Camelot & Vine (30 page)

“Did you not suspect?”

“I suspected only that the queen had been in
the barnyard, perhaps to see a favorite horse.”

The judges conferred. Apparently they
believed me. Guin and I had only the briefest second to share a
burdened glance. Cadwy nodded to Caius, who waited at the end of
the main table. Cai ushered me briskly to the door, where he would
call the next witness.

Until then I hadn’t noticed King Arthur
sitting in the shadows of the furthest corner. The comforting hand
on his sagging shoulder belonged to Myrddin, who must have risen in
the pre-dawn dark to travel from Ynys Witrin and be at his master’s
side. Myrddin’s eyes glowed, bright as ever.

-----

Servants gathered outside in the fog,
clutching their threadbare shawls against the cold and gossiping in
whispers. Above the gate, sentries stopped pacing to share
suppositions about the proceedings inside the hall. Ladies and
soldiers perched along the wall to have the best vantage when each
witness emerged, and, ultimately, the accused. I knew the verdict
of legend. I hoped history would prove legend wrong.

In need of distraction I ventured to the
kitchen and begged Heulwen to give me something to do, “besides
butchering, if you please.” If it wasn’t the worst day of her life,
she said, that would have made her laugh. Most of the kitchen
workers had gone out to join the vigil. Heulwen had given up on
keeping them at their work and was glad of my company, if not my
help. Up to my good elbow in greens, I sorted and chopped
vegetables while Heulwen hacked away at some poor, dead critter,
shaking the table each time she struck and killing it over and over
again. We heard the hall’s front door burst open. Heulwen ceased
her slashing.

We waited. No further sound came.

“I can’t bear it,” said Heulwen, wiping her
hands on her apron.

I followed her outside. We came alongside
the kitchen garden and stopped.

Guinevere floated by in the lifting fog,
flanked by half a dozen soldiers who held their heads high, more
like somber grooms than prison guards. In her isolation Guin seemed
to see nothing. But with her concentration forced on each
inevitable step, her pace took on a measured grandeur, her skin a
hint of the sky’s blue.

Captivated like fans at a celebrity
sighting, Cadebir’s hundreds watched, some in dismayed silence,
others whispering and wondering. It was too soon for the trial to
be over. The whispers reached us: Guinevere, unable to bear the
strain, had confessed. Heulwen buried her face in my shoulder and
shook with tears.

Guin and her guards made funereal progress
down the slope toward the oubliette where, anything but forgotten,
she would await her death.

-----

I leaned against the splintered wall in the
cool quiet of the hall. The pounding of hammers and the crew boss’s
shouts receded into background noise. Cai had wasted no time in
directing Rufus to set the slaves to work building a pyre. The
exercise yard was the perfect place to burn a queen because it
already had a viewing stand.

The hall had been set to rights for the
evening meal; now it was empty of diners and servants. Even the
dogs had abandoned the place. No torch burned, no rats chittered in
the corners.

A sentry blocked my way at the entrance to
the king’s quarters. “State your business, mistress.”

Was it my business to ask the king to pardon
his wife? “Tell his majesty Mistress Casey is here to talk
truth.”

The sentry gave a slight bow and clumped off
through the antechamber. Sighing, I sat on the steps to wait. When
I considered what I was about to do, I felt as much fear as I’d
felt the first time I waited outside the king’s quarters, chained
and caked with mud, not sure whether the next minutes would make me
prisoner, slave or corpse.

I couldn’t have changed the course of events
if I’d tried. I’d had no choice but to show the evidence. Yet I
couldn’t escape the feeling that Guinevere’s plight was my fault.
Even if it wasn’t, I had to do whatever I could to save her. Yet I
didn’t know where to start with King Arthur, and what scared me
most was that I had no control over the results.

My life’s early confrontations had brought
such painful consequences I’d long since avoided such encounters.
My last one was when I was about thirteen, and I’d figured out what
was wrong with our little family. It wasn’t only my mother’s
cheating that made us unhappy. What set our icy table was the
silence. My parents never spoke of infidelity. There was no
discussion, no disagreement, no confrontation. No lies, even,
because my father never forced my mother to tell them.

