Searching for Arthur (The Return to Camelot #1)

by Donna Hosie

  The knights and I dismounted. The horses, sweating and panting, trotted off. No one bothered tying them up.

  “It is a sight to behold isn’t it,” sighed Talan, and he started to softly sing an ode to the great who had walked in Camelot’s shadow.

  “It certainly isn’t what I was expecting,” I replied, taking Bedivere’s hand in mine. He kissed my forehead.

  “I see Balvidore is flying his standard,” said Tristram, looking at Bedivere.

  “Where?” I asked. I couldn’t see any flags at all.

  “The heads of his enemies,” replied Tristram darkly, and he nodded to the deflating balloons.

  If I had eaten breakfast, I would have puked it up. The knights crossed themselves, and Talan stopped singing and went pale.

  “Please tell me Arthur isn’t one of them,” I choked. I couldn’t look.

  “Arthur is alive, my love,” replied Bedivere, stroking my back. “He is the bait to summon the knights to Camelot.”

  “But there are so few of you.”

  The knights – with the exception of Archibald who was glaring daggers at Bedivere – scoffed.

  “Lady Natasha, there are one hundred and fifty seats at the Round Table,” answered Talan. “Right now, over one hundred of the strongest, bravest, most victorious knights this realm has ever seen, have woken and are riding to aid their returned king. Balvidore and the Saxon traitors will cower before the moon when we avenge the dishonour that has been done to this glorious land.”

  I forced my eyes to look once more upon the terrible beauty of Camelot. Instead of concentrating on the upper battlements, they were instinctively dragged to the lower sections. Arthur was in there, somewhere. My mind drifted back to the image in the pool below the Falls of Merlin, and I remembered that I hadn’t told Gareth about his brother, held prisoner with my own.

  “I’ve seen Gaheris,” I cried, clapping my hands to my mouth. “Nimue appeared to me when I was being held by Mordred and the Gorians. She showed me Arthur and your brother. They are together, in one of the dungeons in Camelot.”

  Gareth and Gawain grasped for each other.

  “He is still alive,” exclaimed Gawain with relief. His voice was weak, but a pinkish tinge was now present in his face, which just two days ago had been white and bloodless.

  Gareth fell onto his knee and kissed my hand.

  “That is wondrous news, Lady Natasha. Our greatest fear had been Sir Gawain’s escape would cost Sir Gaheris his life.”

  “We require a plan, Sir Bedivere,” said Tristram, clapping Gareth on the back. “Sir Percivale and the travelling court from Caerleon could be leagues away from here. Do we wait?”

  “No,” replied Bedivere. “We cannot tarry. Once Balvidore is aware the knights have rallied here, he has no reason to keep Arthur alive. We alone must act with the element of surprise on our side.”

  And suddenly my own plan to use the battle as a diversion while I ran to Arthur wasn’t looking so hot. The knights immediately formed a circle on the damp grass.

  “We will split into two camps. Brothers, you are with me. We will enter Camelot via one of the tunnels to the west.” Bedivere then spoke to Tristram. “Sir Tristram, you will create a diversion to the east. Take Sir Archibald and Sir Talan with you.”

  “And what of me, Sir Bedivere?” asked David.

  “If I may be so bold,” interrupted Gawain, coughing. I noticed a thin streak of silvery blood on his hand as he pulled it away. “I can find the way to Arthur and my brother, but the tunnels are narrow. I am not of stout build like my older kin and I was able to slip through the bars that block the way. My noble Sir Bedivere, we will need the nimble and slight with us if we are to succeed. I believe Sir David would be most able in our camp.”

  David beamed, and my heart panged again; he looked so excited to be given such an important role in the rescue of Arthur. The young knight was bouncing on the balls of his feet with anticipation.

  “Then it is decided,” announced Bedivere. “Sirs Gareth, Gawain, David and I will take the tunnel beneath the west battlement. Sirs Tristram, Talan and Archibald will divert the Saxon scullions to the eastern drawbridge.”

