Camelot & Vine (17 page)

“What are they working on?”

-----

We followed the previous day’s walking route
with fewer stops, covering only about half the circumference of the
fort. Down the slope to the north wall we went, up the ladderway by
the oubliette (they, graceful; me, clumsy), along the perimeter
with the view of the Tor, around the corner above Myrddin’s woods,
through the southwest gate with a quick stop to flirt. Then we
continued above the stream to the break in the southern wall where
we climbed down and walked by the slaves at their labor. I couldn’t
help but watch as they bent to their sorrow, though I was ashamed
to look.

“They’d do the same to us if they could,”
the queen said.

It would have been nice to give her a speech
about tolerance and freedom, but it was her century, not mine. And
I knew she was right. I’d seen the fighting in the woods.

We didn’t see Lyonel at the barn again. Nor
did Guinevere make excuses to part with us there. Instead, she
accompanied Lynet and me to the well. We found Elaine snoozing, one
foot in the water and one on the dirt, while her women sloshed
pants and shirts against the stones.

“Let’s not disturb her,” whispered
Lynet.

But Elaine woke, eyes bleary. “How was the
walk?”

I dipped my hands in the well to run wet
fingers through my hair. I’d already gone days without a shower.
Water soothed my scalp.

Guinevere sat beside Elaine and put an arm
around her. “We missed you at breakfast. We’re going further today.
Casey wants to see the men at work.”

Even the washing women laughed.

“Why, Casey?” Elaine asked. “It’s not
interesting at all. Though I wish I could go.”

“Take the path,” said Lynet. “Meet us on the
other side of the yard.”

“No, I’m tired. I might go in for a
nap.”

I thought that was a good idea. Elaine
looked pale.

“You should,” said Guinevere, stroking
Elaine’s hair. “You need your rest for the baby.”

“But the work—”

“I’ll see to it.”

Guinevere was queen; the others let her have
what she took. But the love in her touch was genuine, and the trust
in Elaine’s eyes was real. Lynet’s protective gaze hovered over not
one or the other, but both.

-----

I stepped onto the wall from the ladderway,
and looked out over the makeshift tent city that spread below us
across the plains south of Cadebir Town. Smoke rose from campfires,
browning the clear air. It seemed the tent village had grown since
my arrival. Without fog or mist, the morning left nothing but
distance and imagination for the number of tents to disappear
into.

“How are you going to get past the armies if
you go to town?” I asked the queen as she and Lynet topped the
ladderway.

“They won’t stop me,” said Guinevere. “When
I go down the hill, those below will assume I have permission from
the guards. Visiting armies have no authority over Arthur’s
men.”

“So many tents,” I mused.

“We must be prepared,” said the queen.

“Do we expect a Saxon attack?”

“No. We expect to attack the Saxons.” The
queen’s lip curled with a touch of bravado. She and Lynet marched
away from the gate to the west.

The Saxons I’d seen were no one I wanted to
see again, whether we were the attackers or they. What if Myrddin
didn’t figure out how to send me back to the twenty-first century
before the war started? What if he did? My friends would be left
behind to fight. There had to be a third choice.

“Why do you stay here?” I asked, trotting to
catch up. “Why aren’t you at the coast where it’s safe?”

“At the coast we risk being attacked from
the water.” Guinevere slowed her pace, then stopped. “Here at least
we’re with our men.”

“Nowhere is safe, Casey.” Lynet smiled and
took my hand.

Guinevere must have taken my surprise for
something else. “It’s not your fault,” she said, her earlier
coolness forgotten. She held my other hand and we walked.

The breeze blew our hair from our cheeks.
Inside the wall, men worked on the finishing touches of thatch on a
new building below us. Outside the fort, a tiny bird soared along
the ramparts, then flitted off to the north to disappear above the
secret, forlorn marshes. I couldn’t remember ever having done
anything as recklessly girlish as holding hands with Guinevere and
Lynet. Though to them it was an everyday gesture, I felt silly and
elated.

