Camelot & Vine

by Petrea Burchard

  “Yes, but early,” said Lynet. “They’re working already.”

  “What are they working on?”

  -----

  We followed the previous day’s walking route with fewer stops, covering only about half the circumference of the fort. Down the slope to the north wall we went, up the ladderway by the oubliette (they, graceful; me, clumsy), along the perimeter with the view of the Tor, around the corner above Myrddin’s woods, through the southwest gate with a quick stop to flirt. Then we continued above the stream to the break in the southern wall where we climbed down and walked by the slaves at their labor. I couldn’t help but watch as they bent to their sorrow, though I was ashamed to look.

  “They’d do the same to us if they could,” the queen said.

  It would have been nice to give her a speech about tolerance and freedom, but it was her century, not mine. And I knew she was right. I’d seen the fighting in the woods.

  We didn’t see Lyonel at the barn again. Nor did Guinevere make excuses to part with us there. Instead, she accompanied Lynet and me to the well. We found Elaine snoozing, one foot in the water and one on the dirt, while her women sloshed pants and shirts against the stones.

  “Let’s not disturb her,” whispered Lynet.

  But Elaine woke, eyes bleary. “How was the walk?”

  I dipped my hands in the well to run wet fingers through my hair. I’d already gone days without a shower. Water soothed my scalp.

  Guinevere sat beside Elaine and put an arm around her. “We missed you at breakfast. We’re going further today. Casey wants to see the men at work.”

  Even the washing women laughed.

  “Why, Casey?” Elaine asked. “It’s not interesting at all. Though I wish I could go.”

  “Take the path,” said Lynet. “Meet us on the other side of the yard.”

  “No, I’m tired. I might go in for a nap.”

  I thought that was a good idea. Elaine looked pale.

  “You should,” said Guinevere, stroking Elaine’s hair. “You need your rest for the baby.”

  “But the work—”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  Guinevere was queen; the others let her have what she took. But the love in her touch was genuine, and the trust in Elaine’s eyes was real. Lynet’s protective gaze hovered over not one or the other, but both.

  -----

  I stepped onto the wall from the ladderway, and looked out over the makeshift tent city that spread below us across the plains south of Cadebir Town. Smoke rose from campfires, browning the clear air. It seemed the tent village had grown since my arrival. Without fog or mist, the morning left nothing but distance and imagination for the number of tents to disappear into.

  “How are you going to get past the armies if you go to town?” I asked the queen as she and Lynet topped the ladderway.

  “They won’t stop me,” said Guinevere. “When I go down the hill, those below will assume I have permission from the guards. Visiting armies have no authority over Arthur’s men.”

  “So many tents,” I mused.

  “We must be prepared,” said the queen.

  “Do we expect a Saxon attack?”

  “No. We expect to attack the Saxons.” The queen’s lip curled with a touch of bravado. She and Lynet marched away from the gate to the west.

  The Saxons I’d seen were no one I wanted to see again, whether we were the attackers or they. What if Myrddin didn’t figure out how to send me back to the twenty-first century before the war started? What if he did? My friends would be left behind to fight. There had to be a third choice.

  “Why do you stay here?” I asked, trotting to catch up. “Why aren’t you at the coast where it’s safe?”

  “At the coast we risk being attacked from the water.” Guinevere slowed her pace, then stopped. “Here at least we’re with our men.”

  “Nowhere is safe, Casey.” Lynet smiled and took my hand.

  Guinevere must have taken my surprise for something else. “It’s not your fault,” she said, her earlier coolness forgotten. She held my other hand and we walked.

  The breeze blew our hair from our cheeks. Inside the wall, men worked on the finishing touches of thatch on a new building below us. Outside the fort, a tiny bird soared along the ramparts, then flitted off to the north to disappear above the secret, forlorn marshes. I couldn’t remember ever having done anything as recklessly girlish as holding hands with Guinevere and Lynet. Though to them it was an everyday gesture, I felt silly and elated.

