The Book of Mordred

by Vivian Vande Velde

  He stopped in front of her. "Nimue has always been, first and foremost, Merlin's friend," he said.

  Lover, Kiera mentally corrected him. Everybody knew that.

  And perhaps Mordred did, too, for he continued, "Nobody—nothing else—was as important." The intensity with which he had begun vanished. "She always took care to make that clear."

  What? she thought. What are you trying to tell me? "Yes?"

  "Did you know that Merlin tried to have me killed? When I was a child? Gawain ... Gawain told me."

  She had heard the stories. She couldn't get her voice to work, and simply nodded.

  "Merlin said I was a danger to my father, that I would destroy him and the Round Table. Of course, that was before there was a Round Table, so it didn't make sense, but Arthur took him at his word. He always ... took him ... at his word." Once again, Mordred seemed to have been distracted by a thought midsentence.

  What's wrong? she wanted to ask him. Besides the obvious, of course. But she was a nobody, despite all his previous kindnesses, a hanger-on—and he was the King's son.

  "Merlin," he continued, "Merlin was his teacher, his friend. He was a father to him, and he made him High King against the opposition of everyone—everyone—and helped him stay there. Can you imagine the power that gave him, the influence? And then he says, 'Mordred will destroy all this. Kill him.' I don't blame Arthur for believing him. But I cannot understand why Merlin said it. I could never have competed with him. Why did he say it?"

  What? What answer did he want? She would give it to him if she only knew. All she could do was shake her head.

  "Afterwards," Mordred said, "he kept trying to make it up to me. He said, 'Even the world's greatest wizard is entitled to be wrong once.' But it wasn't true. He didn't believe Merlin was wrong. He never trusted me. I'm not quite sure Nimue did either."

  Don't ask, Kiera mentally begged, remembering how shocked she had been. With Mordred, it often is difficult to tell how much he has guessed, Nimue had said. Could Mordred read that thought on her face?

  He said, "She told me exactly what you just did: 'Don't fight with Arthur.' But whose interests does she hold: mine, or Arthur's, or Merlin's? But you're on my side, Kiera. I can trust you, can't I?"

  She took his hand, tried to sound gentle and reasonable like her mother, despite his odd ramblings. I'm not an adult, she thought, though she had been protesting for the better part of a year that she was. "Of course I'm on your side, Mordred. But are you sure it is Nimue you have seen?"

  She could see the question startled him. He dropped her hand. After all this time of his believing in her visions, here she was doubting his. It had to hurt. Still, she remembered the day she and Nimue had talked, and Nimue deprecated her own talent, insisting that she wasn't a powerful wizard. Small healings, she had said. That was a far cry from reaching out from the dead.

  How long had Mordred been talking this way? That was probably why Arthur had abandoned the siege on Lancelot's castle. He had to have become worried enough about this odd fancy of Mordred's that he wanted to get him back to the safe, friendly confines of Camelot.

  But then things seen and things unseen came back to her. The banners she had viewed from the hill—had any borne the winged dragon that was the emblem of the High King of England? And this pavilion, placed in the center of the encampment, the leaders position, should belong to Arthur. So why was it filled with Mordred's things? And why was Mordred engaged with two knights—neither of them from Camelot—in a war conference the. King did not attend?

  The gray mist, which these past four days had never seemed farther away than swirling about her ankles, reached cold tendrils to her knees. "Mordred," she said very gently, "where is Arthur?"

  "About a day's march inland."

  "Then who,"—she tried to steady her voice—"who are all these people, if not Arthur's army?"

  "Mine, My army."

  She closed her eyes.

  "Knights from the North Country, Scotland, Cornwall, People who were deposed, whose lands were confiscated for opposing Lancelot before it became fashionable to do so. The disenchanted." Mordred smiled wryly, as though still capable of seeing the irony of it. "They can't be trusted, of course; but for the moment they follow me."

  "Oh, Mordred," she said. "What have you done?"

