The Book of Mordred

by Vivian Vande Velde

  "Well. But you don't know Morgana." He took Alayna's hand, helping her to her feet. "She tried to have me killed once—in a particularly nasty way—when we were both young."

  Alayna shifted her weight, and even Kiera was uncomfortable at the reminder that Morgana, who looked younger than Mordred, was actually Arthur's older sister.

  Arthur patted Alayna's hand. "She and I go back a long time, more years than she will admit to. And I know not to turn my back on her. If Mordred has any sense at all, he knows so, too. Now, the hour is late, and tomorrow is a big day..."

  Alayna was letting herself be led to the door. Kiera threw herself to her knees at Arthur's feet and grabbed his hand. "You aren't planning to fight him, are you?" she asked. "I'm sorry, I know that's no proper way to talk to a king, but—"

  "Kiera, Kiera," he said. "Mordred's representatives have agreed to the terms I laid out." His look hardened. "Unless you know something I do not."

  Don't let something ill come because of me, she prayed. She shook her head. "He said that, barring treachery on your part, he wouldn't raise his sword to you."

  Arthur helped her to her feet. "Then we are safe. For, barring treachery on his part, surely I would not be the first to raise a sword against my son. Satisfied?"

  Slowly, she nodded.

  Still, the gray mist that had been swirling at her knees crept up to her waist.

  CHAPTER 17

  Kiera and her mother waited for daybreak, neither able to sleep, in the tent from which three of Arthur's officers had been evicted for their sake.

  Shortly after daybreak, Bedivere came to ask them to accompany the King's party to the meeting place, halfway between the two camps.

  "But why?" Alayna asked.

  "King Arthur thought it might be a nice peaceful gesture," Bedivere said, "since you have maintained friendly ties with both sides." His expression said he didn't approve.

  Kiera saw Mordred turn, his hand pressed to his side; blood ran between his fingers, down his arm. Beside him, Arthur dropped to his knees with a clatter of his silver armor, and coughed, spitting up blood.

  "Kiera!" Her mother was shaking her.

  Kiera tried to speak, but no words would come. She saw Bedivere was watching her with a combination of disgust and trepidation.

  He pulled the tent flap back to walk out, but readjusted his features quickly. "My Lord," he said, bowing.

  The vision dissipated entirely as, through the tent opening, she glimpsed Arthur passing by on his way to the horses.

  "I do not think it would be appropriate—" Alayna started to say to Bedivere's invitation, but then she interrupted herself. "Is he going like that?" she asked in horror. "Without armor?"

  Bedivere snorted. "Show of faith for the peace conference." He shook his head. "Lord have mercy on us all."

  "No." Kiera exhaled slowly, finally daring to hope. In the visions, Arthur and Mordred were both in armor. She wanted to laugh out loud with relief. "No, this is a good sign."

  Bedivere's expression was blank, somewhere between desperation to believe that everything would work out and fear that she was demented.

  "I saw him," Kiera explained, wanting to share her relief, "with armor."

  Bedivere's look became more skeptical. "When?"

  That would not ease his mind "What about Mordred?" she asked, "Will he be wearing armor?"

  Bedivere tapped his head. "I doubt even Mordred knows what Mordred is going to do from one moment to the next."

  Kiera wouldn't allow Bedivere to ruin her belief that everything might, after all, work out differently from her vision. "It doesn't matter," she told him, told her mother, told herself. "Arthur is not—so that changes everything."

  She swept ahead of him, hearing her mother curse under her breath as she hurriedly gathered up her things.

  The knights, all armed and armored except for the King, were waiting. Horses had been saddled for them and somebody Kiera didn't know lifted her to straddle the smallest, an easygoing sorrel. Kiera wondered how Tempest fared, over in Mordred's camp.

  Alayna caught up, puffing and muttering, one boot and her sword under her arm as she laced her leather jerkin. She glared at Kiera, but said nothing. She had to sit on the ground to get the boot on, then fastened the sword at her waist. One of the squires, biting his cheeks to keep from laughing, helped her up. Now she would be angry about that, too.

