The Book of Mordred (23 page)

Dolph lifted his sword, brandishing it much as a housewife might wave a flail to beat a rug.

The two knights took one look at Nimue, then turned and ran.

"Behind every successful man, there stands a strong woman," Dolph observed, with a wink for Nimue, to show he had no delusions why they had run.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, she couldn't help but smile. In another moment, the sound of nearby fighting turned the smile to a grimace.

"Hush," one of them said to Boy, who was humming loudly. Then, "What is it?"

Unsure of her voice, she pointed to the left, and up one level. "Sword fight," she managed to squeak. She could hear the distinctive clash of metal on metal.
Mordred,
she thought,
don't get yourself killed now.
Lancelot was the most competent knight of Camelot. Why didn't Mordred leave the fighting to him? "Look." She pointed. "The bridge is down that way. If anyone is guarding it..." She looked at Dolph's sword and hesitated.

Dolph grinned. "Don't worry. If worst comes to worst, I'll call out, 'Nimue, get this guard!' and they won't even stop to check if you're really there."

She wanted to hug him, but there wasn't time. She ran in the direction from which she could still hear the metallic clangs. She was dimly aware of shadows that scurried out of her way, but she didn't stop for them.

Mordred and Bayard were fighting on the bastion that overlooked the drawbridge—moving much too fast for her to dare try to intervene with magic. She could hear Sir Lancelot from below, yelling at whoever manned the bridge, demanding entrance.

Nimue stifled a cry for Mordred to look out: He knew what he was doing, and she could prove a fatal distraction.

He ducked the blow, missed an opening that could have ended the fight, but forced Bayard to take a backwards step.

"My Lord, look out!" one of the Ridgemont guards called as Bayard came dangerously close to an open embrasure—a fall to certain death.

That was Mordred's bad luck, but when Nimue heard the sound of running behind her, she whirled around. "Don't move," she warned the knights who were rushing to Bayard's aid.

Their eyes glinted in the starlight as they looked, each to check the others' reactions. One by one their swords lowered.

"Get back.
I said back!
" She used what Merlin had called his best John Barrymore voice. Whoever John Barrymore was, it worked.

There was a loud
screech
and
thud
: the drawbridge. Somehow the inexperienced youths of St. George had accomplished their task. Lancelot wouldn't join the fight, now that Bayard and Mordred had engaged in single combat, but she hoped Lancelot could keep the fight fair. Once he actually got up here.

Mordred seemed to be holding his own: Bayard was more experienced and had the advantage of strength, but Mordred was quicker and in better physical condition, so he would have more stamina. Their swords locked for a moment; Nimue could see that Bayard said something, although the dawn breeze carried away the words. Mordred didn't answer the gibe; he slid his sword down and around while he jumped to the side.

Bayard got his leg behind Mordred's, and the younger knight staggered, parried a blow, fell, rolled in time to avoid another thrust that skewered a corner of Dolph's shirt. But Bayard's sword snagged on the uneven stone banquette, then skittered uncontrollably, and put him, momentarily, off balance.

Mordred's own foot lashed out. Bayard threw his weight backwards, and he fell out of Mordred's reach. Mordred was back on his feet first, but Bayard had landed by the parapet and found a loose stone that he heaved at Mordred's head. Mordred ducked, and then Bayard was back up also.

Lancelot's head suddenly appeared over the edge of the battlement, which meant that—once through the gate—he had climbed the sheer face of the rampart rather than follow the boulevard that wound its way about the inside of the walls.

"Lance!" Nimue yelled warning as Bayard swung wide, level with Lancelot's neck.

Mordred jumped in to protect Lancelot. But, although Lancelot had earned his reputation as Arthur's best knight almost a quarter century ago, it was not merely memory of past glories that kept him first. His head bobbed down behind the wall, then he seemed to ricochet back up and over the edge to land on his feet.

Mordred, however, had overreached in his attempt to keep Lancelot from decapitation. Bayard swung hard, and Mordred's sword went flying. Mordred spun, retrieved the sword, and turned back at a ready crouch.

