The Ring of Morgana (The Children of Camelot) Page 11

  The horses we are riding now are far wilder than the ones I’ve ridden back home, but they also seem to have a pack mentality, like migrating birds, and when one veers off to the side, they all follow in formation. It’s like highly trained telepathy.

  The dragon is leading the way. Now Rustin and I are over the shock of seeing one, we can’t take our eyes off it. It’s the most amazing creature I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s enormous, the size of a sailing ship, and its bright red scales glisten in the deep crimson glow that surrounds the monster every time it roars and belches out a plume of fire. It has a long snout with thick black whiskers, and at the end of each sturdy, trunk-like leg, is a set of silver talons.

  They remind me of how the ring attached itself to my sister. If only she had held it like I did, instead of putting it on.

  It’s getting darker and my fingers and toes are starting to go numb with the cold. I’m still wearing my red jeans, black sweater and boots from this morning, and I’m glad that my dad nagged me and made me take my leather jacket, but I wish I had a hood or a beanie hat covering my head. Apart from keeping my ears warm, it would keep my hair from flying back into Rustin’s face. He’s already gagged three times.

  Eventually, it becomes too dark to carry on and so we stop and make camp near a shallow stream that is surrounded by thin flaking trees. Dad and Talan tie up the horses, while Auntie Titch and Uncle Bed make a small fire. The dragon has disappeared, which is a shame because I was hoping it could warm me up because I’m now frozen solid.

  Rustin is still wearing his navy cargo pants, his black leather biker jacket and a thick grey hooded sweater underneath it. He has the hood pulled up over his head and the sleeves pulled down over his hands. He’s as cold as I am.

  They try to do it subtly, but it doesn’t take me long to realise that the camp is being positioned around Rustin and I. We’re being cocooned in on all sides. Dad’s never been this concerned about my safety when we’ve been camping before, but then I guess modern day Wales isn’t medieval Britain.

  “You mentioned wolves earlier,” I say to Talan; he’s sitting cross-legged to my left. His back is to the fire and he’s polishing his and Uncle Bed’s swords.

  “I did.”

  “What else is out there?”

  “Nothing,” interrupts my father.

  “Yeah, right,” I reply sarcastically. “Says the man who forgot to mention there was a dragon waiting on the other side of the Tor.”

  “They both need to be on their guard, Arthur,” says my aunt. “There’s no point in hiding anything. Not now. And you should train them up. They might need to arm themselves and fight.”

  “I’m not shooting anyone,” replies Rustin quickly.

  “Swords, Rustin,” replies my aunt, as my father makes a disgruntled humph noise. “For heaven’s sake, Arthur, stop being such a baby. I remember my first night in Logres. We were attacked by dwarf-riders. Even Sam had to defend herself with a sword.”

  “And there’s talk of wolves again,” I say.

  “At what point do we stop being potential meals for animals and start seeing castles and magic?” asks Rustin. I hear the humour in his tone, but my dad doesn’t.

  “You’ve seen magic, Rustin,” replies my father sharply. “And it’s cursed my youngest daughter. How much more would you like to see?”

  “Don’t have a go at him,” I say back. “Rustin was only joking.”

  Rustin stands up and walks away. He does that at school whenever a teacher is having a go. Other kids get mouthy and confrontational, but Rustin hates that. It doesn’t stop him getting punished. If anything he gets it worse because he doesn’t go looking for the fight.

  Rustin is quickly lost to the darkness and so I listen to the sound of his footsteps rustling in the forest debris and follow him. Behind me I can hear my aunt giving her brother a mouthful of abuse.

  “Is your dad gonna be a dick the entire time we’re here?” asks Rustin. “Because that’s not what I meant, and he knows it.”

  “He’s just scared about Lilly,” I reply, trying to be peacemaker.

  “I’m so sick of people treating me like I’m an idiot,” says Rustin. “I get it at school all the time. Then I go home to it. Your house was always the one place where I felt...”

