Author’s note in regards to dating (not dating Clay, unfortunately): Most historical accounts place the RL king Arthur around the year 500 AD. However, the Spamalot script sets the play in the year 932. This is fine for me, since it meshes well with the time line of another fictional universe which I incorporate into this story. Enjoy!

FIND YOUR GRAIL

by Dixie Hellcat

Evaine’s Gran was dying, and no magic could change that. She was old and full of days, as the Scripture said. No physician could have changed it either, even if there had been one in the village of Far Tadpole, and even if he could have been persuaded to come to the tiny cottage that sat along outside the village bounds, where Evaine had lived with her grandmother since the plague took her parents ten years before. There was nothing to be done to forestall the inevitable, so Evaine did what she could to comfort: fetched cold water from the stream to wipe the dear old woman’s face, and coaxed a little warm broth down her.

Finally, even that failed. “Fetch my wand,” Gran sighed. Eagerly Evaine brought it and laid it in her wizened, trembling hands. Surely Gran had remembered some spell that would restore her; but she only stroked the worn hazelwood and smiled feebly. “I tried to snare your grandfather with this. A good thing it failed, for ‘tis ill done to press your will on another through magic, to force him to love you as much as to force him to do any other thing. Not that it isn’t done yet, but…Never do that, Evaine, ‘twould be the ruination of you.”

She held the wand out. “No, Gran!” Evaine gasped. “I cannot take it.”

“You must, child. Use it till you make one of your own. Go, and guard your magic closely. Find others of our kind. There is a place, I heard whispers in the marketplace that time we rode to Kent to sell herbs…a place where you can learn, where mighty witches and wizards can teach you your birthright, far more than the few spells I know. Go, find it…find yourself…find your…”

Her voice cracked and faded, and her eyes closed. Evaine sat beside her and wept for a while, holding her fragile hand. The she rose, straightened her apron, and prepared to see to the body. Gran had found herself a resting place years before, a small cave with a narrow opening easily sealed with a large stone, dry and safe from predators. Evaine cleaned and dressed her and laid her there, wishing she could bury the wand with her, but leaving a sprig of wild thyme as her only companion. With no wand of her own, Gran’s was the only way she could cast any spell at all. So she carried it back to the cottage in her pocket, while she pondered what to do next.

Gran had made a modest living concocting remedies for the villagers. They had accepted her skill, but never fully trusted her, or her granddaughter. If Evaine remained here, she could probably support herself, but that was all; no real future awaited her in Far Tadpole. And if she were being honest, she had to admit that the thought of finding other people who embraced magic as a part of everyday life, who might be willing to teach her, thrilled her down to her toes. Which needed new boots, now that she thought of it, if she were to set out on a quest.

Evening was falling, so she built up the fire in the hearth, tossed some potatoes and turnips in the pot of broth, and had the soup for supper with some bread she had baked to tempt Gran’s appetite. Gran had so loved the smell of fresh bread. Evaine wiped a stray tear or two away, then heated some water and had herself a good scrub. Clean and dry, she settled down on her little pallet for the last time and looked around the snug small cottage. The quiet was haunting, without the sounds of Gran humming or murmuring a spell or scolding her old bird who had died before her. Evaine drifted off to sleep wondering what the morrow would bring.

In the morning, she used a spell to tidy the cottage, and closed it up securely as if to await her return, though her search might take her far away for a good while. A small pack was all she took with her, with clean clothes and plenty of warm knitted socks. Evaine hated cold feet with a passion, and knew she could trade the extras for things she needed along the way and could not forage for. A small pot and good knife went in too, with the food that would travel and keep well. Though she knew spells for fire and light, she was not expert at them, and did not want to draw undue attention, so she packed flint as well. She added a blanket and some rope and soap, a couple of Gran’s precious books, and Gran’s wand well wrapped for safety, and decided she was ready to go. She saddled her pony Hob and headed for the village with the last batch of potions Gran had brewed, to trade for the boots she needed and a few other things.

The moment she reached the first houses of Far Tadpole, Evaine sensed something wrong. Eyes cut toward her and then darted away. A breath of murmuring followed her to the marker in the center of town. “Where’s the old woman?” the leatherman demanded as she stopped and alighted in front of his stall.

“She died yesterday.”

Evaine had not spoken the words aloud, and to hear them now broke her heart anew. She started to name the items she needed, but the man cut her off short. “Oho, and now the old witch is gone you’re leavin’ to spread yer contagion elsewhere?”

“What contagion? We’ve been blessed here to escape the worst of the plague.”

“You know whereof he speaks!” hissed the leatherman’s wife, who sprang from a stool where she sat braiding thongs into whips. “We’ve known for long that you and the hag were the source of our troubles. No more shall we bear. Good folk!” she screeched. “Here’s the evil hussy brought such loss and ill upon you. Seize her before she flees!”

Evaine backed up. Hob snorted and stomped. “What are you talking about? My Gran did no harm to you or yours, nor have I!” She spun, hoping to get a-horse or at least reach the wand, but a dozen hands grasped her as people came running from neighboring stalls. “At the least tell me what you accuse me of!” she cried as she was forced down the dusty street in the midst of s gathering crowd. “Are you taking me to the magistrate? Fine, then. He shall—“

“Shut up, witch!” someone shouted. “A trial’s too good for the likes of you!” The growing mob bullied her on, toward the corner of the square left bare for holiday bonfires, marked by a tall stake of sturdy oak. “Fetch wood, someone!”

With a scream of sudden realization Evaine redoubled her fruitless efforts to escape. “No! Stop. Let me go, blast you—“

“She’s cursing us!” the leatherman’s wife shrieked. “Hurry! And hoodwink her so she cannot see to blight us!”

A moment later a burlap bag was flung over Evaine’s head, blinding her. She felt the charred wood of the stake against her back as her arms were stretched around it and roughly bound behind her. She shook her head frantically to try and free it from the stinking sack, more to draw a few more breaths than for any reason of attack or defense. Without a wand she was powerless; still she fancied she felt her small magic well up within her, angry and fearful enough she half feared she could curse if she wished. Instead, she prayed for help, or at least for God to avenge her innocent blood.

Suddenly the drum of powerful hooves pounded in approach, followed by a thump like a rider dismounting with authority. “Exactly what is going on here?” inquired a man’s voice, softly, in stark contrast to the haste of his arrival.

The mob grumbled. “Stand aside, sir knight,” said the leatherman. “This is none of your affair.”

“Oh. Really?” The reply was mild, yet even through the muffling hood Evaine sensed the mildness was deceptive, a suspicion confirmed as the voice rose in volume. “Well, seeing as how you are every one of you subjects of King Arthur, and I a knight of his court and of his Round Table, I daresay that bloody well makes it my affair! Now will someone kindly tell me why this poor woman is tied up in the middle of town, when she is clearly not enjoying it?”

“She’s a witch!” spat the leatherman’s wife.

“So?” retorted the knight. “Don’t act as if there’s no magic to be had in all of Britain. Does not Arthur himself rule by the magic of the sword Excalibur?”

More mutters of discontent answered. “But she’s evil. She’s been hexing us!” complained another woman. “She made our babes to poop in their pants—“

“Doesn’t take magic to do that,” the knight interrupted wryly.

“And our cows to bloat and fall over in the field!” protested a man.

“Maybe you should pay more mind to what weeds you let your cows eat then!” The knight’s patience was clearly reaching its end. Hoping all eyes were on him, Evaine renewed her struggles. Her hands were a lost cause, securely bound with leather braids, but the sack over her head shifted with each shake. “You there, I see by the stains on your hands you’re a tanner of hides. I don’t imagine this epidemic bothers you much. More dead cows mean more leather to sell, eh, and more coin for you.”

A general gasp rose. “Well, that all depends,” one man objected. “If the rise in supply isn’t accompanied by a concomitant increase in demand, then the asking price’ll drop.”

“True,” the knight conceded. “On the other hand, if one can create an artificial increase in demand, such as those enormous and no doubt highly priced leather bags I see many of you ladies toting your baguettes and Chihuahuas and such around in, then—oh, never mind. I wish my brother were here, economics and the sciences are more his forte. Anyway, my point is, you’ve proven nothing against this poor dame, and you cannot be taking the law into your own hands. If it’ll make you lot feel any better, I will take your witch back to Camelot to be judged by Arthur himself. Does that satisfy you?” A mumble of assent sounded. “All right then, disperse yourselves! And somebody stomp that damned torch out, won’t you?”

Faint with relief, Evaine tossed her head one last time and the bag flew off. She drew deep grateful breaths of fresh air, her bosom heaving. In the square, only a few stragglers remained of the mob that had accosted her. Between her and them, his back to her, stood a tall, lean man in tunic and boots. The sun glinted off his chain mail armor and his long mane of wavy red-gold hair. His gauntleted hands rested in fists at his hips as he watched the last holdouts slink away. The very image of a knight, she thought, and despite her situation still being quite dire, she could not but admire his broad shoulders and long legs.

Then she noticed those legs quiver just a bit. “I cannot believe I just did that,” he muttered. “I could’ve been pounded. What was I thinking? The things we do to keep up a good front. Now what’s for me, before I rejoin the quest for the Grail, but to ride double all the way back to Camelot, with some haggard old beldam clinging to my back threatening to turn me into some loathsome swamp dweller!”

He let out a sigh and turned. His face was as fine as the rest of him, his features chiseled and his mouth generous. His eyes—they were green, as vividly so as an herb patch— rose to meet hers, and he halted in his tracks and stared. I must look a fright! Evaine thought, and squirmed anew, trying to free herself in order to smooth her tangled hair and torn skirt. Her efforts meeting once again with failure, she glared at the knight who still stood frankly agape. “Excuse me, but could I trouble you to untie me?”

“I—oh. Well. Yes, of course.” His fair face was flushed. “I, um, I thought all witches were old and ugly.”

“Sorry, neither.” Evaine had no false illusions about her appearance, but she had been told she was rather pretty. “And who named me witch, that’s in a position to know?” She wriggled again, and he halted again, his eyes no longer on hers but focused lower. “Oh, for the love of heaven, would you stop gawking at my tits and hurry?” He did, but his hands moved leisurely, warm and firm against her wrists as he freed her. “Much thanks, sir knight, and now I shall be on my way.”

It was worth a try, as she finger-combed her dark locks and tried to wipe mud from her cheeks; but unsuccessful. “Oh, I think not. It’s off to Camelot with you, lovely witch-maid, where King Arthur shall judge your fate.”

The knight’s eyes glittered like polished stones, and a small smirk quirked the corner of his mouth. Evaine was at a loss until it occurred to her that this turn of events might well serve her purpose. Judging from that smirk, this knight thought he might take advantage of her; that made him ripe prey for a charm spell, when she wished to part company from him. Even if not, well, no one in the court of Arthur was likely to know the location of the secret school of witches, but Camelot was a large city, and someone there might know. At the very least, appearing to comply with the knight’s order would get her well away from Far Tadpole quickly. “Fine, then. I’ll go and prove myself to him. I’ll not need to ride double and cling to your back, though.” Not that clinging to him would be a bad thing, she thought. “I’ve a pony, back in the marketplace, unless one of those hooligans has stolen it. And I need some new boots before I go a-traveling anyplace.”

She stalked off to look for Hob. Behind her, the knight muttered, “Just my luck. The only thing worse than an old ugly witch is a young, beautiful, mouthy witch.”

+++

Hob was standing foursquare, exactly where Evaine had left him in front of the leather stall. Her pack lay in the dust beside him, trampled, the little pots of potions shattered. It had, the knight learned from some discreet inquiry, been dropped by two would-be thieves who the pony had handily repelled by stomping the foot of one and kicking the other soundly in the bollocks. Wounded and furious, Evaine was all for continuing her business as though nothing had happened, just to spite the townsfolk one last time; but her unwelcome companion persuaded her otherwise. It did not look good for an accused witch to storm around freely while a knight of the realm hustled to keep up. Grumpily, she consented, and after he commandeered a pair of boots for her from the ill-humored leatherman, they rode out of Far Tadpole. “It’s such fun sometimes, demanding things in the name of the king,” he said brightly. “Rather like having a black Amex card with SIR ROBIN stamped on it.”

