Camelot & Vine (29 page)

I could not have moved more slowly had both
my arms been restricted by slings. I touched the zipper on my pack.
Fearing magic, a few people stepped back. I wished their fears were
true. If only I could pull a rabbit from the pack, or a dove or a
magic wand, anything but a scrap of white cloth.

Watching Arthur, I unzipped the pack slowly,
to give him time to change his mind. I thought I discerned the
tiniest nod.

He wanted me to show it.

I extracted the scrap and raised it high.
The evidence that damned the queen dangled before the crowd like a
bone held up to tempt a pack of hungry dogs.

The low flame in Arthur’s eyes flared, and
he turned away.

“Ha!” said Medraut. His defiance fell like a
thud in the silent hall.

Guinevere blinked and would not look at me.
Lynet moaned and buried her head in Agravain’s chest. I wanted to
put the scrap away and pretend it didn’t exist, had never existed.
Agravain, his cheek against Lynet’s hair, seemed to be thinking
about something else entirely.

Everyone else stared at the white scrap
except Lyonel. Lyonel watched me. His mocking smile disturbed me,
but most unsettling was the way he gazed at me with carnal eyes
while gripping his throat and pretending to strangle himself.

“Sire.” Agravain broke the silence. “Ask
Medraut why he didn’t tell us about the fires at Beran Byrig.”

I tore my attention away from Lyonel.
Agravain had hit on what was wrong with Gaheris’s story.

Medraut ceased his squirming. “Why ask
me?”

“Be quiet, both of you,” said the king. “We
must deal with the prisoners first.”

Tucking the cloth away, I turned to the
king. “If you please, it may be relevant, Sire. The morning after I
got to Poste Perdu, I overheard Medraut at the gate. He told Gareth
and Agravain he’d just come from Beran Byrig.”

Agravain looked at me as though seeing me
for the first time. “Yes. Mistress Casey could have heard. Medraut
said the granaries were full. If he’d been at Beran Byrig he’d have
known of the fires.”

“They lie,” said Medraut. “I never said I
was at Beran Byrig. I haven’t been there in months.”

“If you were not at Beran Byrig,” asked King
Arthur, “where were you?”

“He was with the Saxons.” Agravain faced the
king squarely, standing beside his big brother Gaheris. The two of
them, their dark eyes gleaming with earnest fire, made a formidable
pair. For the first time I noticed how tall Agravain was. “Medraut
is your spy,” he said simply.

“I am no spy!” shouted Medraut, his anguish
clear but not convincing.

“Someone led the Saxons to us last month in
the forest near the Giant’s Ring,” said Agravain. “They’d have
killed you, Sire, if not for Mistress Casey. The spy is responsible
for the lives of Tore and Fergus and Dynadan.” He picked up steam,
his voice deepening and getting louder. “You require proof, Sire. I
don’t have it in my pouch. But if we were to scour the roadside
between Poste Perdu and Beran Byrig, I suspect we’d find the
messenger’s body. That might be proof enough.”

Lynet released Agravain’s arm and stood back
to look up at him, as surprised as I was at his sudden verbosity.
The people began to murmur. The king pushed against the air with
both hands, as if to soothe the pressure in the room by patting it.
“I’ll send a search party.”

Agravain gritted his teeth against his
anger, but it came out fast and hard anyway. “How much more proof
do you need, Sire? You have two witnesses to Medraut’s lie about
the fires. The third is dead of a wound got in a battle we would
not have fought but for Medraut’s treachery! Even then, he and
Pawly became ‘lost’ in the woods trying to find their allies and
warn them we were coming. Those ‘allies’ killed the boy Crewan and
our brother Gareth!”

Agravain’s chest heaved. It was the most
anyone had ever heard him say. Awed by his monologue, the soldiers
were slow to react when he leaped atop a bench, dove across a table
and locked his hands around Medraut’s throat shouting,
“Murderer!”

Bench and table overturned, sending to the
floor not only diners, but all those crowded around Medraut.
Someone rushed in front of me—Caius—and leapt across the king’s
table, knocking it over. Below the table Lynet, bereft of her usual
pluck, was being buffeted about by charging soldiers and screaming
servants. Everyone had something to shout and no one was heard,
which made everyone shout louder. Even the dogs growled and yapped
from their corners, their tails between their legs.