  “Normal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Me too. And now I’ve found out that I’m anything but.”

  “You’ve never been normal, Mila.”

  “Thanks.” I punch him on the arm.

  “Actually, normal is the wrong word. I meant you’ve never been average. You’ve always had loads of friends, you’re good at school, and you’re pretty...”

  “Stop it.”

  “You interrupted me. I was going to say pretty ugly.”

  Rustin gets a cuff to the head for that, but inside I’m warming up. I’m absolutely knackered, having had just a few hours sleep last night, and it may be the tiredness taking over, but having a laugh with Rustin is exactly what I need right now. I’m craving it. I move closer to him, so close I can feel his warm breath on my face.

  “So, Mila Roth,” says Rustin in a low, deep voice. “What do you want to do when you leave school? Princess or witch, the choice is yours.”

  I punch him in the stomach, a bit harder than I intended, because Rustin doubles over gasping.

  “Why do you and Ade always use me for Taekwondo practice?”

  “Because I know you won’t hit me back.”

  That isn’t the reason at all. It’s because I like making contact with him, but I can’t tell him that.

  “Talking of Aidan, what do you think he and Katie are doing now?” I say. “They’re never going to believe us when we tell them what we’ve been doing instead of going to Marty’s party.”

  “Are you going to tell them?” asks Rustin, and I can tell he’s surprised. His unruly eyebrows have disappeared into the hair already flattened by his hood.

  “Me and Katie tell each other everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like…absolutely everything?”

  “No secrets whatsoever. All girls do.”

  “Even the time...you know...you and I...”

  It’s really dark and I can only just see Rustin’s outline, otherwise he would be able to see me and the flamingo pink colour I’m sure to have gone, judging by the prickling sensation that has erupted all over my neck and face. I glance over to my father, praying he didn’t overhear, but he’s talking to Uncle Bed and gesticulating wildly with his hands.

  “Didn’t you tell Aidan?” I ask quietly.

  “No. He’d take the piss out of me forever,” replies Rustin.

  A dead weight thuds into my stomach. It hurts. How can Rustin call me pretty, and then seconds later say that his best friend would mock him for kissing me? What’s wrong with me? Am I a crap kisser?

  A really uncomfortable silence descends on the two of us. I can feel the cold again and it prickles my skin. There’s a whistling in my ears and it’s painful.

  “Mila, I didn’t mean...”

  “It’s nothing. It was nothing. We were both drunk,” I say interrupting.

  We weren’t drunk at all, or at least I wasn’t. And I hadn’t been smoking any of Michael Kent’s “special” smokes either.

  The snapping of twigs brings me back to the present. It’s Talan. He’s holding a flaming branch aloft like an Olympic flame.

  “You should rest, Lady Mila. The king wishes to ride hard and true to Camelot at first light,” he says. “Alas I have only one extra cloak, Rustin. That must be m’lady’s.”

  Talan holds out a large red cloak. The fabric is soft like fleece.

  “Thanks, Talan,” I reply, and without a backward glance to Rustin, I walk back to the camp and wrap myself up like a pupa.

  If Rustin hadn’t been such a jerk back there, I could have been persuaded to share it with him, but perhaps my dad is right to slap him down a bit. Boys are idiots. T
hey start off being your friend, and then when they get older they start seeing you for something else, and then they deny ever wanting it in the first place if it shows them up in front of their friends.

  But as my exhausted body crashes out, it’s not Logres and dragons and magical rings I think about. It’s a burnt out pavilion and Rustin’s warm hands pushing my hair away from my face.