“I was going to ask if you had a name,” Evaine returned tartly as Hob followed the big warhorse across farmlands and toward the great forest. “Any kin to the Hoods?”

“No!” he groaned. “I hear that all the time. No, I am not a Hood, or related to the Hoods! And you’ve offered me no more name to call you by than witch, girl.”

“And I did not offer you that!” A charm spell was definitely in order if she wanted to survive this journey without being tempted to put a Lock-leg Curse on this fool and leave him for the bears. “My name is Evaine, and if you claim to be a gentleman you will call me so.”

“Indeed!” Sir Robin replied mockingly. He reined in, pulled close to her and snatched Hob’s reins from her hands. “I must call you my prisoner for now, milady Evaine, until the king’s justice is served.” Her protests fell on deaf ears, and Sir Robin led the pony into the woods. After a few minutes, however, she let it go; her magic could do the talking for her soon enough. Till then, she might as well be polite.

“In the village, you spoke of a quest,” she said. “Tell me whereof you seek.”

“The Grail!” he proclaimed. “The holy cup used at the Last Supper.”

“We’re in Britain,” Evaine scoffed. “The Last Supper was in Jerusalem, or so I read. How would that cup get here?”

“How should I know? Maybe a swallow carried it over!” Robin leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “King Arthur says it is a symbol, really; that it is within all of us.”

“Someone ground it up and mixed it in the porridge?”

He rolled his eyes. “Each person’s true fate and destiny is their Grail.” That makes sense, Evaine conceded to herself. Maybe magic is my Grail, then. “The cup itself exists, though, odoriferous with sanctity and holiness, and we, the Knights of the Round Table, have been charged by God Himself to find it.”

“God, who knows all, can’t find it?”

“That’s not the point!”

They debated the rest of the day, and Evaine enjoyed the argument so much she almost forgot she was supposed to be a prisoner. As dusk approached, they halted near a stream to make camp. “Have you provisions enough for two?” she asked. “I packed a bit of food, but I expect it’s smashed flat.”

“Well, no, actually. I usually request from folk as I go. Some of whatever they’re having suits me. Bread and cheese, bangers and mash, bagels and lox, whatever. Since I’m on the king's business and all. I don’t eat people out of house and home.”

“No farmsteads or villages are nearby for you to beg from, though.” Evaine swung down from the pony’s back, enjoying once again Sir Robin’s silent bogglement at her split riding skirts. “I’ll set some snares while you make camp.”

“Oh, no, you won’t.” He dropped to the ground too, and tied the horses up to a nearby tree. “Do you think I’m letting you off into the woods alone? Like as not you’d turn into a crow the instant you’re out of my sight and fly away laughing.”

Evaine groaned as she pulled rope and knife from the mouth of her pack. The knife was small, and she showed it to him. “I’d be a right fool to hare off into the wilds with nothing more than this to keep the wolves away.”

“Wolves?” He gulped, but quickly recovered, and plucked the knife unexpectedly from her fingers. “No matter. It’s enough of a blade to slit a knight’s throat in his sleep, if you wanted. I’ll keep this, and I’ll come with you, unless you’d prefer I tether you here too while I go forage.”

The thought of being bound again made her shudder. “Fine, then. Come along, but mind those great feet of yours. You’ll scare off everything worth eating within a hundred ells of here.”

Quickly she set several snares; then they returned to the horses. By the time they had cleared a spot for a fire and blankets, three rabbits were caught. Evaine gathered them and her rope, galled at having to beg use of her own knife to skin and clean them. She snickered inwardly when the knight swallowed and turned away. A knight with a weak stomach? she laughed inwardly. She fetched water in her pot to set over the fire, and found some herbs along the way to flavor the meal. Then came the moment she had planned for half the day; she dug into her pack for the implement of her power, knowing it would appear no more than a utensil for stirring stew.

It was broken. Gran’s wand was snapped cleanly in two. Evaine stared in disbelief, and covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob. “What’s wrong?” Sir Robin looked over her shoulder into the pack. “It’s a spoon. A wooden spoon.”

“It—it was my grandmother’s.” Gran had disguised the wand so cleverly, and used it for so long, all for naught now.

“Oh.” The knight was quiet. “I’m very sorry,” he said after a moment. “You said she just died, didn’t you, and that you lived with her? For how long?”

“All my life, almost. I was barely into skirts when my parents died. Plague took them.”

“Mine too,” he surprised her by saying. “My brother and I were old enough to fend for ourselves, though. He went as a guard for a lord nearby, and I was a dead collector till he told me he’d heard King Arthur was seeking knights for his court, brave men to sit at his Round Table and bring chivalry to this rough land.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “You’ve your memories of her, now; and don’t fret about supping. We’ll find a stick to stir with, and whittle something later.”

The numbness remained, and made it oddly easier for Evaine to conceal her emotions. She ate the stew with her fingers, then took her soap to the stream to wash her face, trailed again by the ever suspicious Sir Robin. When they returned to the fire she sat down on her blanket with a thump and stared into the flames. “We should get rid of those hides before they draw larger animals looking for prey,” the knight said, seating himself. “I don’t fancy being a meal myself.”

He poked warily at the bloody rabbit skins with the stirring stick. “Then get rid of them,” she said dully.

“Um, well, they’re…gross.”

“You must cut quite a figure in battle, if you can’t tolerate a little blood.”

“Oh, I do fine,” he snapped. “I hearten the troops with a song.” With that he began to sing. “Before our battles I will always sing, For I have got a voice to thrill a king, When I’m out there on a stage I’ll be the idol of my age, And you will hear my golden larynx ring…”

His voice was beautiful, breathtakingly so, and it lifted even Evaine’s sad heart. She rose and cleaned up the supper leavings, with her shadow following. “Now,” he said as they returned, “how shall I keep you here till morning? Shall I bind you?”

“Oh, now that would be a true example of chivalry.”

Robin winced as her jab struck home, then snapped his fingers. He would not speak more, though, only knelt beside her when she settled on her blanket again. He pulled off her boots, and took them with him to his pallet across the fire. Brilliant, she thought angrily. One would be the biggest fool born, to wander off into the wild barefoot.

She rolled in her blanket, then felt into her cleavage for the broken halves of Gran’s wand. The faintest hint of magic still clung to them, trembling and fading. Holding them reminded her of holding Gran’s hand and feeling the last breath of life leave her body. She closed her eyes, tears squeezing out.

The numbness of being helpless continued through the next day. Evaine rode like a lump of lifeless flesh, barely noticing the countryside or anything else. Sir Robin tried a dozen times to start up another good argument, but she had no heart to reply. After a while, however, she dragged herself from the depths and forced herself to think. So she had no wand. She would have to make herself one, then. She would have done that eventually anyway; a wand could only be used for limited spell-casting by someone other than its original owner. “The wand chooses the witch,” Gran had always said. She had bought her wand from a wandmaker when she was very young, she had told Evaine, but they were not likely to ever have the coin for that, if wandmakers even existed anymore. So, again, she would be obliged to make one. The first witch must have made her own, after all.

At midday they paused to rest. Evaine persuaded the knight to give her a little privacy for ‘female issues’, and used the moments to examine the remains of Gran’s wand. It was, she now saw, not purely wood; something poked out of one broken end, resembling long white hairs. She tucked the pieces carefully away again, and that evening volunteered to gather wood for the fire. Evidently Sir Robin had taken her silence for surrender, for he allowed her a short distance away, while daylight remained. She inspected fallen sticks and twigs surreptitiously, and finally found a long straight piece of cedarwood. The fragrance was pleasing, and the red and pale streaks of the grain were beautiful. Before she returned she found one other thing, a sharp bit of rock, and after supping she settled down and began to whittle by the firelight, smiling, hope giving her the ability to feign contentedness. By the time she was ready to sleep, she had three nice spoons, and two long halves with a hollowed channel down the middle into which she slipped the threads coaxed from the broken wand. She panicked for a moment when she pulled the pale strands out—Gran’s wand went dead, for lack of a better word—but when she placed her two carven halves together the flicker of power reappeared, like the quiver of a small beast in her hands. She bound them together with grasses, and with a mental apology scratched her back with it, to lull any suspicions that her captor might have.

At long last, Robin lay down, and she followed suit. Now was the moment of reckoning. Inside the roll of her blanket she held the wand close and whispered “Lumos.”

The tip of the wood gave off a faint glow, and she nearly squealed with joy. “Nox!” she hissed, and it went dark. She fell asleep clinging to the wand, her wand, like the only safety in the world.

+++

Over the next few days Evaine’s optimism grew. She carefully unwound a bit of the vine wrappings after a day, to find the two halves of her wand had fused together as neatly as though never separated. With Sir Robin leading Hob, she had her hands free, so for hours at a time she held the wand concealed beneath her cloak and rubbed the surface with a pebble or a bit of sandy soil, till the wood was smooth. At night, snugly rolled in her blanket, she practiced spells, simple ones to be sure and silent ones. Every leaf levitated or twig moved at a distance was a little victory and a step toward freedom.

Robin had relaxed, and proven to be a decent traveling companion, so she decided to forego enchanting him until their journey was near an end. Once he had guided her to Camelot, she could remove his memories of her, like cleaning chalk letters from a slate, and lose herself in the city for as long as she needed to find the information she sought. Then it was off on her own search for her Grail! Till then, her plan was to play the good girl, to enjoy the knight’s tales of adventure in search of the Grail (though she still didn’t pretend to understand all he told, such as what the ‘Broad Way’ was or why one would fail there without Jews, the reason for the journey that had led him to cross her path). His spot-on impersonations of King Arthur and the other knights of the Round Table, and his glorious singing, entertained her despite herself.

The plan changed one afternoon, while Robin was striving to convince her that the Chicken of Bristol, which he had slain and whose likeness was his crest, was the most vicious wild beast ever hatched. They topped a hill and looked down into a dell bright with spring growth. Far across it they spied several riders in green livery. One glanced back and spotted them; he waves his arm and shouted his fellows to a halt, and they struck up a sprightly tune. “Boldly brave Sir Robin rode forth from Camelot, He was not afraid to die, oh, brave Sir Robin., He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty ways, Brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Robin…”

“My minstrels. They never know when to shut the bloody hell up!” Robin groaned good-naturedly. He cupped his hands (still clutching Hob’s reins) and called, “Enough with the being killed part, already!”

The players’ laughter echoed across the vale. “What have you caught in your hunting, Sir Robin?”

“A witch!” he called back. “Don’t wait for us. Ride on to Camelot and tell them of our approach.”

Damnation! Evaine thought frantically as the minstrels rode on. They were too far away to strike with a forgetting spell, even if she had dared show her wand. It likely would not have reached so far, cobbled together as it was. But now ensorceling the knight would not wipe knowledge of her existence away. She racked her brain as they rode, trying to put together an alternative. If she caused him to forget her, the spell would be exposed the moment he returned to Camelot. That meant her only real way out was to be sure he never returned to Camelot. Some charm spells were so potent that the infatuated victim would follow wherever the caster went, but he would only slow her down, be a burden and a bother; and a knight of the royal court was too recognizable. Word would reach Arthur’s ears, and his wrath would be terrible to behold.

It was clear. Evaine would have to kill Sir Robin.

As sensible as it was, her entire being cried out against it. She should have had no qualms—it was battle, after all, of a sort, his life or hers—but simply contemplating herself deliberately ending another’s life was hideous to her. She had sworn she had done no one harm with her magic, and now would make herself a liar. The horror of it made her look at him, really look at him, not as an agent of a distant and fearful king of justice and law, but as a human being, whose jokes made her laugh, whose songs made her spirit soar, whose green eyes lit warmly when he thanked her for preparing supper that night.

