Sir Denis, still waiting, cleared his throat, the very image of courtly manners. Nevertheless, Alayna doubted that he would really be indisposed to using force.
"Lack-wit." Mordred swept past Galen and out into the corridor.
Alayna followed without looking at her brother. He'd ruined it. He'd ruined everything.
She could still, she thought, cry out, "Kiera!" and see if there was any answer. Was that their last chance, or would she ruin any possibility they might have?
Once they were all in the corridor, Sir Denis went ahead. This might have been politeness, guiding them, though the door was within sight not threescore paces down a straight hallway—of it might have been insult, insinuation that they couldn't be trusted to leave, at least not without theft or causing damage.
Behind her, Alayna heard Galen stop. She was too angry to care, but Mordred stopped also, waiting for him. Alayna stalked past Mordred, but several paces beyond she looked back and saw why Mordred was concerned. Galen was just standing there, a puzzled expression on his face. "Galen?" she called.
He looked from her to Mordred, back to the room they had just left. "Have we already ... Did..." Again his gaze wavered between them and the room. He had the dazed look she'd sometimes seen on knights who'd just had a bad tumble on the jousting field. "What did I say?" he asked.
Alayna saw Mordred, always watchful, glance beyond her. She checked that way also and saw that, for the moment, Sir Denis seemed unaware they were no longer right behind him, and he kept walking.
"Galen?" Alayna repeated.
Her brother ran his hand over his face. "Did I..."
Mordred grasped his arm lest Galen prove as unsteady as he sounded.
"I ... am sorry." Galen's voice was faint and unsure. "I don't know what possessed me. It was as though..." He shook his head. "...as though..."
Alayna felt a familiar tingle up and down her spine. It was the same feeling as when she would find Kiera staring off into space or when, certain times, Toland would say with more assurance than was his wont, about something he should have no control over, "Don't concern yourself about that: I am certain it will work out." Now she took a long look at her brother and said, "Galen, did you feel that that wizard could be—"
At that same instant, Mordred, once more checking back the way they had just come, toward the Great Hall, pulled his sword from its scabbard.
She saw Galen also go for his sword, even before he whirled around to learn what the danger was. She saw all this before finally, over their shoulders, she saw what Mordred had seen: three knights running toward them, having burst from the room where they'd just had their audience with Halbert. Though not armored, they were armed.
Mordred spared a glance in her direction, beyond her, before turning back; and by this she knew that Denis was not yet close enough to be a threat.
Belatedly—she had said she was competent: what was the matter with her?—she unsheathed Percival's sword that she had accepted without truly expecting to use. She whirled back to check the way Sir Denis had been leading them. Sir Denis, at the entrance to the courtyard, had heard the weapons being drawn and now faced them, his own sword in band. His eyes flicked from her to her two companions. Obviously he saw her as a minor obstacle and was calculating how quickest to deal with her and get on to the real business at hand.
Alayna went into fighting stance and knew she had an advantage in that Sir Denis no doubt thought she was bluffing.
Behind her, she heard the clash of steel on steel as someone's first sword blow was parried.
Then Sir Denis was upon her.
She saw the look of surprise on his face as she made the first move, a thrust at his exposed neck. He wasn't so surprised, however, that he couldn't block.
Alayna knew that, however skillful, she didn't have a man's arm and shoulder muscles; that was why Percival had given her his broadsword, with a hilt large enough for two-handed fighting while on foot, yet light enough to wield one-handed on horseback. Still, she didn't try to fool herself: The longer this encounter took, the more disadvantaged she would be. So far, Sir Denis wasn't fighting what Mordred had called "all out," apparently at least somewhat reluctant about hacking away at a woman, Alayna felt guilty only until she thought of Kiera. For Kiera's sake, she needed to take every advantage she could.
She played at incompetence, leaving herself open in a way that would have raised Sir Denis's suspicions had she been a man. But Denis was willing to believe that her first moves had been luck rather than skill, and he came in too close.
