Chapter 10: The Aftermath

Sleepy birds twittered at the disturbance of milling horses and men. The knights of Camelot checked girth straps while weary servants loaded pack animals. The double doors at the top of the balustrade opened, disgorging Prince Arthur with Lady Guinevere by his side. As a couple, they walked to the staircase. She descended the stone steps in sturdy, no nonsense boots made of thick leather with a low riding heel. Guinevere had tucked her riding pants into the top of her boots. At her waist hung a long, bladed knife with a silver hilt. A loose white shirt was covered in chain mail, and a sky-blue cape with the sigil of House Camiliard embroidered over the right breast completed the ensemble. Her hair hung lose about her shoulders. At her heels, Guinevere’s maid carried her riding gloves, a blue satchel slung over her shoulder.

The knights exchanged surprised glances at Guinevere’s unexpected appearance, all except for Lancelot who stepped forward, bowing.

“My lady, sire.” He gestured to the three horses he held by their bridles. “The roan is for the lady, the piebald for her maid.” Guinevere took her gloves from the maid, then gracefully mounted up. Arthur followed suit, then with a touch of their heels, they clattered away down the cobblestone street. They rode at the head of the column, Lancelot and Gawain riding immediately behind, followed by the remainder of the knights with the pack horses, the few guards who had not gone ahead. Servants leading pack horses brought up the rear of the retinue.

“I am glad you saw the sense, sire, of leaving behind all but Guinevere’s lady-in-waiting. Bringing an extra escort for this mission would have slowed everyone down,” said Lancelot over the noise of the pounding hooves. “There are enough servants as there is,” he said, with a glance over his shoulder.

Guinevere’s head turned and she stared at Lancelot. “It was my idea, not Arthur’s. I know how to use this sword strapped to my waist.” With a haughty air, she focused on the ride. A soft laugh drifted on the wind.

The main gate came into view. Arthur held up his hand, indicating to the riders behind them that the departure point was nearby. Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot veered to the right, heading to the inn where the sick kitchen maid was said to be staying. The rest of the knights thundered past, riding for the decimated village.

Arthur slowed his horse, moving through the narrow street at a trot until they came to a sign decorated by a lily pad with a great bullfrog jumping into the sky. They dismounted and as one, they entered the small inn. Two guests sat at tables, sipping a steaming brew. At the sight of the prince, the innkeeper hurried over, drying his hands on a towel. Lancelot stepped forward keeping a safe space between him and the royal couple.

“Sire, my lady,” said the innkeeper, with a nervous twitch of his lips. “How may I be of service to the prince?”

“We are checking up on one of the palace servants, a young girl who works in the kitchens. Her name is Simone, and she has been ill. Could you direct us to her room?” said Arthur.

“My lord, you are a few hours too late. She left in the wee hours of this morning.”

Arthur frowned. “Did she say where she was going? We were told she was ill.”

“No, my lord. I was surprised to see her gone. The stable boy reported her horse gone. That is what alerted me to her absence.”

Lancelot spoke up. “Show us her room so we may confirm that she is not returning.”

“Aye, let me fetch the key.” He ambled around the end of the counter and took down a key ring, searching for the right one, then nodded and said, “This way.”

They followed the innkeeper, Arthur in the lead followed by Guinevere, with Lancelot bringing up the rear. Their host moved down a hallway painted a dull green, pausing before a door midway down the hall. He knocked on the door twice, calling Simone’s name and when there was no answer, he slid the key into the lock and opened it.

The room was empty, just as the man had said. The bed was made, and no trace of personal belongings had been left behind. Arthur walked through the room, his eyes scanning every inch, searching for clues as to where she might have gone. He found nothing.

“Did she speak of family in Camelot?” Arthur frowned, frustration furrowing his brow.

“No, sire, she had no family in Camelot. That is why she took up residence here.”

“What about friends? A lover? Someone who would take her in?”

The innkeeper shook his head. “No, sire, no one like that. I don’t believe she is from this area.”

