Camelot & Vine (31 page)

My shoulder throbbed. The guard walked away
but soon passed my window again, peering in to make sure I wasn’t
making magic. He was circling. The camp being a convention of
chieftains and officers, Cai had no choice but to jail me in my own
quarters. A lot of good it did me.

I sat on the floor by the cot to give them a
clear view. Let them watch me. I had nothing left to hide. Truth
was my big solution to my problems but I hadn’t thought it through.
I didn’t know what Arthur’s reaction would be, but I’d harbored a
secret hope that he’d love me for my honesty. If I’d thought about
it I might have remembered what century I was in and which king I
was talking to. Falsehood might get you somewhere in Hollywood,
where life was scenery and make-up and pretense. But Arthur lived a
reality of dirt and blood and fire. Lies existed there, but they
couldn’t endure. The Dark Ages were not exactly an enlightened time
or they would have called them something else. It was unrealistic,
to say the least, to expect King Arthur to say, “Thanks for telling
the truth, Casey. I’ll let Guin go. She and Lance can have their
happy ever after and you and I can be in love. Maybe you’d like to
be queen.”

What a fool. Arthur didn’t love me. And what
if he did? Look what good his love had done for his wife. Cadebir
was a barbaric place and Arthur was a man of his time. I should
have known better than to play tricks on such a man.

It was too late to wish I hadn’t lied. Yet
my last visit to Arthur’s office had one bright spot. Telling him
the truth had been the right thing to do. Except now he was going
to kill me. He had called me “traitor.” I knew what happened to
traitors at Cadebir. In Arthur’s eyes, death at the stake was
fitting punishment. I deserved punishment, but no one deserved
that.

A different soldier looked in to check on
me. I lowered my eyes so as not to appear defiant. The soldier
moved on, but in lowering my gaze I’d already caught sight of my
fanny pack under the bench. The guards had missed it in their
haste. And I saw something else I hadn’t noticed in a while. A
small pile, long forgotten: my clothes. Not the tunic and
underdress of a Dark Ages wizard but the chain mail sweater and
cargo pants of a twenty-first century woman.

They meant to burn me. But I wasn’t any use
to them dead.

-----

From one end of the bench I could peek out
the window and see the path that led through the promontory
village. Soldiers huddled by Cai’s hut, their knives flashing in
torchlight, their voices an indistinct rumble.

From the other end of the bench, near the
door, I could watch people pass behind my hut on their way to the
evening meal at the hall, their eyes flitting toward the soldiers,
their quick mouths flapping speculation.

If I squatted by the door I couldn’t see out
the window at all, which meant unless someone stuck his head all
the way in, he couldn’t see me.

I lay on the cot, huddled in Sagramore’s
cloak. From there I counted. The intervals between soldiers were
more than thirty seconds but less than a minute. I counted them
over and over again. I decided on thirty, to be safe. When I was
sure, I waited for a soldier to pass. Then I ran to the bench for
tunics and underdresses and took them back to the cot to stow under
the cloak with me. On my next trip I grabbed the muslin gown and
leggings Lynet had given me when I first arrived.

I bunched the clothes and stuffed them under
the cloak at each opportunity. Then I lay still, marking my breath
while the next man walked by. I watched through my eyelashes and
tried to ignore the pain in my shoulder. The guards didn’t look in
every time they passed, but I couldn’t predict when they would.

Soon there wasn’t enough room under the
cloak for both me and the clothes, so I hid by the door when the
guard passed. Only once did I lose my concentration and my count.
Still at the cot when the soldier came by, I rolled underneath it,
clutching my arm and hoping the light from the window couldn’t
reach there. Under cover of darkness, between passings of guards, a
fake Casey took shape on the cot.

I waited as a guard passed, grabbed the bowl
from where the soldiers had dropped it and scooted back to the
hidden place by the door. When all was clear I crawled to the cot
and put the bowl under the cloak for fake Casey’s head. I took a
second to appraise my work, silently thanking Guin for procuring
the bowl from Heulwen’s kitchen. In the dark, it might be
enough.