Alayna stepped to the side, then thrust forward, closing her eyes only after she felt the blade pierce Sir Denis's rib cage. It was not—at all—like the feel of the practice quintain. Burlap and sawdust didn't bleed. She had never before struck at a real person, but she had never before had to protect herself and her family.
Denis doubled over, then fell to the floor, doing half the work for her of pulling the sword free from his body. He lay still. She knew he could not survive such a blow, that he could not pick himself up off the floor and attack her from behind. He was dead, as surely as Ned, as surely as Toland had been dead, and perhaps he had a wife and child who would mourn him.
Kiera, she reminded herself. If you must think of children, think of Kiera.
She steeled herself, then wrenched the sword the rest of the way out, and turned.
Two of the castle's knights were already dead on the floor. Mordred, who had just killed the second, caught her eye for a moment before turning to Galen, who was still fighting.
Her brother had his back to the wall, though the other knight was bleeding from a shoulder wound. Galen dodged to the right just as the knight thrust to the middle, and the blade barely missed him; but Galen's position didn't allow him to take advantage. Alayna saw the knight put his left hand on his hilt and knew before he started that he was about to slash across Galen's belly.
She took a step forward, for all that she knew she wasn't close enough to prevent the blow: Galen was about to die. But then the knight pitched forward, a knife sticking out from his back. She saw the knight fall, saw him twitch, then stop. She saw all this before she saw—by the dropping of his arm—that it was Mordred who had thrown the knife.
It took Galen a moment to catch his breath. He leaned with his back braced against the wall, while Mordred retrieved his knife. "I was capable of finishing him on my own," Galen panted.
Mordred didn't argue; he just nodded back toward the Great Hall from which they had come.
Alayna also kept silent, too relieved that her brother was still alive to be overly concerned about Mordred's method.
Galen looked from her purposefully bland face to Mordred's. "Chivalry is dead," he snapped, "when a knight stabs a man in the back."
"Chivalry is ill-advised," Mordred said. "You are the one who was about to be dead." He headed back the way they'd just come, to the door leading to the Great Hall and the main part of the castle.
Alayna started after him, then heard a whoosh and thud, and Galen cried out in pain.
She turned. Behind them, in the doorway to the courtyard, one of the castle guards crouched with his crossbow. The arrow had hit Galen in the stomach, at close enough range to pierce the armor.
Galen dropped.
With no time to reload and rewind, the archer ducked around the corner. But Alayna wasn't concerned with vengeance. She knelt beside Galen. Foolishly the thought came to her that this whole encounter was unlike practice: Just as the burlap and sawdust quintains never bled, neither did they ambush anyone. Galen was still breathing, which of course she had assumed he would be. It couldn't be as bad as it looked, she thought. With care, he'd recover, just as he'd recovered that time he'd fallen from the apple tree. That had looked at least as serious as this.
Almost.
She laid Galen's head on her lap. She concentrated on his pale face rather than the puddle of blood welling out from beneath his breastplate.
Sword in hand and sweari
ng in Cornish, Mordred leaped over the body of Sir Denis. He hesitated at the door through which the archer had fled, and looked to her—her—for direction.
"Don't leave us," she said, which may or may not have been good advice. She immediately turned her attention back to Galen and only heard Mordred slam the door and run the bolt to prevent further entry.
Galen squeezed her hand and she tried to smile bravely for him. She was ready to die to save Kiera. But she hadn't known she must balance her daughter against her brother.
She unlaced the breastplate but didn't dare take it off for fear of putting pressure on the arrow.
For a knight, Mordred looked dazed and bewildered. But then, he was a young knight. Perhaps he hadn't had as much experience as she with death and dying. She remembered what it had been like with Toland and wished for anything rather than go through that again.
Mordred knelt beside Alayna. He took a deep breath. He said, to her or to Galen, "Just try to relax. Don't move." He kept glancing from Alayna to the arrow. She noted that he hadn't been able yet to look at Galen's face. "Just," he swallowed hard, "remain calm."
