A Knight on the Town
The Avalon Café Book 2
By
*
© 2020 Hermione Moon
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is coincidental.
Table of Contents
Catch Up
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Catch Up
A Knight on the Town is the second book in The Avalon Café series of cozy witch mysteries that feature me, Gwen Young, and my adventures in the town of Glastonbury, England. Each book features a standalone murder mystery, but my personal story continues through the series. Because of this, if you haven’t read it already, you might like to start with One Dark and Stormy Knight (Book 1). But here’s a short summary of the story if you’re beginning here.
All the women in my family are witches. Most of us do spells through our baking, using herbs and ingredients we bless to help people, and I sell my products in The Avalon Café, which is opposite the beautiful Glastonbury Abbey in Somerset, England.
My dad died when I was four, and my mother died six months ago from complications due to Multiple Sclerosis. I’m now twenty-nine. I left university to look after Mum, and I haven’t dated anyone since my first boyfriend, Luke, so I’ve been a little lonely, especially since Mum died.
And then I met Arthur.
Yes, King Arthur—except he insists he wasn’t a king. He was a warrior in the sixth century, after the Romans left Britannia, and he led an army that stopped the Saxons invading for many years before he was mortally wounded at the Battle of Camlann.
But he didn’t die. His sister, Morgana, also a witch, transferred his soul to a soulstone, a ruby, which ended up in the pommel of a sword, part of a suit of armour that has stood in my café as long as I can remember.
Gradually, Arthur has been waking up, and he insists I’m the reincarnation of his wife, Guinevere, and my dog Merlin is his old friend, the bard Taliesin. I had the ruby set in a gold ring, and yesterday I placed the ring on his finger. He was able to take off the suit of armour, and now he’s here, in the tanned and firm flesh. After we solved a murder mystery and put the victim’s ghost to rest, I took him home, and here we are, that same evening.
Chapter One
The crystal ball sits on the mantlepiece on a blue ceramic stand.
The ball itself is the size of a bowling ball and completely clear. I polish it several times a week to keep the dust away. In electric light, it has a greenish tinge. In moonlight, it turns silver.
It was my mother’s. She would stare at it for hours when I was young, seeing tantalizing glimpses of moments yet to come in the crystal depths.
Most witches practice some method of divination—the telling of the future. I’ve never been good at it. Nothing spoke to me the way the crystal ball seemed to speak to Mum. Runes stayed as lines on pebbles; the Tarot was just pretty pictures on pieces of card. Lines on a person’s palm meant nothing, and tea leaves clung together in clumps. I tried hard with the crystal ball when I was a teenager, but I only ever saw my eyes reflected upside down in the glass, which confused me and made me feel dizzy.
Maybe that’s why, when I look into it as I walk past on the way out of the living room, I’m so surprised to see a picture in it that I stand and stare.
Like the way the reflection of my eyes was always upside down, so the picture is upside down, too. I blink several times to focus on it before I realise what it is—a woman, lying down, in a white dress with coloured patches. She reminds me of a painting. It’s called Ophelia by John Everett Millais. Shakespeare’s heroine is singing while floating in a river just before she drowns. The coloured patches on the woman’s dress are flowers, the same as on Ophelia’s. Her long, light-brown hair is spread out around her head.
Upside down, I can’t tell who the woman is. I step closer to peer at her face. But as I move, the picture shifts in the crystal, and it vanishes.
“Gwen?” Behind me, my Aunt Beatrix sounds concerned. “Are you okay?”
I reach out a hand and rest it on top of the ball. The only thing I can see in the crystal now are my upside-down green eyes, intersected by a deep frown line.
“I’m fine.” I step away. I must have imagined it. What was I doing? Oh yes, I was on the way to the kitchen.
“She’s lost the plot,” my Uncle Max says. “Understandable, in the circumstances.”
I give him a wry look and open my mouth to reply. My words fade away, however, as someone appears in the doorway.
The sight of King Arthur wearing nothing but a bath towel would make anyone lose the power of speech. Droplets from his dark hair run down his clean-shaven face. He has a slight nick on his jaw where he was obviously getting used to the razor. The white towel circles his waist and hangs to his mid-thigh. His torso is bare, tanned, and muscled.
Merlin, my dog, who’s a Labradoodle—a mixture of a Labrador and a Poodle—barks. I think he’s laughing.
“Oh,” I say, trying not to stare at the way the muscles on Arthur’s chest are glistening in the light. “Um, hello.”
Arthur meets my eyes, amused, before his gaze slides to the other two people in the room. “Beatrix and Max,” he states, holding out his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you at last.”
“Arthur.” Beatrix shakes his hand. I can see she’s trying not to stare at his chest. “It’s so very nice to meet you.”
“Please excuse my state of undress.” He turns to shake Max’s hand. “I hadn’t had a bath in fifteen hundred years, so I felt it was only polite to clean myself.”