  Arthur faced the waiting army. "By the grace of God, we ride forward to peace. I expect no treachery, or I would not lead you here. But be alert, and if—God forbid—the unexpected should happen"—Arthur's gaze took in the entire group—"I expect you to follow your captains as you would me."

  The men raised their swords, and their rhythmic chant filled the air: "Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!"

  The King nodded to Bedivere, who carried the flag of truce.

  Bedivere gave a soft grunt of disapproval, but moved his horse to the fore.

  Arthur's group, twelve men plus the two women, came next; and the rest of the army followed several furlongs behind. Kiera knew that on the other side of the plain Mordred's people would have set out, probably in much the same formation, the moment they saw the blank white standard move forward.

  Once she could make them out, she squinted until Mordred came into focus. He was dressed in black—but it was cloth, not armor. She exhaled in relief, and her mother, riding beside, gave her an uneasy look. Kiera smiled, to say that everything was going to be all right, but Alayna had already looked away.

  Bedivere and the standard bearer from Mordred's army met. The two white flags fluttered listlessly.

  Arthur raised his hand for the army behind him to stop where they were, and Mordred gave a similar signal to his men. The two advance groups edged closer.

  With further relief, Kiera noted that Mordred was not wearing a sword, only Gawain's anlace tucked into his belt. Every difference in detail reaffirmed that her vision would not come to pass. Whether the future had been changed or only deferred, today—at least—was safe. Her gaze continued over the rest of Mordred's group.

  And stopped at Morgana, who winked at her.

  Kiera looked away quickly, but the gray mist had already closed in, tightening around her chest.

  They were beginning to dismount. Kiera half fell, half jumped from her saddle and joined the semicircle around Arthur, who had taken two steps and then stopped, waiting for Mordred to come to him.

  Mordred paused, with a smile that bordered on a smirk. I know what you're doing, that smile said, but he approached anyway, arms extended to show his hands were empty. "Father," he said smooth and cold as ice.

  "Son," Arthur replied in a tone that matched. But then he clasped Mordred's wrists and pulled him into an embrace.

  Mordred pulled away, too fast for Kiera to read whatever it was that flickered across his face. He stepped back into the security of his own group, which had formed their own crescent around him. Only Morgana stood apart, still by her horse, tugging on the saddle straps, adjusting the cinches.

  "So," Mordred said, still in that infuriating, distant voice. "What is the proper protocol for treaties? You have made so many over the long years, and this is my first." He folded his arms over his chest.

  Arthur set his jaw.

  Kiera averted her gaze, and the mist closed about her throat: Mordred was wearing Nimue's—Merlin's—ring. It was no longer about his neck, but on his finger.

  As long as she was looking for signs, surely that was not a good one.

  "Kiera," Alayna whispered frantically in her ear, dragging her back from wherever she had been.

  Time had continued to pass, while she hadn't been paying attention. Kiera clutched at her mother's hand.

  "Well," Morgana was saying about something, "I certainly do not think you should let him get away with that."

  Mordred didn't react, but Arthur—who must have been interrupted several times already—pointed his finger at her. "See here, Morgan, I—"

  "The devil take you!" o
ne of Mordred's men exclaimed, whipping out his sword.

  Mordred whirled around, but Morgana was holding onto his arm, and this slowed him.

  "Jesu protect us!" Bedivere cried at the naked blade. "Treachery!" He pushed Arthur back, out of harm's way, and pulled his own weapon from its sheath.

  Kiera heard the scrape of metal all around her. What had happened? She had seen nothing amiss.

  "No, wait!" Mordred lunged away from Morgana, grabbed at Bedivere's arm. "Reeve," he shouted over his shoulder to his own man, "put that away."

  "Stop this!" Arthur commanded, trying to make his way through the cordon of men who were determined to protect him.

  Bedivere swung his sword at Mordred's face. Mordred jerked back, and another of the King's men grabbed him from behind, his arm around Mordred's neck.

  Morgana added her shrill screams to the confusion.

  But Kiera saw her face: She wasn't afraid.

  She wasn't afraid.