Sick at heart, she barely ate a bite, and long after retiring, she lay rigid, hugging her wand, dreading each passing moment. When she could beat it no longer, she crept from her blanket and around the fire, to crouch at Robin’s side. In the dim fireglow, his cheekbones stood sharp, and his long lashes drew fine shadow-lines against his cheeks as they fluttered in a dream. He snored slightly. She’d never noticed that, and it almost made her giggle. How could she speak the words that would end a life, his life? She knew the words, had read them, had even said them, but never with the intent. Avada Kedavra, she thought. No. I will not do this. I will not. Surely even witches have souls, Gran said so. I will not imperil mine. I will go blameless before Arthur the king, and if he condemns me, well, I shall deal with that chick if and when it hatches.

With that decision made, she was able to think normally again. The stream near which they had camped widened into a lovely pond; she had brought water from there for the supper pot, and even now could glimpse its glitter through the trees. It was a perfect spot for a bath, though she had been too torn by emotions earlier to even care. Briefly she wondered if she dared slip her boots from beneath Robin’s guarding arm and creep off for a good scrubbing; but it would wake him, and he was so tired, and still unsure enough of her that he would insist on coming along.

She sighed. Perhaps in the morning them, before they took to the road again. Carefully she padded back to her blanket and curled up, to dream of splashing in the cool water beneath the moon, and of green eyes that watched her with keen interest…

Evaine woke with a start, her loins damp and aching from the desire of her fancy. Now you’ve done it, she scolded herself. You’ll not be able to sleep the rest of the night—

Then she heard the sounds that had actually wakened her: crashes in the underbrush, and snuffs and growls. She scrambled from the blanket, and gained her feet just as the biggest and angriest bear she could imagine burst through the trees. The horses jerked at their tethers and shrieked in fear. Behind her, Robin shrieked too. Evaine had seen her share of bears, but this one was half the size of Gran’s cottage if it was an inch, and is tiny eyes blazed in fury at their intrusion into its territory.

A knife, however long, or even a sword, would only further infuriate this giant. There was no other option, or even time to think of one. Evaine planted her bare feet, lifted her wand and cried, “Depulso!”

The spell sent the bear tumbling backwards, nose over paws. Evaine braced herself to deliver another hit, her mind racing through other spells she could use, until she heard the bear run yipping away.

The crashing of brush was matched by more noises from another direction. She looked around, fearful the horses had pulled free and fled. No, they were there still, wild-eyed and sweaty but calming now that the threat had passed. It was Robin who was missing. Evaine listened, puzzled and not a little worried—had he spotted another bear and given chase? If it’s anywhere near the size of the first, he can’t face it alone! She called his name, and began to run, frightened for him now. The trail led toward the pond, but she had raced off without grabbing her boots, and bare feet slowed her. By the time she reached the water’s edge all was silent again…no, not quite. She halted and listened, and heard a faint splashing. Along the shore she spied something white, and another something shiny, lying in a heap on the sand. Her heart pounding, she raced to it; but it was only clothing and armor…with an odd smell to it. “Robin?” Evaine called, baffled and near tears now. “Robin? Where are you? Are you all right?”

Another splash sounded from the dark water. “Um…I suppose so.”

Evaine peered into the night and could just make out his head bobbing, his long hair wet and slicked back. “Thank heavens!”

No reply came for a long time. “You lied to me,” he finally said.

“About what?”

“You said you weren’t a witch.”

“I did not! I never said I was a witch, is all.” Under her breath she muttered “Lumos,” and her wand lit; now she could see him more clearly, a short distance from the shore. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, she thought; he had seen her do magic, so there was no sense in denying it.

“You said you couldn’t do magic.” His eyes, huge and uncertain, were fixed on the glowing wand.

“And I couldn’t. I didn’t have a wand. That broken spoon you saw was my grandmother’s wand. Without a wand, I couldn’t do anything. I made this one from bits of hers.”

“So,” he asked after another long pause, “are you going to turn me into a toad now? Or something equally nasty? Or just slay me?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Why would I do that? After I blasted a bear to keep it from eating you? After I chased you through these woods, in bare feet mind you, to keep you from maybe being eaten by another one? I could have let them do the job if that was what I wished.” She caught her breath. “I was so very afraid, Robin.” She nudged his discarded and messed garments with her toe. “So were you, apparently.”

His laugh was sour. “So now you know the truth. Brave, brave Sir Robin is afraid of damned near everything. I shat my breeches and ran away, and left a woman to face a wild beast.”

“Actually, you did the right thing by staying out of my way. If you had come toward me I’d likely not have hit him so squarely. And if you had grabbed me and broken my focus, well…this wand works, but not greatly. The spell I used would have killed most animals; it only chased that one away. Perhaps that was because of the bear's size, but I think the wand is just too weak to be very effective. There, so now you know the truth about me. I’m sorry for not telling you before but…you feared me, and I you. I held close the only thing I had that might save my life.”

“I would not hurt you!” Robin burst out, treading water. “I wouldn’t let anyone else hurt you.”

“I’m your prisoner, remember? You’re taking me to Camelot, to stand trial.”

“But not for being a witch! People fear magic, true. But it’s not all that uncommon, certainly not at Camelot, where the Lady of the Lake made Arthur king. A mighty sorceress she is, half fairy 'tis said, and she and her Laker Girls come and go as they please. The villagers charged you with doing harm to others with magic. And I—I don’t believe them. I don’t think you did or would do such.” His head went under, then reappeared. He splashed and spat and flung his long wet hair out of his eyes. “I wouldn’t let them hurt you,” he repeated stoutly, “however much a coward I am.”

“A coward?” Evaine was incredulous. “You? Not from what you’ve told me. What sort of coward collects plague dead, when most folk won’t get near them? What sort of coward challenges his own king, when you told him his ‘Broad Way’ scheme couldn’t work without the right sort of folk? What sort of coward questions the call of God himself? You may not like to fight, but you, sir, are no coward.”

An owl hooted afar off. “You really think so?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, I do.” Evaine took a step and hid a wince; as her overwrought state calmed, the pain inflicted on her feet by her mad dash made its presence known. She sat down on the ground and by the pale light of her wand examined them. “Ow! Right shredded they are, Evaine, you fool.” Blood crusted her toes and came away with her fingers’ touch. “Dirt and rocks and such all stuck, too. You two need a good wash.” She hiked her skirt and padded a short way out. The cool water briefly stung, then soothed. “Now, as long as I’m here…” Backing up, she began to undress, the very reverse of her dream, she on land and the watching eyes of the man out in the water. She piled her clothes near his (but not too near) and lastly secreted her doused wand amid the folds. Then, clad only in the night, she walked out gingerly till the depths took her, and swam out to him. “So, if you dislike fighting, why did you go for the knight’s life?”

“The glamour of it.” Now his laugh was both wry and a bit tense. “I thought anything that didn’t involve having dirt and shit all over you was the life for me. I remember talking to my friend Lance—he’s Sir Lancelot now—when I made up my mind, and he was all for coming with me. Would’ve laid hold of a sword right then and hacked and slashed his way across Britain! Me, I thought it was all fine clothes and fancy balls. Dear God, how naïve I was.”

He watched her, his eyes hungry, as she dipped under the surface quickly and rose with her hair streaming. “But why stay then?” she asked.

“I gave my word,” he said simply. “I am a man of my word, whatever else I may be.” He caught breath. “And I give you my word now. I am shamed by you, woman or witch, who stood and fought while I fled. I will not abandon you again.”

“Fret not.” She shook her head. “I was better able to face that threat. Your sword would have availed little. When we reach Camelot, though, that you will be better equipped to face than I.”

“And so I shall. I will swear before Arthur, and see you held blameless, for I know it to be true. I know it, in my heart. Please believe me.”

Moved by his earnestness, Evaine laid her hand upon his chest, solid and lightly furred. "I do believe you. We shall stand together.”

He took her hand, kissed her palm, and drew her to him. His next kiss met her mouth with his, taking her breath as her arms encircled his neck. Her lower half seemed suddenly to take on a mind of its own; her legs clasped his hips as she felt his hands below the water’s surface begin to explore her flanks. “Oh,” she gasped when he took hold and guided himself into her—the length and girth of him fired her senses. Buoyed by the water, they clung to each other. Robin’s eyes glittered in the moonlight like the tip of her wand or the edge of his sword; he let the water take much of Evaine’s weight as he thrust, his teeth flashing in a grin. His every move brought her closer to release, until at last she threw back her head in a paroxysm of pleasure. His hoarse cry matched hers, and she felt him shudder against her and inside her.

When their eyes met again, his were large and darker and languid. Slowly they swam back to the shore. Evaine flinched when her feet struck the stony shore. In a trice Robin caught her up in his arms and carried her over the barren shore line, laying her down in a soft patch of gorse and lowering himself onto her. If their first coupling had been in haste, the second was much at leisure. She admired every line of his lean strong body, and he searched every inch of her softly willing flesh. He had a wand of his own, that much was plain, and he wielded it well. Evaine was surprised, though she couldn’t have said exactly why, or what she had expected that he so exceeded. She only knew that when he shook out his tawny mane, like a lion in a Scripture tale, and bent to worship her breasts with his mouth, the world spun around her, and her ears roared like the sea she had heard of in tales. He growled, and she cried out as again they joined and danced to climax, and collapsed to lie together on the grass locked still in embrace.

After a while, the breeze shifted, and brought an unpleasant scent from the general direction of Robin’s soiled garments. Evaine wrinkled her nose and volunteered to remedy the situation. He insisted she protect her wounded feet, so she clumped to the pond’s edge in his huge warboots, feeling rather like a child playing at dress-up. ”Accio soap,” she called softly with her wand aloft, and in a moment the bar sailed toward her through the trees like a speedy little brown bird. Robin’s mouth hung agape as she scrubbed every trace of his shame from his trousers. They gathered their clothes and found their way back to their camp, Robin following fearless now behind the glow of her wand. He stirred the guttering embers back to life and rebuilt the fire, then laid his wet breeches beside it to dry. Dragging his blanket beside Evaine’s, he pulled her down, laughing. They rolled up and fell asleep in a gleeful tangle of limbs and wool.

+++

Evaine dreamed of flying, racing clouds and hawks across the sky, the same dream she had dreamt since childhood. Then the scene changed, and she dreamed she was swaddled, enveloped in warmth and security…

“Good morning, milady witch.” She opened her eyes to find herself still wound in blankets by the ashes of the campfire, with Robin’s green eyes sparkling wickedly into hers in the morning sunlight. “You smiled in your sleep. It must have been a sweet dream that visited you.”

“It was.” She wriggled in her comfortable confinement, her loins pressed warm against his. “I dreamed I was flying. Then I dreamed I was swaddled like a babe.”

“Ah!” His need stirred against her, and with a push of his sinewy arms he rolled them until she lay on her back on the dew-damp wool, naked as Eve. He knelt over her. “The attention I would pay you hardly suits a babe. ‘Tis breakfast time, but I would rather slake my appetite for you than for bread.” Suiting action to word, he applied himself to kissing her neck and chest and belly. “Or even baked beans and toast.”

She giggled. “Do you say such charming words to every girl you romance, milord knight? You’ve clearly had practice, for your skills are honed far beyond mere natural talent.” That was true, not merely for his skill with words, but his skill at pleasuring. Evaine’s few previous amorous encounters had been with village lads of Far Tadpole, callow, rough and selfish. They sought only to pleasure themselves; Robin’s aim was to pleasure her as well.

His fair skin flushed all over. ALL over. “Charming words I may have said into the ears of others,” he admitted, “but never, ever meant them so ardently. Ah, Evaine, to behold your beauty by the light of dawn…’tis better than an opening night dinner at Sardi’s.”

For her part, she had to say he was truly beautiful to behold as well. She admired his arms and shoulders, his slim hips and powerful thighs, especially when the latter were between hers and firing her to pleasures she could barely have imagined.