  I coughed quite deliberately. I knew this was coming. The damsel in distress would stay behind and look after the horses, or prepare their supper, or knit some socks with two sticks and the hair from their chests.

  Bedivere grinned.

  “Are you ailing, my love?”

  “And what do you propose I do, my love,” I said sarcastically. I wanted to kiss him and kick him at the same time.

  “You are with me, naturally,” replied Bedivere. “I know from experience what a fearsome warrior lies within.”

  And with one sentence, all was right with the world again. I really was falling hopelessly in love. Now if I could just get Bedivere a razor.

  The knights separated into their respective camps. I was overjoyed to be going with Bedivere, but I was afraid for Tristram and Talan. I didn’t trust Archibald as far as I could throw him. His sunken sallow features had taken on a new level of malcontent. His black hair hung limply in greasy segments as he glowered at Bedivere. If Archibald had known the dark arts, I had no doubt he would use them to his own advantage. It went deeper than just avenging his sister. He even smelt bitter, toxic. It bounced off him like sound waves.

  I confided to Gareth about my fears.

  “You can’t trust Archibald.”

  “Sir Bedivere knows what he is doing, Lady Natasha. Place your faith in him.”

  “It’s not my faith in Bedivere that needs checking, Gareth. It’s my fear that Archibald is going to slit Bedivere’s throat when he least expects it.”

  “Then Sir Bedivere had better not turn his back to me, as he turned his back to my sister,” said a cold voice behind me.

  My insides turned to stone as I turned around to see the leering face of Archibald.

  “You touch him and I’ll kill you.”

  Archibald threw his greasy head back and spat out a short, sarcastic laugh.

  “And to think my brother-in-arms threw aside the delicacy of Lady Fleur for this,” he said with a sneer. “They may call you Lady Natasha, but you are no lady. You are a sorcerer’s snake, no more than a bitch in heat, and I will see you burned at the stake once I have avenged my sister’s honour.”

  Gareth placed his body in front of mine.

  “Your quarrel is with Sir Bedivere and him alone, Sir Archibald,” said Gareth quietly. “You will do well to remember the tenets of the Round Table. Your life is forfeit if you touch Lady Natasha, for she is a lady and kin to Arthur.”

  He stepped closer to Archibald.

  “And she is also the true love of Sir Bedivere, and I will kill you myself if you speak to her in that manner again.”

  Archibald’s front teeth were clamped together and his top lip was quivering. He sidestepped Gareth and spat at my feet.

  “Whore.”

  I saw the sudden movement and the glint of silver as Bedivere appeared from nowhere. He pulled out his dagger and held it to Archibald’s throat; his other arm was wrapped around Archibald’s neck, holding him in a lock.

  “Then let us end this, Sir Archibald,” said Bedivere angrily. “You have dishonoured my Natasha more grievously than with any pain I have dealt to Lady Fleur. You want to avenge your lady sister? Then let us be done with this now.”

  Bedivere threw Archibald forward. Both knights now faced each other, and only Gareth and I were present to stop them.

  “I hope her lips were worth it, Sir Bedivere,” sneered Archibald, wiping his hands on his tunic. He sniffed and pushed his greasy hair back from his flushed face. “Make the most of them, for now is not your time to die.”

  With his head held high, Archibald strutted away.

  “Do something now,” I begged. “You can’t take him with you.”

  Bedivere closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around me. I thought he was shaking, but it was just the vibrations of my terror
bouncing off of his body. He said nothing.

  But in that moment I knew I would never stop watching Archibald, and I would be waiting.

  “I have something that belongs to you,” whispered Bedivere, and he pulled out the diamond stud earring I had deliberately dropped on the ground by the Falls of Merlin.

  “You found it,” I gasped, as Bedivere placed it in my open palm. “I wanted to leave a trail, and it was the only thing I had.”

  “I’ll always find you, my Natasha,” replied Bedivere.

  I threw my arms around his neck and pressed my mouth against his; he tasted salty, like potato chips. It was delicious.