  He looked at her coldly, and when he spoke it was with distant civility. "Kiera. It was very good of you to come to warn me. I thank you on behalf of Gawain and Nimue." He said it in a perfectly normal tone of voice, as though it were a perfectly normal thing to say. He took her arm, guiding her to the exit. "But this is not a safe place for you. I am afraid you must leave immediately, tonight. We can give you some provisions for your return trip, but I cannot spare any men to accompany you. Alayna will be frantic. You must ride Tempest as quickly as—"

  "Bayard—"Kiera spoke loudly to get his attention, and was about to repeat the name, but Mordred had stopped instandy.

  He spun her around, and put his finger to her lips. "Shhh." He dropped to a crouch, pulling her with him, and held her in close. Again he motioned her to silence, though she had made no sound. "There is always somebody listening." Furtively, he peered outside as though to make sure no one was close enough to hear. "What about Bayard?" he finally whispered.

  She spoke quietly. "Bayard knew those boys who attacked me. He paid them to attack me so that he could rescue me. And then he killed them." Had Mordred always gotten that vague and faraway look when he was thinking? She averted her own eyes. "What better way to get to my mother than through me?"

  Mordred's attention snapped back to her and he turned her question on its head. "What better way to get to you than through your mother?"

  For a moment she dismissed it as a play on words, as more of Mordred's disconcerting mood.

  For a moment.

  She tried to back away. "No." She thought of Bayard, always hugging, always laughing, his large hand resting easily on Alayna's arm as they walked together. Would he really have gotten rid of her, as readily as he had gotten rid of Eldred and Lowell? Would he have killed her, if she hadn't trusted him, because he had no real interest in her but only in her daughter?

  But already Mordred was focused beyond her, no longer seeing her. "I will tend to Bayard," he said, hugging himself as though for warmth.

  "Mordred..."

  Again he put his finger to her lips. Then he helped her to her feet. "But you must leave. Arthur's men are moving. We have caught some of their advance spies already. The main force will be here to attack by dawn."

  "Mordred! Arthur would never attack your people. He would never really fight you." The thought of how much ill Mordred's misguided suspicions could cause nearly took her breath away.

  Mordred just looked at her.

  "If it ever came to that—"

  "It has already come to that." Now that Mordred had committed himself to her, he insisted on telling her all. "There has already been a battle," he said. "Not a foray or a skirmish, a battle. Do you understand? The fighting has begun. I had to give the order—make the first move—or he would have forced us into a corner. It has gone beyond anything that could be patched over and forgiven. I'm sorry that there is no time for you to rest, but you have to go now."

  She threw her arms around his neck. What could she say: Good luck against Arthur? I hope you win? "Take care," she told him instead. She pulled away before he could answer, if he would have answered, and she stepped outside.

  One of the knights who had been talking with Mordred, the one who had at least looked familiar, got up from the watchfire by which he had been sitting. He smoothed his mustache and said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "My Lady, may I accompany you to your mount?"

  Kiera followed without a backwards glance to check if Mordred watched. Although the sunset still reddened the western sky, most in the camp were already bedded down for the night, and few bestirred themselves to see who passed.

  Somebody had found a saddl
e for her, and Tempest was fidgety over it. This still wasn't a lady's saddle, but it would make staying on easier. "Tempest," she murmured, stroking his muzzle. "We're to go home."

  Tempest shook himself, jingling the metal of his bridle.

  "Mordred said for us to go home."

  Tempest snorted, tossing his head.

  "You are certain you can handle such a steed by yourself?" The knight's chubby, good-natured face peered at her skeptically.

  She nodded and he gave her a boost onto Tempests back.

  "I will see that you find your way."

  Whistling tunelessly, he took the reins and led Tempest up the slope of the hill. They saw no one, though there was an occasional rattle of pebbles off to the side. Perimeter guards, she realized. Her escort, dressed in heavy armor, had begun to puff loudly at the exertion of the climb; but all the while he continued to whistle. Proof, she decided, that he was more for the benefit of the sentries than for any difficulty the path itself posed.