But Bayard was not there. Instead of going after Mordred, he had faced about and engaged Lancelot. It made no sense at all, for—as long as the fight had proceeded fairly—Lancelot was restrained by the rules of chivalry from interfering. And if anyone could be counted on to abide by the rules of chivalry, it would be Lancelot.

Bayard had been hard-pressed against Mordred. Against Lancelot, he had no chance at all. In another instant his sword clattered to the ground.

It was then that his logic suddenly became clear.

"Mercy, sir knight," he said, dropping to his knees. Then, to his men, "Everyone."

They all offered their swords, hilts first.

Lancelot sheathed his sword, and indicated for Bayard's men to do likewise.

"No!" Mordred cried. "Kill him!"

Lancelot looked up, startled. He grabbed the younger knight by the wrist, as though afraid Mordred would go after Bayard himself. "I have granted him mercy."

"No, listen." Mordred's voice shook, but in another instant he had it back under control. "This man is responsible for abducting countless young village boys who—"

"It wasn't me!" Bayard objected. "It's my uncle, the wizard Halbert! I have done nothing wrong. Find him."

Lancelot looked to Mordred for a response.

"He's dead," Mordred said.

Nimue, watching Bayard, saw no reaction.

"It was the two of them," Mordred conceded. "Halbert needed the boys to perform his loathsome rejuvenation spells, and Bayard provided them from the surrounding area."

"It was not
just
rejuvenation," Bayard said. "He needed them to live. And the effects on the youths were temporary; they were returned unharmed."

"Unharmed?" Nimue cried, unable to keep silent, to leave this to the men. "They were dead."

"No!" Bayard protested. "You must be mistaken. Weak, yes. Perhaps temporarily confused—"

Nimue shook from anger. "I saw Evan, Roswald's son, of the town of St. George,
dead.
Not weak. Not confused. Dead."

Bayard looked from Nimue to Lancelot, avoided Mordred, came back to Nimue. "Merciful saints in Heaven," he said, his voice a reedy whisper, "he tricked me. Uncle Halbert assured me ... If I had ever thought..." He shook his head. "This is terrible."

"It seems," said Lancelot, "you have all been ill-used. But the man responsible is now under God's jurisdiction."

"No," Mordred protested. "No, we are not that gullible." To Bayard, he said, "You almost killed me in there, and you were about to—Lancelot, he was about to rape and torture a young peasant woman who was in our company, and he stood by while Halbert maltreated Nimue. He knew.
He knew!'
"

"Was anybody killed?" Bayard asked, having found his voice again. "Was anybody tortured? My dear boy, my only intention was to frighten you. You must admit: You
were
frightened?"

Mordred's fingers tightened on his sword.

Nimue saw Lancelot was watching warily, as if expecting Mordred to try something rash and sneaky. As if he were suspicious of
him.

"My Lady Nimue," Bayard pleaded. "I was not there when you saw the terrible things you saw. Was I? Tell him I was not there when Halbert did his evil magic. Tell him whether you saw me actually harm anyone."

Nimue had to admit, "He wasn't there. He harmed no one in my sight."

"This man is guilty of heinous crimes," Mordred protested to Lancelot, "against me, and against my companions. Once before he was involved in his uncle's crimes, and slipped away from just retribution by claiming ignorance. I demand that you withdraw from a situation in which you are not involved, and let me finish what you have interrupted."

"When he raised his sword at me," Lancelot said evenly, though Nimue knew him well enough to suspect he was becoming heated, "I became involved. It seems to me that misunderstandings and harsh words have compounded—"

"Oh, really!" Mordred said in exasperation.

"Yes, well,"—Lancelot's tone remained stoically polite despite Mordred's bitter sarcasm—"in any case, now it is for the King to say."

"Dammit! He's mine!"

Lancelot raised his eyebrows and stopped trying to convince Mordred.

"You fool!" Mordred's voice was a throaty whisper. "You interfering stooge! You have no idea what has been going on here. How dare you come in here, with your archaic sense of fair play, feeding your sense of self-worth with empty magnanimous gestures that endanger all? This is not a game."

Lancelot's had always been an open face, no subtlety or guile hid his emotions. He took a moment to calm himself before answering. "I have never taken chivalry as a game. But I have overcome this knight in fair combat, and I have granted him mercy. He and his men will present themselves before King Arthur and the Lady Guinevere, and
they
will decide his fate. Whatever your grievances are, and I am sure they must be great to make you so forget yourself, you can address them to the King."