  At first I didn’t notice the chaotic shouts, but soon the roar drowned out the camp’s constant undercurrent of banging and clanking. We stopped and looked over a broad, dirt yard bordered on two sides by a wooden fence and on the third by the wall where we stood. A viewing stand enclosed the fourth side, creating a pit in which a hundred bare-chested men pushed and banged and bloodied each other, fighting and shouting, or throwing their arms around each other and laughing as if this were the most delightful way to spend a sunny morning.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ve seen the work. Let’s go help Elaine.”

  But Guinevere had already begun to glide down the ladderway near the viewing stand and, without hesitating, Lynet skipped after her. The volume of the melee below diminished when fierce fighters took notice of the feminine intrusion. I attempted my entrance with a wizard’s poise but finally had to hold onto the sides and descend backwards into the pit. I bumped into Lyonel at the bottom.

  “I beg your pardon, Mistress Casey,” he said. The man could not speak without sounding like he was insinuating something snide, evil, or lewd.

  “No, it’s my fault.”

  He bowed and took my hand in his huge paw to kiss it, looking up at me with bedroom eyes. “A pleasure to see you again.” I wondered if he’d received his scar in battle or from a lady defending herself.

  “Casey, more stairs!” Guinevere called from the viewing stand. I pulled my hand away from Lyonel’s grip and trotted after the queen, following her up a short flight to where King Arthur sat under a thatched awning, flanked by Bedwyr and Sagramore.

  Guinevere climbed to the bench behind her husband and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “Good morning, my love.”

  He patted her hand. But like a coach on game day, his attention never left the fighting field. Bedwyr, too, was riveted. Behind them, King Cadwy, King Owain and the other visiting chieftains appeared to be placing bets.

  Sagramore blushed and made way for us to pass. “How fares the Lady Elaine today?” I detected mint on his breath.

  “She’s only tired,” said Lynet, “she’ll deliver soon.”

  “Arthur,” Guinevere adjusted her tunic around her, “Casey wants to know what the men do all day.”

  Like his wolf-dog, the king cocked his head at me. “Do you?” He patted the bench beside him and I took my seat.

  Was it none of my business? “I’m interested in the work. Of protection.” It was a lie; I found the spectacle unpleasant to say the least.

  “Square on, Pawly!” shouted Lynet, making the queen laugh.

  By the fence, which bore evidence of recurring violence, Medraut and Pawly made impotent slices at each other with short, broad swords, drawing blood but stopping short of stabbing. Directly before us Gareth and Agravain pounded away with their fists, hitting hard enough to bruise the family flesh. Agravain struck a blow to his brother’s stomach and Gareth doubled over laughing, earning cheers from the ladies. Agravain helped his brother to his feet and they went at it again, this time hitting harder. Blood dripped from their lips.

  “Tell me what you think of our exercises,” said King Arthur.

  I attempted to be diplomatic. “To my people, Your Grace, it’s strange for brothers and friends to fight each other.”

  “One wants a sparring partner one can trust.”

  “But they’re having fun.”

  “Oh, it’s great sport.” He watched me, assessing my distress. “Mistress Casey, you and I have seen som
e years.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked that.

  “We’re in no need of speed. But these young men want action and plenty of it, in one form or another. For now I can offer them only the one.” He grinned. “Perhaps you’ve noticed the lack of ladies in the camp. Fighting prepares the men for battle. Makes them strong.” He looked out over the field. “It also occupies them.”

  Lancelot and Lyonel had removed their shirts and were putting on a cable TV wrestling show. Lancelot slung his cousin across his back like a mink stole and modeled him for the crowd, many of whom interrupted their workout to cheer. But Lyonel, a worthy opponent, reached down and grabbed Lancelot’s leg, toppling them both in a heap of sinew.

  The ladies screamed with delight. I glanced at my lap.

  “You don’t like it?”

  A direct no to his majesty was too bold. “It’s not to my taste, Your Grace.”

  “If you’re to protect me in battle you’ll see much more violence than this.”

  “Does there have to be a battle?”

