The Fire of Merlin (The Return to Camelot #2)(9)

“Stay close to me,” I whispered, holding both Bedivere and Talan by the arm. “We now have to travel on something called the Underground.”

Bedivere’s right hand was hovering close to his dagger, which was hidden under his cloak. His green eyes darted in all directions, as the crowds surged towards the Underground platforms. I bought tickets for the three of us, and moved Bedivere and Talan towards the brown-labelled Bakerloo line. Talan watched in amazement as the ticket machine snatched the little card out of my fingers and swallowed it whole. I had to push him through the turnstile, and then yell at him to stay still, while I manoeuvred myself and Bedivere through.

Warm wind from the tunnels breezed through the dirty-tiled corridors, as we moved deeper below the ground.

“This is the really noisy part,” I yelled, as the roar of an approaching tube train exploded out of the darkness. “Put your fingers in your ears if it’s too much.”

Suddenly Bedivere lunged forward and grabbed a guy around the neck. In seconds, the spotty kid’s arm was twisted behind his back, as Bedivere pushed his face into the wall, narrowly missing a chocolate vending machine that was fixed to the cracked tiles.

“You will return what you just dishonourably claimed from the lady, or I will strike you down for the rats to gorge on your worthless blood,” he snarled.

Sure enough, a middle-aged woman in a long red coat suddenly starting squealing that her purse was missing.

“All right, all right,” cried the young man, snivelling. “I was only picking it up. I would ‘ave given it back to her.”

Bedivere forced the boy to kneel on the ground in front of the woman who had been robbed.

“M’lady, this braggart wishes to return to your person that which does not belong to him.”

Scowling, the young man handed back the rectangular leather purse with a silver and black Prada badge. She whacked him over the head with it, and then got onto the waiting tube train without a single word of thanks. The thief pulled away from Bedivere, and ran off along the platform, as the doors slid shut and the train roared away into the hungry black mouth of the tunnel, leaving Bedivere and myself alone on the windy platform.

“Miserable old cow didn’t even say thank you.”

Bedivere shrugged. “A knight of Camelot does not tarry for gratitude. To come to a maiden’s assist is one of a knight’s tenets.”

“Well, I thought you were amazing,” I said, reaching up to kiss his warm soft mouth.

Soon Bedivere and I were propped up against a wall, kissing madly until I had to pull myself away in order to breathe. A lovely swooping sensation had filled my stomach, like the dive-bombing moths buzzing around the neon lights that lit up the station. His fingers lingered around my neck as he kept pulling me back in. His long chestnut hair was soft and smelt of bread and beer.

“Where is Sir Talan?”

I pulled away suddenly as Bedivere spoke, looked left and right, and then ran back across the platform in the same direction as the thief.

Bedivere and I were the only people waiting.

“He must have gotten on the tube train.”

I pulled out my cell phone, but we were so far underground there was no reception. Swearing like the world was ending and I was at ground zero, I grabbed Bedivere’s hand and pulled him back towards the exit.

“But we must wait, for surely Sir Talan will return to us?” questioned Bedivere, resisting me.

“And if we don’t stop that train, Sir-Can’t-Sit-Still-For-A-Minute will be halfway to Watford.”

I’m not sure why I was explaining this to Bedivere. He had no idea where Watford was. I may as well have said the moon.



After many countless minutes of agonised waiting, an underground inspector managed to get hold of the train driver. I couldn’t lie, and so I stumbled through an explanation that Talan was new to London and he wouldn’t understand the maps, even though he was twenty years old. I ended up making him sound like a care in the community case.

Forty minutes later, and with my nails and cuticles butchered by my teeth, a singing Talan was returned to us by a young woman in a fluorescent yellow jacket. She didn’t look a day older than me, and seemed rather disappointed to be parted from the Irishman.

“Fair maiden of the land of Piccadilly,” said Talan, bowing to the girl in the fluorescent jacket. “I am forever your humble servant.”

The girl laughed through her pierced nose.

“So you’ll call me?”

“I will call you in song for as long as I breathe in this fair land.”

“Thank you so much for finding him,” I said to her, stepping forward, making sure I got Talan’s foot underneath my boot.



“If either of you lets go for one second, I swear I will gut you both with the knives you carry,” I said through gritted teeth, as we made our way back to the platform. Talan was still bowing and waving to the girl who had found him.



“Where have you been?” cried Arthur, as we finally made it through the doors of the Horse and Hound pub. It was my brother’s hangout, and was just a few minutes walk away from the square we now lived in: my nineteenth house in seventeen years.

“Get me a drink,” I groaned. “I’ve never needed a vodka and coke more in my life.”

“No, you’re too young.”