by Jasmine Walt
Morgan turned a sickly-sweet smile up at Lance. “All I’m saying is that women’s liberation has hit every corner of the world except our little town. You men keep us on short leashes.”
“Whenever humans managed to get their hands on witches,” Lance said, “trials and burnings tended to ensue.”
“On human women,” countered Morgan. “An actual witch would’ve taken them down.”
“And then exposed us all to them, bringing them to our door.” Lance’s voice was even but firm. “Humans far outnumber us. Even with our power, we could not defeat a horde of them.”
Morgan didn’t have a comeback for that one, because it was true. It was the reason most beings who were magical or supernatural kept to the shadows of the world. We were powerful, but humans were dangerous.
“And during these dark times,” Lance continued, “we can’t be too cautious.”
Again with the trying and dark times. Camelot hadn’t been under any form of attack since the end of the Middle Ages. Just exactly what was going on here? And what did it have to do with the Grail?
Lance’s gaze turned from Morgan and connected with Gwin’s, but only for a second before his eyes diverted to the ground. “My lady.”
I had noticed Gwin sneaking covert glances at Lance while he’d engaged in verbal battle with her sister. But the moment the knight’s attention turned to her, she’d averted her gaze as well.
“I trust your journey with our lord went well?” Lance asked.
Gwin opened her mouth. But before she could speak, her lip trembled. She turned her gaze to the horizon and gave a shake of her blonde head.
Lance looked as though he wanted to jump down off his horse and take her into his arms. Instead, his fingers clenched around his lead and his jaw tightened. “I am sorry you had to witness the darker side of humanity, my lady.”
“I’m glad I could be of service,” she said. Her voice was small, but she managed to hold her chin up. Her gaze connected with Lance’s for longer than was prudent before she looked away again.
Lance cleared his throat and adjusted his seat. Then he turned to me. “Dr. Rivers, I was sent to give you and your friend an escort from the town visitor’s center, but it seems you made your way around.”
I shrugged unapologetically. Like Morgan, I had no intention of being manhandled or led by leash during my stay.
“I’ll alert the boss that you’re here.” Lance gave a signal and his horse took off, followed by the watchful Geraint.
“Well, we need to return to our work,” Gwin said. “We’ll see you at last meal?”
I nodded. Gwin and Morgan took off, leaving me with an inquisitive Loren. As we walked toward the castle, I explained.
5
The city had changed much since the last time I was here. Concrete was laid over the streets instead of gravel and grass. There was no smell of manure with the plumbing running underfoot instead of being dumped in the alleyways. There were still many stone and wood buildings, but now there was steel in the structures. Energy still rose from the stores deep in the ground, but now power lines and cables ran overhead to distribute signals from the outside world.
But the biggest difference was the skyline. There were tall buildings off in the horizon. Airplanes flew overhead. One of the last times I was welcome inside the castle through the front gates, and not slipping in through a back door, had not been here in Caerleon. It had been in Scotland at what would become known as Stirling Castle.
There had been no structure higher than Stirling Castle. And that was the way Arthur, the second of his name, had wanted it. His impenetrable fortress had sat atop a crag called Castle Hill. It was surrounded on three sides by steep cliffs. Arthur’s court had left the castle before the union with England. The structure remained. And since that time, Stirling Castle had been used as a royal residence, most notably by Mary, Queen of Scots.
Before Stirling, the Arthurian court of Camelot had set up shop in Glastonbury—its actual birthplace.
“So, wait?” interrupted Loren. “They just picked up the castle and moved it?”
“Pretty much.” I nodded.
We were walking down the main street of the city as I recapped the two-thousand-year history of the magical castle and its people. The surroundings weren’t the only thing about the city of Camelot that had changed. The people had undergone an evolution as well.
On the streets of present day Camelot, the residents wore a mix of modern fashions and clothing from the past. A group of teenagers passed us by. The boys were in dark jeans and tunic shirts. The girls wore lace bodices and shorts. A couple of them held devices in their palms and had buds in their ears.
There were a few elderly men in doublets, a quilted coat of arms, with a surcoat emblazoned with their rank or social position in the court. Some women wore kirtles—colorful, fitted dresses worn over blouses.
To the tourists snapping photos, the fashions likely looked like part of the town’s medieval charm. They never would’ve dreamed that many of these garments and people were from times of old. That right here in modern day Caerleon was a real Medieval Times.
“How do you move a castle and all its people?” Loren asked.
“Magic,” I answered.
Beneath our feet, the city of Caerleon rested on a ley line. A ley line was a pocket of energy. Some believed the energy was natural. Others believed those lines formed along the paths of places of great spiritual, cultural, or religious significance. Like a subway transportation grid, the lines formed a route that spanned great distances. Beings sensitive to these energy lines often converged on the lines and drew their power from the unseen source.
With the largest population of witches and wizards in the world, the people of Camelot could move their court anywhere on earth where a ley line existed. They’d moved the original castle, known as Tintagel, from Cornwall about fifteen hundred years ago to Glastonbury in Somerset, then to Stirling in Scotland, and it now rested in Caerleon in Wales, where the present Arthur, the third of his name, ruled.
