“Close enough. So?”
“Sorcerer, poet. Some say you live backwards, getting younger. There’s one that says a sorceress imprisons you inside a tree.”
“Is she pretty?” He wriggled his eyebrows, making me laugh.
“I don’t think she’d manage it if she weren’t. You’d better look out for her.”
“I will, most certainly.”
“You should already know who she is. The legends say you can see the future.”
“Hah! Now that you’re here, that’s true.”
“Would these be the barracks?” We were passing the buildings along the sunken path near the gate.
“Avoid them,” said Myrddin, “unless you take delight in drinking and fighting.”
“Where do the king and queen live?”
“Their private quarters are above Arthur’s office.”
I'd seen the ladder. It couldn’t be much of a place up there. Considering the size of the office, the royal bedroom was merely an attic. “Do they—Guinevere and Lancelot—do they know their crime is punishable by death?”
“Shh! Of course they do.”
Arm in arm, we strolled out of the northeast gate, the one through which I’d entered as a prisoner my first day. The guards were not the least bit surreptitious about observing our progress to the top of the zig-zag path. Several yards below us on the hillside, servants filled jugs at a wellspring, their voices wafting our way.
If there was such a thing as safety in that land, perhaps it could be had at Cadebir. King Arthur’s stronghold stood at the highest point for miles. One couldn’t approach it without being spotted. Two riders on the road far below were easy to see, dark against white stone. Any ruler would have chosen the hill, being able to tame the countryside by virtue of living above it. The city of a thousand tents smoked and seethed in the southeast, an adjunct to Cadebir Town with its huts and merchants. In the northwest, across the shimmering marshes, one prominent hill rose above smaller ones like the back of an enormous, sleeping beast.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“That is Ynys Witrin,” said Myrddin, “the Tor. A settlement of priestesses lives there. Women of the old ways.”
“Druids?”
“Not that old.”
The last sliver of sun gleamed metallic on the marshes. I shivered.
“It’s almost time to dine,” said Myrddin.
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. There had been no mention of lunch. We turned to re-enter the gate.
Far to our left, in the shade of the wall, a couple tiptoed in the grass on the topmost rampart, their arms around each other. I could barely make them out in the fading light.
“Isn’t that—?” I stopped myself when I recognized Lancelot. With him was the dark-haired beauty I’d watched him undress with his eyes outside the hall a couple of days before. The pair disappeared into a thick copse of trees.
Myrddin tugged my arm. “You don’t see a thing,” he said.
SEVENTEEN
Two rows of fiery torches lit the pathway to the hall. Myrddin and I stood beyond the light, watching the crowd file in. My stomach burned with nervous dread, as though I were about to enter a Hollywood party where I didn’t know anyone, and knowing who was who meant everything. But all parties were like that. I had long been in the habit of keeping to myself. To have friends one had to reveal bits of one’s self, and my bits were best not revealed.
“I have a gift for you.”
Myrddin drew from his sleeve a small, golden scabbard about eight inches long, etched with intertwined symbols I couldn’t read. He offered it on his extended palm. The bone-handled knife I drew from it had a shiny, black blade—uneven, imperfect. Not like something you’d buy in the housewares department. Not a knife like a thousand other knives.
It stopped my breath for a moment. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” I hooked the scabbard to my belt.
“You’re welcome. It was made right here at Cadebir,” Myrddin bragged, “although the gold was imported from Dolaucothi. Keep it with you. At dinner, watch what I do with mine. Actually, eh, watch somebody else. Watch a lady. Watch the queen. Ready?”
“No.”
His black eyes shone. “You will appear to be ready, even so.”
I thought about how a defecting sorcerer would act in the hall of Britain’s king. Grateful for amnesty but confident, sure of her power. I threw back my shoulders, lifted my chin and hoped I was up to it. Saxon wizard was a more challenging role than Mrs. Gone had ever been.
Most of the crowd had already gone inside. I wiped sweat from my forehead with my sleeve. Myrddin frowned, giving me a final appraisal. “Posture’s good,” he said, speaking over the noise that wafted to us from inside. “Chin down. No need to frown. That’s better.” He offered his arm.
