No, he wouldn’t, couldn’t believe that. Pip’s spirit was so strong, so pure. Olafar pushed the heavy gate open and walked slowly inside to a huge inner courtyard. It was empty, quiet as a tomb, not even a hint of a breeze to ruffle the leaves of the apple trees in the small orchard across the courtyard. He walked across the vast empty expanse toward a center wooden tower, rising at least forty feet above him, the sound of his boots loud in the unnatural quiet. He climbed the wooden steps leading to a single massive door, leaned his palm against it—the door was warm, and that was curious—and slowly it swung inward.
He stepped into a large central hall, as empty of people as the courtyard. There were scores of long wooden tables with benches, all empty, all shoved against the wooden walls. He breathed in the silence, praying for the sound of voices, but felt only the air still and warm on his face. Where was everyone? He’d always imagined Camelot to be bursting with people, loud talk, proud valiant knights striding in to join their friends at Arthur’s Round Table. And children, he’d pictured scores of children racing about the courtyard. But there were no children. What he saw were vivid tapestries covering the wooden walls, a dozen unlit wall rushes. It should be dark in this vast chamber, but it wasn’t. He could see perfectly, and that made no sense. Oddly, it didn’t bother him. He was too excited to finally be here. But was he really here? At Camelot? He walked toward the windows and looked out. He saw only darkness. When had night fallen? True, he’d come at night, but in the past, he’d always arrived during daylight, but only remained for short periods of time. But now, with Pip’s spirit—he prayed.
Olafar stood in the middle of the great empty hall and looked about. It looked as if everyone had simply stood up and left. And gone where? He walked slowly down a central path toward a magnificent throne set high on a dais. There was a smaller chair set beside it. For the queen? For Guinevere?
Suddenly, he smelled roasting meat and followed his nose. Beside the dais was a smaller door. He opened it and stepped into a blazing, vibrant, noisy kitchen, filled with people working—stirring huge pots with long-handled spoons, kneading bread, shoveling loaves into a great open oven. No one paid him any attention. It was as if no one saw him. Olafar felt as though he were in the middle of an ancient painting suddenly come to life around him. He walked to a big man swathed in a huge white apron, cutting long strips of beef. “Excuse me,” he said and lightly touched the man’s arm.
The man turned and looked at him, through him, really. He said in very odd English, “Be ye a ghost wot stands beside me? Be ye an important ghost to tell me future, or are ye a wandering ghost of little account?”
“No, I am not a ghost. I am a visitor come to pledge my fealty to King Arthur. But there are no knights or soldiers—that is, no one at all. No one except all of you in the kitchen.”
“So ye be a visiting ghost. Heed me now, ghost. We must make the banquet. Not much time now or we’ll lose our heads. Aye, Lord Thayne, the noxious swine, will wield the axe himself. But ye canna lose yer head, bein’ yer a visiting ghost.”
Olafar felt fear curdle his belly. “But King Arthur can’t be dead. It isn’t his time. There was no Saxon warrior called Thayne. Tell me the truth. Where is everyone?”
“Be ye daft, ghost? All the knights and soldiers, all the people and their families gathered their belongings and fled when Arthur breathed his last, for all knew Thayne and his soldiers would come to Camelot and lay waste and rejoice, the Saxon dogs.”
“What about Guinevere?”
“Oh aye, the queen left too with her ladies, all her jewels stuffed in a sack.”
For a moment, Olafar could only stare at the fat man, who was humming again, paying him no more attention. Olafar said, “Why didn’t you and your people leave? Are you not afraid this Thayne will kill you?”
The man turned, curled his lip. “No one kills the cook, ghost. We are making enough food for a hundred soldiers, but only one is important, and that is Thayne.” He lowered his voice. “Since ye be a ghost, I’ll tell ye. I am going to poison the sauce on his boar steak. The witch Morgan gave me the poison to feed to him. She said he would suffer more than Arthur suffered when Thayne drove his sword through Arthur’s chest. She said I would not be blamed, that Thayne’s death would look like a mighty seizure.”
Olafar watched him pour liquid from a small bottle into a beautiful carved wooden mug and stir it with his finger. Olafar couldn’t accept that Arthur was dead, that Guinevere and all the people had fled. Camelot couldn’t be taken over by the Saxons. That hadn’t happened. It was then Olafar realized he’d traveled to another Camelot in another time, another place. Voyaging backward, his father had told him many times, willing time to unfold into the past you wanted to visit, was never a certain thing, especially if the spirits you chose to aid you weren’t strong enough. Time currents were fickle, his father had told him, tossed you hither and yon. Nothing was ever certain when you traveled back to where you didn’t belong, to a time that wasn’t yours. His father was right—this couldn’t be his Camelot, where honor and bravery and splendor reigned. And this warrior, Thayne, had killed Arthur? No, impossible. But here, at this Camelot, Arthur was indeed dead, and Guinevere was gone, as were all his people and soldiers.
He watched the cook continue to stir the liquid in the carved mug with his finger. He was humming.
Suddenly, Olafar smelled lavender, old, sweet, and close, and then he felt her close, the Virgin Bride, Mathilde. Odd how he sensed her even before she appeared to him. He basked in her scent, for how long he didn’t know. Then someone was shaking him. Olafar’s eyes flew open, and he stared up at Grayson Sherbrooke, standing over him, holding a candle. For a moment the ancient past and the present blurred together, and Olafar didn’t know where he was. Where was his bridle? He had to escape this place. He had to gallop away. Then everything righted itself. He was Olafar Ramsey. He was a tutor in the Earl of Northcliffe’s great house. He whispered, “Mr. Sherbrooke, what is wrong? Is Barnaby all right?”
Grayson saw confusion when he looked into his eyes and felt—strangeness, otherness. He said quietly, “Where were you, Olafar?”
It didn’t occur to him to lie. He said, “I was at Camelot, but no one was there. It was deserted except for the cook and his minions. So it wasn’t the right Camelot. The time currents flung me to another place, another Camelot.”
“Why was the cook there?”
“He planned to poison the Saxon warrior Thayne, who’d murdered Arthur and come to take his place to rule over Britain. But it cannot be. There was no Saxon warrior Thayne. It was the vile Mordred who murdered Arthur and destroyed Camelot.
“The other Camelot, the one I visited, it wasn’t real. But I was at one Camelot, in one time, in one place, so it was not a complete failure.” Olafar realized what had come out of his mouth. He stared up into the young man’s shadowed face, his eyes glittering in the flickering candlelight. Olafar had known from that first night there was something different about this Sherbrooke male, and he’d felt a brief yearning to understand his differentness. What to do?
Olafar said very quietly, “How did you know to ask me where I’d been?”