The Door to Camelot Page 14

  “But—” the cook protested.

  “You can’t. Not with the smoke, and your bronchitis. Quiet! You will obey me.”

  She had never spoken like this before. They stared at her dazedly, but they neither moved nor objected. She fixed them with one last glare, then turned and ran through the gale to the house. Her thoughts thrummed to the time of her feet:

  “I must make a plan. I must make a plan.”

  PERCEVAL GROANED AND COUGHED, FLUNG OFF the flaming waste which had followed him into the depths, and rose unsteadily to his feet. He looked around. The floor of Blanche’s room, once it collapsed, had dropped them among fiery wreckage into the library, and the bookshelves had blossomed into flame.

  He was in poor case. His armour still kept him whole, but his right hand was scorched and the smell of singed hair, as well as improved visibility, told that his helm was gone. There was blood and smoke stinging his eyes; he rubbed and blinked the tears away.

  Over in the corner, the colossal enemy reared to his knees and glanced around. Perceval, still shaking, lifted his shield, but the giant ignored him, climbed to his feet, and swung his axe at the wall.

  Blanchefleur was the true quarry, and if that wall gave way the giant would be out of the house, free to move, able to snatch her and crush her in a moment. Perceval howled and lunged. The giant waited for him to come in range, then swung an iron fist. Perceval ducked to the floor, came up and jumped. The giant’s armour was crude mail; there would be a chink somewhere. He clung to the massive body for only half a second before being brushed off, but in that half-second he stabbed deep into the giant’s armpit. There was a bellowing roar and a shake that sent him tumbling across the room. The giant lifted his axe again.

  Perceval was up and out of the way in the nick of time. Again he dashed in close, within the giant’s reach, and circled round, drawing his poniard in his left hand. The long, slender knife, he hoped, would do the trick; he waited for the giant to straighten a little to turn, and then he plunged the blade screeching between the chain links of the creature’s mail, into the back of the knee.

  The giant bellowed again and his leg snapped shut with a convulsive kick, trapping Perceval’s left hand in the hinge of the knee. He felt the bones in his hand grinding together and then the knee opened. He left the poniard wedged into the giant’s mail and slithered to the ground.

  So the enemy was crippled now, but savagely angry. Perceval snatched up his sword from the floor and ran into the corridor.

  INSIDE THE HOUSE BLANCHE HEARD WUTHERING wind, roaring fire and the commotion of battle mixed into a thunderous symphony. Heavy smoke and flakes of paper gusted on the air.

  In the hall she put her hands to her head and tried to think. Perceval had smashed her lamp and set fire to her room, either to help him defeat the giant or to destroy all signs of the fight. Did he have a plan beyond survival? Blanche looked up at the wardrobe which led to Carbonek. On the other side of that door was safety and shelter and the Holy Grail. She dashed to it and pulled at the handle. Locked, and Perceval had the—elf-key, as he called it. Desperate, Blanche snatched up a letter-opener lying on the side-table by the front door. It only took her a moment to slide back the tongue of the lock and fling the door open.

  Beyond hope she saw two narrow walls of rock running away into the darkness. There was a puff of cold, fresh air and the scent of earth. She could run away and be at Carbonek long before morning; it was only a short scramble down the rocks. Perceval would deal with the giant and, if he survived, be collected by Sir Ector and Nerys when they came.

  She put a foot inside the wardrobe, onto the path. It flashed into her mind that Carbonek had a will of its own: it seemed not to need keys or even doors, it had yielded gracefully to a lock picked with a letter-opener—it wanted her, and its goodwill leapt toward her through the dark.

  Yet still she hesitated. Then a flake of burning wallpaper drifted down from the upper landing, and the hall-carpet smouldered where it fell. Blanche peered up through the murk to see a flicker of red at the top of the stairs. Then there was another crash, and the house shook.

  She found herself standing motionless, listening and waiting for the next sound. Was he still alive? There came a muffled bellow from the corridor that led down to the library. Yes. Blanche took one more longing look at the dark cleft inside the wardrobe and pushed the door to, propping it open with the paper-knife. Carbonek could wait for Perceval.

  Blanche wrapped her cloak more closely around her, crossed the hall and stepped into the corridor, full of thick choking smoke with a dull yellow glow at the end. She felt the house trembling around her with a succession of thumps. Then out of the halo of smoke Perceval appeared, running toward her. He had lost his helm, his surcoat was scorched and tattered, and his face was covered in soot.

  He skidded to a stop when he saw her and almost stumbled into her arms. At the same moment, the library exploded into the corridor with an ear-shattering crash and a tide of wind and fire, and Perceval, regaining his feet, shouted, “Get out!”

  He turned to face the giant. The massive enemy crawled into the passage, reaching out his hand, while the flaming walls groaned around his shoulders.