My heart thudded.
“Please don’t grip so hard.”
“Sorry.”
Up the aisle of torches we walked at a regal pace, agonizingly slow. Three or four yards felt like a mile. Finally, we stepped into the hall.
Torches blazed in sconces along the walls. A fire glowed in the pit. It illuminated the crowded cavern with jagged edges, and blackened the shadows by contrast. The smoke that stung my eyes smelled of burning oil and cooked meat. For a second, the dinner conversation of a hundred and fifty tribal voices assaulted my ears. Then all eyes turned to us and the noise stopped.
Myrddin patted my hand, which reminded me to stand up straight, and we stepped down two stairs into the shadows. Except for the occasional burp from the benches, the swish of our clothing was the only sound.
Soldiers, chieftains and the intermittent lady stared, having stopped mid-sentence or -sip, making no attempt to hide what felt to me like rudeness. Here and there a glint of earring or bracelet flickered in firelight as men and women turned to gape at me, unmindful of the dribbles on their chins. Only the skinny dogs continued their arguments over bones in the corners of the hall.
How did movie stars stand such scrutiny? It made me squirm. But Myrddin was determined not to rush. I focused on the head table on its raised platform opposite the door, and we proceeded down the center aisle. Four men I didn’t recognize sat at one end of the table, their expressions arrested between smiles and frowns. The two empty seats at the middle were presumably reserved for the king and queen. At the other side of the royal chairs sat Lancelot and Elaine, Lancelot smiling politely at me and Elaine looking back and forth between us, blinking. Two more empty chairs waited at Elaine’s side.
Myrddin and I headed for those. We skirted the fire pit and stepped onto the platform, passing a wide-eyed boy who stood in the corner, clutching a zither-like instrument to his chest. Myrddin pulled out a splintery chair for me to sit beside Elaine, who granted me a shy smile. Then, to my delight, Myrddin glared at the crowd and made a sudden shooing gesture, startling the gawkers. Like flighty pigeons, they turned quickly away, and conversation began to buzz.
“Play your instrument, young man,” Myrddin said to the boy. The terrified lad strummed with all his might. Myrddin took his seat at my side.
Almost immediately a chair scooted, then others. Myrddin stood again. Everyone did, so I did, too.
King Arthur entered from his quarters with Guinevere, his petite, dark-haired queen. It was indeed she who had peeked at Lancelot from around the side of the hall. It was she I’d seen with him on the rampart. Now she aimed her adoring gaze at the king. She was dressed all in white, the better to set off her coffee-colored hair, pink cheeks and pale skin. She was barely eighteen, but it was more than age that made her King Arthur’s opposite. She was a rose, he was a bludgeon. Yet he held her hand as though holding the sweetest bud, and the pang of jealousy that heated my throat came to me as a surprise.
-----
Because Guinevere was seated on the king’s far side where I caught only the occasional glimpse of her, I used Elaine as my exemplar of table manners. She ate methodically, spearing each morsel of stew with her delicate kni
fe, then lifting it to her pouty lips. She and Lancelot stared over the assembly and conversed in rare, quiet snippets.
I watched Lynet’s example as well. Seated between Gareth and Agravain at the table just below ours, she drank mead and joked with the men, obviously comfortable being the lone female in her group. Gareth flirted with her, though their playfulness only seemed to make Agravain quieter. Medraut and Pawly huddled at the same table, Pawly relishing Medraut’s every word. Everyone was arms to elbows, thighs to knees, packed in on the benches and shouting in close conversation.
When Lancelot leaned back or King Arthur stood to greet someone I caught an occasional glimpse of Guinevere. It was obvious why both men found her captivating. Chatting with her husband’s guests, her white tunic bright in the firelight, she was an oasis of poise in the chaos of the hall. Her expression was open, as though she absorbed everything without judging. When her companions spoke she listened, rather than pretending to appear to listen. When servants came to replenish platters she looked them in the eye and thanked them. They responded with familiarity, comfortable with her.