I clawed my way down the steps, dodging
elbows and sword hilts, to retrieve Lynet before chaos engulfed
her. A panicked servant bumped my injured arm as he ran by, forcing
me to stop and wait for the pain to subside.

Lynet allowed me to usher her up the steps
behind Caius, who had snatched Guinevere from the bedlam. I led
Lynet to kneel with me behind the overturned table while Cai moved
Guin farther off. Lynet covered her ears against the shouting and
clack of swords, but I couldn't do the same; I had only one free
hand and I needed it for holding onto her.

Bedwyr had lost his hold on Medraut. The
younger man wrestled himself free of the mass of bodies and benches
to escape Agravain. Lyonel and his cohorts took advantage of the
confusion to fight their way to Lancelot, and Medraut saw his
chance; he leapt sideways to join the small, oncoming army of
Lancelot’s men. They slashed and hacked their way toward Lancelot,
spattering blood in their wake. Though a few of Arthur’s men tried
to stop them, most were still grappling under the furniture.

I had read this. It had happened before,
would happen again, had always happened in legends and in books. I
was witness to the inevitable in real lives, real hearts, real
screams and blood. I watched, mesmerized, as Lyonel sliced
Lancelot’s ties and thrust the hilt of a sword into his cousin’s
hands. Free and armed, Lancelot had little trouble chopping his way
to the exit, where he shielded himself behind a support post and
surveyed the battle. Light from burning torches on the wall glinted
off the sweat on his hair and skin. Breathing heavily, he took a
precious second to search across the sea of clashing swords until
he found her.

Cai had moved Guinevere to the door near the
king’s quarters, as far from her lover as she could be and still be
in the room. With a hundred men between them, Lancelot had no hope
of rescuing her. The realization swept across their faces.
Restricted by her bonds, Guinevere reached out to Lancelot with her
eyes. She sent not fear to him but love and forgiveness. And
Lancelot accepted.

I knew the legend. They didn’t. Things were
about to get worse for them. They had given everything for love.
What would I give everything for?

Lyonel touched Lancelot’s arm. After one
more longing look at Guinevere, Lancelot followed his cousin out
the door. Cai whisked Guinevere out the back.

The fighting spilled out into the night and
the melee moved off toward the barracks. Lynet and I listened for
what seemed like a long time. Horses came and went. Inside the
hall, we heard the moans of the wounded. Some began to pick
themselves up off the floor. The hall smelled of bodies, blood,
snuffed torches and spilled venison stew. A few timid servants
crept in from the kitchen to survey the damage. Arthur had long
since disappeared, whether in the fighting or elsewhere, I didn’t
know.

Lynet yanked her arm out of my hold. She
stood and staggered to the steps, bracing herself on the table with
a pale hand.

“Let me help you,” I said.

“I don’t need your help.” She meant it to
sting. It did.

“It’s not safe out there.”

“I’m going to help the wounded,” she
snapped. “Are you? Or do you lack the power to so much as clean a
wound?” Disgusted, she tottered away down the stairs to navigate
through the shambles of the hall, carefully choosing her steps over
capsized benches and shattered mugs, a tired nurse picking her way
across the battlefield.

THIRTY-NINE

My friends and I had beaten a path from the
promontory down the slope to the wall, but the route was invisible
in the dark. The ladderway we climbed to start our daily walks had
been moved, rendering it useless as a reference point. I picked my
way through the grass to the pair of armed guards who stood beneath
a smoking torch.

“Your business, mistress?” A soldier I
didn’t know, missing a few teeth.

“I’d like to speak to the queen.”

He and his cohort exchanged a look. “Raise
your arms.”

I obeyed. The second guard backed away
abruptly and spat out the blade of grass he’d been chewing. He
feared my magic.

The toothless man waved his knife at me with
his left hand and cautiously patted my sides with his right. I’d
expected scrutiny and had left my fanny pack in my hut, tucked
under the bench with Myrddin’s knife.

“No tricks.”

“I only want to comfort her.”

Guin must have heard. She waited by the tiny
opening in the oubliette’s iron cover where she could receive
fragments of sound and light. “Casey,” she whispered as I knelt
beside the tiny chasm. “No one else will come. How is Arthur?”

