He’d been so skilled and precise. It stood to reason that he’d performed that task before.
“How do mages train for such things?” she asked.
“How?” Gawain chuckled. “You’re asking the wrong questions, Your Majesty.” A loud laugh erupted from Lancelot and Percival’s clump of riders, and Vera glanced wistfully at them.
“You don’t want to talk to me anymore, do you?” he asked.
She was so startled by his blunt (and correct) assessment that she wasn’t sure how to respond.
“I’m done talking anyway,” he said. “I’d heard you were strange, but I like you better than I thought I would.”
And with that, Gawain pulled up on the reins of his horse to fall back and ride alone.
Still in shock, Vera caught up with Percival and Lancelot, now on their own, apart from the other soldiers.
“Been watching you back there. What was that about?” Percival asked.
“That guy’s a fucking weirdo,” Vera said.
This set Lancelot to howling, so she felt compelled to continue. “He said he was done talking to me and wanted to ride alone.”
Percival muttered a few choice insults under his breath.
“Ooh, I’ve never seen anyone get under your skin like that,” Lancelot said to him. “You like damn near everybody.”
“I’ve never met anyone with such disrespect for Arthur. And now for the queen, too. He’s an egregious, pompous—”
“All right, all right. Point taken,” Lancelot said. “Don’t you feel a tiny bit sorry for him? Off on his own in this rowdy crew?”
“No,” Percival said.
“Also,” Vera added, joining in Percival’s annoyance that Lancelot clearly didn’t get it. “He told me that you reek of lies and that I shouldn’t trust you.”
“Really?” Lancelot’s eyes glimmered with delight. “That’s fabulous. I’m going to go annoy the shit out of him. Cheers!” He made a soft clicking noise, and his horse was trotting off toward Gawain before either could attempt to stop him.
In opposition to Vera’s abysmal familiarity with Arthurian legend (a rather hilarious joke of the universe), she was well acquainted with Glastonbury’s history. Based on all accounts that she’d been taught in school and during class trips to the abbey, all the buildings and lodgings should have been made of wood, simple structures to keep less civilized ancient peoples out of the elements. As had become the custom of her new life, her knowledge was wrong.
The party arrived on the High Street of Glastonbury in the early afternoon, as a cold rain began to fall in a broken spit like the sky was talking excitedly and couldn’t keep from at least a few drops flying free.
A merry woman met them at the edge of town with a dramatic “Good morning!” that rose and fell, sounding like an arch.
“That’s Maria. She’s the master of festival,” Arthur murmured to Vera.
Maria was lovely, with a pile of golden curls arranged atop her head and a bright magenta gown that didn’t feel like it belonged in the seventh century. She excitedly led them all to a stone building that was, as best as Vera could tell, about half a block from where the George and Pilgrims would stand in some 800 years.
“Leave your horses here with Harding; he’ll see that they’re cared for. Don’t you dare touch those bags,” she barked at Lancelot, who grinned and raised his hands from the bag on his horse. “Tawdry will bring them to your rooms. Your Majesty, may I steal you away for a titch? My queen, you can carry on to your quarters if you wish. I’m sure you need a rest after your journey.”
These were the lodgings they’d used every year when in town for the festival. The king’s party had the entire ground floor.
“This one’s yours,” Matilda said in Vera’s ear, reaching past her to open the first door on the left. She peered into the quarters, her eyes first drawn to the blazing fire in a grand hearth on the wall opposite, with all the necessities for a bedroom between here and there.
“I’m the next one over. Lancelot is directly across the hall,” Matilda said. “Shall I help you get settled in?”
Vera assured Matilda she was fine and sent her on her way. Strangely, she noted with her head cocked to the side, the room was entirely lit by fire—from the robust one in the fireplace to the flames of candles all along the walls. There was a chandelier of orbs hanging from the ceiling, completely dark, and the marble panel that would have been used to light it was in its customary place by the door, but it was covered with a cloth.
“We only use firelight for the solstice.” She jumped at Arthur’s voice behind her. “Sorry to startle you.” He smiled. “No magic lighting for Yule. It’s all of the earth to celebrate the light of the sun beginning to return.” Concern crept into his features as his eyes swept the room. “Is this going to be all right?”
Vera glanced at all the furnishings. “It’s beautiful.”
But Arthur remained tense. “There’s … just the one room for us.”
Ah. She hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t worried about it. They’d not shared a bed before. “I don’t have to—” Arthur started. “I can stay in Lancelot’s room.”
Vera laughed. “That would be horribly unfair to him.” She imagined at least one of the girls he’d snuck away to his sacred grove might be in attendance. “It’s all right,” she said earnestly, hoping her reassurance might unfurrow his brow. “I trust you.” And a knot in her unknitted, too, because she meant it.
The Yule’s Eve celebration would be tonight, an evening of food, drink, and fine performers. When they walked under an enormous stone archway into the festival grounds, Vera’s entire field of vision was taken by high-standing torches, their open flames casting a bouncing light in all directions. There were also candelabras throughout the courtyard, campfires with clusters of revelers gathered around them at the back of the space, and in the middle, near the front, a stage cleverly lit by shallow basins of flames. Tables and chairs skirted the courtyard’s edges, and every corner had a makeshift bar serving wine and ale.
A prickle rose on Vera’s arms, and it took her eyes adjusting to the surrounding light to see past the courtyard area. At first, she could only make out a looming structure. Something was familiar about where she stood. The prickle turned to goosebumps as Vera spun toward the High Street, orienting herself. She stood on the grounds of what would someday be the abbey. Now, in 633 CE, if there should have been a structure here, it would be a humble wooden church. But she walked toward it, squinting into the darkness.
Arthur followed her. “What are you looking at?”
“This … it’s …” She was going to say “impossible” as she gaped at an ornate stone cathedral towering above. Two towers were facing Vera with the bulk of the building in between—not in the gothic style she recognized from the abbey’s ruins of her other time, all spiking points and buttresses. It was rounder and gentler, more in the style of Camelot’s castle, though certainly as grand as any more modern structure Vera had seen. And since there was no record of it, no archaeology to mark this reality that Vera could have walked forward and touched with her own fingers, she knew it must have been made with magic. The stone structure they did have archaeological evidence of would be built more than a hundred years from now. What could possibly happen between now and then that would erase the gargantuan beauty before her?
“There are only ruins here in my time,” she said. “Impressive ruins, but not of this. This is … no one from my time has seen the likes of this.”