Camelot Burning (4 page)

I frown. I hate it when he does this.

“Maybe Galahad thought it unwise to tell you because you handle serious news about as well as you handle your ale.” I cross my arms. “One pint before you're calling for our mother.”

Marcus coughs into his fist to hide his laughter. He runs his fingers through his knotted hair at the back. It makes him look even wilder. “Are you always this brash, my lady?” His posture is poised.

Owen's loud scoff saves me. “On the contrary. Only when she's bored.” This time, his narrow-eyed look comes from the embarrassing truth I revealed, but usually, he makes his envy of my newly acquired social status no secret. His archery skills had to be the epitome of perfection to become Galahad's squire, and it's still not an easy road to knighthood. Owen wouldn't find the requisite decorum exhausting, being constantly bowed or curtsied to, but I'd much rather be sent to the gallows than deal with the many strangers at court.

Owen slaps Marcus on the back and jogs toward the hall. Marcus lingers behind.

“I like brash,” he whispers. Then he leaves, too.

I glance around to see if anyone's overheard, but I'm alone, thank God. And as immobile as Caldor without a taste of
jaseemat
.

My eyes fall upon a familiar scarlet-cloaked figure in the shadows: Merlin, ignored by proud and sheeplike nobility as always. He limps awkwardly in stiff trousers for the other side of the grand hall, pointed black shoes giving away his tendency for scuffing his feet. Covering his inked skull is an exquisite silk hat I've never seen him wear, tall and black.

Pausing at the corner before a field of untended greenery, he beckons me with a jerk of his head. I'm discreet as I follow.

Merlin leans against the side where there is no one to bother him. An exhale of green smoke snakes into the air, and his eyes close with pleasure. He drops the rolled
hashish
and steps on it. “What are those fools doing over there?”

I don't want to tell Merlin about rumors of le Fay in the land. It'd only distract him from what the knights can certainly handle on their own, without depriving me of several days of learning about the mechanical arts.

Besides, it might be dangerous to remind Merlin of magic.

“I don't know.” God forgive my selfishness. “Neither does Owen.”

Merlin stares at the guards keeping lookout on the wall. The sorcerer's fingers layer one by one over the green stone embedded in the smooth round handle of his walnut cane. He shuts his eyes, like he can somehow hear the heated conversation from where we stand. Magic might let him know, but he wouldn't give in to that temptation.

Finally, the commotion calms, and it seems everything has been settled. Laughter is meek, but the knights return to the celebrations.

“Owen,” Merlin says. “A lot of sleeping demons in that boy.”

More like a lifetime of seeking control over the stupidest things.

Guards sound their trumpets. The daylong feasting and dancing is set to begin. I'll be needed once Guinevere returns.

Merlin waves at me to go on without him. “I forgot my hookah in my tower. Caldor needs a bit of wind anyway. I'll be down at nightfall.”

It has nothing to do with his forgotten pipe and everything to do with watching Caldor soar through the night sky. “See you at the feast, Merlin.”

“Aye, but don't stay out too late. On Camelot's day off, we'll meet in the clock tower at eight sharp.”

“Of course,” I reply with a smile, letting myself feel the cool anticipation of an entire day where no one will seek me for errands or tea.

“Oh, and Vivienne? Squires become knights. And knights take vows of celibacy.”

Surely, he can't be that naïve to think none of the knights visit the harlots in the countryside when the rest of Camelot sleeps. Even the king himself can't believe otherwise. Besides, what does that have to do with—

“And some will actually need to take it seriously, dear girl.”

Owen bursts from the grand hall with flasks spilling ale onto his hands. Marcus strolls out, too, shaking his head at my brother's antics. Owen's laughter is infectious, intoxicating enough that Marcus doesn't need as much as a sip to succumb to the same ecstatic level. Our eyes meet, and he smiles with sincerity I've never seen before in the kingdom.

“Marcus!” Owen calls. He's halfway to the knights' quarters already.

Marcus runs off, spinning backward at one point to make sure I'm still watching.

“For some,” Merlin mumbles, snorting a pinch of snuff and wiping his nose clean, “life depends on the knights.”

It twists my stomach, my awareness of him possibly witnessing the brief interaction I had with Lancelot's squire. But the implication is preposterous and the least of my concerns right now.

I leave the sorcerer sitting in the field and take to the courtyard where servants have set up tents and tables, gas-burning torches and banners, and steam-run carts flying over us on iron pathways in the sky.