On my next forays I gathered money and
credit cards and even found my passport in the shadowy corners
where my things had fallen when the soldier dropped the bowl. I
left the visible bits where they lay so as not to arouse suspicion.
Back by the door I squatted and removed the sling. I would leave it
behind. My arm hurt as much as it had the day Lancelot tore it from
its socket, but the sling marked me.

I breathed softly against the pain as I
dressed. Modern, synthetic fabrics chafed my skin. My cargo pants
felt like tents around my legs. The Rodeo Drive boots I had once
thought of as fashion necessities were as comfortable as thick
boards strapped to my feet.

I was ready.

I wished I could leave a note for my
friends. I had missed my chance to tell them I loved them. Whether
my plan worked or not, I wouldn’t return. When they discovered I
had escaped or died trying, would Sagramore know how grateful I was
for the use of his cloak? Would Bedwyr find the remains of his
charred brooch in the ashes and know what his kindness had meant to
me? Lynet and Elaine had shared clothes, a ribbon, a
bracelet—precious things they’d brought from home. I placed the
ribbon and bracelet on the table, next to Drostan’s sprig of thyme.
Guinevere couldn’t know the bowl she’d left in my hut had become
Fake Casey’s head and, if my plan worked, helped to save us both.
Their generosity had changed me. If I succeeded, the evidence of
their gifts would be lost.

And Arthur. I would take with me the gifts
he gave—lessons to sort out when I had time to think.

They wouldn’t know I thanked them. They
might not know I loved them, nor would they know I had tried to
save them. But that couldn’t figure into my plans.

Myrddin’s knife would not be found in the
rubble. He’d understand why I took it with me.

FORTY-TWO

I’d found a use for paper money at Cadebir.
With straw picked from the walls for tinder and coins found in the
corners for ballast, I wrapped a little package with a couple of
five-pound notes and tied it together with threads I pulled from
the sling. From the fanny pack, I drew the flint and steel Myrddin
had taught me to use.

The flint looked like a plain chip of rock,
but it was the right size for my hand. The steel, designed for the
purpose, was a flat piece, one half with a thin edge for scraping
against the flint and the other half fashioned with a curved handle
to make it easy to hold. After the next soldier passed I scraped,
quick and sure, until I raised a spark. I breathed on it, just a
little. The money burned well but it was smoky. That would call
attention. I’d have to be quick.

When I scurried to the other side of the
window my pants made a synthetic swish. I reminded myself to be
careful of that when I got out among the people.

The fire already burned hot in my hand when
the next guard came. I had one chance. I had always been lousy at
softball or tennis, or anything where you had to aim a projectile.
But I refused to intimidate myself with old truths.

The guard ambled by the window. Fingers
burning, I gave him enough time to get around to the side of the
hut before I threw the flame ball to the left. It rolled past the
feet of the soldiers who loitered at Cai’s hut. Then it fizzled and
disappeared. I waited, but the fire didn’t catch. It was just as
well. I hadn’t thrown it far enough.

I waited too long. The guard came around
again, surprising me. I plastered myself against the wall. It was
only luck that he didn’t see me. When he was gone I darted back to
the blind spot by the door. I had enough bills to make two more
fireballs. I didn’t have a plan B.

I wrapped more bills around coins and straw,
and tied it all up with threads. Hurrying made my fingers clumsy.
My left hand and arm were already swollen with pain. I couldn’t
move fast enough.

A commotion outside sped my heart. The sweet
smell of smoke burned in my nostrils. Someone ran by the window. I
crawled over to dare a peek.

Across the path from Cai’s, a smaller hut
had caught fire. My fireball had worked after all. People arrived
between the huts to watch, filling my view with their backs. Above
their heads came flames as big as men, scampering up the dry thatch
like they had a deadline to meet.

I pulled up the hood of my sweater and
stuffed the remaining money and credit cards into my pack, zipping
it. My only egress was the window. There would be no waiting for
the perfect moment. I’d be grateful for an imperfect second when no
one glanced my way. I squatted at the end of the bench, ready to
spring when my second came. While servants and soldiers pitched in
with buckets, women gathered between the huts to chatter and worry.
In the excitement, all eyes were on the flames and no one gave a
thought to the wizard.