Spent and satiated, they lay quietly for a time, arms and legs entwined, and listened to the wind and the cheery song of the birds in the trees around them. “I confess, I am besotted with you,” Robin sighed, trailing his long sensual fingers up and down her hip; then his brow furrowed. “I am,” he repeated, as though baffled. “A part of me could simply take horse with you, right now, and ride away from all commitments. Evaine…have you bespelled me?”

“What?”

“Not that it’s a bad feeling, mind you, for it isn’t at all, it’s quite enjoyable actually, but I do have a vow to keep—“

“Robin! No, I’ve done no such thing!” Evaine squirmed out of his arms and propped her head on her hand , her elbow on the ground. His lovely face was worried, and she was horrified. “I—I admit, I could have bewitched you. I considered it, but only to escape what I feared would be false judgment, though Gran warned me against it. How could I have forgotten her last words to me, so quickly? But even that thought I rejected, once I came to know you as good-hearted and true. I hoped Arthur would be the same, and that I could convince him of my sincerity, and so depart to continue my own quest. I would never, except to save my life or another’s, raise my wand to do harm, least of all to you. I swear it, though I know many give a woman’s word little weight.”

“Oh, I give it weight, all right,” he chuckled. “A woman’s word is as good as a man’s, sometimes more so. I believe you, Evaine. But what’s this you say, that you too have a quest? Tell me more.”

So while they dressed and supped and packed to ride, Evaine told him all that Gran had said before her death. Robin listened intently, both fascinated and wary. “A school for witches!” he marveled. “Now that is a thing like to frighten a man into soiling himself, for good reason. I suspect not all wizards are as honest as you. Still…I should like to see such a place, one day. What a song that would make. Song? A whole bloody musical, it would.”

Evaine laughed. “It’s not likely that folk without magic are allowed in. You’ll have to rely upon your imagination.” She mounted Hob and gathered the reins, just to see what Robin would do.

What he did was hike an eyebrow and swing one long leg astride his own mount, with no attempt to take the reins from her and lead her captive. “Onward!” he declared cheerfully. Evaine was thankful he had not said ‘onward to Camelot’. As sweet as the night and the morning had been, she did not yet want to think ahead to her coming confrontation with the formidable and storied king Arthur. He was said to be fair and just, yes, but could she convince him she was no threat? Hopefully she could, if Robin were at her side. For now, she confined her thoughts to the fair day, and the fair man beside her. Still, her disquiet must have showed. “Cheer up, my lady! Don’t worry. All will be well,” Robin assured her, and began to sing. “Some things in life are bad, They can really make you mad, Other things just make you swear and curse. When you're chewing on life's gristle, Don't grumble, give a whistle, And this'll help things turn out for the best...And always look on the bright side of life, Always look on the light side of life. If life seems jolly rotten, There's something you've forgotten, And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing, When you're feeling in the dumps, Don't be silly chumps, Just pucker up and whistle - that's the thing. And always look on the bright side of life, Always look on the light side of life…”

She whistled along, and her spirits lifted. Near midday they paused for a rest, and Evaine dug out the last of her provisions, some dried fruit. Robin insisted on sharing a bite with his horse, and with Hob as well. He was, she discovered, not so much weak of stomach as soft of heart, especially where animals were concerned. A while later, they struck a road, and to her surprise Robin turned onto it. “I wanted to avoid well-traveled ways till we were well away from Far Tadpole, lest some of those louts with great mouths and small brains try to catch up with us and make trouble. And, well, in truth, I also thought it easier to keep you in custody if I stayed to the wild. Less chance of meeting another wicked witch who might aid you in escaping me.” He had the good grace to look shamefaced, for a moment at least. To her sputters, he only shrugged, and then added with an evil grin of his own, “You’re all the wicked witch I can handle, milady.” His plan now was to ride on and take lodging in the next village. “Your cooking is tasty but rough. I confess a real meal would suit me well. And a night’s sleep in a real bed. Preferably one with you in it.”

They met a few travelers along the way, and Robin returned to the original purpose of his mission for King Arthur, asking all if they knew of any Jews living in the area who might be kindly disposed to do a service for their king. He got only one positive reply, from a deaf old man, but they rode up a steep path choking with dust, only to find an Asian family named the Choos. Robin was discouraged; Evaine still didn’t see the problem. They were in the midst of a heated debate over whether Gentiles could actually sing and dance simultaneously, when they were interrupted by the sound of leather cracking and a horse’s distressed neigh.

Robin blanched and turned his horse’s head toward the noise. Evaine followed him off the road, through a copse of trees into a small clear space where a man stood beating a horse savagely with a whip. A pile of bulging saddlebags lay in the bushes nearby. The horse was thin and lame, and clearly had broken down under its heavy load. “Halt!” Robin cried angrily. “Fie on you, villain! Stay your hand this instant!” He leaped from his mount, tossing the reins to Evaine. She dismounted, held both horses, and discreetly loosened her wand as Robin confronted the man. “What mean you, doing this poor old nag so ill?”

The man scowled, spat and hiccupped. He was broad and squat, tough and coarse in appearance, and also looked more than a little drunk. “Tis my horse, fancy-boy, and I’ll do with it as I please!” He raised his whip toward the knight.

Robin threw up his hands, whether in self-defense or surrender Evaine didn’t know or care. Shielded between the horses, she whipped out her wand. “Expelliarmus!” she hissed, and the whip flew out of the man’s hand. Thrown off balance, he stumbled forward. Robin gave him a good shove and he fell to the ground, where the old horse promptly kicked him in the head. He groaned and went limp. Robin looked startled, then pleased to be the victor. “Tie his hands with the whip,” Evaine suggested. “We can haul him down to the nearest village and turn him over to the constable there, for assaulting an agent of the King.”

“Hah! We can, at that. Serves him right, too.” Robin secured the unconscious man, then reassured the trembling horse. “There’s a good lad, now. Have we any more of that fruit, Evaine? This good boy deserves a bite, yes he does.”

“No,” she replied regretfully, “but from the look of those saddlebags I’d bet there’s plenty of food in there. I could go for some chocolate, myself. You know how we women are about our—“ While she spoke Evaine wound their horses’ reins around a tree branch and approached the bags, where she noticed two things immediately, One was that one bag stood half open, and was stuffed with gold and gems, jewelry, coins, fine housewares and more. The other was that something other than bags lay there. “Robin, there’s a child over here!”

A tiny blond boy lay in the brush, dirty, clad in rags and bleeding from a whip cut across his forehead. Evaine patted his cheek and spoke softly to him until he began to stir. Robin’s face, if possible, showed even more anger, dark as a stormy sky now, as he got her waterskin and a rag to clean the wound. “Ow!” the child yelped. “Don’t ‘urt me, duchess!”

“No one is going to hurt you, dove. That man yonder did this though, didn’t he? Who is he?”

“’E’s me uncle. Plague got me mum and pap, so he took me on the road with ‘im. But ‘e made me steal, ‘e did.”

“I’d say we’ve more to run this bastard in for than simply raising a hand against the King’s man,” Robin said and crouched beside them. The boy’s eyes widened as he took in the knight’s appearance.

“Cor! You’re one of Arthur’s chaps, wot? Lookit that armor, all shiny like. Blimey!”

Robin laughed, “I am his man, good young sir, though not the best or bravest “ They searched through the saddlebags and enjoyed a short picnic on the biscuits and Spam they found there. “Now, can you sit this horse well enough for us to take you to a safe place?” Robin asked him. “If he is well enough to carry you, that is.”

“Old Spavin? I ‘spect so. Can’t you, old fellow?” The boy petted the horse’s nose, and the horse whickered and lipped his unruly hair. Robin lifted him to the saddle, then mounted and had Evaine hand him the whip handle before she did. The three rode back to the road, leading the now awake and protesting thief. Before they found a town, however, they came upon a large square building behind a gate and wall.

“Odd looking castle,” Evaine remarked as Robin alighted and banged on the gate. “No towers or battlements, no crenellations or parapets. Must be Scandinavian design.”

In a few moments there approached, not a guard or sentry, but—a nun. In cowboy boots, with a bandana tied around her wimpled head, and a garden hoe in her hand. “All right, what’s all this?” she grumbled, and then brightened when she caught sight of the sweaty and complaining thief at the end of his tether. “Well, Black Bart! You’ve come to a bad end at last. You folk caught him, I take it? Come in, come in. Welcome to the convent of Mary Queen of All That Jazz!” She opened the gate, stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly, and nuns converged from every direction.

Before Evaine could draw breath, their horses were stabled and the boy was hauled off for a good bath (the first thing he had complained about). Sister Calamity Mary Jane, cowboy boots and all, trussed Black Bart like a holiday goose and slung him across her saddle, and set off for the nearby village of Ham-on-Rye to give him over to the gaol. Not long after, Evaine and Robin were sitting down to dinner with the staff. “We’ll take good care of your little foundling,” the mother superior, Sister Mary Eponymous, assured them. “Some good food and nursing will restore him to health; we’ll teach him his letters and such; and hopefully we can teach him a trade too. Sister Jumpin’ Mary Jehoshaphat is a gifted woodworker, perhaps he’d take to that. Now, tell us, what brings a knight of King Arthur out this way?”

Robin did not mention his search for Jews; wisely, Evaine thought, since they were after all among a large group of sexually frustrated Christian women with sharp implements close to hand. He cloaked his mission in words of secrecy, which made it all the more appealing, and introduced Evaine only as a healer and his associate. What he said really didn’t matter much. Clearly the nuns didn’t get many visitors, and were only too happy to chatter on about their own pursuits. “Music!” cried one sister when Robin mentioned his fondness for song. “We love music. And dance. We’re working up a few production numbers, would you like to see one after dinner?” How could they refuse? So after a hearty meal of braised goat, stewed parsnips and gooseberry tart, a troop of nuns took their places on a small stage at one end of the large dining hall and tore through a funked-up arrangement of Salve Regina.

When they finished, they stood eagerly awaiting their guests’ reviews. Robin shifted in his seat.”If I’m being honest…it was a lil pitchy, dawgs…but you made it your own, and your spirits were dancing.”

“Huh?” the nuns frowned.

“It was excellent, ladies. Don’t mind me, sometimes I think I’m channeling from a thousand years in the future.”

In return for their performance, Robin favored them with a medley of Lloyd Webber standards that had the nuns swooning and thudding right and left. Sister Mary Eponymous finally recovered herself enough to order him off to the stables where a pallet had been prepared for him. “I’m so sorry we have no facilities for male overnight guests,” she cooed while fondling his chain mail-clad arm. He flushed, and Evaine growled to herself and contemplated appropriate spells to cool the ardor of oversexed nuns. They escorted him to the barn, and he bade them good night with one last refrain of Music of the Night. As the notes faded into the evening dark, a faint thud could be heard from the far end of the convent. The mother superior gripped the wall to stay upright. “That would be Sister Mary Rachael Ray, in the kitchen,” she sighed. “Off with you now. We’ll see that your lady friend gets a good night’s rest as well.”

They were nuns of their word. After several attempts to encourage her to convert, they settled Evaine with a clean nightshirt and a moderately comfortable cot in a vacant cell. She tossed and turned, and wondered how she had become so quickly accustomed to sleeping beside Robin Finally she crept out and down to the barn. All was silent; no snores sounded. “Robin? Are you awake?”

“Yes, I am, and so tired of being propositioned I could scream. I only want to sleep, blast it!” Evaine ducked into the stall and flopped down amid the hay and blankets beside him.

“How’re the accommodations otherwise?” she asked.

“Not bad. I like the smell of clean hay, nice and sweet. Fewer bedbugs than most Manhattan hotels, too. But I missed you.”

“Me too.” They kissed. Outside the stall door there was a rustle, and half a dozen black-draped heads peeped in. “Back off ladies, he’s taken.” The nuns sighed in chorus and departed. “Sorry, perhaps I should have rephrased that. You may not want to be taken.”