My plate, which Myrddin called a trencher, was a square piece of wood with a little trough carved around the edges to capture drippings. Myrddin and I got into a brief discussion about the qualities of wood. I thought to tell him it was the wrong material for dinnerware because the wood’s porous quality made it a good place for germs to proliferate, but I was in over my head. Germs were just one more subject I couldn’t fully explain. If I started talking about them Myrddin would ask questions I couldn’t answer, and if I allowed myself to think about them I’d never get enough to eat.
I ate slowly, awkward with the knife. The leeks and root vegetables were over-spiced but the meat, whatever it was, was delicious and full-flavored. I was pleasantly surprised by the wine, which was stronger than wines I was accustomed to. As I emptied my goblet a servant appeared and filled it again. When I followed the queen’s example and thanked him, I caught Guinevere watching me with that open expression of hers. She stood, plucked up her goblet and glided across the platform to stand beside me. Elaine and Myrddin rose to their feet as she arrived, so I did, too.
“Oh not so formal. Please sit. Good evening, Myrddin. Hello Elaine, sweet. Mistress Casey, at last I’ve an opportunity to welcome you. We’re so grateful you’ve chosen to be with us.”
She held out her graceful hand. I wasn’t sure what to do with it but I hadn’t seen anyone kiss it, so I took it and bowed my head a little. The ring she wore was a smaller version of the king’s, with the etching of Stonehenge on its face.
“I’m grateful to be here, your majesty.”
“I trust everything is to your liking?” she swept her arm sideways, presenting the table with goblet in hand.
“It’s all delicious, thanks.” I raised my glass. “Good wine.”
She lowered her alto voice. “Arthur gave orders to the kitchen to show off. For the other guests, too, but mostly for you.” Louder, she said, “Sorry we don’t have our usual bard, but war makes everything difficult.”
“Well, I am impres—”
“I’ve never met a lady wizard before,” said Guinevere. “It's exciting. don't you think so, Elaine?”
“Mmmhmm.”
Guinevere rested her hand on Elaine’s shoulder. “The midwife has spells, but it’s not the same, is it?”
I didn’t know if it was or not. I glanced Myrddin’s way for help, but his attention was on his food. “There may be some crossover.”
“Perhaps you’ll be of assistance when Elaine has her baby.”
“I don’t think—”
“Will you be casting protection spells over the fort?”
“Uh, no.”
“Good.” She smiled, revealing straight teeth, another thing that made her stand out. “I wouldn’t want to be fenced in. I like to go to Cadebir Town from time to time.”
“Or to stroll on the ramparts, my lady, as you did this afternoon?”
The voice came from the table below us.
Guinevere spilled her wine.
Medraut continued, fending off Pawly’s elbow from his skinny ribs. “Pawly and I observed you and your friend as we rode in from town.” Lancelot began to rise from his chair but changed his mind. Medraut ignored him and gazed sweetly up at the queen.
Shouts arose from the opposite corner of the hall, where two Belgic soldiers began to argue about something unintelligible. Their drunken friends egged them on to fight. People backed away to make space. Like water, everything in the room shifted, pressing on everything else.
Pawly wriggled on the bench beside Medraut. Across from him, Agravain watched Lancelot, waiting. Most of the others at their table were concentrating on the fight, but Lynet and Gareth, glancing side to side, only pretended not to listen to what was happening at our table. I wondered if others might be doing the same. The chieftains on the king’s opposite side gossiped among themselves, peering occasionally at the queen.
The king had heard. “Take care, Medraut,” he warned over the noise. While the fight began to rage in the corner, the king and his son glared at each other. The queen’s face could not have been more pink. Tension froze the high table into silence.
“Strolling is healthy for women,” I said. The authority in my voice surprised me.
Arthur and Medraut unlocked their gaze to look at me. Even Lancelot turned his blue eyes my way.
“Is that true, Mistress Casey?” asked the king.
“Absolutely, your majesty.” I sounded sure of myself.
