The Book of Mordred (35 page)

Some people were nodding their heads, others shaking theirs. Kiera hoped that meant not all took this foolishness seriously; she thought some of them were smiling indulgently.

"What about Eldred?" shouted the butcher's wife.
That
wiped away all smiles. "He wor always a wild boy, but never meanlike."

Some in the crowd shuffled their feet, for many had known Eldred. "Oh, well, now," someone started.

"Yes!" the butcher's wife insisted. "And I can tell you something else. Did you hear about them gashes on Eldred's face? I
seen
them. I went to see the body, first thing, there in the woods, and there they was: marks like she'd clawed him."

No,
Kiera wanted to say.
It was when Bayard threw him in the bush.
But her throat was too dry to get the words out.

"By the time they got him back home," the butchers wife continued, "I was the one who first said it: 'Look,' I says, 'the marks have got bigger,' I says, 'deeper. Looks like a wild beast laid into him,' I says, cause I know about witches, and what they can do. And that night them wounds begun to fester, even with him dead and all. I set there with him, me and his ma, and his two sisters and their men, and his three brothers and their km, and we used three months' worth of candles, and we all seen it, spreading till they was deep gashes, covering half his face. And I says, 'Better call Father Jerome,' I says. But soon as the light of Father's candle falls on Eldred's face ... Nothing. Just scratches again."

This was the first Kiera had heard this story, but from the knowing looks people were exchanging, it wasn't new. She searched for a friendly face.
Somebody
had to see the truth of it.

Mordred ... Mordred was scaring her, sitting there, listening to this, his expression impassive. Mordred did what suited Mordred, her mother had always said. Would he abandon her now?

"I was out one day," a young man said, "and I saw her walking in the meadow, and I called out to warn her because there's a fairy ring there, clear as anything. At night sometimes you can see the tiny lights flickering in the grass, and we lost three pigs last summer that must of wandered too close and the fairies took them for their feasts. Even during the day you can see what it is, with the grass all flat where they dance, but she's heading right for it. So I'm jumping up and down, yelling and waving my hat." He paused to look around the Hall, at everybody except Kiera. "And she walks right through it. Unharmed."

She could feel the release of tension, as though everyone exhaled at once. The constant background of muttering grew louder. People began shouting to have their say.

"Mordred." Her mother tried to make herself heard above them.

He looked at her coolly and she must have wilted inside, just as Kiera did.

Behind her, another voice was saying: "Well, her father practiced the black arts, too..."

Loudly, to the left: "What about my cakes?"

From the butchers wife: "Don't forget Eldred..."

Kiera pressed her hands to her ears.

"
And what about Agravaine?
" she heard Hildy insist.

The doors burst open, and a flicker of annoyance crossed Mordred's face.

Kiera squinted to see across the room, even though her mother always warned that squinting made her face fierce and unlovely. Bayard, she saw. And—for no reason she could name—her heart sank.

"My Lord!" Bayard had Father Jerome in tow. "In defense of the maid, we have a character witness here. A man of God whom we all know and who has known this girl most of her life and whom I have persuaded to testify despite his great personal trepidation at offending his superi—"

"Shut up, Bayard," Mordred said.

Kiera felt as though someone had doused her with a pail of water. As from a great distance, she saw the shock in Alayna's eyes, the pleased surprise in Padraic's.

Bayard's mouth remained open for a moment or two before he remembered to close it.

What are you doing?
Kiera thought at Mordred.
What are you doing?

Padraic gave a frigid glance at the pale Father Jerome. Then—indicating Hildy—he said, "This fine woman—"

"No," said Mordred. He pointed at Hildy. "You. You are bringing the complaint. What have you to say?"

Smirking, Hildy said, "She talks to the devil."

"And have you heard him answer her back?"

The question flustered Hildy. "Of course not, I'm a good Christian. But I've heard
her
talk to
him.
And she plots against you and your family, my Lord—including the King." She pointed at Kiera. "She groveled on the floor, speaking to her invisible master, her eyes glazed, her face with a light not of this world, and,"—her finger swung around to Mordred—"
and she asked for your death. Lord Mordred, and that of your father, our beloved King Arthur!
"

The room burst into excited murmurs. Mordred sat back, calm but indecipherable.

Merciful Savior,
Kiera thought,
what is he thinking? He can't believe all this.
She had a fleeting recurrence of the vision that she had had on the parapet—Arthur dying, Mordred dying, Camelot in rum—and what had this to do with her? Until now she had been able to force it from her mind. That Mordred could try to kill Arthur ... it was too distant from the Mordred she knew. But now she watched his cold eyes and realized she couldn't guess what he would do from one moment to the next.

"My Lord," Hildy said, "she cursed your brother Agravaine, moments before he was cut down by the traitor Lancelot. And Gawain, too. Before she had fully gamed her senses and realized who I was, she asked her demon lord for Gawain's death."

Mordred started at that news, then folded his arms across his chest.

Oh, Mordred,
Kiera thought.
You know I wouldn't.

Padraic stepped forward, pulling out a letter. "You have already read the dispatches which came at dawn?" he asked, but continued before Mordred gave any indication of yes or no. "But most of these good people have not. Friar Guillaume, whom you all know went to France to see after the spiritual well-being of King Arthur's army, has written to me. He says in this letter that has arrived only today that our good Sir Gawain has been sorely wounded while in mortal combat with Lancelot and may, even now, be with our Lord and all the saints in Heaven."

Gawain!
Kiera heard someone gasp—it may have been her mother, it may have been herself. It was not news to Mordred—that she could tell. He was watching Padraic.