  "Thank you," she said once the man stopped, well beyond the crest of the hill.

  He had made the climb at Tempests pace and was still panting. He nodded. "Now, there is no need to rush in the dark. Just keep a steady pace for as long as you have light and you will be beyond any danger."

  "Yes." She was reluctant to break this final contact, but saw that he took her hesitation as fear. "Thank you," she said, putting her heels to Tempests sides. "Farewell."

  The first time she looked back, she saw him silhouetted against what was left of the sunset; but the next time she turned he was gone. She lifted her face to the quickly blackening sky. The moon would be in its first quarter, rising late and setting early. There would be several hours of total darkness before dawn, and she planned to stop before then, rather than risk Tempests breaking a leg in a rabbit hole or some such unseen hazard.

  But they hadn't gone far when Kiera noticed that Tempests gait had stiffened, becoming self-consciously chary.

  Despite his assurances that nothing was wrong, and despite her knowing that dismounting was easier than getting back on, she slipped off his back. "Did you step on something?" She lifted his right front leg without giving him a chance to answer. Nothing wrong with his hoof. She ran her hand down from forearm to fetlock. "You might have pulled a muscle." She glanced back the way they had come to gauge the distance, which—in truth—was not all that great. "Do you think you could go a bit farther if I walked, or should we stop here?"

  Tempest also looked back. Kiera had explained that there was to be a battle, men fighting, and that was the thing for which Tempest had trained all his life. And Mordred was there, who had been Tempest's responsibility. He looked at her, his large dark eyes confused.

  "We can't go back," she told him. "We can stay, or we can go on. But we cannot go back."

  He nickered softly, pushing against her hair. Then he turned and faced the way home.

  She twined her fingers into his mane and walked beside him until the moon disappeared under the horizon.

  CHAPTER 15

  When Kiera awoke, it was early morning. Her clothes were still damp from the dew, though the grass around her had dried. She got up stiffly, barely able to move.

  "Tempest," she called too loudly when she didn't see the horse immediately. Panic set in at the thought of being alone.

  But he had only wandered as far as the edge of the hillock where they had stopped for the night. They were in the middle of a small woods, but when she got to Tempest's side, she realized that they were high enough to be able to see over a good many of the trees. When she squinted and concentrated hard enough, she thought she could see back to the edge of the woods. Beyond that would be the gently rolling plain they had crossed, and beyond that, Mordred's camp. If he had anticipated correctly—if Arthur had attacked at dawn—both men could be dead by now.

  Arthur would not have, she tried to convince herself. Arthur was too kind. Arthur was...

  Arthur was King. And if Mordred posed a threat to his kingdom, Arthur would do whatever he had to do.

  Was that smoke on the horizon? No. Only morning fog. She listened. Birds. Insects. The barest whisper of a breeze. She chided herself for finding comfort in the near silence. The sounds of battle wouldn't carry this far in any case.

  Neither she nor Tempest had appetite for the food she had discovered in the saddle pack last night, gift from Mordred's men.

  Tempest's leg had stiffened so that walking was even more painful for him than it had been the day before. With a mixture of reluctance and relief she led him away from the hill with its almost-view of what she had left behind. Little by little they walked, until nightfall, which was just one more rest period of many.

  Late the following afternoon they were in a stretch of woods when they rounded a curve and came upon Alayna.

  Would her mother be angry or relieved?—Kiera had no idea. She decided to remain aloof, just to be safe.

  Alayna jumped off her horse almost before it stopped, and ran toward her.

  Kiera abandoned her plan and threw herself into her mother's arms. "How did you find me?" she asked. "How did you know I was here?"

  Alayna, oblivious to her own tears, wiped away Kiera's. "A dispatch came from Mordred shortly after you disappeared. As soon as I heard his name, I just knew you—"

  "Oh, Mother, they're fighting: Arthur and Mordred—"

  "I know."

  "I mean really fighting. Yesterday. About a day in from the coast, they—"

  "I know. I met a royal messenger yesterday. They're both still alive. Sir Deems was killed, and Galton. Bevis. Scores of men on both sides, but neither Mordred nor Arthur was hurt."