“I told you I was besotted, girl. How much more clear can I make it? Smitten. Bewitched. Love-struck. Et cetera.”

“Good,” she smiled. “You were wonderful today, taking down that thief.”

“I was terrified. I cannot abide seeing animals or children hurt, but I was still terrified.”

“Uh, yeah, so? Being unafraid and being stupid are two twigs from the same bush. You felt the fear and did it anyway.”

“That could be a self-help best seller.”

“Hmph.” Evaine kissed him again, then gazed into his eyes, remembering how they had flashed with fury. She had not been able to see him when he had defied an angry mob to save her from burning, but she suspected they had flashed the same. “It’s as I said before, you are brave. And seeing you that way, in righteous wrath is—well, it’s—“ She groped for words. “That’s hot.” Robin laughed out loud, and tumbled her over in the hay. “Robin!” she gasped as he hiked the hem of her nightshirt and ducked his head beneath. “Robin—uh—ah—there’s a—aaah—houseful of—oh—of nuns up there!”

“And I’m going to make you sing for them,” he mumbled, his mouth full of her already.

+++

In the morning Evaine and Robin bade farewell to the nuns of Mary Queen of All That Jazz. Black Bart’s old horse was noisily munching their bedding when they left the stable. His nephew had already become a pet of the convent. He didn’t recall a name given him by his parents, so the nuns dubbed him Chance. He was stealing berries from the kitchen when the travelers said their goodbyes. There but for the grace of God go we, Evaine thought as they led their mounts down to the gate and Sister Calamity Mary Jane let them through. If Robin’s parents had died when he was young and unable to fend for himself, or I had not had Gran to raise me when mine died, we both might have been in his same spot. From Robin’s quiet demeanor, she wondered if his thoughts ran the same way.

Before long, though, her thoughts turned from the past to the future. The road grew busier as they rode. “We’re drawing closer to Camelot,” Robin told her with excitement plain. Evaine tried to be excited too. All she had to do was convince King Arthur of her good intent and then…Well, what? She had packed her bag with the goal of finding the mysterious school of magic. Now, however, with Robin in her life, was that still what she wanted? Did she really want to pursue something that those around her feared, something that would force her to hide from the world? Did she want power that badly? Would she not be safer and better off to stay in the known paths; to be, perhaps, the bride of a knight; to keep his house and bear his children; to be content with the small magics she now held, if that, and possibly pass them on to a son or daughter?

Too soon, it was time to decide. They rounded a turn in the busy road, and before them saw a city like Evaine had never imagined. It was brightly lit and decorated, and thronged with people, and a mighty castle oversaw it all. “Behold Camelot!” Robin declared and spurred his horse on. “Come on, Evaine! You’ll love it. It’s a veritable buffet of delights.”

Well, the buffet part did sound good. She urged Hob into the crowd following Robin. The press grew thicker as they approached the castle. At the massive steps in front, two men stood, one tall and brawny in his armor, the other slight and fragile-looking. “Lance!” Robin called as he halted and dismounted. “Have you found the King a Jew? Or a new knight, perhaps?”

“Uh, not exactly.” The large man’s grin was sheepish. “This is Prince Herbert. He, uh…well, I got a message, and I thought it was a damsel in distress, but as it turned out it was Herbert, whose father was trying to force him into an arranged marriage, and as I confronted the old bastard I, well, that is, Herbert and I…oh bother. We’re engaged, Rob.”

Robin paused, and his eyebrow almost disappeared into his hairline. “Really? Fancy that. I had no idea.”

“Neither did I, for quite a time,” Lancelot admitted. “Neither did anyone else.”

“Well, this is a surprise. But congratulations are in order, then!” Robin grinned brightly and introduced himself to Prince Herbert.

“We’re registered at Bed Bath and Beyond,” the prince put in with a fond flutter of lashes toward the burly Lancelot. “And I’m trying to talk him into Target, too. I just love their Isaac Mizrahi collection.”

Lance pinked quite nicely. Herbert was briefly atwitter, until his gaze fell on Evaine. “Hello there, sweetie! Don’t let these macho types leave you out of the conversation! Nice to meet you. I’m Herbert. What a lovely cloak you’re wearing. I adore cerulean blue! And the shade is such a perfect contrast to your coloring. My God, girl, your complexion is like porcelain, what on earth do you use on your face?”

His chatter drew Lancelot’s attention. “Aren’t you a beauty! Nice catch, Robin. So have you brought a Jewess for the king? Or for yourself?”

He elbowed Robin cheerily; but Robin seemed taken aback. “No, ah, that is, no, not a Jewess, not at all. She’s, um, actually, a witch.”

Herbert let out a screech of alarm. “Zounds!” exclaimed Lancelot. “You’re a braver man by far than I am, Robin, riding about with a witch free and unfettered. How on earth did you keep her from growing warts on your nose? Snakes in your hair? Or conversely, shrinking your—“

“I’ll thank you not to talk of me as though I’m a beast, sir knight, or invisible!” Evaine snapped. “Do I assume because I see you with a sword, that you slay every living thing that crosses your path? Witch I may be, but not giving to doing harm for fun or any other reason unwarranted.”

“I’ve brought her to stand trial before the king,” Robin managed, before they were all interrupted by a flurry of activity at the castle doors. Several more men emerged, but the one in the center of the group, sturdy and wearing a crown, was clearly Arthur.

“There you two are! We must make haste. A messenger has brought strange tidings of portents seen far to the north, near the border of Scotland. Two-headed goats, folk flying through the sky with no visible means of support, dinner cooked in a sheep’s stomach. Frightful things!” He gestured toward a stout man in the brown robe of a monk. “Brother Maynard thinks they may be signs of the Grail. Come, let us to horse!”

“Oh, good heavens, he can’t wait for anything,” Lancelot grumbled, and quickly pecked Herbert on the cheek. “Make those wedding plans while I’m gone.” The prince beamed as the knight sent a boy to bring his horse around.

“But sire!” Robin cried. “Did the minstrels bring my message to you? I have a witch here who wants judging.”

“Hm?” Arthur looked Evaine up and down. “Fine looking gel she is. But of course, the judging can’t be final until after the talent competition, and the swimsuit division—wait a minute, they don’t let us call it that anymore, do they? Blasted political correctness—“

“No, sire, not that kind of judging. The people of the village of Far Tadpole have filed charges of assault with a deadly spell against this lady, and in order to thwart vigilante justice I agreed to convey her here to stand trial.”

Everything was moving so fast, and foremost of the questions in Evaine’s reeling mind was why Robin was suddenly acting more like an accuser than a defender. “We’ve precious little time for that now,” said King Arthur sharply. “You, miss witch, who are you, and what do you have to say for yourself?”

She dropped a deep curtsy. “My name is Evaine, your majesty. I do have a small talent for magic, which is at your majesty’s disposal. I am a loyal servant of your realm, and have never raised a hand to do harm to anyone.”

“Harumph! That may be, but we’ll deal with that upon my return. As your monarch, I command you to remain here at Camelot until I come back, hopefully with the Grail. I’ll hear this case then. And while you’re here, girl, make yourself useful—magic the mice out of the dungeons or something. Come, my knights, our quest awaits!”

In a swirl of dust and horseflesh, the king and his Round Table were gone. Evaine stared at Robin’s retreating back. How had the relationship that had been budding between them been severed so abruptly? He didn’t even kiss me goodbye, she brooded.

A plump man bustled up to her. “I’m Sir Kay, Arthur’s seneschal,” he introduced himself. Evaine frowned. “Major domo?” She shook her head. “Maitre d?” That made a little more sense. “I’m to show you to your accommodations. Prince Herbert, if you would be so good as to follow me, I’ll show you to rooms also.”

A servant took Hob’s reins. Evaine shouldered her pack and numbly followed her guide, aware of how Herbert stayed as far from her as possible. Users of magic were not welcome in the world. Was the negative reaction of his friend Lance the reason for Robin’s abrupt change in attitude toward her? Their idyll in the wilds alone had been fine and dandy, but now that they were back in civilization he would have to resume his duty to protect King Arthur’s realm from the likes of…her. Through her deepening sadness she was vaguely aware of Kay halting at a door and opening it for her. Her thoughts far away, she mumbled thanks and went inside, half expecting a dungeon.

Instead she found a bright and comfortable bedchamber. Kay left with Prince Herbert, promising to send someone to measure her for some new clothes, since the few she had packed were worn and unsuitable for wear at court. Or at a royal tribunal, she thought glumly. The glumness was not so deep that she failed to recognize the joy of a big tub of hot water in the next room, or to take advantage of it. Clean at last, she flopped down on the bed, wondering if she had lost her heart for nothing. She pulled out her wand, and stared at the roughly planed wood. Had she let her emotions lead her into a trap? Would she have to renounce her magic to have any chance of surviving—or of winning Robin back?

+++

Lulled by the softness of the bed and the warmth of the spring afternoon’s sunlight through the small high windows of the bedchamber, Evaine dozed for a while, and woke to the music of her growling stomach. Just as she was starting to wonder where to scavenge some supper, there came a knock on the door, and a maid entered timidly with an armful of clothes and much apology. The clothes were not fine, she said, but they were sound and clean, and she hoped that would suit Sir Robin’s guest until the seamstress could see her tomorrow. Guest, indeed, Evaine grunted to herself, but smiled and assured the nervous girl that plain garments were exactly to her taste.

The maid seemed much relieved. “Sir Kay said you were a witch. The staff drew straws to serve you, and…I lost,” she confessed. “Everyone was afraid you might turn them into a toad if you were displeased.”

“What is the fixation with toads that everyone seems to have?” Evaine groaned. “Don’t worry. Transfiguration is quite difficult. I’m not sure I could do it if I wanted to, which I don’t.”

This calmed the little maid even more. She waited while Evaine changed into a simple but comfortable shift, then showed her down to a small dining area just off the huge royal dining hall. Prince Herbert sat alone at one end of the table, nibbling at a salad and a slice of quiche. Evaine paused at the door. “Perhaps I should ask for supper to be sent to my room. This gentleman is not very comfortable with even the thought of magic.”

The maid sniffed. “He ought to know better. You said you’d do no ill, and in Camelot folk keep their word.”

Her words emboldened Evaine, though at the same time they made her heart ache, reminding her of Robin’s determination to keep his word to Arthur. As she seated herself at the other end of the table she asked the maid to have a simple meal sent for her. It arrived in short order, and was well cooked and tasty. “I’d rather expected you’d magic yourself up whatever exotic foods you wanted,” the prince sniped. “Eye of newt, toe of frog…Big Mac…”

Evaine held her temper. “Sorry, it doesn’t work that way. Having magic talent does not make one’s life an easy street, especially when most people don’t understand that and are more interested in killing you simply for being who you are.”

Herbert was silent, clearly mulling this unexpected response over. “I know that feeling,” he surprised her by replying. “Not that I’ve been threatened with death. Surely you exaggerate on that score.”

“Surely I do not,” she returned, and found herself telling him just how close she had come to being burned. She did not go into any details about her journey to Camelot, however, other than to say she had gotten on well with her escort. If Robin did not wish his name associated with hers, then she would honor his wishes.

The prince was appalled. “Girl, stop!” he cried. “You’re going to frighten me into losing my dinner, and I haven’t had a good quiche in just ages! How could those ruffians treat you so without any proof you’d done a thing to harm them?”

“They didn’t care,” Evaine sighed. “I was different. And that is no better here really than there. I’m as outcast in Camelot as in Far Tadpole. My only options are to renounce my magic altogether, or go seeking my own kind.”

“I’ve thought of doing that too,” Herbert admitted. “Living among my own, that is. Too bad it’s such a long trek from Camelot to San Francisco.”

