Camelot & Vine

by Petrea Burchard

  “Yes.”

  “Lucky you, I’ve got one.” His socks slid across the floor. I followed him into a dining room wallpapered with faded toile, where he gestured for me to sit at the huge table.

  “The attic room’s all I have. A hundred and twenty quid if that suits you. Sorry you’ve missed dinner. Where’re you from?”

  “Los Angeles.” I tried to smile. I was too proud to ask what a hundred and twenty quid might equal in dollars, too tired to return his sociability. He ran my credit card through a device attached to the wall phone. We waited for the beep. “How long will you be staying...” he glanced at my card as he handed it back, “...Ms. Clemens?”

  “Uh, a week?”

  “Lovely.” His smile was genuine, his teeth naturally white. He extended his hand to shake. “I’m Ajay.”

  “I’m Casey.”

  “A pleasure. The loo’s one flight up. Your room’s at the top of the second staircase.” He lifted a small, old-fashioned brass key from a peg on the wall and gave it to me. “Bags?”

  “Just these.” I held up my shopping bags.

  “Oh.” His voice registered slight surprise, but he didn’t pursue it.

  -----

  Outside my dormer window, the last of the sun still gilded the rooftops. The peanuts I’d eaten on the plane were long gone and I regretted skipping the pasta. Food would have to come before sleep, even before a shower.

  After more than twenty-four hours of stress, my long-sleeved T-shirt was no longer white. I pulled the chain mail sweater on over it and changed into my new cargo pants. Sick of carrying my lime green albatross, I dumped its contents onto the yellow coverlet of the single bed.

  Lipstick, makeup, note pad, sunglasses, the tissues the flight attendant had given me, a purse-sized container of Vaseline, a plastic sample jar of ibuprofen and that grainy, linty stuff that ends up at the bottoms of purses. Business cards with my picture on them. Post cards with my picture on them: dyed blonde hair, makeup and cheesy grin. I turned all the pictures face down and dug through the pile for my wallet. Beneath the mess my fingers found a plastic flashlight keychain with the Gone! lightning logo stamped on it in bright red. The keychain was a giveaway premium, a trinket, a piece of junk forgotten in the bowels of my purse. I clicked the end and the flashlight shone in my eyes. Like a pinch, it served as a reminder of my misery. I threw it into the tin trash can next to the little wooden desk by the window.

  I considered taking my iPod but decided against it. I never used the thing for listening to music and nobody was going to bug me. Passport, credit cards and cash went into the fanny pack/bum bag (both misnomers for a small, black, canvas pack I wore belted around my belly, for easy access). I zipped it closed, clipped it around my waist and reached for the glass doorknob.

  At the last second I remembered the brass room key by the lamp on the nightstand. The key was small, easy to lose. The Gone! keychain would have to do. I had earned that stupid keychain. I retrieved it from the trash, attached it to the key and tucked it into the hidden Velcro pocket of my new pants.

  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 soldi
er 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.

  I wanted to be brave but I couldn’t stop my shaking or my uneven whimpers. My heart continued its incessant banging, out of my control.

  At last the warrior leaned against a tree and removed his helmet, freeing long, golden curls to shine in the moonlight. He ran his fingers through his hair to pull it away from his eyes, assessing me with a gaze so direct I sensed a different kind of danger.

  His slow smile told me he knew I had never seen a more gorgeous man.

  SIX

  “Pandra nos-godhvos?”

  The handsome soldier’s smile was no comfort. Why couldn’t I understand him? I must have hit my head pretty hard. My forehead throbbed where I’d hit the dark thing and crash-landed. Something wet trickled into my eye. It was either my own blood or spray from the murdered man. And I was confused. It wasn’t as if I’d escaped Hollywood for Mongolia or Burma or the Amazon jungle. I was in England. I’d been riding a rented horse on a country road in Wiltshire. I got caught in the rain. Then...what? Lightning, tires screeching, flight. Flight was the part I hadn’t figured out yet. One of the parts.

  Footsteps crunched on soft underbrush. A stocky man stepped into the clearing, moonlight glinting blue on his blond braids as he moved. He spoke to the gorgeous one and they conspired, watching me like a couple of horse trainers might watch a mare they were thinking of buying. They needn’t have whispered, because I didn’t understand them.

  Another man trudged into the clearing and the two greeted him in their odd language, grabbing his arms and patting him on the back. Then came another and another, most of them carrying their helmets and clinking as they stepped over the dead bodies to meet in the middle. Along with their mail they wore bits of dented armor: a chest protector here, shin guards there. Some carried bloody axes and swords. Knives and scabbards dangled from their belts. Sweating, scarred and splattered with blood, they looked like a Dark Ages film crew after a hellish shoot. Across the clearing from where I clung to my tree they formed a group and gaped at me, murmuring to each other, puzzled.