  Deems had had a talent for making up silly songs that always made her laugh. Galton could tame wild birds to take seed from his hand. Bevis had struggled with the decision to become a knight or a priest. Kiera couldn't think of them as dead, or allow herself happiness that Arthur and Mordred were not.

  Instead, seeing that her mother was wearing page's breeches and a leather jerkin—and had a sword by her side—she said, "You came to rescue me."

  Her mother looked away self-consciously. "You're a terrible daughter," she said, but Kiera knew she didn't mean it.

  "What else?" Kiera asked. "What else did the messenger say?"

  "That Arthur won the battle..."

  She felt drained, that was all. How could she feel happy or sad?

  "...but that it wasn't decisive."

  There had to be a clear victor. There had to be or..."They're going to fight again? That's ... that's..."

  "Madness. Yes." Her mother took a deep breath. Then another. "Oh, Kiera, let's go home."

  Kiera glanced at Tempest and wondered how much of this he understood. Not much, she guessed, or else he trusted her completely, because he waited patiently. She faced Alayna again. "Mordred has been talking with Nimue."

  The flush left Alayna's face. She asked, very reasonably, "Can he do that?"

  Was Nimue dead? It had always seemed more believable that Nimue's dead body had somehow dissolved, rather than that she had escaped into thin air. Else, why hadn't she returned once the danger was gone?

  "I ... I don't see how."

  And there was also the question of why Nimue would come back now, and why she spoke only—apparently—to Mordred.

  Alayna said, "Kiera, there is nothing we can do."

  She had no answer for that.

  "There is nothing we can do," her mother repeated.

  "I know," Kiera admitted.

  Her mother twisted her palfrey's reins around her hand until her fingers turned red. "What do you expect of me?" she cried. "Even if we got there in time, since when does he listen to me?"

  Kiera knew that, too. "I didn't say anything."

  Alayna shook the reins loose. "All right," she said. "All right, all right, all right."

  Another day and a half later they caught up to the two armies. They were camped within easy march of each other on a huge plain that seemed pa
rticularly well suited for large groups of men killing each other.

  "What do you think is going on?" Kiera whispered, though they were far enough away that even her mother, who had keener eyes, had trouble picking out details.

  "Can't tell." Alayna also whispered.

  In the fading light of evening, they lay on their stomachs at the lip of one of the hills that rimmed the field. The incline was a long slope with much rubble, impossible for fighting; but the plain was large enough to accommodate both armies, each spread out in its own corner, and an empty expanse between. It reminded Kiera of the old Roman arenas, which were no more than ruins now, where men had fought to the death for the entertainment of the crowds. But this battle would be fought by the crowds.

  Her mother said, "A truce perhaps. A parley."

  That, Kiera thought, was wishful thinking.

  Alayna pointed to the right. "Arthur's personal standard is there."

  Kiera had seen it all her life: a red-winged dragon—but even knowing what she was looking for didn't help; from this distance, the very colors of the banners shifted.

  "And there"—Alayna pointed left—"is Mordred's."That would be the stark Latin cross, black on a field of white, that had become identified with Mordred during last summer's border wars: a symbol of hope, in tones of mourning. Alayna sighed.

  Then gasped.

  Kiera turned slowly. A knight stood next to her mother, his sword extended so that it rested easily against her shoulder.

  "Sir Dodinas," Alayna said to the knight who held it, one of Mordred's men. "We mean no harm."

  "Unfasten your scabbard and—very slowly—hand it to me. Now get up, quiet and easy, one at a time. You first." He tipped the point of the sword toward Kiera. "Away from the edge so that nobody down below can see you."

  "Dodinas," Alayna said. "Don't you know us? Alayna De La Croix, and Kiera."

  "Keep your voice down. I see who you are. Now move, very slowly. And don't try anything. Should you escape from me, the hill is covered with patrols—Arthur's and our own. You would not get as far as your horses. And they are no longer where you left them anyway."