"I," Galen whispered, "am doing fine. I'll be up as soon as I catch my breath. You're the one who is falling to pieces."
Mordred finally looked up.
Alayna gave Galen's hand, sticky with blood, a gentle squeeze and tried to convince her eyes that they would not help matters by misting over.
Galen winced. "Well ... maybe not ... exactly fine."
Alayna closed her eyes, but then opened them a second later as her brother tried to swallow back a cry of pain.
She chewed her lip and brushed his fine hair off his forehead. "Don't be afraid," she said, foolish as that was: He had every reason to be afraid. His eyes were losing their panicked look; they were becoming, in fact, unfocused, but he forced a smile in her general direction.
He tried to grip her hand, but she could hardly feel it at all, and then he became totally relaxed. Too relaxed.
Alayna felt Mordred gently touch her hair, and she leaned her head against him, still holding Galen.
She wasn't aware that the door to the Great Hall had opened until she heard Halbert say, "Merciful Heaven!"
Beside her, Mordred tensed, but did not go for his sword.
The wizard came and knelt opposite them.
Not armed, Alayna noticed, and alone. Although at that point he could have brought all of Castle Burrstone's fighting force with him and she could not have moved.
Halbert shook his head. "I did not order this," he said, emphasizing every word. "I never ordered this." His voice was shaking. "All I said was to make sure the three of you left. How they could have misconstrued that..." He started again. "I have never given"—he looked around helplessly—"any kind of order that could make anybody remotely think that I..." He drifted off helplessly, looking dismayed. Then he took a deep breath. Much more steadily, he said, "I may be able to help."
"He's dead." Mordred's dark eyes were dry and cold, and the hearing of it was almost as hard as the fact.
Beyond all reason, the wizard repeated, "I may be able to help." He started to move his hand toward the arrow, but Mordred caught his wrist.
"My Lady," Halbert said, bringing Alayna into the question, even though what she wanted was to be anywhere but here, making decisions, having people depend on her. "My Lady," Halbert repeated. "What harm could I do him?"
What indeed? Alayna straightened her back. "Let him."
Halbert removed the breastplate and yanked the arrow out.
She watched woodenly, aware that Mordred's eyes shied away.
The wizard placed his hands over the jagged wound and started chanting. The words were unfamiliar, not English or Latin. Not one of the Celtic dialects, judging by Mordred's vacant expression, nor Greek, whose cadences—at least—she would have recognized. Halbert started rocking back and forth and massaged Galen's chest with his bloodied fingers.
Mordred rose suddenly and walked to the other side of the corridor, his back to them.
The smell of blood was thick, dizzying. When she could look at Galen no longer, Alayna looked into Halbert's face. His eyes were closed, his upper lip damp with perspiration. He had stopped chanting and now repeated one word or short phrase several times. His ruby pendant, reflecting Galen's blood, swung back and forth over the body.
Alayna forced herself to watch. Watch as his hands pushed on her brother's chest, watch as his movement gave Galen's chest the appearance of heaving in and out with breath.
Halbert lifted his hands, and the chest kept moving.
"Mordred," Alayna whispered. She didn't dare take her eyes off Galen, lest she look back and find him deathly still again.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mordred turn, slowly, and advance.
"Praise God," she whispered. She glanced at Halbert who sat back on his heels and smiled at her, despite his own pallor and the sweat on his face. Then she looked down at Galen, who now seemed to be sleeping peacefully, and finally up at Mordred. Her eyes had finally won out and were letting streams of tears run down her face, but she smiled and reached up to take Mordred's hand.
Slowly, Mordred sank to his knees. "Praise God," he echoed, never taking his eyes off Halbert.
CHAPTER 8
Galen's breathing seemed frighteningly shallow, but Halbert insisted she should not be anxious about it.
Not be anxious. Alayna couldn't get her hands to stop shaking.
Thank God, she thought over and over, that Mordred had been wrong about Halbert. Thank God that Halbert didn't hold a grudge for the awful, accusatory way they had spoken to him before ... Before.
