Camelot & Vine (19 page)

My fakery had alleviated his fear. That made
me happy and a bit scared. I couldn’t protect him. Myrddin was
already onto me. So far the only thing I could think of to get out
of what I was getting into was to leave. But there were two things
wrong with that: I had nowhere to go and—yes, I had my answer—I
wanted to stay.

My walk had brought me above the exercise
yard. Any further would take me near the barracks, a dangerous
neighborhood for a woman alone at night. I turned back toward the
huts, to take the ladderway down and go home.

“Moonlight suits you, Mistress Casey.”

I jumped, not expecting the sentry to speak.
It was Lyonel, walking off his mead.

“Oh. Hello.”

“You sound less than happy to see me.”

“You surprised me.” I tried to move past
him.

He blocked my way, towering above me and
trapping me atop the wall between himself and the ladderway. “You
should not be here alone, mistress. You may be a wizard, but you
are also a woman.”

“I’m going that way.” I tried to look him in
the eye, to seem powerful, but I couldn’t.

“I will walk with you.”

“There’s no need.”

“I said, I will walk with you.”

He allowed me to pass, then placed his hand
on my shoulder and walked alongside me. I didn’t know if, under
Cadebir mores, I had somehow acquiesced to such familiarity or if
Lyonel took it without my granting it. I only knew I wanted to ask
the sentries for help but I wasn’t sure I was in danger.

“This is my stop,” I said brightly, when we
reached the top of the ladderway closest to the huts. “Thanks.”

I moved to get past him. He grabbed my waist
while reaching his big paw behind my head to pull me to him. I
stiffened, but he buried his face in my neck. His lips crawled
across my skin, squirming their way up my chin to my face.

With my hands against his chest, I pushed.
He was strong, as strong as the odor of alcohol on his breath. The
only way I was going to get out of his embrace was if he decided it
would be so.

“Let me go!” It was not a whisper, not a
yell. I spoke it plain and clear. “I don’t want you.”

He grunted and released me, staggering back
a step. I ran down the ladderway—not graceful, but not backward. I
made it to the ground without falling and took off running, only to
stumble and fall in the wet grass. Lyonel laughed, but he didn’t
follow me.

I pulled myself up and ran.

TWENTY-FIVE

“Casey, sit beside me. Lance, you don’t
mind, do you?” The king did not wait for an answer. He turned to
the servant to request more wine.

I thought Lancelot minded but he was too
polite to say so. I took up my trencher. Lancelot and Elaine stood,
both displaced by the inconvenience and embarrassment at what
amounted to a public demotion. Most people were too busy gorging
and drinking to notice, but Medraut’s eyebrows lifted like Roman
arches when we played our musical chairs at the head of the dining
hall.

King Arthur relaxed when I took the seat
next to him. He threw his arm around me. Guinevere, at his other
side, seemed to find it amusing.

“Casey, can you make my men invisible?” The
king's breath bordered on the Sagramore. Sometimes I thought he
drank entirely too much wine, and this was one of those times.

“Maybe one or two of them, Sire. Not the
whole army. It’s a very complicated process.” I touched the wound
on my forehead, where I’d run into the Saxon’s armor upon my
arrival.

“Of course, of course,” he said. “We’ll talk
about it when you’ve fully recovered. Soon, I hope.”

Cadwy leaned across Guinevere. “What if
Mistress Casey is invisible while you’re in battle? How will you
know where she is?”

“We shall have to come up with a signal,”
said King Arthur.

Guinevere laughed. “I suppose a wave of the
hand won’t do.”

“Perhaps a bird call,” said Owain, sloshing
his words.

“Tweet,” said King Arthur. “Can you do
that?”

I assured him I could, but if he couldn’t
distinguish me from a bird we weren’t getting anywhere. They
thought that was funny.

Lancelot picked at his food. The king
pretended not to notice, but his chattiness made me think he
enjoyed Lancelot’s displeasure.

I thought the seating change was only for
one night, but it stuck. After a day of sewing with Guinevere and
Lynet or making batteries with Myrddin, I’d arrive in the hall to
find the place between King Arthur and Lancelot reserved for me. It
was an uncomfortable spot, hot on one side, cold on the other.

Lancelot was never anything but polite. He’d
pull out my chair for me and see to it that the servants kept my
glass full. He’d retrieve a piece of bread I dropped and return it
to me. Not that I wanted it, but anyone else would have eaten
it.