Max laughs and offers him the bag in his other hand. “I brought you some clothes. We’re roughly the same build so they should do you for tonight at least.”
“Why, thank you.” Arthur seems genuinely touched. “That’s very thoughtful. I’ll go and get dressed.”
“I’ll make us something to eat,” I tell him, conscious that earlier he told me he was ravenous.
“Thank you, Gwen.” He smiles and returns up the stairs.
My gaze slides to the others.
“Oh my Goddess,” Beatrix says.
I give her a wry look. “Come into the kitchen. I’m going to start dinner.”
They follow me into the kitchen and lean against the worktop while I try to concentrate on food. It doesn’t work, and I stare at the contents of the fridge for thirty seconds before closing it again. I can’t think about anything except the fact that Arthur is here, in my house, and he’s real.
“Are you all right?” Beatrix asks. “Do you need to lie down?”
“I do,” Max says, making us both laugh. “It’s like having a celebrity indoors.”
“It’s so exciting,” Beatrix states.
“He seems very nice,” Max says helpfully.
Nice? It occurs to me that although the two of them are keen to help, and I have no
doubt that they believe me, they have no real concept of how amazing this is. To them, Arthur is a real person, someone who’s turned up on my doorstep, like a long-lost cousin who’s visiting from America or the Far East. People’s brains are mysterious things, and when we can’t figure something out, we often brush over it and accept it at face value. Even Beatrix, who’s a witch, is acting like Brad Pitt or George Clooney has come to stay. Not an ancient warrior, who’s fought Saxons and killed men with his sword…
“What are you going to cook for him?” Beatrix asks.
“I have no idea.” I open the fridge and stare into it again. “What do you cook for someone who hasn’t eaten for over a thousand years?”
“Most men like steak,” Max says. “I’d start there.”
He’s probably right. I take out the pack of two eye-fillet steaks. I’ll mash some potatoes and do some green beans. Would he like that?
I’m nervous. I want him to feel comfortable and at home, and yet I also want to impress him. I want him to like me. My hands are shaking, and my pulse is racing. I need to calm down or I’m going to have a coronary. And heart attacks definitely aren’t sexy.
“There,” Arthur states from behind me. “Not too bad at all.”
I glance over my shoulder. Max’s jogging bottoms hang on Arthur’s narrow hips, and they’re a little short. The grey T-shirt stretches across his muscular chest, and the sleeves cling to his impressive biceps. But he looks good.
I clear my throat. “I was going to cook you a steak. I’ll do it with some mash and green beans, but you can leave whatever you don’t like; I won’t be offended.”
“It all sounds lovely, Gwen. Thank you all for going to such trouble.”
“Well, we should go,” Beatrix says.
I stare at her in alarm. “Oh. You don’t have to…”
She kisses my cheek. “We only came over to bring the clothes and say a quick hello. I’m sure the two of you have a lot to talk about.”
Max kisses me too, and they both wave to Arthur before leaving the room. After a few seconds we hear the front door opening and closing, and then we’re alone again.
I meet Arthur’s blue eyes, and we study each other for a long moment.
“Does my presence in your house make you feel awkward?” he asks.
“No,” I lie.
“I understand if it does. Maybe Beatrix has a spare room I could borrow for a night or two until we decide what I’m going to do.”
“I don’t want you to go.” It’s the truth. I’ve been fascinated with this guy since I was a child. I can’t believe he’s here, in my kitchen, that’s all.
His expression softens. “All right,” he says.
I turn back to the worktop and pull the bag of potatoes toward me. “Have a seat. Dinner will be a little while.”
I meant him to sit at the table in the centre of the room, but instead he pulls up the bar stool I sometimes use when baking and perches beside me. Up close, I can smell the lavender and rosemary from my homemade shower gel he chose from the cabinet. The hair at his temples is a little curly.
I busy myself with peeling the potatoes. Arthur watches me.
“This must be very strange for you,” I say. “I mean, it’s strange for me, but I can only imagine how you feel, coming to life in the twenty-first century. I think I’d be running around screaming. You seem to be taking it in your stride, though.”
“It’s maybe not as odd as you’d expect. I’ve been watching the world for a long time, even if I haven’t been fully conscious. I’ve seen things change. I understand people.”
“You must have done, to be able to command an army.”
“That was a long time ago,” he says.
I chop the peeled potatoes in a colander and then wash them under the tap. “How much do you remember of those days?”
“A little. It’s a bit blurry.” He watches me tip the potatoes into a saucepan and cover them with water. When I move to put the saucepan on the hob, he leans over and turns the tap on, then off again. “That’s amazing,” he says. “No fetching buckets! I like these metal twisty things.”
I laugh and switch the hob on. “You mean taps. And you’re going to love electricity.” I show him how the ring lights up to indicate that it’s getting hot and place the saucepan on it.
“Electricity’s like magic,” he says. “You can’t see it, but it’s very powerful.”
“That’s right.”
“It could be used for good or evil like magic, too.”