  “Don’t give up on me or Arthur will you?” I said quietly, fastening the earring to his tunic. “Even if things turn out differently to how you imagined.”

  Never before had I placed so many hopes and dreams into one fragile outcome.

  It was time.

  The men clasped hands and saluted each other in a ritual farewell. Bedivere and Gareth shared a few sombre words in private which I couldn’t hear. Before the two camps divided for good, I whispered to Talan to take care and to watch out for Archibald.

  “Be ready to teach me a new song, Lady Natasha,” he said enthusiastically. “One to celebrate the rescue of our king. I am quite enamoured with your Lady Gaga. Tell me, does she have a suitor?”

  The sky had darkened with a deep purple veil, and spots of rain were starting to fall. As we crawled through the undergrowth below the towering rock dais, Camelot appeared to stretch upwards and forwards like a yawning black mouth. There was a strange distortion around the castle’s perimeter, like the haze that appears on scorching tarmac on a hot summer’s day.

  Bedivere led Gareth, Gawain, David and I to a small opening at the base of the rock. He placed his finger to his lips and drew his sword. We were all armed: the knights had swords, bows and quivers of arrows strapped to their backs; I had my curved knife and another shorter dagger with a white handle. It had belonged to Tristram, but he had made me take it.

  The rock opening was a tight squeeze on all sides, but after a hundred metres or so it widened out. Bedivere and Gareth still had to stoop to stop their heads from skimming the roughly hewn roof, but the rest of us could walk upright without banging our heads. Gawain was now leading the way; his bow held tightly with a feather-tipped arrow already placed in the string. Bedivere and Gareth followed, while David brought up the rear. We heard nothing, except the squeaking of rapidly-moving rats, which brazenly criss-crossed our feet as we made our way along the damp, foul-smelling tunnel.

  Gawain led us to a set of stairs. A single torch blazed in a wrought iron bracket on the wall. Next to that were several chains and manacles. Cloth, blood and bone were still strapped to one. I bit into my bottom lip, reminding myself that every foul step took me closer to Arthur.

  As we climbed the steps, my stress levels started to increase. I was still convinced that my brother was not the Arthur the knights were looking for. We had come so far, but what if was now the prelude to a thousand questions racing through my head.

  At the top of the steps, we encountered voices for the first time: deep and rasping.

  Wait, mouthed Bedivere, but he pointed to Gareth and indicated that he should follow him onward. Gareth did so without hesitation. He would follow Bedivere into the pits of hell if asked. Moments later there was the sound of a scuffle. Something solid, like heavy metal, rattled onto the floor, as two attempts to cry out were muffled. What echoed instead was a brief gurgle.

  Gawain, David and I stepped over the slumped figures. Both men were dressed in baggy shorts made of thick wool that stopped at the knee. Their red tunics were now soaking up the blood spilling from their slit throats.

  “Should we move the bodies, Sir Bedivere?” asked David. Bedivere nodded once, and Gareth and David immediately grabbed hold of two thick hairy ankles, and dragged the men back down the steps we had just climbed up. I stuck my fingers in my ears as the sound of their heads smashed up and down on the stone. Each thud was sickening to hear, as the skulls of the two Saxon guards pulverised into their brains.

  In single file we continued onwards. The lower floors of Camelot were like a labyrinth, but all of the knights, with the exception of David, were confident in their direction. Twice we came to a tiny circular opening, like a barred storm drain, and Gawain, David and I would squeeze through as it was the shorter route. Gawain would then double back another way, and would appear in what seemed like an age later with Bedivere and Gareth, who were too tall and broad with their weapons to fit through.

  Above our heads we could hear the pounding of feet against the floor. People were running. Had Tristram and Talan begun their diversion? I’m not a religious person, but I started to pray anyway. It seemed like the right thing – the only thing – to do.

  “Not far now,” whispered Gawain, smiling at me with encouragement. The tension around the five of us was palpable. Every muscle I possessed was tensed to breaking point. The smell from the warren of tunnels was obscene. My eyes streamed and itched, and even though I tried my best to not breathe in the stench through my nose, it found a way in anyway. It was hard to believe that anything human could make such a poisonous smell.