  I’m in a low tunnel. The dirt is coloured like terracotta stone. There’s a blue light, hovering just in front of my chest. It’s showing me the way out, although I know I shouldn’t be following it. I turn left, right, and then left again, as the swirling, powder blue vortex dances in front of me. But the roof of the tunnel is getting lower and lower. I hear high-pitched laughter, but the light is like a magnet, and even though I want to stop walking, I can’t. Pockets of dirt are crumbling around me, sprinkling my clothes with a fine dusty coating. I’m on my knees, and then my stomach, wriggling through the tunnel, trying to find the way out. Then I see a face. It’s my mother up ahead. I’m so happy I cry out, but the noise that comes from my mouth is too loud and the vibrations start to shake the walls of the tunnel. I can’t move quickly enough. Heavy chunks of earth start to fall on top of me. The dirt is in my eyes, it’s in my mouth. I’m screaming for my mother. She reaches out to pull me through, but my fingertips only graze hers.

  “I’m sorry,” she calls, and the rest of the tunnel collapses down on top of me.

  “Mila, Mila,” cries a voice. “Wake up.”

  I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m spinning and rolling over and over and over.

  I fall out of the blanket cocoon, having been unravelled like an Egyptian princess, and land in a pile of damp leaves. I sneeze as I inhale something prickly.

  “We have to leave now, Mila,” says my aunt, as Uncle Bed pulls me to my feet with a swift tug. “Your father is getting nervous.”

  “Don’t tell her that,” replies my dad, but he has a sword in his hand and he has changed out of his normal clothes (jeans and sweatshirt) into the same kind of gear that Uncle Bed wears (tight black pants, long boots and a tunic style top that large women wear.)

  “What’s going on?” groans Rustin, rolling over onto his back. He must have been sleeping near me.

  “Good morning, Rustin,” says Uncle Bed. “Rise quickly, for we are leaving for Camelot. The king’s dragon will have been sighted by the villages that line the way. His return is always much rejoiced by the people, but alas, this day we do not have the time to enjoy their hospitality.”

  “What about breakfast?” asks Rustin, voicing the question my cramping stomach was asking. I don’t think we ate at all yesterday. It’s bad enough being sleep deprived, but if my supply of food is stopped there will be two dragons in Logres, and one of them will be called Mila.

  “There is bread, wine and strips of venison for the maidens of the court,” says Talan. “Men do not break the fast until noon.”

  “What!” exclaims Rustin.

  “Wine? Cool,” I say, stepping towards Auntie Titch who is pulling a leather pouch from her saddle bag.

  “Bloody hell,” says my father. “Just a few sips, Mila. Your mother will go mad if you turn up drunk at the castle.”

  “We’ll see mum and Lilly today, won’t we?”

  “Yes,” replies my father resolutely. “And we’ll have you both back home soon.”

  I sniff the pouch of wine that Auntie Titch has just handed me. It smells like vinegar. I take a swig and immediately spit it out. It tastes like vinegar.

  “Pour some on the bread,” says Auntie Titch, breaking off a chunk of bread that looks more like cake. “It’s really stodgy and will fill you up quicker.”

  Rustin looks on jealously as I wolf down heavy bread and wine. If I wasn’t still pissed off about last night I would offer him some. But I am and so I don’t.

  I should have done. As we ride away, with Rustin on the back of dad’s horse, I make a mental note to starve in future if I’m offered that combination. It repeats on me the whole time we are riding. One of my burps is so loud I even scare my horse. I spend the rest of the morning craving toast and coffee.

  Our journey takes us across open fields and densely-packed woods. We see houses dotted around, and even the odd person, but eventually the six of us come to the nearest thing to a village so far.

  I count at least fifteen single story buildings. Most are made of uneven stone with thatched roofs, but a couple are bigger and are made of wood. Animals roam freely in the mud, and the stench makes my nose hurt. Several children dressed in dirty clothes run barefoot in front of our horses.

  Then an older man, so fat he looks pregnant, yells out, “’Tis the king. People of Balaton, ‘tis the king.”

  Pieces of wood and flaps of fabric are pulled back from doorways and streams of people come running out. I see four women run out of one house alone, and all have grubby babies balanced on their hips.

  Talan and Uncle Bed move their horses closer to mine. My father and aunt are ahead of us. Rustin looks around at me, grins and mouths, Princess Mila. I’m feeling too ill to still be mad at him, and so I stick my tongue out. It feels furry and gross and the disgusted face Rustin makes probably means my tongue looks furry and gross too. It feels like I’ve licked a sheep.