“Did she ever speak of another place?”

The innkeeper stared at the ceiling, thinking. “She did mention a place, when she first checked in…Affalon Ford I think. That she once had family there? Yeah, I think that was the place. Affalon Ford.”

Guinevere, Lancelot, and Arthur exchanged glances. “Come on,” said Arthur, flipping a coin to the man as they left the room. He grabbed Guinevere’s hand, pulling her along behind him. “It’s time to catch up with our knights.” They hurried out of the inn, and mounting swiftly, laid heels to their horses’ flanks. The horses’ hooves clattered on the paving stones as they raced down the road to catch up to their comrades. The cobblestones soon gave way to a packed soil, hammered into clay by years of feet, hooves, and wagon wheels. Wind whipped their cloaks and hair as they flew along the dirt road. The horses relished the run, snorting and straining to beat each other. Guinevere’s hood slipped and her hair sailed on the wind, drawing both men’s attention. Her face flushed with exhilaration and her eyes sparkled, lips curving into a happy smile. Ten minutes later, they caught up to the knights, slowing their winded mounts to a walk.

Riding side by side again, Guinevere said, “Arthur, who is this woman you are looking for? What has she done?”

Arthur sighed then peered over at his potential future queen, weighing how much information he should share with her. “She is a servant in the kitchens. It is possible she has done nothing. But there was a break in while we were in chapel yesterday. An object believed to contain magic was stolen, and its loss has greatly disturbed the king. That, compounded with the news of the attack on Affalon Ford, has made it imperative that we find her and question her. Unfortunately, she is the only lead I have, and now that she has been associated with this most recent disaster, my sense is that she must be involved in some fashion. I need to find her and either confirm or negate her involvement.”

“But isn’t magic suspected to be involved in the attack on Affalon Ford? If she is responsible for this aggression at the village, then she must have magic. What can you do in the face of magic?”

“I do not know,” he said softly. He stared straight ahead, displaying no fear.

Guinevere stared at him, her eyes concerned.

Lancelot spoke up, “Never fear, I am here!” He puffed out his chest, flicking his hair back with a jerk of his head. The gesture was reminiscent of a male peacock strutting its feathers.

Guinevere and Arthur laughed.

They rode for an hour in a companionable silence, reaching the village just as the sun rose fully into the sky. Guinevere gasped, her eyes widening at the horrific destruction that had been wrought on the village. Arthur’s mouth thinned with anger. Total desolation greeted their disbelieving gazes as they surveyed the damage. An abandoned cart with a lone horse stood at the edge of the devastation, around which sat a handful of survivors with a friar and a young man moving among them tending to injuries. They looked up as they heard the jangle of bridles. Arthur urged his horse forward, riding down to the sad group. The friar and the lad bowed as he reined in his horse and dismounted.

“Are these all the survivors?” said Arthur as he stepped forward. The smell of char filled his nostrils, and his eyes stung.

“We are not sure. These are the ones we found so far. We were just about to head back out and search further,” said the friar.

“Stay here.” Arthur walked back to the knights, who had dismounted and were waiting for instructions.

“Search the village in teams of two. Section the town into quadrants and leave no building unsearched. Bring back any you find alive to the friar. Once we have recovered the living, we will deal with the dead.” The knights saluted fist to heart and walked away into the village. Arthur returned to Guinevere’s side and helped her down. She gave him a smile then hurried over to the pack horse, tugging at the leather straps that held the packs closed.

“You!” he said, pointing at Merlin. Merlin straightened from where he was bandaging a man’s arm.

“Yes, sire?”

“Help the lady with the pack mule.”

“Yes, sire.” Merlin made his way up the hill, eyes fixed on Arthur as he climbed.

Arthur ignored him, moving down to the friar’s side. “Friar. What do you have to report?”

The friar straightened, his hands on hips as he stretched his back. His face was grim. “Sire, we found very few villagers alive. The destruction of this village is complete. Evil walks its streets. If I were you, I’d salt the land to keep those who wield magic from making use of what remains.”