One afternoon, with daylight reflecting off
the snow outside onto the stacks of books at my father’s elbow, I
sat across from him in his study, pretending to read. The green
blotter under his papers was patterned with rings from a hundred
highballs. I became bored with the book in my lap and began to toy
with the pencils and pens in the clay mug on his desk. Already
awkward with other kids, I was suddenly awkward with my dad, my
best friend. Searching for the words I wanted, I tried my youthful
best to do the confronting I wanted him to do, by broaching the
subject that was the undercurrent of our lives.

“Please make her stop acting like an
idiot.”

My father slowly closed his book. He downed
his scotch, replaced the glass on the blotter and looked at his
hands.

“I can’t change her.”

“King Arthur would defend his family.” My
dad’s hero. Dirty trick.

The muscles churned in his cheeks. “King
Arthur didn’t have a kid.” He stared out the window. “You can
defend yourself. Her I don’t care about.”

“He did so have a kid.”

He shook with what I took for anger. Then he
fell, because what shook him was not anger at me but at everything
else: the lies my mother had not told, the lie he lived and the lie
he had just told me.

As a kid I believed our conversation led to
his seizure, and his death. As an adult I knew better. But since
then, I hadn’t had the stomach for confrontation.

“His majesty will see you, mistress.”

I pulled myself to my feet with the help of
the post I’d been leaning against, and followed the guard. Precious
little light made it through the single window into the black
corners of the tiny antechamber. Hesitating by the faded red
curtain, I wondered if I should announce myself.

“Enter.” Arthur’s voice came from deep
within.

I pulled the curtain aside. Arthur brooded
at his desk, slumped in his chair. Late afternoon light shone
through the tall windows, glinting gray-gold off the Saxon helmet
that hung on the wall.

“Sit.”

Cavall lay curled on a pillow by the cold
fireplace. As I stepped past the dog he sniffed my ankle, dampening
my calf with his nose and stamping his approval of my passage. I
took one of the chairs facing the desk.

“Do you bring comfort?”

“She asks your forgiveness, Sire.”

“I have always forgiven her.”

“There must be something you can—”

He raised his hand to halt my speech. “They
broke the law.”

“You’re the king.”

He slapped his hand on the desk, raising a
cloud of dust. Apparently I wasn’t the first to make that
protestation. “I am
war
king,
dux bellorum
, not
emperor. The law decides.”

Cavall stood and shook himself, then circled
his pillow and sat again with a sigh. I waited for the dust to
settle.

“Is there hope for a judges’ reprieve?”

“No.” The king rubbed his temples. “Why did
you take the evidence, Casey? What was your plan?”

“I didn’t have a plan. I just didn’t want
anyone to see it.”

“Then why did you show it?”

“You demanded it, Sire.”

He threw his head back and moaned. “Come
away from the door.” We stood and he took my hand to lead me to the
open windows. Outside, dutiful servants lit torches against the
twilight. Arthur closed the shutters, then the curtains, cloaking
us in darkness. He pulled me near to him, his callused fingers
touching my elbow, careful of my sling.

“Did you not understand my signal?” he
whispered. “I wanted you to make the cloth disappear.”

“But you said never to—”

“I’ve changed my mind. Save her. If you
don’t, she burns at dawn.”

My stomach rolled. I thought we’d have a day
at least for prayers, plans, something. “Won’t Lancelot come?”

“He’ll be too late. Casey. Friend,” he put
his lips to my ear so the guard wouldn’t hear. “My Guinevere loves
her Lancelot. I can’t change that. I will give her happiness if I
can. I rescind my order. Perform your magic.”

“Sire, I—”

“Call me Arthur.”

“Arthur.” Speaking his name felt like
breathing for the first time. “I’m Cassandra.”

“Ah. An exotic name for a prophetess.” His
gray eyes brimmed with trust.

“It’s just a name.” I inhaled deeply and
reminded myself the truth would not kill him. What it would do to
me I didn’t know. “Arthur. I have no magic.”

His grip on my elbows tightened, hurting my
wounded arm. “Are you ill?”