Five

By nightfall, that sky is speckled with stars and a crescent moon. Just as intoxicating as this past harvest's ale, reserved for tonight and kept safe from the knights' thirsty lips.

At tables in the tents, servants struggle to keep goblets full. Furs cover chairs; platters of apricots and figs and cheeses are never-ending. Maids drop their sleeves from their shoulders at only a glance from Lancelot, leader of the knights. He stands red-faced and drunk, looking too often at Arthur and Guinevere's private table on the stage. The glowing happiness she and Arthur boast is indeed enviable.

Squires ask Lancelot how the commotion at the gates finally resolved, to which he bemoans, “Oh, spare me! Send the children to hide because Morgan is surely on her wicked way!”

Even the most proper of guests ignore the roasted hogs, beef stew, and freshly baked breads. They drink spirits and live in their own inebriated worlds where the fantasy of Camelot overrules the reality of tomorrow morning's blasted headache.

Merlin sits in the corner, in the same spot he found me as a girl of ten: bored at a feast, disassembling his hookah to build a toy aeroship for some crying children. When I was caught, he was too drunk to be mad. He was delighted. Tonight, he puffs away on the reassembled hookah's mouthpiece. The smoke is lovely and willowy, winding through the braid in his beard. Scantily-clad dancers flock to him, but he pulls the brim of his hat over his eyes, not to be disturbed.

I sip my lukewarm ale as seldom as possible. Even but a few drops are horribly vile.

“Perhaps Owen can hold his drink after all, my lady.”

I turn toward the voice. Marcus, goblet in hand, gestures toward my brother sitting with the knights. Empty pint glasses sit in front of Owen, whose laughter is so strong, tears have seized his eyes.

I flick an eyebrow. “So far. Being Galahad's squire might increase your tolerance.” Though it's still uncharacteristic of Owen. Rather refreshing now, actually. “As you get to know my brother, you'll realize these moments are quite rare.”

A few knights lean over Owen, laughing at him. They take pity and call over a servant with a tray of sweetmeats, anything of sustenance my brother could use to soak up the poison.

“I'll remember that.” Marcus lifts his goblet to mine and shrugs. “To Camelot,” he says. We clink them, but neither of us drinks; instead we regard the warm brew with our own version of disdain.

I look at him. “You don't care for it either?”

He lifts a shoulder. “My parents don't drink much ale in the farmlands. I don't quite get the appeal, I'm afraid.”

I smile. “They'll toast with green fairy before the night's end.”

Another shrug. “Never had absinthe before either.” In the dim light, his irises have a bit of gold. My cheeks feel warm, but maybe it's the few sips of ale on an empty stomach.

“It's the perfect night to try it. Quite possibly the most exciting part of a celebration being in Camelot.”

“Really?” He looks around. Knights woo the harlots they brought inside, women more than willing to lift their skirts to their thighs, or trace a gentleman's chest to his belt buckle. “Maybe these folks have already had their green fairy.” Marcus's eyes return to mine. “And I thought seeing Excalibur tonight would be excitement enough.”

He has my attention and with one look, he knows it. But what he's saying is impossible. “You've seen Excalibur?” I ask.

“You haven't?” He lifts a teasing eyebrow.

“You've just arrived!”

“The Round Table met after the ceremony. I saw it then.” But he doesn't say why and shuts his mouth as though biting back a secret, scrutinizing his pint as though it might be at fault for his traitorous words.

I playfully narrow my eyes. “Liar.”

He shrugs with a mischievous smile and pretends to entertain himself with the lanterns swooping over grounds. Dancers arch their stomachs toward the sky, and their legs kicks the stars. Hawk-haired dandies whistle as they take in the show.

I should admire the skies, too, in case Azur might arrive, but …

No. What Marcus said is
impossible!

I want him to tell me so. No one's watching us, and so I set my pint on a nearby table and step closer, touching his blazer's sleeve to get his attention just as he seized mine. The daring lace I wear must be what has granted me such courage. Normally I'm not this bold.

“Really?” My voice is quieter than I expected. “You've seen Excalibur?”

His lips part as though he's going to confess something wonderful, but he forgets to answer when his eyes get lost in mine. This close, the dim light turns them a bit gray, fading from violet. I should drop his sleeve, move away, keep to propriety, but I can't break free of this moment, and I'm not certain I want to.

Clearly, I'm being absurd, but then blessed bursts of bright lights—red and blue and green—slam against the sky, as though fired by cannons, saving me from my own foolish thoughts. We both jump, awkwardly stepping apart. An array of exploding colors cascades over the entire kingdom. Dancers toss their veils high enough to flutter down like flower petals escaping a storm.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marcus turn back to me. “I'll show you one day. If you like.”