At first I didn’t notice the chaotic shouts,
but soon the roar drowned out the camp’s constant undercurrent of
banging and clanking. We stopped and looked over a broad, dirt yard
bordered on two sides by a wooden fence and on the third by the
wall where we stood. A viewing stand enclosed the fourth side,
creating a pit in which a hundred bare-chested men pushed and
banged and bloodied each other, fighting and shouting, or throwing
their arms around each other and laughing as if this were the most
delightful way to spend a sunny morning.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ve seen the work. Let’s
go help Elaine.”

But Guinevere had already begun to glide
down the ladderway near the viewing stand and, without hesitating,
Lynet skipped after her. The volume of the melee below diminished
when fierce fighters took notice of the feminine intrusion. I
attempted my entrance with a wizard’s poise but finally had to hold
onto the sides and descend backwards into the pit. I bumped into
Lyonel at the bottom.

“I beg your pardon, Mistress Casey,” he
said. The man could not speak without sounding like he was
insinuating something snide, evil, or lewd.

“No, it’s my fault.”

He bowed and took my hand in his huge paw to
kiss it, looking up at me with bedroom eyes. “A pleasure to see you
again.” I wondered if he’d received his scar in battle or from a
lady defending herself.

“Casey, more stairs!” Guinevere called from
the viewing stand. I pulled my hand away from Lyonel’s grip and
trotted after the queen, following her up a short flight to where
King Arthur sat under a thatched awning, flanked by Bedwyr and
Sagramore.

Guinevere climbed to the bench behind her
husband and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “Good morning, my
love.”

He patted her hand. But like a coach on game
day, his attention never left the fighting field. Bedwyr, too, was
riveted. Behind them, King Cadwy, King Owain and the other visiting
chieftains appeared to be placing bets.

Sagramore blushed and made way for us to
pass. “How fares the Lady Elaine today?” I detected mint on his
breath.

“She’s only tired,” said Lynet, “she’ll
deliver soon.”

“Arthur,” Guinevere adjusted her tunic
around her, “Casey wants to know what the men do all day.”

Like his wolf-dog, the king cocked his head
at me. “Do you?” He patted the bench beside him and I took my
seat.

Was it none of my business? “I’m interested
in the work. Of protection.” It was a lie; I found the spectacle
unpleasant to say the least.

“Square on, Pawly!” shouted Lynet, making
the queen laugh.

By the fence, which bore evidence of
recurring violence, Medraut and Pawly made impotent slices at each
other with short, broad swords, drawing blood but stopping short of
stabbing. Directly before us Gareth and Agravain pounded away with
their fists, hitting hard enough to bruise the family flesh.
Agravain struck a blow to his brother’s stomach and Gareth doubled
over laughing, earning cheers from the ladies. Agravain helped his
brother to his feet and they went at it again, this time hitting
harder. Blood dripped from their lips.

“Tell me what you think of our exercises,”
said King Arthur.

I attempted to be diplomatic. “To my people,
Your Grace, it’s strange for brothers and friends to fight each
other.”

“One wants a sparring partner one can
trust.”

“But they’re having fun.”

“Oh, it’s great sport.” He watched me,
assessing my distress. “Mistress Casey, you and I have seen some
years.”

I wasn’t sure I liked that.

“We’re in no need of speed. But these young
men want action and plenty of it, in one form or another. For now I
can offer them only the one.” He grinned. “Perhaps you’ve noticed
the lack of ladies in the camp. Fighting prepares the men for
battle. Makes them strong.” He looked out over the field. “It also
occupies them.”

Lancelot and Lyonel had removed their shirts
and were putting on a cable TV wrestling show. Lancelot slung his
cousin across his back like a mink stole and modeled him for the
crowd, many of whom interrupted their workout to cheer. But Lyonel,
a worthy opponent, reached down and grabbed Lancelot’s leg,
toppling them both in a heap of sinew.

The ladies screamed with delight. I glanced
at my lap.

“You don’t like it?”

A direct no to his majesty was too bold.
“It’s not to my taste, Your Grace.”

“If you’re to protect me in battle you’ll
see much more violence than this.”

“Does there have to be a battle?”

“Most likely. Although,” enthusiasm warmed
his voice, “you give me hope that it might be a massacre in our
favor.”

“Yay.”

“When you brought your saddle to me—eh,
instead of taking it to your Saxon leaders—you gave us an
advantage.”

“I did?”

“The stirrups. They give a soldier height
when he wants it. They add leverage to his stroke. Thanks to you,
we shall be unbeatable.”

