Camelot & Vine (4 page)

Later, I regretted not bringing the
tissues.

FOUR

Ajay appeared at the bottom of the stairs
with a steaming cup of tea.

I felt my face relax into a smile. I must
have been frowning for hours. “That’s so nice of you.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d be coming down. You do
seem tired.”

“The cab driver suggested I stay up 'til
ten. I don’t know what time it is.”

“It’s just coming on eight. Come sit for a
second.”

I followed him into the dining room, where
he placed the china cup and saucer on the table before me. “It’s
still so light out.”

“Northern latitude. You get used to it.”

My hands shook when I raised the cup. The
tea was hot but not too; I drank it down and returned the cup to
its saucer. “I guess I should head out.”

“Fancy a taste of our night life, do
you?”

“I’m pretty hungry.”

“There’s just the one pub. Tom’ll fix you
something.”

“Can you give me directions?”

He laughed softly. “You’re in Small Common,
dearie. It’s
small
.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Ms.
Clemens, are you all right?”

The polite concern in his bright eyes
reminded me of the flight attendant. Strangers could be so kind.
People in my own life—people I’d slept with, even—hadn’t shown me
as much consideration. I had a knack for gathering the ungenerous
into my inner circle. Perhaps like attracts like.

“It’s only jet lag. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” he said, sitting back.

“And.” I had a sudden urge to tell him I’d
lost my job, my boyfriend and my hold on life. Tears welled in my
eyes.

He saw, and waited.

“I’m, um. Looking forward to a rest.”

He nodded. “Shall I walk you to the
pub?”

“No. Thanks.” I blinked back the tears. I’d
be fine.

-----

The six or eight streets that made up Small
Common had never been gussied up for tourists. Shadows draped
across the thatched roofs of the same stone cottages they’d been
dressing for hundreds of years. There, a shaded lane drew my eye
toward the private space behind a stone house to glimpse a bright,
blue wheelbarrow. Here, climbing pink roses framed a garden gate in
need of a fresh coat of paint. Beyond, an empty cottage awaited
care in the midst of a yard gone wild with the lack of it. I
allowed myself to imagine the cottage as mine. I would put glass in
the windows, but perhaps not paint the gate. I’d see about the
yard.

Most of Small Common was well tended.
Attractive window boxes, overloaded with flowers, lined a row of
stone houses. Clean, cobblestone streets invited me to wander along
them. I took each turn to sweet scents and sights: a green painted
door, the steeple of an old stone church, a distant hill. The few
people I encountered nodded or said a quiet “hello.” I strolled
without aim, glad to know no one, momentarily forgetting my hunger
and imagining life in obscurity. What if that cottage were mine?
Could I live there? What did people do in Small Common? Did they
garden, read books, make art? Or just commute to someplace
else?

At the southern edge of the village, the
street curled away from civilization out into the misty
countryside. A hand-painted sign named the route Old Wigley Road.
I’d missed Tom’s pub and would have to turn back. If I kept walking
I might find a castle, or faeries, or a handsome prince.

A piercing neigh broke the calm.

“You here to ride?”

An elfish boy of about eleven leaned against
an unobtrusive, single-story structure. I must have passed the
building without noticing. It was set back from the street amid
overgrown bushes next to a gnarled apple tree, its stone walls
camouflaged green with moss. A sign hanging from a branch said,
“Livery Stable.”

“It’s fourteen pounds fifty an hour and
that’s cheap,” the boy said. He blew a puff of air upwards, lifting
long, brown bangs from his dirty face.

“What kind of horses do you have?”

“All kinds.” He jerked a thumb toward a gray
mare who stuck her head out of an open window. “Lucy’s a good
horse.”

“May I ride out that way?” I pointed to my
imaginary castle in the mist.

“Yeah. But you have to be back in one hour
because we’re closing.”

I assured him I wouldn’t be nearly that
long.