Guinevere returned to her husband’s side. He encircled her waist with a single arm, a gesture designed to be witnessed. He waved for me to continue.
I spoke louder, to be heard over the upending furniture at the back, none of which seemed to concern the royal party. “Regular exercise is essential for the body and mind. Your men get it from riding and fighting. Women need it, too. Obviously the queen knows this.”
Elaine stared demurely at her plate. Lancelot put his arm around her, stealing an unreadable glance at me.
“You’ve given me an idea, Mistress Casey,” the king shouted over the melee. “You will lead the queen and her friends on a daily walk. Inside the walls, of course.”
“I’d be honored, your majesty,” I shouted back.
“You may call me ‘Your Grace.’“ He raised his glass. “To Mistress Casey! Welcome to Cadebir fort!”
A drinking song broke out at the back, signaling the end of the fight. While the king and his guests toasted me, warriors righted the tables and benches, laughing and slapping each others’ backs and buttocks as though they’d just performed a comedy routine and were not bleeding from their lips and noses.
With the subject changed, the king returned his attention to the guests at his end of the table. His expression betrayed no relief or gratitude. Nor should it have, I thought. I had pleased him and that pleased me.
I looked to Myrddin to seek his approval, but he had snored through it all.
-----
“You’ll stay here, next door to Cai.” Bedwyr’s torch came precariously close to fingering the thatch above a red-painted wooden lintel. A single spark and the hut would disintegrate in flames. No streetlights lit the pathways. The waning moon was enough to light the promontory. A few drunken soldiers stumbled past, laughing and shouting on their way to the barracks. A couple walked by on the path and said, “Good night.” I felt a chill.
“You’ll need this, mistress.” Sagramore’s dinner had complicated his aroma. He unpinned his heavy, brown cloak and draped it over my shoulders, careful not to touch me. I could almost hear him blush in the dark.
“And this, to keep it on,” said Bedwyr, not to be outdone. He removed the brass pin from his cloak and placed it in my palm, aiming the spike away from my skin.
I traced the pin’s golden inlaid curlicues with my fingers. Was a powerful wizard to expect such tributes? Did Sagramore have another cloak, Bedwyr another pin? According to Lyn
et they’d all left the fancy stuff at their castle on the coast. These must be special things.
“Chivalry,” I said, before I knew I was speaking. From the confusion on their faces the word was new to my escorts. I clarified. “Thank you for these kindnesses.”
Bedwyr grumbled.” Let’s light the lamp, then.” He handed the torch to Sagramore and entered the pitch-dark hut, returning with a lidded metal bowl. It had a wick at one end and a handle at the other. He held the wick to the torch then gave me the lamp, handle first. “You’ll sleep well, mistress.” To Sagramore he said, “They had wine at the king’s table.” For my benefit, he added, “We get mead from the village.”
“Not very good mead,” said Sagramore.
“Better than no mead,” said Bedwyr.
“Blast the embargo,” said Sagramore.
They ambled off toward the barracks, grumbling quietly. I watched them go until their torch disappeared beyond the huts. Then, holding the lamp before me, I stepped inside. The lamplight softened the darkness and showed a room large enough only for a small, lopsided table, a bench and a cot. The walls were made of a combination of mud and straw and something else; the hut smelled vaguely of livestock. There might once have been shutters on the open window above the bench, but as it was, I would have to find something to cover it. For the moment, the night air freshened the room.
The table was sturdy despite being crooked. I set the lamp there and emptied my fanny pack of loose change, credit cards and English paper money. At Cadebir it was a useless pile.
Someone thoughtful—Elaine? Lynet?—had left a stack of clothing on the bench for me. Two wool tunics, a couple of linen underdresses, a pair of leggings and a loose muslin sleeping gown were neatly piled there.
A burst of drunken laughter erupted on the pathway outside, startling me. I jumped away from the bench to a spot near the door, where I couldn’t be seen through the window. The drunks stumbled by, probably on their way to the barracks. The room had aired enough. I tucked one of the underdresses around the corners of the window to cover it.
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