“I can’t do that. The survivors will want to rebuild. This is their home.”

“This village has been cursed by magic, my lord. There is nothing to return to. Focus on finding the culprit. Those who practice magic must be exterminated, and those born with it ought to be turned over to the church, so that we may eradicate this evil from their souls. Many lives could be saved, this way, not to mention their eternal salvation.”

Guinevere knelt down beside the woman that the friar was treating. Her face was covered in grime and cuts, her clothing torn and soot stained. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Tara, milady.”

“Did you see what attacked Affalon?”

“No, milady. I was preparing bread, when I heard a great moan, like the rush of the wind through the trees in winter. I peered out my window, and the village burst into flame. Something exploded, and I was thrown back against the wall into my bed. It…my bed tilted and fell over me. That poorly straw mattress saved my life, milady. But my boy…” She started to cry, great wracking sobs filling the air. Guinevere gathered the woman into her arms, not caring if she dirtied her garment.

Guinevere held her until her tears slowed, stroking her filthy hair. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, tears sparkling in her own eyes. She released the woman and stood up. “We have to help these people, Arthur.”

“I know. Let’s move further into the village to see what we can do to help.” Arthur gestured to Merlin, who had returned with the last of the supplies from the pack horse and laid them on the ground. “You,” he gestured in Merlin’s direction, “can come with us, as you have already scouted the village. That is, if you can spare him, Friar?”

“Of course, sire. He is yours to command.”

Arthur checked his sword, then picked up a pack and slung it over his shoulder. Merlin imitated the action, taking a second pack of supplies. “What is your name?”

Merlin straightened, giving them another bow. “Merlin, sire.”

“Your accent is strange to me,” said Arthur.

“It is from the border with Northumbria, my lord,” said Guinevere. Merlin nodded his agreement.

“Well, Merlin, after you.”

At that moment, a woman’s scream filled the air. The piercing wail was full of sorrow, so much so that they clapped their hands over their ears.

“What is that?” yelled Arthur over the screeching cry.

“Someone must still be alive out there!” said Guinevere.

Merlin ran toward the main street, heading straight for the source of the cry. He ran into the labyrinth, leading the way, but it wasn’t long before they slowed, picking their way through the debris.

Arthur gripped Guinevere with a steadying hand on her elbow, intent on assisting her through the maze, but she shrugged off his helping hand with a glare. Arthur held up his hands in defeat, and with a raised eyebrow, Guinevere followed Merlin.

“The cry came from this way, sire,” Merlin shouted, pointing into the middle of the ruined village, as a second scream washed over them. Merlin froze, head swiveling, eyes searching. “I think it’s coming from the square.”

“There is a small church, there. Maybe villagers have taken refuge inside it. Take me there.”

They dashed around more debris, increasing their speed as the obstacles lessened, reaching the plaza just as the knights swarmed the arena, brandishing swords and screaming at the top of their lungs. “Arthur, run! Behind you! It’s a trap!”

Arthur, Merlin, and Guinevere turned to see a massive dragon of bone soaring out of the sun, it turned, opened its mouth and screamed, but instead of the anticipated roar of a dragon, a woman’s high-pitched voice issued from the gaping maw. Flames wreathed the bones of its snout. It curved around and then dived, straight at Arthur.

“Run!” bellowed Merlin, pushing Arthur and Guinevere ahead of him. They did not hesitate, but ran full out toward the sanctuary of the church, the doors of which were being held open by a frantically waving Lancelot.

The cry sounded again, this time closer. Reaching the church, Arthur pushed Guinevere inside, then dashed inside behind her. Merlin skidded to a halt and said “Get inside, and secure the door. I am staying out here.”

“What, are you mad?” yelled Lancelot.

“I must warn the friar. Now go! I will lead the dragon away.” Merlin didn’t wait to hear Lancelot’s retort. He bolted around the side of the church as the door slammed shut. The bolt slid into place with a dull thunk.