The guards could probably hear me, but I
felt the need to whisper, too. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him
since the fight.”

“I’ve shamed him. I’ll burn for
treason.”

“He won’t let it happen.”

“He has no choice. It’s the law. The trial
will be held tomorrow.”

“Who can try you? No one’s impartial
enough.”

“Cai will find fair judges. And I’ll be
found guilty. There’s evidence.”

“Oh Guin.” My chin went into spasms. I must
not cry, not while her eyes were dry.

“I want to die. I deserve it.”

“No!”

She changed the subject. “How is Lynet?”

I cleared my throat. “Upset, angry,
grieving.”

“Good. She has her spirit.”

“Can I bring you anything?”

“It’s not allowed. I won’t be here long,
thank God. It’s awful.” She lost her breath for a second. “God’s
mercy will come soon after the trial.”

I dug my nails into the dirt. I wanted to
tell her I wouldn’t let it happen. But I had learned my lesson
about making promises I couldn’t keep. “How will you bear it?”

“God will give me what I need to face the
fire.”

Above us the torch belched heat and smoke.
Nearby, the sentries drifted back and forth. Grass swished against
their legs. I couldn’t imagine a faith strong enough to carry
anyone, no matter how devout, through the ordeal of burning alive.
I leaned close to the oubliette’s small outlet, though I couldn’t
see Guin in the blackness. “I can bring you poison from Myrddin’s
garden.”

“No. One death at the stake is enough.”

“Then what can I do?” It came out like a
guilty plea, my tears spilling with it.

“Forgive me?”

“Me, forgive you? Oh Guin.” She was just a
kid who had followed her heart through territory too big for it to
navigate. I’d behaved as badly as she had—worse—when I should have
known better. I wanted to tell her I’d lied about the pregnancy
potion, but the purpose would have been to cleanse my soul, not
hers. And the scrap of cloth, my terrible mistake in showing it...
“You don’t need to be forgiven, Guin. But of course. If
you
—
”

“Then there’s nothing else.” Belying her
words, her index finger rose from the void like a pale crocus, to
beckon me closer.

I lay on the ground, blocking the oubliette
from the guards’ view. Guin’s finger disappeared then returned.
Finger and thumb held her silver ring, the one that matched
Arthur’s, with the Giant’s Ring etched on its surface.

“Give this to Arthur,” came her unwavering
whisper. “Tell him I’m glad to die for my sin, and I beg him to
forgive me in his heart.”

“I will.” My voice broke. The ring fit
tightly on the pinkie of my right hand.

“I know you love him, Casey. Take care of
him.”

I thought to say I wasn’t in love with her
husband. I started to promise I wouldn’t let her die. But I would
make no more promises I couldn’t keep. I would tell no more
lies.

Instead I held her hand and kissed her
fingers, knowing what she and Lancelot had felt an hour earlier in
the hall. They’d wondered—no. They had known. That look, this
touch, could be their last.

FORTY

As Guinevere had predicted, Caius recruited
the most impartial judges he could find. Presiding over the hall
from the high table were the allied warlords King Cadwy of
Cornwall, King Owain of Corinium Dobunnorum and Marcus of Lindinis,
a newly-arrived military chieftain from the near west. They
summoned everyone who could give evidence, from the smith who
worked the forge behind the barn, to the soldiers who had arrested
the lovers, to me.

Most of the trestle tables had been stacked
along the walls. I stood before the judges in the early, gray
morning. Guinevere faced them too, standing in the center aisle,
forced to listen to witness after witness, with no opportunity to
sit down. Her tunic had become soiled during the night and I
wondered if she’d slept. No redness or puffiness encircled her
eyes, no sign of tears streaked her cheeks, but in the bleak
overcast her skin was as pale as the white cloth she wore.

King Cadwy wasted no time in his interview
of me. “Tell us where you found the cloth,” he said in a voice as
thin and elderly as he was.

“It was caught among the vines on the
paddock wall.” I couldn’t think of a lie to help Guinevere.

“Why did you take it?”

The truth was I’d taken it because I wanted
to protect Guinevere. But admitting that was admitting I knew of
the affair, and despite my promise to myself I was still capable of
lying. “I thought I should return it to the queen.”