-----

As an ingénue I had learned to ride
horseback for the role of “The Blonde” in a low-budget Western that
shall remain nameless. Riding Lucy was different. The sleek,
English saddle offered fewer things to hold onto than the Western
one with its protruding horn. But though the faded blacktop of Old
Wigley Road was uneven, I soon eased into the rhythm of Lucy’s
comfortable gait. She knew the way, so I let her drive while I
enjoyed the scenery. Crumbling stone walls ambled across acres of
green, serving as fences just as they had for hundreds of years. A
ruined barn slumped alongside a new one in a field dotted with
grazing sheep. A light appeared in the window of a cottage just as
we ambled by the cozy grove in which it snuggled. The world smelled
fresh after the rain.

How long had I been awake? My exhaustion was
so supreme I felt exalted. At last I let myself cry, softly,
allowing my shoulders to settle on my back. Being alone was safe.
Everything about the ride was relief: Lucy’s shoulders rocking
smoothly beneath my knees, the disorientation of being in a new
place, the sun’s final blink. I sensed I’d escaped something
dangerous at the last minute.

With the dusk came big drops of rain, one at
a time. Lightning crackled above a faraway hill, then a closer one.
Lucy hopped sideways and tossed her head. I patted her big shoulder
and she responded, calming. I didn’t mind a bit of rain. Astride a
strange horse on a strange road in a strange country, I felt safe
for the first time in as long as I could remember. Running away
from everything I knew wasn’t the smartest thing I’d ever done, but
it wasn’t the dumbest, either. Disappearing might be good for
me.

Mind it or not, the rain became heavier and
I finally turned Lucy around. It was time to get back anyway. The
big gray trotted and snorted, straining against the bit. I loosened
the reins a little so she could canter. That gave her enough lead
to run, and she took off.

I gripped the front of the saddle (where the
damned horn should have been) barely in time to keep from flying
off of it. “Whoa, girl!” I shouted, trying to show her who was
boss. But she already knew who was in charge. I had no authority to
slow her down, and in the increasing darkness and downpour I
couldn’t see to guide her. My only option was to hang on where I
could, and trust Lucy to know the way. She picked up speed on the
slippery pavement. I yanked the reins and told myself if she slid
it would mean only broken bones, not death. That did not comfort
me. She did not slow down. Lucy’s pounding speed increased, along
with her determination to return to the stable regardless of my
pitiful commands. I gave up because I had to, allowing the
onrushing rain to cleanse my face of tears. There’s nothing like a
twilight ride on a runaway horse in blinding rain to make you
forget your troubles.

The headlights appeared from nowhere.
“Lucy!” I screamed, jerking the reins. Brakes screeched. Tires
turned on gravel. Lightning struck a sign post beyond the car,
turning sight into a photo negative and illuminating the silhouette
of a man behind the wheel.

Lucy bent her head, trying to dig her hooves
into the asphalt. Her steel shoes skidded on slick pavement. She
couldn’t stop. I lost my grip and flew forward over Lucy’s broad
neck into the wide, black gap in the bushes.

FIVE

At the other side of the gap crouched a
muscled, grizzled man, not at all like the flock of frightened
sheep I expected. Surrounded by moonlit forest, the man gripped a
gleaming sword with both hands. The bare muscles of his upper arms
shone with sweat in the soft light of night, and his eyes were wide
with surprise.

I must have looked as shocked to see him as
he did to see me. I didn’t want to run into him but I had no idea
how to control my flight and I was hurtling toward him like a
terrified spear.

A shadowed figure stepped between us. I
rammed into it head first, crash-landing in a thicket of thorny
brambles. Groaning, I rolled onto my back. Above me, the full moon
wobbled. Something wet splattered my sweater, which I regretted.
The T-shirt was already ruined anyway. A body landed beside me with
a thud. I tried to sit up. A dead arm flopped across my chest,
knocking me backward. I scrambled away in revulsion, thorns
grabbing at my clothes, my head throbbing. The moon, which had
ceased to wobble, lit the dead man’s armor.

Before I could scream, the grizzled man
yanked my arm and pulled me to my feet. We stood face to face (or
face to chest) and I looked up into his wild eyes. He seemed amazed
by me, or maybe just curious: brows lifted, lips ajar, square jaw
gaping in awe.

“
Os ta sabrin?”
His hushed voice
scraped like sand on gravel. The sword he raised dripped fresh
blood. I didn’t understand his question but I wanted very much to
give him the right answer. He waited. The rain had ceased, leaving
a fine mist shimmering on the darkness.

