The Fire of Merlin (The Return to Camelot #2)(5)

“How did you find us again?”

“Sir Bedivere had a vision. We were resting near the outskirts of the Falls of Merlin when a darkness came over the weak winter sun. I am ashamed to say I cowered, for I thought it was the end of all days: a punishment for allowing Arthur to leave again.”

“Why were you near the Falls of Merlin?”

“Sir Bedivere had found your fallen jewel there, after the attack on Solsbury by Sir Mordred and the druids of Gore. So he was retracing your journey, striving to find another token belonging to you. We found Sir Bedivere one night, walking whilst sleeping. Once he had revived, he told us he had seen the long lost magician, Merlin. Merlin had told Sir Bedivere that the enchantment laid over him by Lady Nimue could now be broken, that the heart of Arthur had passed into another realm with a seed to continue the line.”

“Seed? Do you mean my acorn?”

“It would appear so,” smiled Gareth. “We walked through the Falls of Merlin, and the earthen path led us to this strange land. It was Sir Tristram who saw the knights and maidens preparing for the tournament, and so we waited for our quarry.”

“Your quarry?”

Gareth laughed. “Why, you and Arthur, Lady Natasha.”

I blushed, but it wasn’t because I was embarrassed.

“Do you think Bedivere is telling Arthur about the darkness now?”

“I am certain of it.”

“Do we need to go back to your time?”

“Lady Nimue and Merlin cannot be permitted to battle,” replied Gareth gravely. “They are too powerful. Whilst their quarrel endures, the land of Logres will suffer enormous hardship. Darkness, fire and water will destroy all.”

“But whose side is Arthur supposed to be on?” I asked. I knew the legend: that Merlin was a trusted advisor to the cuckolded king of the myth; a magician that Nimue had imprisoned for eternity.

“That is for the king to decide.”

“Whose side are you on, Gareth?”

“I stand by my king.”

I looked over to Slurpy. She must have got indigestion because she was rubbing her stomach, which was padded out by a quilted black jacket with a fur-lined hood. Yet another cigarette was in her mouth. In the distance, someone, somewhere, was blowing a hunting horn.

“Arthur has been known to make mistakes, you know,” I called to Gareth, but he was no longer listening. Bedivere and Arthur had beckoned him over, and I was alone once more, with only the singing wind to hear me.





Chapter Three

A Different Kind of Battle



The organisers of the Medieval Enactment of the Infamous Battle of Breguoin – as written in fancy gold lettering on the flyer – could never have imagined in their wildest dreams who was among them. To be honest, I think they would have all had strokes if they had known. Encouraged by David’s demolition of his opponent in the joust, the other four knights quickly decided they wanted a go as well, and by the end of the day, the drooling groupies following them outnumbered the knights ten to one.

And that was just the guys.



Gareth and Talan ran out of arrows as they obliterated the bullseye in the archery contest. Then they decided they would test themselves by aiming for moving objects in the sky. I had to stop them after people started complaining about the amount of dead pigeons falling on top of their heads, although why anyone would bother phoning the RSPCA for disease-ridden birds was beyond me.

Meanwhile, Bedivere and Tristram were eyeing the combat ring with a hungry gleam that could only mean extreme pain to anyone stupid enough to challenge them.

“This sword is a work of art,” said a ginger bearded man, who was dressed in red woollen tights and a long purple tunic covered in gold stars. He held Bedivere’s sword in his hands, and slowly turned it to admire the long blade from every angle.

“Drudwyn has been my trusty friend through many a battle,” said Bedivere smiling. It took me a moment to realise Bedivere was talking about his sword, and not another knight.

“Were you at Agincourt last year, mate?” asked the bearded man, handing the silver-banded hilt back to Bedivere. “You look familiar.”

Bedivere shook his head. “There was only one battle of worth in recent times,” he replied, smiling at me. “The day we smote down the heathen Saxons, and took back Camelot for our king.”

“Blimey, I didn’t know about that one, and me and the wife go to most of the enactments in these parts. Do you have a webpage?”

Bedivere was becoming confused. “Who is this webbed page he speaks of?”

“Ah, staying in character I see,” said the man, smiling with approval. “I like it. See, that’s why your lot are proving such a success today.” He turned to his wife, who was dressed like Mother Teresa in a long blue gown with a white headdress. “Maggie, I told you we should stay in character for the whole day.”

“Yeah, ‘coz not staying in character is why you fail, you fat lump,” replied his wife.

I pulled Bedivere away, trying not to laugh.

“The people of your land are very strange,” said Bedivere.

“And does that include me?” I reached up on my tip-toes and kissed his stubbly cheek.

“Ah, but you are a rare jewel indeed, my Natasha.”

“Then go kick their strange asses, my lord.”