Like his father Uther, Arthur the First had been a warlord, not a king. He’d been born in a marsh in Argyll and not in the romantic fable of Camelot. There had been a Merlin, but he was a she and her name was Mary, but everyone called her Mara, the Scottish name for Mary. Oh, and Mara was a witch.
“Merlin was a woman?” Loren sounded awestruck. “You are seriously blowing my mind.”
“With Lady Mara’s help, Arthur the First fought and won many great battles.”
“So there were twelve battles, like in the stories?” Loren asked. “That part’s real?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know how many battles he fought. But I know a number of those on record, like the battles of the River Dubglas, were fought by Arthur the First and his father Uther.”
The Pendragons, like many throughout English history, had a long and torrid relationship with Rome. Most of the fighting knights engaged in was to keep the Romans off their territories. I remembered that Mara had a great distaste for Romans, but I never came to know the reason. Over the years and centuries, the court fortified itself. More and more magical beings came within its walls and under the protection of Arthur and his knights.
Witches and wizards, and even many without any magic, were perpetually persecuted by mankind, whether they were superstitious villagers, power-mad royalty, or the Church. When anyone wouldn’t subscribe to a particular custom, law, or religion, they were deemed undesirable and their life became forfeit.
Arthur and Mara had protected these people for hundreds of years. Wizards and witches had increased life spans. Not as long as an Immortal’s or as endless as a god’s, but witches and wizards could live for hundreds of years if they stayed connected to the ley line. If they lived on the grid, they’re lives would be long. Maybe a couple hundred years instead of five. If they stayed too long off the grid after centuries of the ley energy fueling them, that time would catch up with them sooner rather than later.
&nb
sp; “Anyway,” I said, “that’s the true story of the Arthurian Legends over the last two thousand years in ten minutes.”
“You forget so much stuff,” Loren said. “How is it you remember all of that?”
“Because I wrote it down.” And because I had a particular interest in the magical city of Camelot. There were many artifacts locked away in Tintagel Castle that I was itching to get my hands on. Just for a look.
“So did a lot of people,” Loren said. “Many of these stories were written down. And some of the authors got a few of the details right.”
“A lot of the stories about the Arthurian Legends are based on a modicum of truth. History tends to repeat itself.”
“The events and the names, apparently,” said Loren. “Three Arthurs. There’s a Lancelot and a Guinevere.”
“But they’re not the original people. For the men of court, those names are typically titles. The Lancelot. The Gawain. They’re all from the lineage, but it got confusing to have so many people with the same name. So when the man—be it their father or uncle or cousin—passed on, the heir took the title and became The Galahad.”
“What about the women?”
“I guess those names are just popular.” I shrugged. “Like Mary and Joseph.”
“No, I mean the daughters of the knights. Do they take on the names when they become knighted?”
“There’s never been a female knight.”
Loren’s face contorted in disgust. “I’m seeing Morgan’s point. That’s sexist.”
“Arthur’s old-school. He sees women as damsels meant to be protected, especially if she’s a witch. He would never let a woman anywhere near a sword and shield.”
“Guinevere did seem like the type to be kidnapped by a villain and await rescue. I’m sure he loves that about his wife.”
“Gwin’s not married to Arthur,” I said. “She married his brother…” I paused for dramatic effect. “Merlin.”
“Ooh, the plot thickens.” Loren rubbed her hands together. “And you saw that tension between Lance and Gwin?”
I did. I’d seen it between them when they were younger. I had no idea why neither of them had acted on it. Nor why she’d chosen to marry Merlin instead of Lance.
“Oh, I wish my mother could’ve seen this.” Loren looked wistful. “She loved these stories. To know that they’re real…”
Loren looked up to the heavens, as though in silent communion with her dearly departed. I gave her the quiet moment of reflection and studied the sight in front of us. We’d arrived at our destination, Tintagel Castle.
A group of tourists stood in front of the dilapidated castle, taking pictures in front of the ruins. The face of the castle was crumbling. It looked like a Jenga puzzle that would blow over with a small cough. There were hazard signs barring people from crossing the well-worn drawbridge to get across the swampy moat to the other side. A few teens stood apart from the group.
“This is so lame,” said one of the teens.
“Oh, come on, sweetie,” cajoled a mom in a fanny pack. “Look, there’s a sword in a stone. Go on. Try to pull it out. It’ll be fun.”
The kid rolled his eyes. “Can’t we go to Stonehenge instead? I heard they sacrificed people there. That sounds cool. This is just a pile of rocks.”
“What’s that kid talking about?” Loren asked, looking up at the ruins with wide eyes. “That’s the most beautiful castle I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I glanced around at the other few tourists standing near. None of their attention was on the wonder of architecture before them, nor should it have been. No one could see what I saw. Unless they were touched by the supernatural.
I turned back to Loren. The breeze carried the smell of fresh water from the nearby river that ran into the pristine moat encircling the castle. The sun warmed the skin on my forehead. The rays settled into the creases as I stared at my best friend.