In a moment the forest resounded with
shouts, and our silence was broken. My assailant looked to the
trees, drew in a breath, and threw me aside like a fistful of
leaves. Another dead body broke my fall but not softly; the chain
mail it wore made for a rough landing.

Footfalls thundered toward us and the
grizzled man shouted out more jargon I didn’t understand. He might
have been talking to me but I couldn’t be sure. Either I was no
longer in the Wiltshire countryside or his dialect was one I hadn’t
come across before. I scrambled behind a giant tree and peeked
out.

A huge man leapt from the forest and bounded
over a third body, brandishing a sword and shield. His empty eyes
gazed out from the darkness of his brass helmet, searching the
clearing until they found the grizzled, square-jawed man. With a
roar, the bigger man attacked. Grizzle was agile, but his opponent
had the advantage of size. Grizzle wore no helmet nor did he carry
a shield, and the other man wasn’t above using his to smash and
bang at Grizzle at every opportunity. This was no gentleman’s parry
and thrust, no Hollywood choreographed sword fight. They kicked.
They elbowed. They sliced each other’s flesh.

My heart whammed while they grunted and
stomped, clanking their swords in the moonlit clearing. I had never
seen a real sword fight before and couldn’t imagine why I was
seeing one then. Were they performers in a Renaissance fair? Did
they even have those in England? Was I a wench to be fought over?
Why was their hair so long? Was there no barber in town? But no,
no, the cut on Grizzle’s arm dripped real blood. The bodies already
lying dead in the clearing did not stand up to fight again.

Grizzle stumbled, exhausted. The big guy
towered over him and raised his sword to strike the final blow. No
amateur, Grizzle leapt aside, avoiding death in a second, and
thrusting his blade under his adversary’s shield. The man
staggered. Grizzle shouted his triumph and jerked his sword free,
pushing off the dying man’s thigh with one well-worn, leather boot.
Again, with rage in his roar and in the whites of his eyes, he
shoved the blade into his enemy’s bleeding torso. The man fell
helpless to his knees and again, needlessly, Grizzle stabbed him.
The big man toppled against my tree, shaking the trunk and
splattering me with warm blood.

I ducked behind the trunk and squatted,
gulping bile and tears. In all directions, the blue-black trees
raised their twisted branches in horror. All paths of escape led
only to the deep oblivion of the woods.

Grizzle’s steps came close. His heavy
breathing slowed. He waited.

I could not look at him, so afraid was I of
what he would do. “I don’t know anyone here,” I managed to sputter.
“I won’t tell.” My ragged sniffling shrank my voice to mewling.

Grizzle squatted beside me. I turned to him
at last because his waiting demanded it. The savagery had
disappeared from his face, leaving a gaze that was intense and at
the same time tender. His straight hair, the color of mud dusted
with snow, hung loose about his weary eyes. Close up he looked
fifty, though he’d fought with the vigor of a young man. He reached
out his open palm, startling me. He wanted something.

I gave him my hand, not daring to disobey.
His callused grip squeezed my manicured fingers in reassurance.
“Kowetha,”
he said, nodding. He held out his other hand. I
placed my other in his and he gripped them both, lifting me to my
feet.

Around us the shouting had stopped. Grizzle
dropped my hands, grunting as he bent to retrieve the corpse’s
helmet with a twist and a pull. It was a plain iron cap with
eyeholes, a face guard and hinged flaps like giant sideburns.
Grizzle plopped it on his head and grinned, then shouted to the
trees more words I didn’t understand.

Within seconds, a helmeted soldier sauntered
into the clearing leading an unsaddled horse. Grizzle mounted in a
leap.
“An benyn biri me yn Cadebir,”
Grizzle commanded the
soldier. With a nod toward me he continued,
“Thew hy
nos-godhvos.”
He reined the horse around and cantered off into
the woods, his long hair flapping from beneath his newly-acquired
headgear.

The soldier made no move.

Trapped between tree and corpse, I faced
him.

He was bigger than Grizzle, or at least his
armor made him appear to be. His eyes were slits, his mouth a grill
of eerie, grinning holes. He stood opposite me in the clearing,
staring silently from behind his helmet.