“That’s true, I suppose. I hadn’t thought about it like that.” I take some home-grown green beans out of the freezer, put them into a saucepan, and set them to heat. “Life must have been very hard back then.”
“We knew no different. It was a lot simpler. People’s expectations are very high now. Everyone wants all the amazing inventions. I understand why. But back then life was just about survival.”
I open the packet of steak. People would have had to catch the animal they wanted to eat and carve it up themselves. I grow a lot of my own vegetables, but I don’t have to grind wheat to make flour. And I’m safe in my little home with its lock and key. I don’t have to worry about animals in the woods or invading armies.
I turn and lean against the counter. Arthur bears my scrutiny patiently, as if he understands that even though this is strange for him, it’s also a lot for me to take in.
“Am I really the reincarnation of your wife?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he says, without hesitation.
“How can you be sure?”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“That’s a lot to ask.”
“I know.” He gives a little smile.
“Did we…” I clear my throat. “Did you and Guinevere have children?”
His smile fades. “No. It never happened for us.” He looks down at Merlin. I know he can hear Merlin speak, and maybe vice versa. What are they saying to each other?
“How did you release Liza’s ghost?” I’m referring to the young woman who was murdered recently, and whose ghost the murderer chained to this spiritual plane with a spell. After I took off his suit of armour, Arthur led me into the library and was able to send Liza’s ghost on to wherever we go when we die.
“It wasn’t me,” he says, “it was Merlin. I just helped a bit.”
I look down at the Labradoodle. He licks his nose.
I frown. “I don’t understand.”
“Morgana gave Taliesin the skill to be able to help those souls who are unable to pass on,” Arthur explains. “There are lots of reasons this might happen. Usually it’s a very deep grief that binds someone to this plane.”
“So he really is psychic,” I murmur, bending to ruffle the dog’s ears.
“He is. Sometimes, if a person passes in a traumatic way, like murder, they get caught in the memory, reliving the moment over and over. When that happens, Merlin needs a little help. It takes a lot of energy to do what he does.”
“And you helped him with Liza?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“By letting him tap into my energy, I think. I’ve always been strong and healthy.” Arthur smiles.
“I suppose if I slept for fifteen hundred years, I might wake up with a bit more oomph.” I joke to cover the fact that he does seem extraordinarily well. I have no trouble in believing that this man led an army and fought in battle. There’s an… earthiness to him that few men have today.
The potatoes are boiling merrily, so I turn the heat down a little and concentrate on getting out the plates and setting the table.
We haven’t yet broached the topic of where we go from here. He hasn’t said what he wants to do now he’s alive and kicking. He’s an intelligent, active man; he’s not going to enjoy sitting in the café all day. Will he want to leave Glastonbury? Travel the world?
I feel his gaze on me as I prepare the steaks and begin heating the oil. A few days ago, he told me I will just have to win you all
over again. Is that still his intention? Or has he changed his mind now he realizes the world is his fresh-and-tasty oyster?
I think about poor dead Liza as I set the steaks to sizzle and drain the potatoes. Liza was married to my first boyfriend, Luke. I loved him once, although any lingering affection I might have felt for him evaporated when I discovered he’d started dating Liza before he and I broke up. But he’s the only experience I’ve ever had of being in love. We separated a long time ago, around eight years now. I’ll be thirty in September. It’s still young enough to get married and have children, but I’d begun to wonder if it was in the cards for me.
As I mash the potatoes, my gaze slides to Arthur. He’s watching my hands as I add butter and milk, but his gaze lifts to mine as I look at him. His eyes are gentle and warm, and my stomach flutters with butterfly wings. What is he expecting to happen? I feel a little bit panicky. Mum’s illness and having to look after her means I’ve not dated much, and I’m inexperienced in things like this. I look at Merlin, who’s studying the two of us. His mouth opens and his tongue lolls out, for all the world as if he’s smiling with pleasure. He’s glad we’re back together. If it’s true that I’m Guinevere, then Arthur and I belong together.
Oh Goddess. I’m so nervous! How on earth do I take the first step?
Chapter Two
We sit opposite each other at my pine kitchen table and eat our dinner while Merlin wolfs down his kibble in the corner.
Arthur doesn’t start eating immediately, and I realize he’s watching me to see what I do—how I handle my knife and fork, how I put salt on, what size bites I take. Of course, in the sixth century he probably wouldn’t have used a fork, only a sharp knife to cut off bits of food. I offered him wine and beer, and he chose wine. He has a mouthful of the Merlot and makes a noise that suggests he likes it before he finally has a bite of the steak.
“I’m eating dinner with King Arthur,” I say eventually. “This is quite surreal.”
He chuckles and scoops up some mash with his fork. “What did you say this was?”
“Potato. It’s a root vegetable, originally from America, introduced to Europe in the sixteenth century. You can boil it, mash it, fry it—potatoes are lovely any way they’re cooked.”
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