  Perceval tightened his two-handed grip on his sword, hefted it to his shoulder, and ran. The outstretched hand snatched at him, but he swerved to one side and skidded under it on his knees. A look of foolish surprise crossed the giant’s face as he realised that he had missed his tiny foe. Then Perceval plunged his blade into one stupefied eye.

  All this had barely taken a few moments, and Blanche had not stirred. Thus she saw the death of the giant: a spurt of blood, the eyeball tumbling out, and the final, desperate struggle as it died.

  Perceval wrenched his sword back and came reeling up the corridor to Blanche, scarcely evading the thrashing arm which tore through the walls and flung the fire further. Blanche stepped forward and caught him just as his knees buckled.

  “Stand, sir,” she commanded. “The house is falling. We must go.”

  They staggered out into the hall. There was fire here now, too, and Blanche, treading with thin slippers, sucked in her breath as something seared her foot. Perceval hardly seemed conscious and she had almost his full weight to bear. A short dash through the flames would take them to the wardrobe. Blanche hesitated, coughing, balancing on her unburned foot, trying to blink back the tears of pain. Then, just as she gathered herself to stagger forward, a sconce which hung from the high ceiling above fell crashing to the floor, followed within a heartbeat by the beam it hung from. The way was blocked.

  Blanche cast one last despairing look at the wardrobe, barely visible through flame and smoke, then pulled Perceval’s arm around her neck and half-dragged him a step or two to the back door. She fumbled with the latch. Then the door banged open, driven by the wind, and she staggered down the steps and into the garden.

  In the biting gale, Perceval revived somewhat. “Further,” he rasped. “Into the orchard.”

  They fell to the ground at last beneath a pear-tree, in grass wet with dew. Perceval groaned in pain as he relaxed. Blanche leaned back against the tree and gasped for breath. Here, at the foot of the rise behind the house, they were just high enough to see the whole place wrapped in flames, and the hills lit up with a lurid light.

  “My home,” she said. “And our door back to Logres!”

  Perceval grunted in reply. Pain stabbed through Blanche’s foot like a reminder and she turned to him in concern. “Are you badly hurt?”

  He grinned. “I don’t know.”

  Blanche clutched her hair. “Oh, what are we going to do? The wardrobe is gone and I can’t imagine how I shall explain you to the servants.”

  “I still have the key,” Perceval muttered. Then something caught his attention. He struggled to his elbow and said, “Hark!”

  It was a low rumble, shivering up from the ground. Blanche froze. Then, with a rolling, thunderous crash, the house collapsed. Yellow and scarlet flames sho
t up into the sky, illuminating everything. A moment later, when the glare died down somewhat, Blanche could see the little huddle of servants on the front lawn. There were John and Keats, holding the horses; there was Cook, fallen to her knees with her handkerchief to her mouth, and Lucy and Daisy clinging to each other in terror.

  “They think we are dead,” said Perceval, and fell back with a sigh. Blanche went to rise, but he raised his hand. “No,” he said. “More trouble may come. Wait.”

  He fumbled for his sword, trying to wipe the blood off onto the grass. Blanche, seeing how it hurt him to move, said, “Let me.” She cleaned the long blade gingerly, then slid it back into the scabbard.

  “Let me see your hands,” she told him, and eased the gauntlets off. His left hand was bruised and swollen from being caught in the giant’s knee, and his right hand was burned shiny red through the tattered glove. “Oh, dear.”

  “The rest of me isn’t much better,” he said cheerfully.

  “I haven’t even ointment to put on the burns,” Blanche sighed. She took a handkerchief from her cloak’s pocket and dabbed at a welt on the side of his head. “Oh—that’s nasty.”

  “It hurts.” He twisted his head and grinned up at her.

  “Oh, you’re enjoying this,” she groaned, blushing.

  He gestured to hands and head, looking innocent. “What, this?”

  She laughed, but a moment later she bent and kissed his forehead. “Thank you. Again.”

  Perceval cocked his head to look up at her, but then, on the wind, they heard the beat of galloping hooves. Instantly he struggled to his feet, gripping his sword. “Someone’s coming.”

  The hooves rushed closer, as if blown on the wind. Through the shadowy orchard the fire’s red glare struck glittering off mail. Then they saw the rider more clearly—a knight, sitting an outstretched white horse easily with slackened reins, his flashing sword whistling in the wind. Perceval snatched his own blade out of the sheath, but the knight had already reined in, throwing his horse into a sliding stop and coming to a dead halt within inches of Perceval’s trembling swordpoint.

  Spatters of mud settled back into the grass. With a titanic surge the horse regained its feet. The knight snatched off his helm and Blanche said in a voice that was half a sob:

  “Sir Ector!”