  “Most likely. Although,” enthusiasm warmed his voice, “you give me hope that it might be a massacre in our favor.”

  “Yay.”

  “When you brought your saddle to me—eh, instead of taking it to your Saxon leaders—you gave us an advantage.”

  “I did?”

  “The stirrups. They give a soldier height when he wants it. They add leverage to his stroke. Thanks to you, we shall be unbeatable.”

  “Didn’t the Romans have stirrups?”

  “Perhaps. They didn’t leave us everything.”

  Beyond King Arthur’s shoulder I saw Guinevere give a little smile to someone on the field. The king caught the automatic movement in my eyes. He looked to Lancelot, who returned the queen’s gaze.

  I tried to distract him. “I’m glad I brought the stirrups to you, Your Grace. I would have brought them to no one else.”

  King Arthur stared at the field, breathing hard. Guinevere and Lancelot must have been very certain of his protection. At the moment I thought that unwise.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I felt sorry for King Arthur, though I didn’t think he’d want me to. My father had experienced the same thing—my mother cheating on him right under his nose—and I’d felt sorry for him, too. At least Guinevere didn’t flaunt her relationship with Lancelot, she just wasn’t any good at hiding it. My mom made no attempts to be discreet. She did the opposite. When I was about ten, at a family barbecue hosted by the head of the history department, Mom flirted with the graduate students so outrageously it embarrassed not only me but the students, most of whom left early. But the one who stayed had his hands full behind the garage and everyone in the history department knew it except my dad, who didn’t notice, or at least pretended he didn’t. And that’s just one example.

  In her way, I think my mom was trying to get my dad’s attention. There was an endless supply of grad students and faculty parties, and Mom kept repeating her experiments, expecting different results. Dad continued to ignore her. I wished she would lie and I hated her for flaunting her affairs, if you could call them that. Maybe I should have hated my dad. Instead I felt sorry for him because she cheated. Kids don’t understand these things.

  Whatever feelings my father had about my mother’s dalliances he kept to himself. He was a smoldering, quiet drunk. At age nine or ten I didn’t know enough to notice. I was accustomed to his smell of scotch and smoke and sadness. But about a year before he died it sank into my adolescent psyche that our family life was all her truth and his denial. What I didn’t know was how to make either of them happy.

  I wasn’t naturally outgoing, but entertaining my parents got their minds off their misery and got me some attention. I was inferior at throwing the ball in gym and my short attention span wouldn’t accommodate math, but I found a place in arts and letters. So everything I learned in history class became a performance at home. And screw the facts. I went for drama. I was the Roman army, advancing across the ancient northern Africa of our living room. I was Joan of Arc, getting too close to the fireplace in my religious fervor. I was Henry the Eighth and his six wives, not to mention all three of his heirs, chopping off lampshade heads while my dad cheered me on.

  When he passed out I was Ulysses S. Grant’s cleaning lady. I stashed the bottle in the pantry, noting how much less it contained than it had earlier in the evening. I washed his glass and returned it to the cabinet. In winter months I put a blanket over him and he slept in his chair. Mom slept in their bed on the nights she was home. None of us ever talked about it.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I welcomed Myrddin’s summons. I was glad to get off the hill, if only for an afternoon. Cadebir boiled with secrets, some of which I knew, and every person there was a bubble I was afraid I’d pop.

  Though clouds loomed beyond the forest, it was still sunny in the east when Myrddin’s mute, brunet page rode up to meet me and Lucy at the bottom of the hill. We followed him and his horse into the woods, enjoying the quiet noise of hooves on the path, creatures in the underbrush, and unseen life deep among the trees. When we came upon the ancient stelae that marked the entrance to the compound, I left Lucy with the page, confident of his care. I found my way to the stairs, making my precipitous way down to the dell. My soft shoes padded along the dirt path I’d followed the first day, leading me among high trees, then low huts. Wild chickens pecked for bugs along the path, ignoring my passing.

