In opposition to Vera’s abysmal familiarity with Arthurian legend (a rather hilarious joke of the universe), she was well acquainted with Glastonbury’s history. Based on all accounts that she’d been taught in school and during class trips to the abbey, all the buildings and lodgings should have been made of wood, simple structures to keep less civilized ancient peoples out of the elements. As had become the custom of her new life, her knowledge was wrong.
The party arrived on the High Street of Glastonbury in the early afternoon, as a cold rain began to fall in a broken spit like the sky was talking excitedly and couldn’t keep from at least a few drops flying free.
A merry woman met them at the edge of town with a dramatic “Good morning!” that rose and fell, sounding like an arch.
“That’s Maria. She’s the master of festival,” Arthur murmured to Vera.
Maria was lovely, with a pile of golden curls arranged atop her head and a bright magenta gown that didn’t feel like it belonged in the seventh century. She excitedly led them all to a stone building that was, as best as Vera could tell, about half a block from where the George and Pilgrims would stand in some 800 years.
“Leave your horses here with Harding; he’ll see that they’re cared for. Don’t you dare touch those bags,” she barked at Lancelot, who grinned and raised his hands from the bag on his horse. “Tawdry will bring them to your rooms. Your Majesty, may I steal you away for a titch? My queen, you can carry on to your quarters if you wish. I’m sure you need a rest after your journey.”
These were the lodgings they’d used every year when in town for the festival. The king’s party had the entire ground floor.
“This one’s yours,” Matilda said in Vera’s ear, reaching past her to open the first door on the left. She peered into the quarters, her eyes first drawn to the blazing fire in a grand hearth on the wall opposite, with all the necessities for a bedroom between here and there.
“I’m the next one over. Lancelot is directly across the hall,” Matilda said. “Shall I help you get settled in?”
Vera assured Matilda she was fine and sent her on her way. Strangely, she noted with her head cocked to the side, the room was entirely lit by fire—from the robust one in the fireplace to the flames of candles all along the walls. There was a chandelier of orbs hanging from the ceiling, completely dark, and the marble panel that would have been used to light it was in its customary place by the door, but it was covered with a cloth.
“We only use firelight for the solstice.” She jumped at Arthur’s voice behind her. “Sorry to startle you.” He smiled. “No magic lighting for Yule. It’s all of the earth to celebrate the light of the sun beginning to return.” Concern crept into his features as his eyes swept the room. “Is this going to be all right?”
Vera glanced at all the furnishings. “It’s beautiful.”
But Arthur remained tense. “There’s … just the one room for us.”
Ah. She hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t worried about it. They’d not shared a bed before. “I don’t have to—” Arthur started. “I can stay in Lancelot’s room.”
Vera laughed. “That would be horribly unfair to him.” She imagined at least one of the girls he’d snuck away to his sacred grove might be in attendance. “It’s all right,” she said earnestly, hoping her reassurance might unfurrow his brow. “I trust you.” And a knot in her unknitted, too, because she meant it.
The Yule’s Eve celebration would be tonight, an evening of food, drink, and fine performers. When they walked under an enormous stone archway into the festival grounds, Vera’s entire field of vision was taken by high-standing torches, their open flames casting a bouncing light in all directions. There were also candelabras throughout the courtyard, campfires with clusters of revelers gathered around them at the back of the space, and in the middle, near the front, a stage cleverly lit by shallow basins of flames. Tables and chairs skirted the courtyard’s edges, and every corner had a makeshift bar serving wine and ale.
A prickle rose on Vera’s arms, and it took her eyes adjusting to the surrounding light to see past the courtyard area. At first, she could only make out a looming structure. Something was familiar about where she stood. The prickle turned to goosebumps as Vera spun toward the High Street, orienting herself. She stood on the grounds of what would someday be the abbey. Now, in 633 CE, if there should have been a structure here, it would be a humble wooden church. But she walked toward it, squinting into the darkness.
Arthur followed her. “What are you looking at?”
“This … it’s …” She was going to say “impossible” as she gaped at an ornate stone cathedral towering above. Two towers were facing Vera with the bulk of the building in between—not in the gothic style she recognized from the abbey’s ruins of her other time, all spiking points and buttresses. It was rounder and gentler, more in the style of Camelot’s castle, though certainly as grand as any more modern structure Vera had seen. And since there was no record of it, no archaeology to mark this reality that Vera could have walked forward and touched with her own fingers, she knew it must have been made with magic. The stone structure they did have archaeological evidence of would be built more than a hundred years from now. What could possibly happen between now and then that would erase the gargantuan beauty before her?
“There are only ruins here in my time,” she said. “Impressive ruins, but not of this. This is … no one from my time has seen the likes of this.”
Arthur tilted his head to the side. “Except for you.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
Vera followed Arthur back to the festivities. They wove their way to a table near the front where Matilda, Percival, Gawain, and Lancelot were already seated, watching the performers who had begun their show. Vera sat next to Percival, who looked especially miserable, his elbow on the table and his cheek squashed against his hand to prop his head upright, making the scar across his face even more pronounced than usual. He glanced to the stage fleetingly and otherwise stared down at his drink.
“They’re doing Percival’s story,” Lancelot whispered to Arthur and Vera.
“This one’s excellent,” Arthur said, his lips so near Vera’s ear that the barely subsided goosebumps rose on her neck again. He took two goblets from a passing server and gave one to Vera as they sat.
Percival groaned, and Lancelot rolled his eyes. “Oh, you poor suffering warrior. It must be so hard to be admired and beloved because you were such a heroic boy,” he said as he took a goblet. He noticed that Gawain was the only one remaining without a drink in hand, picked up another, and passed it to him.
Gawain looked nearly as unhappy as Percival, though she suspected that was simply the nature of his face. He glowered at the stage, mumbling, “Thank you,” to Lancelot almost inaudibly.
Vera turned her attention to the stage. An orator narrated as actors gracefully interpreted the story in dance to the musicians’ accompaniment.
“There wasn’t any dancing at all,” Percival grumbled. She grinned and otherwise ignored him, eager to hear his story. They set the scene: it was the war’s most crucial battle.
“That’s not even close to true,” Percival said.
Percival was only fifteen years old.
“Actually, I was fifteen when I joined the forces. I was sixteen at this battle,” he told Vera. Matilda hushed him, and he sighed but remained silent after that.
