Camelot & Vine (27 page)

THIRTY-FIVE

During the night’s dark hours when I wasn’t
lying awake on my cot, I paced the dirt floor of my hut. Surrounded
by a ring of huts with fifty priestesses snoring in ecstatic
oblivion, two grieving men in their sad tossings, and one corpse in
irretrievable slumber, I had no one but myself to ask, over and
over again: had my selfishness caused Gareth’s death? Or would his
wound have killed him regardless of my actions?

I'd never know, and the answer didn’t
matter. Gareth was dead. What kept me awake was the knowledge that
I had been so concerned with my pain, my fears and my high position
that I had made his death more probable. I could rationalize one
Saxon death as a necessary accident. I could not rationalize
Gareth’s, no matter how hard I tried.

I told myself I had no way of knowing if the
physician at Beran Byrig was as skilled as Myrddin.

But King Arthur had wanted to send Gareth
there. That should have been enough for me. I should have trusted
him.

My shoulder had been in pain.

Yes, but I wasn’t dying.

I feared Lancelot. His threat was real.

But even that excuse didn’t work, because at
Beran Byrig I’d have been further from Lancelot, and perhaps
safer.

No. I’d insisted on dragging Gareth to Ynys
Witrin because I had wanted to cover myself. I was afraid I
couldn’t fake wizardry with the physician at Beran Byrig. I had not
insisted on Ynys for the sake of my life but for the sake of my
lie.

Was I willing to spend other people’s lives
to save my own? How dark would it get before I realized I wasn’t
worth what I’d spent on myself? Dying terrified me, especially out
of time, where I wasn’t meant to be. But letting an innocent person
die so I could continue lying made a guilty hut to live in, a dirty
place not only without baths or tissues, but without light or love
or air.

I cried all night. Crying hurt my throat. I
wept for Gareth, because he was good and innocent and lost. I
hoped, begged and pleaded with Rigantona, or whoever would listen,
that it wasn’t my fault. But I couldn’t let myself off that hook. I
cried for myself, which infuriated me because I didn’t even know
how to weep for Gareth without getting some tears in for myself as
well.

I must have slept some. When I woke,
puffy-eyed and thirsty with the dawn, I knew what I had to do.

-----

“You can go directly west then down the
coast,” said Myrddin. “I have friends in the south.”

The sun had barely risen, tinting the lake
mist a soft lavender. Because most of the priestesses were sleeping
in, Myrddin, Vivien and I had the wide kitchen almost to ourselves.
The few island denizens who hadn’t partaken of the mandragora ate
their breakfasts seated on indigo linen pillows at low, scattered
tables.

Myrddin broke off enough bread to feed a
Saxon for a week, dropping crumbs so huge they left shadows on the
table. “It’s an easy ride.”

I sipped my tea from a clay mug. “You mean
travel alone?”

“Mmhmm.” His mouth was full.

“I’ve made the trip many times.” Vivien
rested her smooth, old cheek on Myrddin’s shoulder. More than mere
colleagues, I realized. If this woman was to imprison Myrddin in a
tree as legend told, clearly he’d be happy about it. “The coast
isn’t far,” she said. “You can see it from the Tor. It’s a lovely
ride.”

Sure, if you’re not a fugitive in the wrong
century.

“Most of the villages along the coast are
friendly,” said Myrddin, reaching for a bowl of dark berries and
popping several into his mouth.

“That’s reassuring,” I said. “But I’m going
back to Cadebir.”

Myrddin stopped eating in order to give full
energy to a frown. “You won’t survive.”

I leaned on my good elbow. “I know I have to
leave, but before I go, I’m going to tell Arthur the truth.”

“It’s a bad idea.” He pouted as though the
berries had gone sour.

“You said I’ve become his closest
friend.”

“And he told you he brooks no lies.”

“That’s why I have to—”

“Send him a message from Brittany.”

“I’m going back with Agravain this morning.”
My voice was as shaky as my resolve.

“Oh my.” Myrddin sighed and rubbed his chin,
staining it with berry juice.

Vivien raised a slender finger. “Is Agravain
ordinarily a late sleeper?”

“I gave him a sedative,” said Myrddin.
“Otherwise, I couldn’t have moved him from his brother’s
bedside.”

“He’s hardly stirred from there since he
arrived,” said Vivien.