  The people are cheering the procession of horses, which have been forced to slow down to a trot. My father and aunt are waving and saying hello to people; some are throwing down long daisy-like flowers. Rustin starts waving as well and the crowd cheers even more.

  Then Talan’s horse unexpectedly veers off to the right, the people see me and the mood quickly changes.

  At first it’s just pointing and whispering behind hands. Several of the women turn away and cradle their babies to their chests, as if to protect them from something. Some of the men swap glances and step back. Uncle Bed is the first one to realise something is wrong and he shouts my father’s name.

  The first person to cry out is a woman with flaming red hair that is knotted and wild.

  “The Gorian witch has returned,” she screams, pointing a filthy hand towards me. “’Tis the Gorian witch.”

  “Witch, witch,” screams another, much older, woman. Her massive chest is wobbling and threatening to spill out of her low-cut dress.

  “Make haste,” cries Uncle Bed. “Sire, we must make haste.”

  But my father and aunt can’t make haste at all, because if they do, they’ll trample the children running in front of them.

  Then a tall man, dressed in similar clothes to my father, only much dirtier and torn, steps forward and spits at me. The first green globule of slime hits my jeans, the second lands on my hand.

  The third hits me on the side of the face.

  Terrified, I look to my uncle for help. I don’t understand why the villagers are screaming and spitting at me. Talan regains control of his horse and starts galloping back to us. Uncle Bed is guiding his horse with just his legs because his only hand is now holding a sword.

  “Fall back, my beloved,” he cries. “Protect Mila to the right.”

  Another man grabs at my foot, and suddenly there’s a swarm of people trying to pull me off the horse. I scream and then a sharp pain stabs me on the side of the head.

  And the whole time the people are screaming at me and calling me a Gorian witch.

  My dad and Talan charge at the crowd at the same time. Auntie Titch slaps my horse on the rear and a gap appears in front of me. I don’t think twice. I kick out at the head of the nearest person to me and spur my horse forward. Uncle Bed is right by my side, somehow managing to stay on his horse, control it, and hold a silver sword, all with one hand.

  Only when we are safely away do I register the wet stuff that is slowly trickling down my head. It’s blood.

  Uncle Bed and I slow down to a trot. We are on a muddy track, cleaved through more trees. I can’t see the others and I’m terrified. Sobs start to course through my chest. What if they were pulled from their horses and attacked too
? Where is Rustin?

  “We have to go back. What if they’re in trouble?”

  “Do not move, Mila,” orders Uncle Bed. “We will linger for a moment longer, but I must deliver you safely to within the walls of Camelot. It has been so long, I had forgotten how like your mother you are. The villagers will have believed the king to be under a spell once more.”

  “What are you talking about? Is that why those people were spitting and attacking me? Is that why my mum hates this place? Because they think she’s a witch?” I cry.

  Uncle Bed wipes the sweat from his face with the back of his right hand. He’s still holding his sword and the tip vibrates violently in the air as he moves.

  “It should not have befallen to me to tell you, but my Natasha speaks wise words of counsel to the king,” replies Uncle Bed wearily. “You need to be prepared and you need to know.”

  “Know what? What’s going on, Uncle Bed?”

  “The ring that has bewitched your sister belongs to your mother, Mila,” he replies. “For your mother is Morgana, Queen of the Gorians, and one of the most powerful sorceresses this kingdom has ever known.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sparks and Strangers

  My mother is a witch. That’s what Uncle Bed is telling me. My mother is a witch. I thought that nothing in this world would surprise me anymore, not after the dragon and finding out my father is a king, but no, my mother is a witch.

  “You’re lying. This is all from Auntie Titch, isn’t it? She hates my mother.”

  “We must ride, Mila. The king will expect me to deliver you safely to Camelot,” replies my uncle, stowing his sword in a scabbard attached to his saddle.