Cal fell. Knocked flat, he made one desperate scrabble to get up, closed his eyes, gave a gasp of terror.
And nothing happened. No crunch of metal on flesh. No agonizing blow.
Just Kai saying quietly, “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”
Cal opened his eyes.
Kai was leaning on his sword, grinning, not even breathless, his fair hair dark with sweat. For a moment he looked down at Cal, then held out a hand. Bewildered, Cal let himself be pulled up. Every muscle he had was aching. Blood was on his fingers.
Arthur was there, and Hawk, and he turned to them. “Is that it? It’s finished?”
Arthur smiled at him. “You gave the challenge. You fought. That’s all we ask.”
“But . . . I lost. I didn’t win.” He was trembling.
Hawk groaned and threw him his sweater. “Nobody said you had to win. Nobody expected you to win.”
Shivering, Cal looked at Kai, who grinned back. “It was a good fight,” the tall man said. “You’ve got guts, though you’re reckless.” Then he went and picked up Cal’s sword and brought it and handed it to him. “I don’t know who or what you were fighting,” he said, oddly quiet. “But it was more than me.”
As he handed it over the sharp blade slipped in his fingers, willfully, viciously slicing his hand.
And it didn’t cut him.
Before he could even think about it, Cal found himself some sort of hero. The Company swamped him with congratulations; Shadow kissed him and so did a few of the other girls, and when he had managed to struggle out of their good-natured jokes and punches he glanced up at the ridgepole of the farm, but the osprey had gone.
“Did you see the osprey?” he asked Shadow anxiously.
She stared. “I was watching you, idiot.”
“Hear it then? Screaming.”
“No.” Her eyes narrowed. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”
He scraped mud off his face with his palm, still unsteady. “You all did this deliberately. Winding me up. Making me think he was going to kill me!”
She laughed, walking backward. “You looked so scared! But you still did it.”
He managed to laugh with her. Then he said, “Does this mean I get to fight at Christmas?”
“Of course.” Hawk had come up; now the big man caught hold of him and marched him firmly toward the house. “You’re in. On Christmas Eve you get to the Round Table at last. But I think we’d better find you a few clean clothes. You should see yourself.”
Feeling the mud-plastered shirt clinging to his back, Cal grinned. Just for a moment, to his own astonishment, he didn’t care.
He had a shower in the farmhouse bathroom, and then Kai came in, to his surprise, and dumped a pile of clothes on a chair. “Take your pick. They’ll be a bit big.”
“Thanks!” Cal fingered the fine linen of one of the shirts. Then he turned quickly. “Can I ask you something?”
Kai paused, then propped himself elegantly on the side of the bath. “What?”
“The sword. It didn’t cut you.”
“You should keep it sharper.”
“It’s razor-sharp.”
Kai picked up a cake of lavender soap and smelled it. “What do you expect from immortal warriors?”
“Oh, come on. You’re not . . .”
“Aren’t we?” The tall man smiled.
Cal scowled. “Reenactment is one thing. You lot are obsessed. Addicted. I know about people like that.” He struggled angrily into a pair of trousers. “Besides, if you really were Arthur’s men you’d be asleep in some cave till people needed you.”
Kai flipped the soap. “Ah, the dear old cave. Trouble with that was, people always need us. They need someone to fight their nightmares for them, the dragons, the black knights. They need dreams to dream, quests to follow. Or they get trapped in the world. Like you.” He stood up. “You’ll have to choose a name, now. A character from the old stories.” He tossed Cal the soap and went out of the door. Then he looked back in, amused. “Though Merlin says you’ve already got one.”
Alone in the steamy room Cal stared at his own reflection in the mirror. They were all crazy, not him. He looked smart. He felt good.
He’d sort it out with his mother. New Year’s—he’d go home at New Year’s. He’d tell her, tonight. It would be all right.
Picking up the rest of the clothes he felt the stiffness of satin, and looked at them curiously. Doublets, medieval robes. For a moment, the glimmer of them was the glimmer and rustle of the fabrics at Corbenic. He dumped them and went out.
Chapter Fifteen
She has wronged me too grieviously.
Parzival
The numbers wouldn’t add up. Tossing down the pen he leaned his head on his hands and yawned. He was confused and tired and bored, and to cap it all, just then Phyllis came in and said acidly, “There’s a phone call for you. On your uncle’s private line.” It was like an accusation.
He got up wearily, and went into the other office, closing the door. He took a deep breath, picked up the receiver firmly and said, “Yes?” He still hadn’t told her. He’d do it now. But it wasn’t his mother.
“Is this . . . Cal?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh hello, Cal. I’m sorry to ring but this was the only number I could find; I’m so glad I could get hold of you.” A woman. Sounding nervous.
He sat down slowly on Trevor’s chair. “Who is this?”
Some nurse. Some policewoman. But she said, “You don’t know me—well, your mother may have mentioned me. My name’s Rhian. I’m her case worker.”
Dull relief warmed him. “Yes. She’s told me about you.”
“Look. I hope you don’t mind me ringing. I mean, I know how it must have been for you. She’s told me a few things. I know how the children . . . suffer in these cases.”
“What do you want?” he said, his voice tight.
She seemed to hesitate; there was a tiny breath. “It’s about Christmas.”
He was chewing his nails; he made himself stop. “What?”
Then it all came out in a rush. “Cal, you will be home, won’t you? I’m sure you think I’m incredibly rude for interfering like this—Annie doesn’t know, of course—but it’s just that she’s made so much effort. She’s desperate to see you. She feels . . . well she feels she’s driven you away and that you can’t forgive her. That you’ve gone like your father went.”
Cal stood up, shaking with rage. “My father! What do you mean, my father!”
“Cal, I . . .”
“Who the hell are you to talk to me like this! You have no idea who I am!” His voice was raw, stammering. He didn’t care.
“I’m sorry. Please . . .”
He was holding the phone so tight it hurt. “Whether or not I come home at Christmas is up to me, do you understand? Me. No one else! No bloody social worker!”
“It’s for your mother, Cal. That’s the only reason I’m asking you. I know I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. It was clumsy. All I want to know is that you’re coming. I really think that if you don’t come she’ll relapse.”
That sweet, sincere tone. He’d heard it so often it turned him sick.
“That’ll be my fault, will it!”
“Of course not. It’s just . . .”
“Well you needn’t bother worrying. I’m coming home on Christmas Eve. Now get off my bloody back!” He crashed the phone down hard. For a moment he stood there breathing deep. Behind him the door creaked. Phyllis had made sure she had heard every word.
He swung around, grabbed his coat, and slammed out of the office.
Chepstow was cold, frosty. It was four days to Christmas and the schools had broken up; kids were in the shops, and outside Boots a tiny merry-go-round purred round and round, empty except for one little boy sitting on his mother’s lap and laughing. All the windows were lit with fairy lights and tinselly decorations that reflected hundreds of tiny colored glimmers into Cal’s eyes. Hot with rage he walked through them all, then found himself staring in at Oxfam’s old clothes, clutching his arms tight around his body, his mind saying, “Money. I’ll send money,” over and over.