I smile. It's an impossible offer, and we both know it. “Will you, now?”

He smiles back, and enough confidence has returned for him to lean closer. “Of course. But it'll put us in grave danger, and we'll have to run away. It'll be scandalous.”

I laugh as purple and yellow explode in the sky and trickle down, my solemn nod a promise one can only make under such dazzling colors. Colors that let one indulge in a small bit of fantasy, even if only temporarily.

At the beckoning of Lancelot, the whole court raises their goblets to Arthur and Guinevere.

“To the king and queen!” Arthur's champion bellows, his voice rowdy, his face hot. He goes still when his eyes rest on Guinevere. It's understandable to be caught off-guard by the queen's exotic beauty, especially in her full white corset and flowing skirt puckered into a sensual shape. A small circular hat releases a cascade of white lace across her cheeks. Her smile is genuine as she awaits his toast.

“To prosperity!” Lancelot calls, resettling himself. He forces his eyes back to the crowd. “To Camelot!”

“To Camelot!” we cry, clinking our pints. Even Arthur's stuffy councilmen cheer, and Marcus and I join in. Somehow, the ale isn't that horrible now.

As the celebrations threaten to deafen us, Stephen throws his sloppy arm around Marcus's shoulders. “Oi! Did I hear Lancelot's squire say he's never kissed the green fairy?” A handful of squires surround us—Ector and Bors, too—and their eager eyes dart between Marcus and me.

Ector's eyes are wide and bloodshot. “Hold on. It was
Viv
you meant?” He smacks Marcus's chest with the back of his hand.

Marcus's cheeks flush red. “Blast it, Ector, shut up,” he whispers, avoiding my eyes most obviously.

People notice—inebriated lords from Arthur's council, flirty noblewomen who keep company with my mother. I feel their gazes fall upon us, and I step further away from the very unavailable squire. What does Ector mean?

The music becomes louder, faster, more festive. The smoke from the sorcerer's long pipe and bowl creates a fog, the illusion of rainless clouds. Knights crowd the king, pulling him from the stage. Their chants are contagious.
Music! Green fairy! Dancing!

“Yes, it must have been Viv!” Stephen says. “Come on, Marcus. To hell with Owen. There's nothing immoral about talking with a beautiful girl—you said so yourself. I'm sure Viv would love to dance, wouldn't you, Viv?” Stephen shoves Marcus straight into me.

I look up into Marcus's eyes, just as surprised as mine. His fingers linger on my waist a few seconds too long before he yanks them away. “Apologies.”

I back away and force a proper smile of forgiveness. “I shouldn't,” I say. “The queen might need me.”

I'll have those squires' necks, if it's the last thing I do. Guinevere doesn't need me, but Marcus is not available for my amusement. He should know it as well, even if all of this is in good fun. One foot takes another step backward, but Ector and Bors are standing behind me, blocking what should be an easy escape. Knights spot us and don't seem to care, but these days, I simply cannot afford to be seen flirting with a squire.

Stephen and Ector aren't finished yet. “Oh, come on, Viv. Not even a full day in Camelot, and this one's already got his eye on you,” Stephen slurs, arm slung over Marcus's shoulder. “At least give him one dance before he signs his life away to the Round Table. Poor bastard's been dying to ask you—”

“Oh God—” Marcus's eyes fall shut fast.

“Yes, and he had to hear Owen's spitfire declarations about you being off-limits to
everyone
, not just squires, obviously. What, with you about to be married off, and all!” Ector adds, ale on his breath. Stephen and Bors laugh.

I touch my own face, and then my hat and veil to make sure I'm still covered, hoping my reddening cheeks from these silly words aren't noticeable. Marcus was talking about me? To my brother?

What will Owen tell our mother?

It should be easy for a handmaid to slip away from horrid crowds unnoticed, but suddenly, the guests tonight have forgotten about the servants carrying trays of absinthe. All because of a trio of outspoken squires and a fourth who should know his place. I'm mortified. I cannot stay here any longer.

If I'm to run, I should go to my family's quarters. “I'm not … off-limits.” I don't understand why Ector's words even crossed my lips.

Marcus looks humiliated, but he should be. So many watch the squire of Arthur's champion and Guinevere's lady-in-waiting with curiosity. But I won't lose my freedom to escape to Merlin's tower because of him.

Marcus steps forward as though to explain. “I'm sorry. I wasn't—”

But I'm already running to the gardens.