  We curved around another corner, and the cause of the stench was revealed. A rotting corpse, covered in buzzing flies and tiny wriggling maggots, was propped up against a wet stone wall. The jaw bone was exposed, and an eyeball hung from a bloody ligament. I lurched forward and gagged.

  Two hoarse cries bellowed behind us.

  Bedivere and Gareth reacted immediately, and charged forward with their swords raised. Gawain placed an arrow through the neck of one of the Saxon guards, before David plunged his sword into the man’s chest. The other turned about and fled, with Bedivere and Gareth in pursuit.

  “Quickly,” cried Gawain, taking my arm. “Arthur and Sir Gaheris are close.”

  Frantically looking over my shoulder for Bedivere and Gareth, I ran on. David pulled a large ring of iron keys from a wall, as Gawain led us down another short flight of stained steps.

  There were two doors in an airless chamber. Filthy blackened straw lined the floor. It was empty, except for a small table, which had two wooden goblets on it and a chunk of furry green bread.

  “Which door, Sir Gawain?” asked David urgently.

  “That one,” replied the knight, pointing to the one furthest away from the steps. He was shivering, despite the hot airless conditions.

  David was fumbling over the keys and so I snatched them away. I wanted to scream out Arthur’s name, but caution had me in a vice-like grip. If this was a trap, then we would all die if more Saxons arrived.

  I found the key that slotted into the lock, but it would not budge in any direction. David and I wrapped both of our hands around it and heaved it to the left. An imprint of a sleeping dragon was left embedded in the white skin of my palm.

  Gawain and David pushed the door open. It squealed with resistance. A belching blast of hot air gushed out of the dungeon as I ran through it.

  Straight into Arthur’s open arms.

  A torrent of emotion flooded out of me. I started screaming. Then my body went into spasms of violent shaking. I was having a fit; I couldn’t control anything. Moments later, Arthur was yelping in pain. I had bitten him on the shoulder.

  He pushed me away, but his hands still gripped my upper arms.

  “You look bloody terrible, Titch.”

  I punched him several times. I had travelled through time to find him and the first thing he did was insult me.

  “Don’t you ever, ever, ever, do that to me again,” I cried, pummelling his chest and biceps with balled-up fists. “Don’t you ever, ever leave me again, do you hear me?”

  Arthur held me until the terror evaporated and I had fallen limply into his arms. Then he turned to Gawain, who had finished unshackling his brother, Gaheris, and was now helping him stand.

  “Thank you for finding her, Gawain,” he sai
d quietly, with a nod of his blonde head.

  “It was an honour to serve my king.”

  My mouth dropped open. My jaw quite possibly scraped the floor. Gawain, Gaheris and David had all gone down on bended knee in front of my brother.

  Arthur. Arthur Paul Roth. My brother. An eighteen-year-old math student with appalling taste in girls, a car that is a chugging death trap, and who – on a good day – looks like he had been dragged through a hedge backwards by a rampaging herd of cows on steroids.

  King Arthur? No way.

  “We must flee, my lord,” said Gawain, rising first. “Sirs Tristram, Talan and Archibald are making a diversion at the east gate. We are expecting Sir Percivale and the travelling court of Caerleon to arrive soon. Your life will be forfeit once Balvidore realises he is trapped like a fox.”

  “You said Bedivere would be here. Where is he?” asked Arthur.

  “Here, sire,” replied a gruff voice from the doorway.

  I turned around and saw Bedivere and Gareth, framed like a portrait in the doorway. Something tickled the inside of my stomach. Even sweaty, dirty and covered in a fine mist of blood, Bedivere was hotter than every boy at school. Every boy I had ever met.

  Ignoring me, Arthur and Bedivere collapsed into one another, and my jaw definitely skimmed the ground. I had been expecting them to be strangers to one another, not the best of friends, despite the letter.

  I must have made a noise because they both looked at me. Arthur seemed fairly amused, despite the fact he had been locked up for days.