“No. I’ve been wanting to tell you, needing
to. I never had magic. But I was afraid you’d kill me.”

“I might.” His smile was gone. “Are you the
spy?”

“No. I am from the future. I’m just not a
wizard.”

“But the protection...”

“You and your men did that, not me.”

“Did you not kill the Saxon and save my
life?”

“I did. Saving your life was the only good
thing I’ve ever done. But it was an accident.”

He released me and fell back hard against
the wall. “I could have caged you or killed you. Instead I gave you
friendship. You’ve repaid me with falsehood.”

“I’m sorry. I lied to save my life.”

His laughter surprised me. “You charged into
battle unarmed. You risked your life to lie.” Mirrored in his
incredulous gaze, I saw how strange I looked to him.

“I can’t lie anymore,” I said, and I meant
it. “I’ll do anything to save Guinevere. I’ll beg the judges. I’ll
help her escape. I’ll ride to Poste Perdu and tell Lancelot to
come.”

“You’ll die in the attempt.” He wasn’t
laughing anymore.

“I got through the battle in the woods.”

“A single traveler will be attacked by
bandits. And Medraut is at large.”

“But he went with—”

“You think Lancelot will take him in? He
won’t. You haven’t a chance.”

“Let me take Lucy. She’s fast.”

Arthur pushed away from the wall and strode
to the desk. His fingers traced the rounded shape of the horned
helmet. “Did you lie about the legends?”

“No. I told you what I know.”

“Then I will save Britain? I will be
victorious?”

I had fudged the part that mattered most to
him. History said his people would be defeated by outsiders.
Britain would become an Anglo-Saxon country in the end. Angle-land,
Myrddin had called it. England.

“Well...for now, but ultimately...”

I didn’t have to finish. The knowledge
crossed his face like clouds crossing the moon. Britain was already
lost.

“Traitor!” He dashed the helmet to the floor
and charged. Cavall growled. The few feet between Arthur and me
disappeared in a second. As easily as if I were a pebble, he picked
me up and threw me across the room. I hit the wall and landed in a
heap at the foot of the ladder with pieces of Guinevere’s mirror
raining down on me. Arthur loomed over me like a storm. At the last
second he controlled his fists, shivering with the lust to beat me.
Cavall continued to bark.

“Your majesty?” the guard called from the
antechamber.

“Hold!”

Arthur crouched over me, saliva seething
from the corner of his mouth. “Do the Saxons win?” he growled. “Or
do I die and return from Ynys Witrin to save Britain?”

I had resolved to give him the truth. “They
win.”

He stood, and his words tumbled over each
other. “Mistress Casey, at dawn you will witness as the queen
receives her punishment. Then you will stand trial for treason.
Guard!”

The soldier threw the curtain aside and
rushed in, searching the room with anxious eyes. His chest heaving,
Arthur strode to the desk and tossed a look in my direction.
“There’s your prisoner. Ask Caius where to put her. Do not house
her with the queen.” He sat, took up a quill and, with fervent
strokes, pretended to write.

The guard pulled me to my feet without
considering my bandaged arm, which had come loose from the sling. I
struggled for footing, stumbling among shards of mirrored glass.
The guard dragged me past the king’s desk.

I whispered the weightless words, “I’m
sorry, Arthur.”

Arthur didn’t look up. “Call me ‘your
majesty,’“ he said.

FORTY-ONE

I landed face first on the cot. While the
soldier who’d shoved me swiped the oil lamp from the lopsided
table, his partner tore my make-shift curtain from the window,
letting in the night. The two made a cursory check of the hut.
Their bulk took up most of the room.

“What’s this?”

“A bowl of parchment, looks like.”

“Written on already.”

“Spells?”

The soldier dropped the bowl, spilling
English coins and bills.

“Get the money.” They squatted to pick up
the coins. “Won’t do her any good where she’s going.” Spoken as if
I weren’t there.

The door slammed when they left. I heard
pounding as they nailed it shut.

I grabbed a spare tunic from the pile under
the bench and hung it on the window. In seconds a fist thrust in
from outside, followed by a head. “We have orders to watch you,”
said the guard. He threw the tunic on the floor. I left it
there.