Halbert summoned servants to ready a room and to carry Galen to it. Several of the wizard's men-at-arms hovered about the area; of course they had come—hearing the sounds of fighting and of servants frantically summoned—but the archer who had struck down Galen was not among them.
All the while, Halbert apologized with every other sentence he uttered, assuring Alayna and Mordred that he had never—ever—given his men orders to attack; that even if they somehow misunderstood something he had said, they should have known enough to seek clarification because he had never—ever (again!)—ordered them to harm anyone; that he would seek out the archer in question to see if anything could be learned from him since—obviously—something was very much amiss that Halberts guests should be attacked as soon as he turned his back.
"I would that I could question Sir Denis," Halbert said, wringing his hands as the servants settled Galen into the bed that had been hastily prepared for him, "for now I very much wonder at the manner in which he came to be in my service."
Mordred looked up sharply at that. "He was only recently with you?" he asked.
"Very recently," Halbert stressed. "And now I wonder if there is some connection between that and the matter about which you are here. A strange coincidence, otherwise."
"Yes," Mordred said, drawing out the word as though he thought ... With Mordred, it was always hard to tell what he thought. "Perhaps," he suggested, "it would be best if the archer were to be questioned in the presence of all of us."
Alayna's breath caught. What was the matter with him? He had seen how Halbert had healed Galen. How, then, could he still mistrust the wizard? Had she been standing closer, she would have been tempted to kick him.
Halbert looked startled. He had to know what Mordred was implying. But, all meekness and ever agreeable, he simply nodded. "If you so wish." He turned, and one of the men-at-arms stepped forward.
"Barth," that one told Halbert. "It was Barth did it. He has already reported to the captain of the guard."
"Bring him here," Halbert ordered. He gestured for all the men-at-arms to leave them, along with the servants who were no longer needed.
That left only one of the serving women, who had just brought in a bowl filled with water and a linen cloth. "Shall I, my Lady?" she asked. "Or will you?"
Alayna indicated she would take over. It was s
omething to do with her hands. She dipped the cloth into the bowl and wrung it out, releasing the tart smell of peony root and yarrow. Gently she wiped the sweat and dirt off Galen's face—Shouldn't the cool water cause him to stir?—then folded the cloth and draped it across his forehead. Should he still be so pale?
While they waited for the summoned archer, Mordred pulled up a stool and began to busy himself with Galen's armor, cleaning off the blood. Cleaning off the blood. Now Alayna could think those words, could see the damaged equipment without cringing, could know, as surely Mordred must also, that in truth the breastplate was beyond repair and would need to be melted down and reforged if anyone was to ever wear it again. Now Alayna could acknowledge the blood, and that it had been Galen's, but now he was all right. And Kiera was all right, too—she must be, seeing as how they had made it so far. Soon they would have her back and then everything—everything—would be all right. Please God.
Halbert stood looking out the window, having finally run out of apologies, of words.
There was a clatter in the hallway, then a knock on the door. The guard who had been sent to bring the archer entered, and with him the archer himself—who immediately dropped to his knees and said, all in one breath, "Pardon, my Lord, I didn't know, I was only following orders, and I thought they were your orders, I didn't know Sir Denis had taken it upon himself, he said that you said, and I didn't know he lied."
Halbert no longer acted the pompous, self-pleased host who had greeted them, nor the shaken, near-to-babbling penitent who had begged them to believe his innocence in this matter. His restrained anger showed in the paleness about his mouth and nostrils. "What," he demanded in a voice Alayna would have dreaded to face, "are you talking about?"
The man, Barth, bowed, for all that he was already on his knees and close to groveling. "Sir Denis," he repeated, as though that explained all.
"What about Sir Denis?" Halbert asked.
"He said they"—he jerked his head in the direction of Mordred and Alayna and, beyond them, Galen—"would be coming."
Halbert looked in their direction, puzzlement and distress evident on top of his anger. "By name?" he asked incredulously.
The Book of Mordred Page 6