Myrddin reached across the table to place
his hand over mine. His black eyes glistened with something like
pride. “Casey,” he said, “We do not expect rain at the full moon.
But if there is lightning I’ll meet you, with batteries, at the
Giant’s Ring.”

THIRTY-SIX

The first person who’d smiled at me in the
Dark Ages now wore a death grimace. Gareth’s body lay on a low bier
in the center of our small barge. I avoided his empty gaze and sat
at his feet, swatting persistent flies.

Young priestesses sat posed like warriors at
the vessel’s flanks, dipping oars in the silent water and
occasionally wiping their brows. Rowing a body across the lake
wasn’t what they’d planned to do on the day of their ritual
hangover.

Agravain’s mourning was wordless, but not
silent. He stood at the head of the body and gazed at his brother’s
face. His lungs pushed forth forceful sighs. The moans he heaved
came directly from his broken heart. His tanned brow wrinkled with
questions and aggravation. I worried, wondering if his questions
would lead him to me.

We made our crossing under an overcast sky.
Black water lapped at the barge and the mists closed behind us like
a curtain. We arrived on the opposite shore in a fog so thick I’d
have thought there was no island at all.

The wagon we’d left there a few days before
had been cleaned and prepared by the priestesses, who seemed to do
much of their work invisibly. I sat in the rear of the cart with
the body rather than ride with Agravain while he drove. I could
tell by his unsmiling nod that my choice was his choice as
well.

But neither brother was my first choice of
traveling companion. Agravain refused to cover the body—a priestess
had told me this would leave Gareth’s spirit free to rise when it
was ready—and during the two hours’ ride I couldn’t avoid the void
of Gareth’s blue-green face. Sometimes I could believe for a moment
that I wasn’t responsible for his death. Then I’d think of Agravain
or Lynet and be shocked again by my selfishness.

I wished desperately for magic and in
strange moments I felt as though Gareth would, at any second, smile
and make a joke. He was obviously dead, yet even with the evidence
before me, death’s finality was hard to believe.

I exhausted my good arm fanning flies. I
brooded on whatever subjects willed themselves to plague me.
Agravain’s unreadable back, above me in the front seat, raised
constant questions. Did he blame me? Did he blame the Saxon who had
wounded his brother? Did he know I had lied? With no one to
converse with, my mind chattered away. Arthur had trusted me. I had
judged Lancelot and Guinevere for taking advantage of his trust,
but I had done the same. Worse. Myrddin had said I was Arthur’s
closest friend. Poor Arthur, to have such awful friends. I was
finally ready to be honest with my friend but I had already botched
it. Before me lay my grimacing guilt, and it would not be assuaged
simply because I planned to come clean.

-----

Bedwyr waited inside the gate atop the
zig-zag path, twisting his blond braids with his big fingers.

“You’re wanted in the paddock, Casey,” he
said, peering into the cart. Shock widened his eyes when he
recognized our cargo. “Good gods.” He helped me down, then looked
to Agravain, blinking. “Lynet’s in the workroom, friend.”

The two gripped hands, then let go. Agravain
drove off toward the hall, the question mark of his back bending
low, the cart rocking in the ruts of the path now that jostling
Gareth was no longer a consideration.

“What happened?”

I wanted to tell Arthur first. “He died of
his wound.”

“Hm.” Bedwyr chewed his lip. “More bad
news,” he said. “There’s been another death.”

-----

The smith was paying far less attention that
morning to his hammer and tongs than to the group of men at the
other side of the dirt yard behind the barn.

King Arthur stared down over a plump body
that lay sprawled where the paddock fence met the vine-covered
fortress wall. Pawly’s neck twisted wrongly opposite his torso, his
empty eyes facing upward as if to watch the smoke from the forge as
it twisted toward the sky.

I leaned against the wall for support. I
should have been accustomed to such horrors by then.

“He’s been dead since quite early this
morning or late last night,” said Cai, rising from the body and
wiping dirt from his knees.

“Poor lad.” The bags under King Arthur’s
eyes made him look like he hadn’t slept in the five days since I’d
seen him. I had missed him. “Was there a struggle?” he asked.

Cai examined the ground around the body. “I
see no evidence of one.”

“The killer must have erased his
footprints,” said Medraut, tugging at his father’s arm.

King Arthur jerked his arm away. Medraut
backed off.