  Her guardian wiped his bloody sword against the saddle-blanket and shot it back into the sheath. “Blanche, my dear. Thank God we are not too late.”

  For the first time, Blanche saw two women who followed the knight and checked their horses more slowly. Nerys was one of them. The other, she guessed, must be the famous Nimue.

  This was the one who spoke. “What happened here, sir?” she said, addressing Perceval.

  “The servants think we are dead,” he said. With the coming of their friends all the tight-wound vigilance had gone out of him, and his words slurred and stumbled against each other in weariness. “It was a giant. I don’t know who sent him. He sleeps yonder,” and he pointed to the flaming wreck of the house.

  Sir Ector slid off Malaventure and gathered Blanche into his arm. “Well done,” he said.

  Perceval bowed his head. “What now? The servants have our horses. And I think you too have been hard-pressed.”

  Nimue said: “We were followed from Camelot, God knows how, for only the Council knew our errand. We went out of our way to shake them off, but Morgan and her men surprised us when I had opened the gate.”

  “Was there a fight?”

  “For a while,” rumbled Sir Ector, and Blanche shuddered at the fearful light in his eyes. “But her giant passed us easily enough.”

  “We put the others to flight and hastened through. The door is still open for us to return. As for the horses—” and Nimue put her hands to her mouth and sent a whisper into the wind. There was an answering whinny from the front lawn, a rush of hooves, and helpless gesticulations from the coachman’s little black figure. A moment later, Rufus and Florence stood panting before them.

  “Let us go,” said Nimue.

  In the sudden silence that followed the Lady’s words Blanche glanced up to see that all of them had, almost involuntarily, turned to look at her. It took a moment for her to remember that she had once insisted on staying. A wry smile cracked the hot tight skin of her face.

  “Yes, let’s go,” Blanche said.

  S.D.G.

  Blanche and Perceval will return in

  The Quest for Carbonek

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  The Great Houses of Britain

  † - Knight of the Round Table

  THE PENDRAGONS

  Uther Pendragon (deceased): The first High King of Britain.

  Igerne (deceased): Wife of (1) Gorlois, Duke of Tintagel, to whom she bore two daughters, Morgawse and Morgan, and (2) Uther Pendragon, to whom she bore a son, Arthur.

  † Arthur Pendragon: The High King of Britain, son of Uther Pendragon and Igerne.

  Guinevere: Daughter of King Leodigrance of Cameliard, wife of Arthur, mother of Blanchefleur.

  Blanchefleur: Daughter of Guinevere and, at least officially, the heir of Arthur Pendragon.

  THE HOUSE OF ORKNEY

  King Lot of Orkney (deceased): The King of Orkney and husband of Morgawse.

  Morgawse: Half-sister of Arthur. Wife of Lot, to whom she bore four sons. Queen-regent of the isles of Orkney.

  † Gawain: The eldest son of Orkney, husband of Ragnell and father of Perceval.

  Ragnell: A fay of Avalon, wife of Gawain.

  † Perceval: Son of Gawain and Ragnell.

  † Gaheris: The second son of Orkney, husband of Lyonesse.

  Lyonesse: Wife of Gaheris and sister of Lynet.

  † Gareth: The third son of Orkney, husband of Lynet.

  Lynet: Wife of Gareth and sister of Lyonesse.

  † Agravain: The fourth son of Orkney.

  THE HOUSE OF GORE

  King Uriens of Gore: The King of Gore and husband of Morgan.

  Morgan, commonly surnamed le Fay: Half-sister of Arthur. Estranged wife of Uriens, to whom she bore two sons. Queen of Gore.

  † Ywain: The elder son of Gore.

  † Mordred: The younger son of Gore.

  THE HOUSE OF BRITTANY

  King Ban of Brittany: Father of Bors and Ector de Maris. Uncle of Lancelot, Blamor, and Bleoberis.

  † Lancelot of the Lake: Foster son of Nimue. Champion of Guinevere. Father of Galahad.

  † Galahad: Son of Lancelot and Elaine of Carbonek.

  † Bors: Cousin of Lancelot.

  † Lionel, Blamor, Bleoberis, Ector de Maris: Cousins of Lancelot.

  More books from Suzannah Rowntree

  Fairy Tale Retellings

  The Rakshasa’s Bride

  The Prince of Fishes

  The Bells of Paradise

  Death Be Not Proud

  Beasts and Queens (Books 1-4 boxset edition)

  Ten Thousand Thorns

  The City Beyond the Glass

  -

  The Watchers of Outremer Series

  A Wind from the Wilderness

  The Lady of Kingdoms (coming soon)

  About the Author

  Suzannah Rowntree lives in a big house in rural Australia with her awesome parents and siblings, reading academic histories of the Crusades and writing historical fantasy fiction that blends folklore and myth with historical fact.

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