Ordinarily, Lancelot didn’t speak to me
unless he had to, but the night Elaine didn’t come to dinner he
drank heavily, which made him drop his guard.

“Is Elaine all right?” I asked.

“She is not well,” he said. “The baby will
come at any moment. Lynet is with her.”

“Maybe we should get Myrddin.”

“For what purpose?”

“To help. With the baby.”

“Bringing babes is the work of women.”

“Is there someone here
who...specializes?”

He downed the rest of his wine and shrugged
as if he didn’t understand the question. “In the dell, yes. I know
only that I shall stay away until the baby is born. And I pray God
will give me a son.”

“Sure. Good.” There may be worse situations
for lectures on feminism, but I haven’t been in them.

Lancelot’s unaccustomed chattiness made me
nervous, especially coupled with his inebriation. When Guinevere
excused herself, the king gave me permission to leave as well. I
edged through the crowd of soldiers toward the front door. Gareth
shouted, “Goodnight, Casey!” Bedwyr and Sagramore gave a little
salute from their table near the fire.

Lyonel, lording it over the back of the hall
with his Belgae friends, had obviously experienced no embarrassment
over our encounter on the wall. “When will you drink with us,
Mistress Casey?” He pounded the table with his fist. His scar
glowed red from too much drink. “Come sit with me! Stay late for
once, eh? Why don’t you like me, Mistress Casey?”

I didn’t answer. Drinking with Lyonel would
be like drinking with Mr. Hyde. Fortunately there were several
tables between his and the door. I turned to go.

“Stay!” Lyonel roared out the order. The
hall hushed. He pounded the table harder and spilled his mead.

I turned back again, not knowing what to do.
The fear on my face must have looked like something else.

“Lyonel, she will put a hex on you!” said a
Belgae soldier nearby.

Then it was all laughter and yelling in
their Gallic tongue, and my chance to leave.

The torches still blazed outside the door. I
pulled one out of the ground to take with me, partly to light my
way and partly to brandish at anyone who bothered me, and started
down the path into the Cadebir night. Before I reached the huts I
heard footfalls behind me. Immediately, I whirled and
brandished.

“Mistress Casey!”

Medraut and his overfed shadow, Pawly,
appeared and disappeared in the light of the torch I swung.

“Sorry. I thought you were someone
else.”

“Lyonel, perhaps?” Medraut’s voice oozed
from between his lips like grease. “We thought you might like an
escort tonight, mistress.”

Something about their skulking was wrong,
though Medraut was too skinny for his violet breeches and Pawly was
so awkward I perceived no physical danger. “Are you guys gonna
protect me from Lyonel?”

“After one more glass of mead, Lyonel will
fall asleep with his face on his trencher,” said Medraut. “But
Lancelot will lie awake tonight, plotting his return to the king’s
side.” They fell into step on either side of me, Medraut slinking,
Pawly lumbering.

“Lancelot’s unhappy with me for taking his
spot next to the king.”

“Lancelot has a high opinion of himself. But
I’m happy my father has found a friend in you.”

It was my instinct not to take Medraut’s
offered arm. I switched the torch to my other hand.

The fuzz of Medraut’s mustache twisted over
his too-sweet smile. “I must admit, as much as I’d like to sit at
the king’s table, from below I’m better able to watch Lancelot as
he squirms.”

Pawly giggled.

“I don’t mean to take anyone’s place,” I
said.

“You’ve done right by my father.” Medraut
patted my arm, a touch I endured with discomfort. “You saved his
life. You deserve his recognition. Yet it must have been so
terribly difficult for you to kill a fellow Saxon. Did you know the
man? Was he a friend of yours? Or was he of a different tribe? Did
that matter?”

I didn’t like this twist of conversation.
“It mattered.”

“How did you know about the raid on my
father’s party?”

“You mean—”

“When you saved his life. How did you know
to find them near the Giant’s Ring?”

“Well, I—”

“Your magical perception. Of course. Well,
here we are. Good night, mistress.”

Medraut gave a deep, respectful bow. His
companion did a clumsy imitation and off they went.

I stood outside my hut holding my torch,
wondering if I had time to wait until the coincidence of full moon,
lightning and rain.

