Guinevere followed Brangien down an unnervingly narrow flight of stairs that wound from the midsection of the castle all the way down to the city below. Having so many doors into the castle initially seemed like a safety flaw, but only one person at a time could navigate these stairs. And they were so twisty and treacherous, no one in armor and wielding a weapon could climb them with any haste.
The base of the castle featured the only door wide enough to accommodate more than one person. It was open, but guarded ten men deep. They passed alongside it. Guinevere half expected the men to call out to them to stop, but they paid the two women no mind.
Feeling freer than she had since she entered the convent, Guinevere linked her arm through Brangien’s, and together they walked down the steep path into Arthur’s city. The streets were not what she had expected. They were not cobbled or made of dirt, but were channels in the rock itself. The centers were flat, but the sides sloped gently upward. Almost like the aqueducts above their heads, but on a far larger scale.
They passed the homes closest to the castle, which were also the nicest. Brangien chattered happily about them. Sir Percival’s, Sir Bors’s, Sir Mordred’s. Mordred’s was by far the largest and finest of them.
“Where does Sir Tristan live?” Guinevere asked.
“Most of the knights who flocked to Arthur left behind everything they had to fight at his side. He claimed them as brothers and gave them rooms in the castle.” She turned and pointed to the lowest level. “They all live there, in their own chambers. Arthur says they are the foundation of his strength.”
“He values them very much.”
“He does. And his love is reciprocated.” She returned her attention to the city. “Doubtless you will be forced to sit through many meals at these manors. No reason to linger here. I want to show you my Camelot. Pull your hood a little closer. If no one recognizes you, we will move easier.”
Brangien’s happiness was contagious. Guinevere’s own feet moved faster, nearly dancing down the path. “Do you spend a lot of time in the city?”
“I do! Or, I did. There was not much for me to do before the castle finally got her lady.” Brangien turned to Guinevere. “But do not take that to mean I am not glad you are here! It is a relief to be useful again. It has been so long since I lost Isolde.”
“You were Isolde’s maid? I thought you were with Sir Tristan.”
“I was hers first.” She cut off the conversation with another determined smile. Brangien offered smiles in place of explanations. “The aqueducts are back to water today.” She pointed upward. Guinevere followed the lines of them, twin tubes going alongside the road and then veering to either side down through the city.
“It is a clever system. I have never seen its like.” Guinevere had never seen a city, period, but Brangien did not know that.
“We do not have wells. The rivers provide our water. It would be such a chore going down to the lake and then hiking to the heights of the city or the castle. There is a saying among servants when things go wrong. ‘Could be buckets.’ Their way of reminding each other to look on the bright side of things. At least they are not breaking their backs hauling endless buckets of water up these streets!”
Guinevere understood. She had to step carefully to avoid breaking into a run, pulled as they were by the slope of the streets. The homes and shops were all built at an angle. Most doors were on the lake side of the hill. She peered into an open one to see a tiny entry, the floor sloping sharply upward toward the castle. Shelves had been put there, a clever use of the space. The streets seemed unplanned, like tributaries branching out from the castle. Houses and buildings had been put in wherever they could be.
As she and Brangien got lower, the buildings grew closer together, jostling and nudging each other for space. Barrels of water were placed at regular intervals.
“What are the barrels for, if you have the aqueducts?”
“Fire,” Brangien said. “There are bells on every street. If they ring, everyone runs out and commands their assigned barrels.”
A fire would eat up this hill with terrifying speed. Many of the buildings were stone, but they were mingled with enough wooden structures that it would be devastating and deadly.
“Mind the little shit,” Brangien said.
Guinevere looked at her, shocked. Brangien laughed, covering her mouth in embarrassment. “Oh, I am sorry, my lady. That is his title.” She pointed to a scrappy boy pulling a cart straight up the hill. “He collects the night’s chamber pot offerings and disposes of them out beyond the lake. In Uther’s day, these streets ran with piss and offal. Actually, they called this Pissway. Arthur imposed fines for dumping into the streets. He uses the money to pay the little shits. Now the streets are clean, but the old names are harder to wash away. Some have started calling Pissway the Castle Way, which is nicer. And the merchants on Shitstreet have been campaigning vigorously for people to call it Market Street. But it is so much less satisfying to say.”
Guinevere laughed. She could not help it. Perhaps a princess would not have found this funny, but she certainly did. She had never thought through the sheer logistics of this many people in a small space. Nor had she ever considered that a king would have to figure out how to deal with the chamber pots of a thousand citizens. In her head, it had been all swords and battles and glory and magic.
A city was its own kind of magic, though. Complicated and filled with ever-moving parts. Arthur was responsible for all of them. Guinevere was already overwhelmed with the city, and they had barely come across any people. It was wonderful and terrible and new.
Perhaps Merlin should have spent more time taking her into cities than giving her knot magic.
Brangien pointed out various shops. Most of the buildings had residences on the upper floors and a shop on the bottom. Smithies were all on the plain beyond the lake, along with slaughterhouses and anything else that either could not fit in the limited space of Camelot’s slopes or was too offensively scented to intermingle with homes.
“Every third day, one of which is tomorrow,” Brangien said, “we have a market beyond the lake. People come from all the hamlets and villages to trade and buy. Special markets happen every new moon. That is when you can find more unusual things. Spices. Silk, sometimes! My father and uncle were silk traders. They walked across the world to get here, hiding their wares the whole way by taking turns in the cart pretending to have the plague.” She looked both sad and fond. “My father bought a better life for himself. My family was well-to-do and respected thanks to him. That is how I got a position as Isolde’s lady’s maid.” Forcibly breaking free from the past—though Guinevere wanted to hear more—Brangien continued. “Special markets also have horses and weapons and food and shoes and anything you can imagine. Traders come from all over. King Arthur’s fees are fair, and everyone knows they will be safe in his borders. Last time, there was a juggler, and acrobats. I cannot wait to show you.”