Nimue put her hand on Mordred's arm. He was breathing harder now than he had when he'd been fighting Bayard. He was right. She knew he was right But so was Lance.

Behind them, she could hear running footsteps: the group from Sir Bayard's dungeon finally catching up. Neither Mordred nor Lancelot paid any attention.

"And what will the King decree, do you think?" Mordred asked. "Confiscation of one or two feudal properties, perhaps? A novena offered for the souls of the dead? Then again, he seems to favor banishment lately."

"Mordred, Lancelot," Nimue pleaded. The older knight was perhaps the most decent man she knew. She hated the pain she saw in his clear blue eyes, and she hated the thought of what he could do to Mordred if he so chose.

But she had never seen Lancelot lose his temper, and she didn't see
it
now. He bent to kiss her hand. He indicated for Bayard to rise to his feet. Then he turned back to Mordred. "Will you be accompanying us to Camelot?" he asked. Very formal, very cool.

Mordred's eyes narrowed. "You
were following
me," he suddenly said. "
That
is how you came to be here in so timely a fashion—you met Dunsten on his way back to Camelot. But why?"

"You left court in company with someone who had just lost in trial by combat—a proven criminal who had been banished."

"I was accompanying a friend whom I may never see again, thanks to you, to the border."

"You seem to have a number of friends among those who have been banished," Lancelot said with a tight smile. "But, there too, I am not the judge."

Mordred stood with his teeth clenched and bared. Then he gave a half smile, and an apologetic flourish with his hand, and he walked away.

Nimue recognized that there was nothing she could do, nothing she could say, and so it was Romola who ran after him.

Romola asked, "Where are you going?"

"Home, it seems. To Camelot. But to get there, I need to borrow a horse from Bayard's stable."

Romola stopped following him and faced the former prisoners. She announced, "My fathers cart is here. There is room
for
everyone. We're all going home."

The ragged group cheered.

Dolph came up behind Romola and gave her a hug. "And I want you to know I'll always love you," he said, "no matter what."

Romola looked at him quizzically. "And I'll always love you," she answered. "What do you mean 'no matter what'?"

Dolph made a vague gesture.

"I just meant,"—he saw that everyone was listening, but continued, perhaps thinking they must know what he was about to say anyway—"you know, after what happened.
Whatever
happened. Not that I want to know," he added hastily. He gave a solid glare that included everyone. "And it's nobody else's business."

"Dolph."

"Yes?"

"I have no idea
what
you are saying."

It was what Nimue would have told him, too.

Dolph lowered his voice, which only served to make everyone listen harder. "With the guards." He nodded toward her skirt, which was stained with the blood of the man Romola had slain. "I mean you're still my woman, and I'll never have you put aside or anything because you certainly couldn't help what they did to you, and it's best if we just forget the whole thing happened and pick up our lives from here."

Nimue's heart sank.

Romola considered this speech, a long one for Dolph, for a moment. "I'm ... What ... They ... Dolph, this isn't my blood."

Now it was her husband's turn to look at her quizzically.

"Dolph, I killed a guard. I ... stabbed him. This is his blood."

"You..." Dolph lowered his voice even more. But by this point he couldn't have lowered it enough to exclude the others. "You killed a guard?"

Romola nodded.

"You just walked right up to a guard—an armed guard, I'm guessing—and stabbed him?"

"Dolph," Nimue said, remembering how he had let himself be recaptured so that she would have a better chance at escape. "Dolph."

"No, I didn't just walk right up to him," Romola said. "I..."

"You what?" Dolph snapped.

"Pretended to like him."

"We both did," Nimue said, but Dolph wasn't interested in what she had done. "Romola was very brave," she said. "She came here to rescue you."

But Dolph's gaze was centered unshakably on the skirt.

Lancelot took a step closer to Nimue. "Who
are
these people?" he asked.

Romola tossed her hair off her shoulders. She took hold of Lancelot's arm in an overly familiar gesture, which the knight accepted graciously, while she started to tell him all about the town of St. George and her parents' inn.