  And that made Kiera look back at the man who had started it all—Reeve was his name—who was fighting with one of Arthur's men.

  Alayna was trying to push her back, but Kiera ducked under her mother's arm, all the while searching the ground near Reeve's feet. He moved hesitantly, gingerly, despite his danger from the other swordsman, clearly distracted.

  She finally spotted the slither of black and brown.

  "Snake!" Kiera screamed. "He was only startled by Morgana's snake!" At her cry of "Snake," Reeve dropped his guard entirely, and the other man jabbed his sword through his lifted visor.

  Mordred swore in Cornish. "Didn't you hear?" he yelled when he made it back to English. "He was just after the snake."

  "Snake? What snake?" the other scoffed, but the last word was choked and he pitched forward, an arrow in his back. It had come from the main body of Mordred's troops, no doubt under orders similar to Arthur's regarding treachery.

  "No!" Mordred cried, trying to break away from the King's man who still held him. "Let me stop them!"

  Kiera could feel the trembling of the ground, could hear the hundreds of horses.

  "Merciful Lord," someone muttered, looking from Mordred's side to Arthur's. "And were right in the middle."

  "Move!" somebody shouted.

  The man who held Mordred shoved him toward Bedivere and scrambled for the horses.

  Mordred stumbled and Bedivere grabbed him by the shoulder with his left hand, meanwhile drawing back his right arm, his sword arm.

  "Stay!" Arthur commanded. Kiera saw he wasn't looking at Bedivere, but meant the others, those intent on getting out of the way of the two converging armies.

  Still, Bedivere didn't know. He checked himself midswing.

  Arthur pulled one knight off his horse. "Stand fast. They will not run us down if both leaders ate in the way."

  Kiera prayed he was right.

  The man eyed the fast-approaching fronts skeptically.

  Bedivere still hesitated, still held fast to Mordred.

  "My Lord," one of Mordred's men said—Kiera recognized the good-natured knight who had escorted her up the hill—"there are archers on both sides. They will pick us off as soon as they are within range—any moment now. The flanks are too wide to stop."

  Mordred's eyes moved, but that was all.

  Bedivere remained totally motionless.

  "Your Highness, he's right," Alayna said. "We cannot stop this from here."

  Several of the men moved toward their horses again. This time Arthur didn't stop them.

  Kiera fought every instinct that screamed at her to run.

  "If you let go of me," Mordred told Bedivere, "Arthur and I can rejoin our armies. Once we get back in control, we can countermand the attack orders. Unless that is not what you want."

  Arthur seemed to finally notice them. He nodded. "Bedivere, put your sword down before it's too late."

  Bedivere watched Mordred's face.

  Mordred said nothing.

  Kiera looked longingly at her horse, and tried to ignore the other horses—seemingly just beyond—bearing down on them.

  "Bedivere," Arthur said. "Put down your sword."

  Bedivere released Mordred's shoulder, sheathed his sword, turned toward Arthur.

  Mordred spun him back around, the small but deadly anlace to his throat.

  Arthur, who had already moved for his horse, was helped up by two knights who had hurriedly dismounted. By the time he looked back, Bedivere and Mordred were still again. Bedivere wore an expression that said he had expected this all along; Mordred's face was unreadable.

  "My Lord," urged the knight from Mordred's group who had spoken earlier. He held the reins of Mordred's horse in readiness.

  Alayna shoved Kiera toward her horse. "Move."

  Kiera half fell against the horse's flank. Instinctively she reached up for the pommel, but her attention was on Mordred and Bedivere. Alayna continued pushing her, and she clambered into the saddle.

  Mordred moved the point of the knife in even closer. Bedivere braced himself, which seemed what Mordred wanted, for he smiled—one of his more unpleasant smiles.

  "My Lord," the other knight begged, "there is no time."

  Mordred hesitated another moment, then the knife was back in his belt and he had stepped out of Bedivere's range. He leaped onto his horse, then turned back to Arthur. "See if you can control your men," he said, "and I will hold back mine."

  It probably wasn't all boast, for only two of his surviving thirteen had mounted before him; while of Arthur's group, only Bedivere and Alayna were as yet unhorsed.

