help me. I gave him my hand, stepping carefully down the
slippery grass of the inside slope.

“There’s a bench just over here.”

My weariness surprised me. Perhaps the
concussion had weakened me, or maybe I was worn out from the ordeal
of two days before—if it had happened. I twisted Guinevere’s ring
on my finger to be sure it was still there.

“We’ll sit here until you’re rested. Perhaps
this trip could have waited a day or two. That is, if you’re
staying.”

“I have to stay, don’t I?” I said, taking a
seat on the bench.

“Why so?”

“To answer charges, I guess.”

“I don’t mind telling you I’m a very good
lawyer,” said Arthur, sitting beside me. “I wouldn’t be surprised
if we can take care of it all through email and a few memos.”

That was a relief. “I should mention I’m
unemployed.”

“There’s no fee.”

“So, you’re not a real lawyer?”

He laughed loud and full. “No—I mean yes.
But I feel responsible.” He tossed the rock into the grass and
placed his hands on his hips as if to scold. “And damn it, I want
to know how you got that horse inside Stonehenge.” He was
flirting.

“Are you married?” I had never asked such a
forward question. I’d never cared before. It embarrassed me
immediately, but I had to know before I flirted back.

He was undaunted. “Not anymore. She cheated.
Rather put me off. You?”

“Single, so far.”

“Remarkable.” He grinned.

I grinned back.

What was it that made him so different from
the king besides the clothes, the haircut and the shave? He was
physically the same, but this man was not King Arthur. I liked him
enough to know I wanted at least to be his friend. I wouldn’t lie
to him—that much I’d learned—but I couldn’t bring myself to tell
him how Lucy and I had gotten inside that fence. I lowered my eyes.
He didn’t push it.

“Rested? Come on then, there’s more.” We
stood. He didn’t seem to think it at all strange to take my hand to
lead me. It made me self-conscious.

“There was a dig in the late ‘60s. Some
archaeologists tore the place up. They found a massive gate over
here.”

The southwest gate had indeed been
impressive. Now it appeared as a depression in the berm, with a
view out over the village. A path led down the hill where once the
wider road had led to Guinevere’s childhood home. Trees overgrew
the western slope, but where dense woods had once sheltered
Myrddin’s compound, a plowed field lay open to the sky as if a
deep, unknowable forest had never existed there. Myrddin might
never have existed, either, to scold me or teach me or help me back
across the Gap, or to wonder if his batteries had saved my
life.

“The bulk of the dig happened up there.”
Arthur released my hand to hike to the higher ground of the
promontory. I remembered the rise as loftier. Arthur climbed to the
plateau, folded his arms across his chest and watched my slow
approach. An afternoon breeze lifted his hair from his temples.
“Somewhere up here they found remnants of a great hall. I’m not
sure exactly where, but it was toward this end of the hill. They
didn’t dig everywhere.”

He was standing where King Arthur had stood
beside his desk two days before. I shuffled through the grass in
the hall where Agravain had leapt for Medraut’s throat, a battle
had ignited and lives, once interwoven, had begun to unravel. Two
days before, there had been a kitchen, a barracks, a barn and an
imposing wall. Below, army camps had carpeted the plains. Two days
before, my friends had lived there, and an Arthur I’d loved who
didn’t love me. Two days before, I’d cowered in my little hut,
right over there. I had crouched in the dark and made a fake Casey.
I’d left her behind and run away, because I had to.

Arthur was talking.

“...essentially, though, it was their
horsemanship that enabled them to resist the Saxons as long as they
did.”

“Stirrups.”

“It’s possible. But there’s no proof they
had them.”

“They had them.”

“What’s your source?”

“My...?”

“How do you know they had stirrups?”

My chin quivered. “I guess I don’t.” I
blinked back a tear, but it was too late.

“Cassandra, I’m sorry.”

I tried unsuccessfully to stifle a sob. The
wind was picking up. I should have brought a sweater.

Careful of my sling, Arthur put his arm
around me. “It’s only stirrups.”