With the ice broken, they finished their meal more companionably; and in the days that followed they spent a good bit of time in each other’s company. Herbert shared some stories of his own, and Evaine was sadly shocked at how badly he too had been treated. He was full of questions about magic, and she did her best to answer without exposing too much of her heritage. His curiosity made her hopeful that she could find a third option, to embrace her magic and try to educate others. To that end, she went boldly forth the next day to keep her promise to the king and rid his castle of vermin. A few well-placed Repello Muris spells induced every rodent to vacant the premises. But the staff, while grateful, still looked at her with suspicion. When the seamstress fitted her for new clothing, she did her job well but in haste, and flatly refused Evaine’s offer of a pot of Gran’s salve.

“Some folk always hate what’s different from them,” Herbert agreed sadly one evening as they sat along the castle battlements. “My father despised me for not being the boy he wanted me to be. It was so difficult, pretending to like hunting and fighting and such, when all I wanted was a song to sing and a man to love. And some nice curtains. These old palaces’ windows are always so drafty! And some underwear that doesn’t itch! A nice silk, maybe,” he added with a jealous tug at Evaine’s new skirt.

Though Evaine did not want to admit it, she had to concede he was right. Sometimes, the people one valued the most were unwilling or unable to accept without reservation. And that thought in turn brought her back to Robin. She was neither blind nor deaf; Camelot was replete with comely serving girls, and one of their main topics of conversation was the handsome red-haired knight and his appetite for women. Women, she added bitterly in her mind, who weren’t witches.

The afternoon breeze ruffled her hair, and brought the sounds of the city below to their ears. Then the noises she had grown accustomed to in the days she had spent as an enforced guest of Camelot were joined by shouts and pounding hooves that rang above the normal traffic. Curious, Evaine peered over the parapet and watched a troop of soldiers thunder through the narrow street and halt at the castle gate. Their leader, a burly scowling man, swung down from his tired-looking horse and pounded at the main door. “Justice!” he roared. “I claim Arthur’s justice! My son has been kidnapped and I call for Arthur’s aid!”

Herbert turned ghostly white. “Father!” he gasped. “Oh, no!” Below, they heard a servant answer the door and call for Sir Kay. The seneschal arrived and explained Arthur’s absence, but the man would have none of it. “I am King of Swamp Castle. My son and heir has been abducted by one of Arthur’s knights, and I will have him returned to me. I know he’s here!” The man glared around. Herbert tried unsuccessfully to smother his cry of distress, and his father followed the sound up to the pale faces watching from above. “Aha! You there, I see you. Herbert! Get down here at once!”

The prince looked as though he might faint. “No!” he cried. “Evaine, don’t let him take me. He threatened to kill me if I didn’t marry Princess Whatsername. I know I said nobody ever threatened my life but I lied. Ohhh, why isn’t Lancelot here?”

Evaine took her friend’s trembling hand. “Calm down, Herbert. You’re a grown man; you can make your own decisions. If you’ve declared before witnesses that you surrender your position as his heir, he can’t force you to do anything. Come on, you’ll see. We’ll go set him straight and send him on his way.”

“Before tea,” Herbert said faintly but fervently as they went downstairs. “Cook promised some lovely cakes for tea.”

A messenger boy met them in the corridor to summon Herbert to the seneschal’s workroom, where petitions were heard when the king was absent. There, the Swamp King paced and fumed. “There, you fey little scamp. Come along. Your fiancée is still, thankfully, your fiancée, despite how shamefully you’ve treated her. We told her you’d gone off for a knight. Of course she thought we meant you’d gone off to be a knight, but no harm in her thinking that—“

“Father, I am not marrying her! If you have such covetous interest in her, um, vast tracts of land, then you marry her!” Evaine could see what it cost Herbert to stand up to the old man, in his white knuckles and sweat; but he lifted his chin and spoke up. “I told you at home, and I shall tell you again here: if I must yield my inheritance to be free to wed the one I love, I do!”

“Wed? You idiot! You lust after a knight! You can’t marry him.”

“Actually, he can,” Evaine put in, disliking the man more by the second. “It’s not an everyday occurrence, but it’s not all that uncommon, particularly in Europe.”

“How dare you address me, girl?” the Swamp King snapped. “Herbert, abandon this foolishness and come along.”

“I will not!”

“Then you shall go nowhere!” he cried and drew his sword. Sir Kay stood open-mouthed in shock.

Evaine kept her wand on her at all times, for its safety more than hers; but before she knew it she had drawn it. “Expelliarmus!” she cried, and the uplifted sword flew from his hand and buried itself in a timber of the ceiling.

This time it was Herbert’s father who screeched, while his son stood his ground, though wide-eyed and startled. “Wiiitch!” he shrieked. “Demon! Away with her! Seize her! Clap her in irons! Do somethiiiinng!”

At that very instant, horns sounded outside, the trumpets that heralded King Arthur’s approach. The Swamp King continued to rant and cower simultaneously. An unnerved Kay sent his messenger boy running, and in moments the chamber began to fill. Lancelot was first, bursting through the door, administering a thorough tongue-lashing to the by now dithering Swamp King, and threatening to administer more. His offer to introduce the pommel of his sword to the man’s nether regions was only thwarted by the arrival of a brace of Camelot’s best, and Brother Maynard. “Thank God!” Lance ejaculated. “Get this fool out of here before I do him grave damage. The Grail is found! Let’s get Camelot back to normal, and plan these weddings!”

The Swamp King sputtered. Herbert sighed happily. “I’m not altogether certain of all that,” Brother Maynard said cautiously. “While same-sex marriages are not unknown, I must refer to canon law and Scripture for the legalities.”

“Certainly there should be no problem with that!” Evaine was mildly scandalized, in spite of her own currently precarious position, at the thought of her friend being parted from his beloved. “Numerous instances are cited in Scripture of love between men, David and Jonathan most notably, and while the writers do not specify a romantic component, is that so very different?”

Brother Maynard squinted at her through his thick spectacles. “I mislike a lay woman daring to quote Scripture at a monk,” he said.

Evaine grinned, thankful yet again for Gran’s insistence on her being educated. “But was not the first sermon ever preached in Christendom brought by a lay woman, when Mary Magdalene proclaimed Christ risen to his disciples who were in hiding?”

The friar chewed that over for a moment. “Good point, milady scholar,” he conceded with a small smile.

“Ohhh, stop this!” wailed the Swamp King. “She’s a demon, you sandal-wearer, hurry up and exorcise her or something!”

“Eh? Hm? Oh, quite so then.” Brother Maynard pulled out an atomizer and squirted it at Evaine. ‘Holy Water,” he explained.

“Well! Don’t waste it on me then. Use it on some evil!” she suggested.

The monk turned and fired it at the Swamp King, who promptly let out a scream of “I’m melllllting!!” True enough, in mere seconds he was reduced to a puddle of green goo, in the middle of which lay two soggy spike-heel boots and a large pair of frilly puce underpanties. The sight made Herbert burst into tears.

“He never accepted himself,” he sobbed in Lance’s comforting arms, then pulled himself together and began to explain all that had happened. Evaine was quite proud of him. By the time he had finished, King Arthur himself had arrived to hear the end of the account.

“Good show, all of you. You too, Mistress Evaine,” he added. “I expect to see you tomorrow morning in my throne room, for final disposition of your case.”

She was about to make one more protest of her innocence when over his shoulder she spotted Robin at the main door of the now crowded chamber. “Yes, your majesty,” she murmured, dropped a quick curtsy, and slipped out the smaller side door, stepping carefully over the puddle of green goo. She had not yet made a decision about her own course, and definitely wasn’t ready yet to confront the man she thought she had loved…and thought she still, sad to say, did love.

+++

Evaine had a fine sense of direction, and had learnt many of the lesser used passageways of Arthur’s castle, the better to avoid the wary eyes of others. Now she moved through them quickly and quietly, picking her way toward a rear exit. Around her swirled a building celebration; the king and his Round Table had found the Holy Grail! A corner of her mind wondered if it could be true, but most of her being was taken up with concern for her fate, and the renewed ache of seeing Robin again. She spied him once more along her way, far down a corridor she was crossing. He was surrounded by a knot of fawning serving girls; he smiled and spoke, but did not meet their eyes, and his attention seemed elsewhere. More power to him then, Evaine thought and moved on.

Finally she emerged, and wandered down a grassy sward toward the lake, the stories lake whence had come Arthur’s enchanted sword Excalibur, carrying with it the High Kingship of Britain. So why was that magic accepted by all and sundry, she wondered sourly, and hers was rejected? Perhaps it was the scale of the event; big splashy production numbers drew applause, but small workaday tasks were too close to home to be welcomed by those without the gift. At the water’s edge she pulled her shoes off and waded along in the cool water, sadly reminded of that night by the pond when she had still believed a man could love her wholly. Robin, or her birthright: it seemed she could have one or the other, but not both. With a sigh, she sat down on a large flat rock, pulled her bare feet up, and hugged her knees, staring at the clear water. It rippled lightly in the breeze…then the ripples grew into waves, stirred by some movement, disturbed by some presence.

Mouth half open, Evaine watched as a statuesque woman strolled out of the water as casually as if walking down a country road. Not a hair was out of place, and her diaphanous gown was perfect. Evaine repressed a twinge of purely feminine jealousy; no wonder she could get away with it. Not only was the Lady of the Lake a sorceress of great power, she was gorgeous, blast her. The young women accompanying her, dancing around and cheering in their short skirts, were also disgustingly fair to look upon; clearly they were her attendants, the Laker Girls. Evaine sighed again, and dismissed them returning her attention to the lake.

“Hallo.” The woman hailed her as she and her entourage passed, with a warm smile. “You must be Sir Robin’s witch-girl.”

Evaine shrugged. “You are partly correct,” she said, striving not to be rude, despite not wanting to talk to much of anyone right now. “Witch I am, for now, I suppose, but girl I’m rather past. And Sir Robin’s? Who can say?”

The Lady halted. “Excuse me. Clearly you are troubled.”

“I am baffled. Perplexed. Jacked up, even.”

“Tore up from the floor up?” the Lady replied with sudden understanding and sympathy in her gaze. “Must be man trouble.”

“Yes, it is!” Evaine was surprised by her kind response. “In part, at least.” Before she knew it, she had spilled her tale of woe. The Laker Girls shook their pom-poms out and used them as cushions to sit down on the shore and listen with their mistress. “Do you know of this school of magic my Gran spoke of? Can you help me to find it?”

“I do know of it,” the Lady said gently. “As to how to get there, however, it sounds to my hearing as though the time is not yet right for that. The school’s founders would not look kindly upon me for sending them a dilettante for a pupil. No,” she held up her hand to forestall Evaine’s protests, “You have said yourself that you feel you must choose, between your magic, and your feelings for Sir Robin. Until you have, I cannot help you. You must decide which is your heart’s desire.”

“How can I make such a choice? The folk in Camelot say you are promised to wed King Arthur once the Grail is found—“

“A pledge I am on my way to keep even now. Though it may be a while. We want a large wedding.”

“But how did you choose to renounce your magic?”

“Did I say anything about renouncing magic?” the Lady countered. “Look closely, and you may find that the choice you fear is no choice at all.” What is she saying? Evaine thought, confused. Does she mean, of course the glory of magic should outshine mere mortal emotion, or that love is greater than the wielding of power?“Go and see, Evaine, before you make any rash decisions. Search for your Grail, and when you have found it you will know what to do.”

“King Arthur and his knights have already found the Grail. How can I search for something that isn’t lost?”

The Lady groaned aloud. “Does anyone in this show understand metaphor?” she said in frustration and began to sing in a loud and powerful voice: “If you trust in your song, Keep your eyes on the goal, Then the prize you won't fail, That's your grail, That's your grail, Life is really up to you, You must choose what to pursue, Set your mind on what to find, And there's nothing you can't do…”

Evaine remembered Robin’s words about how the Grail was a symbol of one’s true self. “All right, enough! Please, don’t draw attention to me,” she added more gently. “I appreciate your help. Just let me work this out for myself.”