Cai pretended not to notice. “The vines are
undisturbed as well,” he said. “Had there been a fight this close
to the wall, Pawly might have clutched at them.” He paused, his
eyes sweeping from the wall to the body and back. “Or so I
imagine.”

The three of them looked to the wall,
searching for a clue. Along the length of it inside the paddock,
thick vines dangled from the copse like a dusty curtain no one had
bothered to open for as long as anyone could remember. Behind me,
clinging to the one part of the growth I blocked from their view, a
small piece of torn, white cloth had become caught on a broken
vine. Only one person at Cadebir wore white. That person had left
this place in a hurry.

“He didn’t have a chance to fight,” said
Medraut.

“How do you know?” King Arthur pounded the
fence with his fist. “What’s your evidence?”

“His killer lay in wait for him.”

“You were here?”

“I was in the copse. Pawly was in the
paddock. We were looking for something. But I heard—”

Medraut barely had time to grunt before his
father grabbed his shoulders and shoved him against the fence.

“Stop your looking, idiot! You see where
it’s got you! You had one friend. One! Now you have none.”

The king released his son, who fell to the
ground like a handful of crumpled refuse. King Arthur stomped to a
bench in the shade of the barn and threw himself down beside
Bedwyr, who’d been watching the proceedings with hunched shoulders
and grim visage. I wondered where Sagramore was.

“Mistress Casey,” sighed King Arthur, his
head in his hands, “what insight do you bring?”

“None, Sire.” I rose from my kneeling
position by the wall. With the king in such a temper it was bad
form to keep him waiting. “Except I think Caius is right. Pawly
must have been attacked from behind and killed pretty fast.”

Cai pursed his lips in what for him was his
gratified face.

“Then we have a murder,” said Arthur. “I
wish it were not so. But a man doesn’t strangle himself.” He sat up
and fortified himself with a deep breath, taking command. “Caius,
allow no one to leave the fort. You may have the body removed if
your investigation is complete. Go now. I’ll watch over him.
Mistress Casey,” he said, in the same tone he’d used to give orders
to Cai, “sit beside me and tell me the news from Ynys Witrin.” He
gave no orders to Medraut.

Cai took his opportunity and left through
the barn. Bedwyr, too, thought it best to depart from the bench at
that moment and help Medraut hobble away. The smith returned to
pounding at his furnace. Soon, with the exception of the smith,
Arthur and I were the only ones to share the paddock with Pawly’s
desolate body.

I wished Bedwyr would stay. I began to
second-guess my resolve, wondering if telling Arthur the truth at
that moment would serve him or serve me. Serving my friends had
become my purpose, yet with so little experience at it I wasn’t
sure what was best.

“Sit. Have you rested well? How is Morgan?
Did you like my aunt Vivien?” His questions were clipped
commands.

His aunt. I should have known. Cadebir was a
small world. “Yes, Sire, very much.” My stomach growled. Not
hunger. Nerves.

Arthur stared ahead. “I envy you your time
there, even your wound. If I’d had such an excuse I could have gone
with you. Ynys Witrin is the only peaceful place I know. I’ll be
buried there one day.”

The legend. “Have you heard of Avalon,
Sire?”

“No. “

He waited, so I spoke. “The legend says you
were taken by barge to the Isle of Avalon. You lie beneath it
still, to return when Britain needs you again.”

He emitted a sharp breath—a shortened,
bitter laugh. “How sentimental. It sounds like Ynys. But I won’t
return. That’s something a god would do. I’m a man.” He continued
to gaze ahead and I was free to watch him, to want to ease the
worry in his forehead and the sadness in his eyes, to admire how he
held the weight of his dying tribe on his shoulders.

“Sire. Gareth is dead.”

He blinked. His mouth worked in tiny
movements. I couldn’t know what he felt but I hoped it wasn’t
anger.

“Nothing you could do, eh?” The gravel
tumbled in his throat.

“No, Sire.” Which was true.

I meant to tell him then that Gareth might
have died because I'd refused to go to Beran Byrig. I was sure it
would be the next thing I’d say. But the grief and disappointment
that overtook Arthur’s face defeated my courage. One blow at a time
was enough. Honesty wasn’t going to be a simple matter of telling
the truth. What if the truth didn’t serve the king? What if it
meant more anguish for him? When would the things I wanted to say
be the things he needed to hear?