And Padraic was watching her. "Yes, little one, what a terrible shock! Oh, so surprised! But you knew it. You knew it before I said so."

"No," Kiera said, "I—"

"You knew it!"

"I—"

"You cursed him!"

The crowd started rumbling, louder and louder as each person tried to tell his or her opinion. No one was smiling indulgently now.

"Mordred," Alayna called, but he watched impassively until they were all talked out, until his continued silence could no longer be ignored, and the last murmurs faded.

That had to be a good sign, didn't it?

When every pair of eyes was on him, Mordred said, softly, "How much foolishness do you expect me to bear?" He looked from person to person in the room, and if they all felt as Kiera did, they felt personally responsible for all the foolishness of the world.

He stood, and those nearest him took a step back. "Yes, Padraic, I am aware that Gawain has been injured. Your concern is a solace to me. But is anybody aware of how many others have been injured—how many have been killed—while Arthur abides steadfastly by Lancelots rules? Is there anyone in this room who has lost no one, who remains untouched by this ill-conceived and badly managed war?"

People shuffled their feet, looked at each other, but nobody spoke.

And what had this to do with her?

"Lancelot DuLac," Mordred said. "Undefeated in tournament or combat. Acknowledged as the strongest and most skilled knight of Camelot. A strategist of renown. Does Arthur take any precautions? Does he deviate from the battle plans he and Lancelot himself worked out when they overcame second-rate barons and Pict outlaws in their good old days together? No. Heaven forbid we should try anything new. He has with him no brothers or fathers or sons to lose."

Kiera felt Padraic, beside her, fidget. "My Lord Regent, this may be true, but—"

"This court," Mordred said evenly, "is dissolved."

Kiera looked at her mother, unsure whether this was good news or bad.

"I decree an end to Arthur's ridiculous civil code," Mordred continued. "Terminated. Abolished. Dissolved."

There were scattered cheers.

"And I find this girl innocent of all your silly charges,"—Kiera gasped, Hildy opened her mouth to protest—"on the grounds that I declare her so."

So it was good news. For her. She felt her mother grab hold of her arm.

"You cannot do that," Padraic said.

There was instant silence in anticipation of Mordred's reaction. But he only smiled. "My second decree," he said, "is this: Since Arthur seems unable to overcome Lancelot at Lancelots own game, I resolve it is time we change the rules of that game."

While Kiera was still trying to sort that out, her mothers fingers tightened on her arm.

"It's about time!" someone near them yelled.

"Send in the longbows!" called a rough peasant voice.

"He won't be able to argue with success."

"Once he sees us in action—"

"Mordred will show them how it's done!"

Though the majority was cheering, some shook their heads.

Surely, Kiera reasoned, Arthur—who had not been convinced by argument—would not change his mind by having his decrees ignored.

Mordred started for the door, but Alayna grabbed his arm. "Mordred," she said, echoing Padraic's words, "you cannot do this."

Kiera saw his dark eyes take them all in. She was painfully aware how much—with the way Bayard stood behind them, one hand on her arm and one on Alayna's—they seemed to present a united, almost a family, group. She squirmed away from both of them, but knew it was too late.

"You cannot do this," Alayna repeated yet again.

"Which?" Mordred asked ingenuously. "Absolving Kiera?"

"Stop it. Mordred, please, Arthur trusted you ... You know what he'll say when you turn up with that longbow corps that he has already disbanded once. There can only be trouble. Think what you're doing."

Mordred looked at Bayard before returning his attention to Alayna. "My Lady," he said, matching her tone, "think what
you
are doing."

Alayna flushed. "You have no right," she whispered hoarsely.

Mordred turned again to Bayard and gave a tight smile. "As for you, Sir Bayard, I think I would feel safest were you where I could watch you at all times. So you will accompany us."

"How dare you!" Alayna clutched and twisted Bayard's hand as though it were a glove or kerchief. "Besides saving Kiera's very life, Bayard has been good and kind to both of us while you were too busy to notice us. And now you want to prevent that, too. You'll never be the king Arthur is. And you'll never be the man Bayard is!"

Mordred's expression never changed—it just froze where it was. He gave a slight bow and turned his back on them. He was enveloped immediately in the crowd, which chattered about details of the departure.

Kiera stared into the crowd, knowing that she teetered on the precipice of the land of swirling gray mist.

It was Bayard's unwelcome voice that called her back from the edge. "Well," he said, sounding relieved, "what we wanted but not quite the way we expected it—eh, my dears? Just so long as Kiera is safe." He enveloped the two of them in a hug, and Alayna started to cry.

Kiera looked up, surprised.

"There, there," Bayard said. He pulled Alayna close to his chest and patted her head, which only made her cry more. She threw her arms around his neck and he rocked her gently.

Let her go,
Kiera wished at him. She couldn't remember ever having seen her mother cry. And why, oh why, did Alayna turn to Bayard for comfort? Kiera stared at her hands until her own eyes began to fill with tears. Annoyed, she tossed her head, brushing at the hair sticking to her face. For one instant she glimpsed Bayard's face while he was unaware of being seen.

Although he still held Alayna with all the tenderness of a parent, and although he murmured comforting endearments, and although his voice was warm and distressed, he smiled.

Like a cat crouched in the fish market, he smiled.

The dispatches came addressed to Sir Kaye because, as seneschal in charge of managing the household, the King's aging foster brother was the closest thing to a man of authority they had left. Sir Kaye had them read out loud in the courtyard because—as he said—he had long outgrown any interest in power and empire. What Kiera suspected was that he wanted to share his responsibility with as many others as possible, should any decisions be called for—should anything go wrong.