Their shouting covered the thud of my
landing, the pound of my heart and the swish of my pants, as I
walked away from the fire.

FORTY-THREE

The full moon’s beam followed me across the
camp like a spotlight across the stage. Thanks to the fire, I had
no audience. Servants ran past me on their way to see what the
ruckus was about. I recognized faces from the kitchen, but they
took no notice of me. Walking with my legs apart to keep from
swishing, I took on a masculine gait. I tightened my hood, hunched
my shoulders and settled into a new role: an anonymous, bowlegged
man who loped across the camp. I no longer played the part of the
king’s wizard.

Clouds pestered the moon. I walked alongside
the pasture fence, checking over my shoulder. Back on the
promontory, two lines of torches still blazed at the hall door.
Shadowy spectators moved back and forth among them, watching the
fire from a safe distance. In the huts closer to the fire no lamps
burned. Farther away, toward the barracks and the gate, golden
light warmed snug windows.

At a moment when the path was clear of
stragglers I grabbed my chance to lie on the ground and roll under
the pasture fence. Inside I staggered to my feet and held my left
arm to my belly. If that arm still worked by the time I finished
what I set out to do, I’d be lucky.

The moon was a bother when I wanted to hide,
but it came in handy when I propped the barn door open a crack to
allow in a shaft of light. I found a rope and took it with me when
I stepped out to the pasture. Lucy snoozed in the shadow of the
barn beside the king’s stallion, Llamrai. I approached on bowlegged
tiptoes. Arthur’s warhorse, alert to enemies, woke in an instant,
wild-eyed and snorting, which of course woke Lucy. But Lucy
recognized me as a friend. While Llamrai trotted away to find a
safer place to sleep, the mare allowed me to rope her and lead her
to the barn.

Lucy’s saddle and bridle were easy to find
where Sagramore had displayed them. But with my damaged muscles it
took a bench, Lucy’s willingness and all my strength to get the
saddle onto her back and cinched beneath her belly. The bridle was
easier but I was impatient, and nervous of discovery. At last I led
Lucy to the barn’s back door and peered out across the paddock to
the wall. After all the hurry, Lucy and I were forced to wait the
interminable time between patrols. Maybe I should have counted
heartbeats but though it pounded insistently, my heart was
unreliable. I tried to count seconds, losing count and starting
over as my nerves overtook me. I finally guessed the delay between
patrols to be perhaps two minutes or more. That was good, but it
wasn’t perfect: the paddock could be seen from the guard tower at
the gate.

And there was one other thing. I wasn’t sure
there was a way out.

I had only guessed at the existence of a
breach in the wall, hidden behind the vines. Its location was
supposition on my part, a theory. I believed Lancelot and Guinevere
had met there to make love. Even if it existed I didn’t know
exactly where it was, or if it went all the way through from
paddock to copse, or if it was big enough for Lucy.

A sentry emerged from the gatehouse and
ambled toward the paddock. He stopped for a moment to watch the
fire on the promontory. Finally, heaving a sigh, he continued,
approaching the copse. I pulled the barn door closed and watched
through the tiniest slivered opening. The sentry stopped again,
directly across from me, and scanned the paddock and barn. Lucy
nuzzled my shoulder. The soldier placed his hand on his sword hilt
and moved on.

Just as I’d found no perfect second to leap
from the window of my hut, the right time to cross the paddock
would never come. The sentry continued his leisurely stroll to the
south wall, but at least one man occupied the guard tower at all
times, with a view of the paddock. Lucy and I had to go quietly and
hope the night was dark enough, the fire diversion enough.

I pulled the door open bit by bit, stopping
when it creaked, waiting, listening, then opening it further and
waiting again. At last I led Lucy into the open, remembering to
walk bowlegged and wishing Lucy could tiptoe.

I couldn’t remember exactly where I’d
plucked up the white cloth. The shadow of the wall darkened the
vines, making it impossible to see where they’d been disturbed.
Hoping to find the opening I punched my fist through the leaves,
scraping my knuckles on stone. The woody vines scratched and
bloodied my arm, revealing nothing again and again. I pulled and
scraped. Again nothing.