TWENTY-SIX

Birds chorused in the high branches above
Myrddin’s dell. Bugs strafed the flowers, seeking. While squatting
beside a basket to gather tinder at the edge of the pulsing woods,
I heard giggling on the path.

“Casey! I’m so glad you’re here,” Elaine
called from beyond the huts. With the aid of Heulwen and Drostan,
she hobbled along in high spirits. “I cannot see my feet!” she
said, launching herself into more giggles. Her laughter continued
until the next cramp.

“The baby’s coming,” said Lynet, catching up
at a trot and scaring the chickens off the path. She was taking the
situation seriously. “We need to find Beatha.”

“I saw her earlier,” I said, “she’s—”

“Just here.” The female orderly called from
where she stood in the doorway of the largest infirmary hut,
opening her arms. She squinted her elfin face into a smile.

“Is Guinevere coming?” I asked.

“She’s putting the cart in Myrddin’s barn.”
Lynet sighed. “The servants would’ve done it for her.”

Heulwen helped Elaine to the threshold,
where Beatha pulled the curtain aside.

“Thank you, Drostan,” Elaine chirped,
letting go of his arm. She and Heulwen disappeared into the hut,
leaving me outside with Beatha and Lynet. Drostan lumbered off to
the garden.

I wanted to follow him. “I’ll go tell
Lancelot.”

“He knows,” said Lynet.

“We’ll need a birthing spell,” said
Beatha.

“I’m not supposed to practice magic.”

Beatha’s forehead wrinkled. “What kind of
wizard doesn’t practice magic?”

“King Arthur’s orders,” I said.

She sighed, exasperated. “Then I’ll do it.
Men know nothing about bringing babies. In any case, Mistress
Casey, bring the herbs, if you will.” She tossed the curtain aside
and marched into the hut, calling, “Heulwen, water from the barrel,
please.” Within seconds Heulwen strong-armed the curtain, bustling
out of the hut and across the garden.

I didn’t know which herbs to bring. I leaned
against the outside of the hut. With the exception of the business
inside, the dell was quiet. It appeared to be empty, too.

A long, low “owoooh” came from the hut. It
filled the air then trailed off, leaving the dell empty of
sound.

“Oooh! Ow!”

Couldn’t they give her something for the
pain? Willow bark tea. Maybe that’s what Beatha meant. But she’d
spoken of a spell, not a painkiller. How often did women die in
childbirth in the Dark Ages? As often as not, was my guess. I’d
better find Myrddin.

I ran across the garden, disturbing the
rosemary and rousing its pungence. Heulwen rushed past me on her
return. I burst into Myrddin’s laboratory and found it empty. When
I ran out I climbed onto the bench to search the dell for him. The
garden, lush in summer fullness, simmered in the sun. No leaves
rustled. No bee buzzed in the lavender. Even the rosemary I’d
disturbed had settled into stillness. There was not an orderly in
sight. I had no idea what herbs Beatha needed. Myrddin grew a
hundred different ones for his medicines and experiments. The old
man had vacated the dell. I was on my own.

“Do you want to know about it?”

Drostan squatted beside the bench, huge and
squinting. I should have known he’d be there. He was a constant
presence in the garden unless Myrddin needed him to move something
large, like a wagon or a fallen tree. Drostan was like a
bear—whether teddy or grizzly depended upon Myrddin’s needs of the
moment.

“Do I want to know about what?”

He pointed to where I’d been staring. A
fuzzy plant. “Milfoil. For telling the future. And for healing
wounds.” He frowned.

“Oh. Would you know...? Beatha needs to make
a birthing spell.”

He pursed his lips and gave it serious
thought, then stood and stomped away. I jumped down and followed
him. He stopped to point at a plant with purple flowers and dark
berries. “Belladonna.” His heavy brow furrowed. “Not for birthing.
Don’t eat it. It can make you die.” He pointed at a leafy bush
across the path. “That’s goose-foot,” he said with a soft lisp.
“Cleans you out.” That made him giggle like a third grader.

“This. Lavender.” Drostan picked a sprig.
“When a baby comes, the women boil this. It smells good. If you
chew it, you won’t fart.” He slashed off a thick bouquet with his
knife, tied it with a stem and handed it to me. “Here,” he said. He
stooped to yank a fistful of tiny leaves on springy stems. “For
you. Thyme. Put your head on it when you lie down at night for
sweet dreams.”