“Loren, what do you see?”
“I see real turrets.” Her face was lit brighter than the sun. “I’ve never seen a castle in such good shape. It’s like it was built this century, not hundreds of years ago. The stones are immaculate and gleaming. They look like marble, not stone.”
The residual effects of Demeter holding her soul must still be working. There was an enchantment on the castle, another of the witches’ shields to keep humans out. Only those with magic could see the real face of the pristine palatial estate.
“Come with me,” I said.
We headed away from the tourists. Bypassing the hazard signs, we crossed over the drawbridge that looked as though most of it had fallen into the moat below. In reality, the bridge was fully intact. Loren didn’t hesitate a single step. In fact, she nearly skipped across to the doors of the castle.
A moat was not a decorative facet of castle living. The water was a deterrent for getting to the structure. As an added layer of protection, if the enemy tried to dig their way into the castle grounds, any tunnel would fill with water from the moat and collapse. But Loren and I walked straight across. No one stopped our advance into the main gate.
In ancient times, the iron gate with its ragged portcullis was literally a death trap. Attackers would enter and have the gates dropped down on their heads. If they escaped the jaws of the gates, they would next be met with arrows in the courtyard. A medieval castle was far more than a palace. It was a fortress ready-made for battle.
When I’d come here in the past, the drawbridge had not dropped down for me. I’d been met with swords at this gate. Then a contingency of knights as I was disarmed and escorted inside.
The doors were thrown wide open and unguarded today. Only those who could see would even notice the entryway. I brushed my hand over the blade that never left my hip. I doubted any knight would actually raise his sword to gut me. But they would, and had, threatened me in the past. Over misunderstandings, of course.
To me, Camelot was a living museum. And like in most museums, people were supposed to look and not touch. I may have gotten a little too close to a tenth-century painting once. When I took it off the wall, the knights had misunderstood that it had been for inspection, not to take it. Even though I’d already crossed the threshold of the castle with it in my arms when we’d had our little skirmish.
Inside the doorway, both Loren and I gaped like tourists. Instead of my blade, I itched for a camera to document everything I saw before me. It wasn’t as though they left their magical treasures out for anyone to view. No, I marveled over the everyday items that these people took for granted.
Just the flooring alone had me salivating. I only barely stopped myself from bending down and taking a sample. I ogled the candlesticks and torches hanging from the sconces. The metalwork was breathtaking. Even the tapestries were original. I reached out to touch the intricate stitching on the fabric. Before my fingers made contact, a dagger implanted itself in the fleshy part of my hand between my thumb and forefinger.
“Ouch,” I wailed.
Loren withdrew her cane and pressed the button that released the blade of the sword within the device.
“Hands where I can see them,” grumbled a voice deeper than a bear’s.
I turned and looked at the hulking figure coming at me. If I were a lesser woman, or even a bear, I would’ve run. Instead, I clenched my bleeding fist and prepared to meet this foe.
“Good to see you, too, Arthur.”
6
Arthur slow-marched down the winding stairs. His gait reminded me of a cowboy from the Wild West, though he wore no chaps. His powerful thighs were covered in dark breeches that hugged him from his calves on up to his gluteus maximus. His washboard abs and large pecs pushed against the fabric of his cotton tunic, which gaped open at his chest as though he’d hastily thrown it over his head. But my attention skated over these details—mostly. My gaze caught on the long, thick, broad blade swinging at his side.
So did Loren’s. “Is that…?” Her own blade lowered as the finger of her other hand rose. She pointed at t
he fabled sword.
As though it wanted to answer for itself, the sword caught a wayward ray of sunlight and flashed at us. It might, in fact, have a mind of its own. Excalibur was a magic object, after all.
The story about the sword being plunged into stone was fabricated. What was true, though, was the fact that the magical blade chose the person who would wield it. It was the same with every knight’s weapon. The magic would only respond to an owner of its choosing. And that magic was the ability to wound other things that were magical or supernatural. Like me.
Arthur reached the last rung of the steps. He didn’t move fast. He didn’t need to, just as a mountain had no need for speed. His sheer size was imposing enough.
Arthur, the third of his name, was a massive male. A hulking specimen of manhood. Imagine if Thor and Hulk had a baby. Yeah, this dude, blocking out the sun as he made his way toward me, was still bigger.
He was made much like his warrior ancestors. The Pendragon genes were still stuck in the fifth century. The males hadn’t evolved into the lanky, lean metrosexuals of modern day. Arthur was built to withstand the harshness of a world filled with magic, monsters, and powerful entities that any human would piss their pants in the face of. And now he stood before me, looking none too pleased.
I didn’t bother with my dagger. I wasn’t this man’s favorite person in the world because of, well, misunderstandings in the past. But I also knew he would never raise that sword against me.
Remove me bodily? Sure.
Lash me with his tongue—and not in the good way? Been there, done that.
But his code of chivalry prevented him from killing me.
Probably.
I was pretty sure.
He might toss a dagger or a throwing star at me. But only to maim. He knew I was tough to kill.