“Didn’t the Romans have stirrups?”

“Perhaps. They didn’t leave us
everything.”

Beyond King Arthur’s shoulder I saw
Guinevere give a little smile to someone on the field. The king
caught the automatic movement in my eyes. He looked to Lancelot,
who returned the queen’s gaze.

I tried to distract him. “I’m glad I brought
the stirrups to you, Your Grace. I would have brought them to no
one else.”

King Arthur stared at the field, breathing
hard. Guinevere and Lancelot must have been very certain of his
protection. At the moment I thought that unwise.

TWENTY-ONE

I felt sorry for King Arthur, though I
didn’t think he’d want me to. My father had experienced the same
thing—my mother cheating on him right under his nose—and I’d felt
sorry for him, too. At least Guinevere didn’t flaunt her
relationship with Lancelot, she just wasn’t any good at hiding it.
My mom made no attempts to be discreet. She did the opposite. When
I was about ten, at a family barbecue hosted by the head of the
history department, Mom flirted with the graduate students so
outrageously it embarrassed not only me but the students, most of
whom left early. But the one who stayed had his hands full behind
the garage and everyone in the history department knew it except my
dad, who didn’t notice, or at least pretended he didn’t. And that’s
just one example.

In her way, I think my mom was trying to get
my dad’s attention. There was an endless supply of grad students
and faculty parties, and Mom kept repeating her experiments,
expecting different results. Dad continued to ignore her. I wished
she would lie and I hated her for flaunting her affairs, if you
could call them that. Maybe I should have hated my dad. Instead I
felt sorry for him because she cheated. Kids don’t understand these
things.

Whatever feelings my father had about my
mother’s dalliances he kept to himself. He was a smoldering, quiet
drunk. At age nine or ten I didn’t know enough to notice. I was
accustomed to his smell of scotch and smoke and sadness. But about
a year before he died it sank into my adolescent psyche that our
family life was all her truth and his denial. What I didn’t know
was how to make either of them happy.

I wasn’t naturally outgoing, but
entertaining my parents got their minds off their misery and got me
some attention. I was inferior at throwing the ball in gym and my
short attention span wouldn’t accommodate math, but I found a place
in arts and letters. So everything I learned in history class
became a performance at home. And screw the facts. I went for
drama. I was the Roman army, advancing across the ancient northern
Africa of our living room. I was Joan of Arc, getting too close to
the fireplace in my religious fervor. I was Henry the Eighth and
his six wives, not to mention all three of his heirs, chopping off
lampshade heads while my dad cheered me on.

When he passed out I was Ulysses S. Grant’s
cleaning lady. I stashed the bottle in the pantry, noting how much
less it contained than it had earlier in the evening. I washed his
glass and returned it to the cabinet. In winter months I put a
blanket over him and he slept in his chair. Mom slept in their bed
on the nights she was home. None of us ever talked about it.

TWENTY-TWO

I welcomed Myrddin’s summons. I was glad to
get off the hill, if only for an afternoon. Cadebir boiled with
secrets, some of which I knew, and every person there was a bubble
I was afraid I’d pop.

Though clouds loomed beyond the forest, it
was still sunny in the east when Myrddin’s mute, brunet page rode
up to meet me and Lucy at the bottom of the hill. We followed him
and his horse into the woods, enjoying the quiet noise of hooves on
the path, creatures in the underbrush, and unseen life deep among
the trees. When we came upon the ancient stelae that marked the
entrance to the compound, I left Lucy with the page, confident of
his care. I found my way to the stairs, making my precipitous way
down to the dell. My soft shoes padded along the dirt path I’d
followed the first day, leading me among high trees, then low huts.
Wild chickens pecked for bugs along the path, ignoring my
passing.

The garden appeared, misted in cloud. There,
where lavender and yarrow shared space with foxglove and deadly
nightshade, where sun, rain and Myrddin’s gardener joined together
to do their best work, where a small bench waited for an exile to
take her place, I was beginning to feel at home. I slowed my pace
to cross to Myrddin’s hut, allowing my fingertips to drag along the
tops of the herbs and stir their scents into the moist air. I
thought to sit on the bench for a time, but a summons was a
summons.