“That is precisely what I would suggest, my dear,” the Lady assured her.

Careful of her footing on the slick rock, Evaine stood up and made a deep curtsy. After all, the woman was soon to be queen! Then she hurried back to the castle, slipped in through the back door and went straight to her room. She intended to find out where she stood, both with the king and with Robin, but she needed some time first to gather her thoughts.

Time, however, was a luxury that fate was not inclined to accord her. “There you are,” sighed a familiar voice as she closed her door behind her. “I knew you must return here eventually. You were made comfortable enough, I hope, in my absence?”

Evaine took a deep breath and turned. Robin sat, by some mad coincidence, in the exact spot beside the window that she herself preferred. The late sun’s rays set his hair ablaze. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am quite comfortable.”

“Good, good,” he nodded and stood. A broad grin lit his fair face, and he advanced with his arms outstretched as though to take her in an embrace. “I’m so happy to see you—“

She dodged him. “So happy, I see, that you had to creep up here and greet me behind closed doors instead of speaking a word to me before others’ eyes?” she huffed. “So happy that you turned me over to my gaoler and rode off without a word of goodbye?”

“Evaine!” Robin looked thoroughly baffled. “There wasn’t exactly time for dinner and a movie, if you recall—“

“Aren’t your other doxies missing you about now? The ones who are smart enough to know they’re only cheap thrills to you? The witch was more foolish than they; good for a tumble in the hay, but not safe to be seen with otherwise.” More furious words rose from her wounded heart. So, brave Sir Robin, I see now that I was wrong. You truly are a coward! She choked on her anger “I should make them aware I’m no threat to their fun. Hey, girls!” She raised her voice and took a step back, reaching toward the door.

In one large hand, Robin caught her outstretched one; his other he pressed to the door. “Evaine, have you lost your cotton-pickin’ mind??”

She stopped. “We don’t grow cotton in Britain,” she pointed out. “And I wouldn’t pick it if we did, unless it was that or starve. Nasty, back-breaking business, that. And you need blues music to do it proper.”

“You’re changing the subject. Now what is wrong with you?”

Her wand poked her, from the slim secret pocket she had sewn inside her cloak; she hadn’t even taken it off yet. A wave and a few words, and she could send him out the door with no recollection of her. She could go on her way then, alone. Instead, Evaine choked again, this time on tears. “I told you. You left and didn’t even say goodbye. If you’re afraid of my magic after all, or if you’re afraid of what folk may say about you for associating with a witch, then just say so, but don’t—“

“And what if I were to say instead that I made a decision in haste then, that I thought best, and that broke my heart? What if I were to say that I did not speak because I could not have hidden my feelings for you, and that I would not be permitted to speak for you as an unbiased witness in the king’s hearing if my feelings for you were known?” Robin demanded, his green eyes flashing.

Evaine’s tirade halted in mid-breath. “What are your feelings for me, Robin?”

He glared. “You need ask? No other woman has so much as crossed my mind since I met you!” Then he paused, and reconsidered. “Well, there were those triplets. The cook’s daughters, downstairs. I did think of them, briefly, once. Pepper, Ginger and Curry.”

“Hmph,” Evaine sniffed in disdain. “Spice girls.”

“Yes, they were,” he breathed, then returned his full attention to her with a toss of his head. “But that is old news, too tired even for Page Six. Evaine, Evaine, how I love you.” This time she did not resist when he drew her into his arms. “I am more afraid of losing you than of anything else. Other than rats. And tree nuts. And toads. Although I don’t actually fear toads, that’s more of a loathing thing. But being dismembered, now that I’m definitely afraid of. And undead liches masquerading as record company executives. And—“

“Oh, Robin, shut up and kiss me,” Evaine said, and he did just that, thoroughly and for quite a long time. His lips were warm, and moist and gently demanding, and Evaine gripped his hair and returned his kiss with the same fervor. She caught her breath when he walked her backward across the room, never breaking the kiss until he laid her down on the bed. “Robin, should we? If it would jeopardize my case with the king, or your standing with him, I can wait for you. Do you need to be somewhere else?”

“It won’t, and no,” he grinned wickedly. “You’ve made quite a staunch friend in Prince Herbert. His dear lioness, he called you. Between his adoration for you, and my nattering in Lancelot’s ear all the while we were gone, Lance has rather softened his poor opinion of witches. He was willing to cover for me tonight. Not to shout my whereabouts from the parapets, granted, but to provide a nice plausible reason for my absence from any festivities.” In a trice he had stripped her of her cloak and shift, and was peeling off his tunic and armor. “My festivities will be right here, milady witch, if I must needs prove again that I have no fear of you, then let us get busy with it!” With that, he pounced upon her. “Mmmm,” he murmured between smacks and nibbles, “a much…more satisfying and comfortable tumble…than in the hay…wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes, it is,” Evaine giggled as they rolled wantonly in the sheets. “I feel you’ve given me all your attentions though, milord knight. Let me take things, um, in hand, shall we say.” She reached and took hold of his manhood. His knighthood, rather, she thought and almost laughed. “I need not use my wand if I may have the use of yours.” His lips parted, and he watched with undisguised hunger as she took him into her mouth. He was already well on his way to full arousal, but Evaine took some time to explore him, enjoying the journey nigh as much as she had his explorations of her. His rumbles and groans were sweet to hear, but his sighs of her name were sweetest of all. Finally when it seemed he could stand no more, she teased, “I shall be a lady knight now, and you my steed.” She mounted him and rode, his hands gripping her hips as he urged her on. Closer and closer to their goal, they came, and then it was upon them; in a rush like a storm breaking it carried them to fulfillment. Evaine cried out and clenched around Robin, as he added his release to hers. Still atremble, she melted onto him, and he folded his arms around her and held her fast to him. The gingery hair of his chest scratched, pleasantly itchy, against the tender skin between her breasts.

“I am not shamed to call you beloved,” he murmured in her ear, and she could have both laughed and wept. Whatever the next hours brought, this moment was worth all of life to her.

+++

As it happened, what the next hours brought was supper. Evaine slipped into her shift long enough to hail a serving girl in the hallway and ask her to have her meal sent to her room. She put about, subtly, that she meant to spend the evening in meditation to prepare for her meeting with King Arthur on the morrow. Calling it a meeting sounded much less intimidating than a trial.

She hated to eat in front of Robin, but before she could work out a suitable apology he had climbed into his shirt and trousers and crept out, leaving his armor and knightly tunic behind. Mystified, she tidied up the room, rescued her wand from her crumpled cloak and cast a quick Iincendio spell in the fireplace. She was just pondering whether she had time to call for water and have a quick scrub when there was a knock on her door.

The servingman who entered was bent and grimy-faced, with a rag tied sloppily around his head. He bore an embarrassment of food, roast fowl and a pot of root vegetables, bread and cheese and some little sugared fruit pies. With a snuffle, he shuffled to the table by the window to deposit them. While Evaine felt sympathy for him, she could not but wish the cook had sent a cleaner messenger. The man started to put the food on the table, then snuffed again and again, with his back to her, and suddenly broke into a sound that for an instant seemed to be weeping. The next instant, he straightened, and the noise became obvious and familiar laughter. “Robin!” Evaine was torn between annoyance and amusement as he pulled his kerchief off his head.

“Folk see what they expect to see, you know,” he giggled. “Now when your server comes, we’ll have a plenty.”

“That looks like a plenty in itself.” Evaine gazed at the feast in his arms. “Unless you plan to eat it all yourself.”

“Judging from recent history, I shall need all the reserves I can muster to keep up with you.”

“Indeed,” Evaine replied, striving to keep a straight face. “I might wish to go riding again, later.”

“You might. Or I might.” Robin looked as though he might dump the food and start supper early by devouring her. Another knock forestalled him, and he hid himself and his spoils behind a convenient drapery while the serving girl brought in a small pot of soup. She hung it over the fire and spread sliced bread and meat out on the table, with a mug of beer, then bustled out and back in with a bucket of water she set beside the fire to warm for bathing. As the door closed behind her Robin added his plunder to the table, then wet his rag in the bucket and wiped the skillfully applied smudges of soot from his face.

“Quit contaminating my wash water,” Evaine said with a swipe at him.

“I wonder you complain, after bathing in that pond. Heaven only knows how many beasts have relieved themselves in or near the vicinity.”

“I’m looking at one,” she retorted and threatened him with a dinner roll.

“Don’t waste good food that way,” he suggested, swooping upon her and capturing her in his arms. “Eat it instead, for I intend to see that you need all of your strength ere the night is past.” He took a bite from the roll she still held, then took it from her and poked the rest in her startled-open mouth.

They did finally get to the table, where they shared their experiences. Robin frowned at Evaine’s account of her cool treatment in Camelot. “Arthur decrees that folk be treated fairly, but one cannot decree the inner beliefs of others.”

“I know. I had hopes that folk could be taught not to fear those who have magical skills, but I fear that may not be realistic.” She shook her head to clear away the downcast feeling coming over her. “We’ll deal with that tomorrow. Tell me about the Grail! What does it look like?”

“I don’t know, exactly. We saw it, but we didn’t. It kept changing shape. One minute it was a cup, the next a stone…Lance swore for a moment it looked like a wedding cake. With lavender frosting.”

“What did it look like to you?”

He paused. “A Tony award. Or maybe a Grammy, I’m not sure.” He shrugged and helped Evaine clear the table, then took the mug to the hearth. Evaine had settled there with a cup of cool water, ceding the beer to him. She had never been much of a drinker, anyway, so she leaned against him and listened as he told the tale of the finding. She knew he had left nothing out when he admitted to his fear and soiling, and she accepted it as before. “The thing that most made me think of you, though, was the man who directed us toward the Grail’s hiding place, a Scottish sorcerer named Tim. He flew, Evaine, the way you told me you’d dreamt of doing. Whether his presence up north might be a clue as to where the school you seek is, I don’t know. But he—oh, you’re going to laugh at this, I know, but it is true—I would have sworn he was riding on a broom.”

“A broom?” Evaine gaped. “Now that is absurd.”

“I swear! Perhaps this school of wizardry your grandmother spoke of can teach such powerful magic.”

“Well, now that I think about it, it isn’t quite as insane as it appears…a broom can be straddled, so it’d be fairly easy to ride on. And it’s so common it’d be easily hidden from suspicious neighbors. Other similar objects would work, I suppose.”

“A cow,” Robin suggested. “A bureau drawer. A coconut.”

“We don’t have coconuts in Britain, you yutz.”

“Sure we do. Ask the King’s man Patsy, he’ll show you his nuts.”

“I have no desire to see his nuts. Now think sensibly. Practical everyday things one could ride. Hm. A curtain rod. A cricket bat.”

“Cricket hasn’t been invented yet.”

“A spear.”

“You’ve already straddled my spear and ridden it once tonight.” Robin set his mug aside and began to have Evaine’s neck for dessert.

“Man, you are insatiable.”

“I haven’t heard you argue,” he pointed out as he relieved her of her shift.

“What a lech, making free with me at every opportunity,” Evaine teased, though her desire for him was rising anew.

“That I am,” he agreed as he peeled his clothing off again. “And it is my fervent hope to do so for years to come, milady witch.” She sighed at the beauty of his lean toned body in the firelight as he laid her back upon the skin rugs before the hearth and urged her to say his name over and over while he, as she said, made free with her. “Now ‘tis my turn to mount up and ride as though flying,” he growled when she gasped and begged for him to take her. He buried himself in her moistness, and she writhed beneath him, shamelessly wanton and loving every minute of it. She gnashed her teeth to keep from screaming with the pleasure of her release; he clutched her to him and moaned into her breasts as he did the same. Fortunately, the bucket of water was quite sizable, and they were able to share it to clean up before making their way to the bed. Evaine expected Robin to bid her good night and find his own chamber and bed, but he hopped under the coverlet and snuggled up beside her. “Only for a while,” he insisted…and was snoring in a few moments.