  The garden appeared, misted in cloud. There, where lavender and yarrow shared space with foxglove and deadly nightshade, where sun, rain and Myrddin’s gardener joined together to do their best work, where a small bench waited for an exile to take her place, I was beginning to feel at home. I slowed my pace to cross to Myrddin’s hut, allowing my fingertips to drag along the tops of the herbs and stir their scents into the moist air. I thought to sit on the bench for a time, but a summons was a summons.

  Inside, it was cold and dark. “Not quite ready for you yet. Here.” Myrddin gave me a two rocks, one with a sharp edge. “Make a fire for tea.” He went off to shuffle amid the minutiae on the shelves, mumbling to himself.

  I took the rocks to the fire pit in the corner and started scraping. I’d seen him do it. How hard could it be? I scraped and scraped, but made no spark.

  “That is pathetic,” he said, coming up behind me.

  “The king told me not to practice magic.”

  “Flint and steel is not magic,” he said, grabbing the stones from my hands. “Watch.”

  Myrddin picked up a clump of dried grass and leaves from the fire pit. He held it against the lighter of the two stones. A quick scrape of the dark stone against the light tossed a spark onto the clump. Myrddin blew on it gently, moved it carefully to the pit and added more tinder to it there.

  “Put the tea on, then come to the table.” He walked away, grumbling, “I’ve never met an adult, much less a wizard, who hadn’t at least mastered the flint and steel.”

  I filled the cauldron from the water barrel and left the tea to brew. Across the room, Myrddin waited for me at the table like a merchant with his wares set out before him. Odd wares they were, too: a fist-sized black rock, a clay jug and a length of wire. And Myrddin made a strange merchant: he wasn’t going to attract many customers by glaring and tapping the table-top with frustrated fingers.

  “There will come a time, Casey, when you will be required to prove yourself.”

  I wished he was wrong. I was supposed to be Arthur’s protector in battle, yet I couldn’t protect anyone anywhere, and in a battle I’d be the first to die.

  “I’m saving my strength.”

  He frowned. “Perhaps you’re not afraid. But I am. And as much as I like you, I’m not certain I believe in you.”

  I wanted to confide in Myrddin but if I did, he’d either have to turn me in or lie to King Arthur to protect me. Knowing the penalty I didn’t think he’d choose the latter, and I didn’t want to put him in that position. I said nothing.


  He sighed, and raised the jug from the table. He held it high, showing it off like I used to do for the cameras with the Gone! bottle. “Your moe-tor,” he said smiling, his beige teeth glinting with pride.

  Apparently I had not described it well.

  “It runs not on gas-o-leen but on current. Like lightning, only not as powerful. With this moe-tor, I intend to make a car to send you back through the Gap.”

  Any current he could get from a clay pot wouldn’t propel a mouse, much less an automobile. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I kept that to myself. “You said it wasn’t the car that sent me here, but the power.”

  “Correct.”

  “So maybe I was struck by lightning.” That must have been it. I’d been hit by lightning and I wasn’t really talking to Myrddin, I was in an insane asylum somewhere doing meticulous basket work.

  “If lightning had struck you directly, you’d be an ember. It might have struck near you. We shall experiment with that later this morning.”

  Lightning struck then, outside near the hut, lifting the darkness for a second and giving me cause for concern about the upcoming experiment. Rain began to fall outside, but Myrddin paid no attention. He lifted the black rock and coiled the wire around it, leaving the ends hanging loose. With a swatch of wadded cloth, he twisted one end of the wire around a strip of metal that poked out of the clay jar like a straw from a milkshake. Then he held the other end of the wire between his fingers with the cloth. “Observe,” he said.

  He extracted a mouse from his pocket and plopped it on the table. The mouse must have been newly dead, because it was still floppy. I feared he’d killed it expressly for the experiment. He tickled the mouse’s pink foot with the end of the wire and the tiny body twitched.

  I was wrong. His clay jug could indeed propel a mouse. “Wow.”

  “It’s an old trick,” said Myrddin. Pleased with himself, he indicated each item as he described them to me. “You need a lodestone and a bit of copper. You also need some wine that’s been sitting out too long with the cork missing.”