  Arthur tugged on his reins, heading back to his own lines.

  "Go!" Alayna yelled at Kiera. Her own horse, perhaps sensing battle from all the shouting, had suddenly become high-spirited, and pulled to one side so that she had a hard time mounting.

  Kiera pulled in closer, trying to help. Bedivere, already mounted, hesitated between following his king and helping Alayna, who had been his responsibility previously.

  On the other side, Morgana had finally located and picked up her snake, but her horse had bolted. "Mordred!" she called. "I need help."

  Mordred turned back, regarding her coldly.

  Kiera remembered that he hadn't seen Morgana's face. As far as he knew, her bringing the pet snake to the peace negotiations was no more than thoughtlessness. Kiera opened her mouth, prepared to tell him, but then closed it again. He would leave her if he knew.

  As awful as Morgana was, did she deserve to be abandoned between two advancing armies?

  "Mordred." Morgana stepped forward, and an arrow hissed just behind her. "Mordred!" She searched the faces of Mordred's men, seeing no expression more friendly than her nephew's.

  "Put down the snake," Mordred said.

  "But Buttercup will get..."

  Mordred yanked on his reins, and Morgana threw the snake to the ground. "He's down, he's down."

  Mordred pulled back around, and swung Morgana onto the saddle with him. She would have complained against the ungainliness of it, Kiera suspected, just as several more arrows whizzed through the air, from both directions.

  "Kiera!" her mother shouted. She had gotten a good hold and had finally swung up.

  Bedivere now took off after the King.

  Kiera put her heels to her horse and followed after Bedivere.

  "Head back and to the right," her mother shouted. Kiera could only make out every other word or so, but put it together as best she could. "They're curving in, and we cannot outrun them, but they will be spread thinner at the edges. If we get separated, head for the camp."

  Kiera signaled that she understood—

  And then they were engulfed by the first wave of Arthur's men.

  It was similar to the day of Guinevere's rescue in the courtyard—trying to fight the current of a mass of humanity. But this time Kiera had a horse to do the work for her. On the other hand, the people she faced now held weapons at the ready for the enemy they were about to face.

  Her horse shie
d to the left as a knight, seeing her break through from the direction of Mordred's camp, aimed himself at her. He moved his arm in a circular swing, and she heard the whizzz of the spiked ball on the end of its chain before she saw the mace. He must have realized his mistake as he spun the deadly morningstar over his head, for he didn't lash out at her, though its momentum precluded his putting his arm back down. He charged by her, and she twisted around to make sure he didn't use his readied weapon on her mother. There was no sign of Alayna, although in such a press of people that was not proof she wasn't there.

  Kiera faced forward again and was clipped on the side of the head by the edge of somebody's shield. Dizzily, she slumped to the right. She felt her horse compensate for her shifting weight just as he should be moving to avoid another horseman.

  At the last instant he was forced into a close turn, and she felt herself slide farther to the right even as she tried to pull herself back up. Again she was grazed by a knight passing too close, his armored sleeve scraping against her bare arm. He yelled back, but too many others were shouting for anybody to hear: those behind whipping their courage up to a frenzy for the coming battle, while others at the fore were already dying.

  Her left foot had slipped out of the stirrup and was halfway up her mount's back. She pressed tight with her legs, thinking, hoping, there could not be that many more ranks of soldiers left.

  Her horse was jostled, and she closed her eyes rather than watch the ground slip ever closer to her face.

  They swerved once again, then she felt his muscles tense even more. They were hit almost head-on this time. He pitched forward, his legs tangled with the other horse's. Both animals cried in pain. Kiera's arms and legs gave out—it felt as though someone tore her away—and she fell face forward on the ground.

  She was aware of the horses screaming, their hooves flailing as they thrashed on the ground, and she wondered if she would be killed by her own crippled mount or by someone else running over her. But then the sky began to rotate on an axis located just between her eyes, spinning faster than the spiked morningstar ball.

  Silly, she told herself, the sky can't he moving—it has to be the earth.