Evaine chuckled, and closed her eyes, only to be roused by an unexpected pounding. Robin sprang up with a strangled yip, grabbed his belongings and scrambled for the window. “Robin, wait, it’s—“ He jumped, right into a large shrubbery growing just beyond the window frame. “It’s the ground floor,” Evaine sighed. With much grunting, Robin extricated himself, and slunk off red-faced to his rooms, with a last kiss. Evaine dozed a while, then gave it up as a lost cause. She dressed, nibbled some leftover bread and cheese, and contemplated her presentation to King Arthur.

Too quickly morning came, and with it a summons to the royal presence. Her heart in her throat, Evaine followed Sir Kay to the throne room where Arthur sat. “All right, milady, what have you to say for yourself?” he demanded. Robin stood beside the throne, every inch the perfect knight, if one overlooked the small scratches on his cheeks from the thorns of the shrubbery, and the slight puffiness of his eyes from spending half the night engaged in sex good enough to make Dr. Ruth envious. Evaine repressed her wish to be doing that again, took a deep breath and explained her situation.

“Hmph. Sir Robin has already told me of your journey here, how you used your sorcery to aid and protect him and uphold the king’s law, for which we thank you. However, the sentiment against magic among the peasantry runs hot. You should see the last Zogby poll numbers.” He shook his royal head. “As I see it we have three options. One, we can jail or burn you, or whatever means of punishment is currently fashionable.” He held up his hand as Robin burst out in protest and Evaine froze. “That is not an option, of course, since we’ve no proof at all that you’ve done anything wrong. Two, we can turn you loose, with no more said. That may not go over well among the peasants, though, for they will complain there is no proof that you haven’t done anything wrong. Five—“

“Three, sire,” Patsy, the king’s man, corrected him smoothly from his seat at the foot of the throne.

The king glared at him. “What, do I pay you to be a math tutor?”

“You don’t pay me at all, sire. I’m a peasant, remember?”

“Whatever,” the king shrugged. “Anyway, since neither of the previously presented options is workable, Sir Robin has suggested a compromise that may satisfy all involved. We shall let the Grail judge you, milady Evaine. Come with me.” Stunned, Evaine followed Arthur, accompanied by Patsy, Kay, and Robin, through the corridors of Camelot and down into the dungeons. “We also thank you for taking us at our word and ridding us of the mice around here. Saves us a trunk full of gold in exterminator bills. Ah, here we are.” Arthur stopped before a small door and unlocked it. “Sir Robin steadfastly maintains his belief in your innocence. If he is correct, and you have spoken the truth to me, I believe the Grail will justify you. You may even be vouchsafed a vision of some sort. If not, and you are evil, I daresay you’ll melt into a puddle. So, let’s see.”

Evaine stole a glance at Robin. His face was pale and he bit his lip, but nodded his head slightly. She was nervous, but she was innocent, after all, and it was a tribute of sorts to his faith in her that he had suggested this. With another deep breath, she stepped into the room. It was bare except for a small table, on which sat—something. Robin was right, one really couldn’t tell what it was. A beer mug? A can of Spam? No, it was…a pot of Gran’s salve. Evaine covered her mouth, a few tears leaking from her eyes. She missed Gran so, but what was this vision telling her?

As she watched, the lid lifted by itself. Boldly, she went closer, and peeked inside the pot. She saw stars, and then clouds and blue sky, not looking up, but seemingly all around her, as though she were flying through them. Far below she could see land, and flying lower, the scenes changed rapidly: bright lights, and strange chariots, and people in many odd costumes. She could not make out any person individually, except one, a pretty young girl, with Robin’s mane of unruly curls, who studied a spell book and waved a wand. Without words, the Grail explained it all in an instant, and Evaine knew what she must do. She stepped back and the lid lowered onto the pot. She bowed her head in a silent thanks to the Grail, and turned away.

“What ho!” a voice boomed as she left the chamber. The small group waiting for her had doubled and more; Prince Herbert, his intended Sir Lancelot, Brother Maynard, and the Lady of the Lake had joined Arthur, Patsy and Robin. It was Lancelot who had greeted her return so heartily, but it was Robin who caught her up in his arms and kissed her, thoroughly and for quite a while, unashamed of watching eyes. “Uh, Rob…Rob?” Lance said, then finally groaned, “Oh, for crying out loud, get a room, you two!”

Arthur looked pleased at her safe return, but surprised at his knight’s reaction. “What is this?” he demanded.

“I love this lady, sire,” Robin declared. “I am your loyal knight, and have spoken the truth to you regarding her. But I love her and can no longer keep from speaking the truth about that, either.” Arthur harrumped, but did not scold. “And since the Grail has proven me right, I see no need to. Evaine! Will you be my wife?”

“I will,” she said gladly, “but there is something I must do first.”

“What?” Robin looked confused.

“Remember what you said about the Grail really being each person’s true self? Well, it showed me my true self. Along with some other important information. It showed me what I must do. First, I must be true to who and what I am. I must find the school of magic, and learn all I need to know, to use my talents for the best, and to conceal them if the world continues as it is.” She smiled at the worried face before her. “But I will return, and I will be your wife. I will have your children, Robin, and one of them will become a great witch.”

“One of our children?” he still looked as though he had been smacked in the head with the blunt end of a halberd, or at least with a frozen herring.

“Or grandchildren. Or, I don’t know, maybe a thousand years from now-children. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I be the best I can be at what I am, that I be true to myself, and that I come to you as myself. And when I do, I promise I will love you for the rest of our lives. Can you understand?”

Robin nodded, slowly. “Absolutely. In fact, it may be for the best. You have found your Grail, Evaine my love, and I think I may need a little time to find mine. But I will be your husband.”

Lancelot whooped again. He was quite the man’s man, Evaine thought, and noticed with amusement how Herbert doted on him, batting his eyelashes and sighing. “Sounds like a betrothal to me! I would say a feast is in order, before the lady goes haring off hunting for this witchy college.”

“It is called Hogwarts,” the Lady of the Lake said with a small smile. “And she need not hunt much. She has found her Grail, and I can help her from here.”

+++

Evaine hiked a short distance down the road from the village, then stepped off into the woods. She went a little way into the trees and found a suitable clearing for takeoff. From the pack on her back she pulled a long bundle wrapped in a blanket ad unrolled it to free her broom. She stowed the blanket safely in the pack; the one time she had lost one it had been quite an embarrassment, floating down and landing on some startled farmer’s ox. Then she mounted up and kicked off the ground. Flying was everything she had dreamed and more. The feel of the wind in her face, the shifting of her weight to direct her route, all were glorious. Right now, though, she could not fully enjoy them. She had returned to Camelot, but Robin was not there.

Again she went through what Lancelot and Herbert had told her. After her departure for Hogwarts, Arthur had demanded that Robin too face the judgment of the Grail, for concealing from the king the extent of his emotional ties to Evaine. Robin had gone gladly into the room, and emerged with a certainty of his path equal to that Evaine had experienced. He had remained at Camelot until after the two weddings, Arthur’s to the Lady of the Lake Guinevere, and Lancelot’s to Herbert (performed by Brother Maynard, who had apparently taken Evaine’s words to heart, and officiated without a qualm). Then, he had gone to Arthur and asked to be released from his vow of service to the throne. His Grail, he had told the king, was what he had always loved: music and dance, stage and light. He wanted to become a bard, and travel around teaching and starting little theater groups across England, to raise the level of culture in the often benighted realm.

While Evaine was thrilled he had finally found within himself the bravery she had always known was there, she was ready to whack him with a trout when she found him, because, unfortunately, he had neglected to leave a forwarding address. For a week she had been trailing him from town to town and village to village. At least a broom traveled faster than a horse, so she was closer to him all the time. From the hamlet of Hamlet (who insisted on calling their town ‘the Danish play’), which she had just left, she was headed for the village of White-on-Rice, which she had been told was Robin’s next stop.

She spied him long before he could have seen her. He was dressed in bright and comfortable clothing, with a jaunty hat, and was riding down the narrow road, alone, thankfully. The opinion of magic held by the general public—or Muggles, as she had learnt to call them—had not improved in the months of her education, and she did not wish to be seen airborne. But with no one else on the trail, she was safe. She put the broom into a dive, swooped over Robin’s head and landed with a cloud of dust. His yelp was drowned out by her angry scolding as she dismounted and stormed up to him with broom clutched firmly in hand as if to use it as a weapon. “Would it have killed ya to leave a note, already? Something simple. ‘Dear love of my life, will be traveling for the next, oh, ten years or so. See ya, bye’. Would it have killed ya?”

Robin stared. “How did you get here?” he asked, looking around as though he expected to find some invisible horse.

Evaine waved her broom. “I flew! Just the way you said. In fact, your old friend Tim was my flying instructor. You were right about where Hogwarts is, by the way. Did I ever tell you that? It’s near the Scottish border, all right.”

“Was it nice?”

She forced back tears. “It was wonderful. And I missed you every stinking minute. But it’s over now, they graduated me, with a real wand and all, and…I see you’ve found your Grail too.”

He smiled. “I have. I love this. The audiences are great, despite the fact that since no one’s ever done musical theater before, they don’t know exactly what they’re watching, or what to do. The noise, the sneezing, the crackling of candy wrappers, the popping of bubble gum, the smell of tuna sandwiches—the issue of manners definitely needs to be addressed. That said, though…yes, I love it. But I love you more. Can…you forgive me?”

The tears escaped. “Yes,” Evaine sighed, and went to him.

She bundled her broom up and rode double behind him till they found a likely spot to camp. It was almost like old times, building a campfire and cooking supper, except that afterwards Evaine unwrapped her broom. “Want a ride?” she asked.

Robin looked at once terrified and intrigued. “I don’t know. I’m…still not very brave. The only difference is that now I don’t have to pretend to be.”

“Come on, I won’t drop you.”

He held on tightly as she kicked off and they rose above the trees, high enough to avoid being seen. For a time they rode quietly, as Evaine showed him what her magical mount could do. Then he asked, “Can we go that way? There’s a town east of here, where I got quite a good reception. I’m going back there soon, and it might even be a place to settle down, if you’re game. It’s called London.”

Through the night they soared. By the time they reached the town, Robin was confident enough to free one arm from his grip around her waist and point landmarks out. “There’s a good place on the west end where a theater might go. And I met a gent who writes plays. His name is Will. Not that we got on so well to begin with; on our first meeting he shook a spear at me. meeting he shook a spear at me. I think he thought I was some agent coming with a contract for him to sign, to take over all his royalties, and his name and likeness, all such rot. But I think  it might be wise to diversify, add straight drama to our repertoire along with musical comedy…” He stopped. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I am not. I’m laughing, but not at you. I’m laughing at our future. I love you.”

“I love you too. Now, this flying thing is grand, but it gets a mite hard on a lad’s crotch, so can we set down?”

“Oh dear. Let’s do.” She turned the broom back toward their camp, and in short order they were again on solid ground. “I didn’t think about that, Robin. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was grand, truly it was. I’m glad you can share your new life with me. So, will you come with me so I can share mine with you?”

“Didn’t I promise that? If your heart has not changed, Robin, neither has mine. Actually, even if yours has changed, mine has not—“

He silenced her with a kiss. “Must I prove to you yet again that my heart is true?”

“No. That is, it is not necessary that you prove anything to me. But if you choose to go through the motions, I’ll certainly not stop you.”

“Oh, I hope we shall ‘go through the motions’ nightly, for a very long time,” Robin murmured as they sank to the ground, doffing their clothing. “If my nether fellow there has recovered from yon broomstick, that is!”

“He’d better have,” Evaine retorted and pulled down his trousers. “Ah, yes, there he rises, the only broomstick I wish to ride for the rest of this night.” She did, and in the wilderness only the animals were startled when she cried out.

Finally, they lay down spent to rest, and Evaine fell asleep with a smile, planning their future together.

THE END

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