Grass?
But that made no sense: The courtyard was flagstone, not grass. Blue gray flagstone, with blood between the cracks, and there was Agravaine, bleeding from a massive chest wound.
Agravaine?
But he was already dead.
And of an injury to his head, not his chest.
She blinked, stiffened again, and heard herself whimper, but Gaheris chose not to notice. His job was to escort her to the stake, and they had already fallen too far behind the others.
Bong! Bong! Bong!
Kiera screamed and fell to her knees. Gaheris whipped around, looking for the source of danger.
And the bell stopped. There was a thud! instead of a bong! As though the bell ringer had—what? Stopped in midtug? Just as Gaheris had finally stopped and was now suspended midway down in crouching beside her ... As the black-hooded executioner had stopped tying Guinevere to the stake ... As the crowd stopped murmuring and shuffling.
Then the bell rang again. But fast this time, frantic, a call to arms, a ringing such as the people of peaceful Camelot hadn't heard since Arthur had become High King.
"Lord, have mercy on our souls," Gaheris whispered.
The man beside whom they had stopped threw back his rough peasant's cloak, revealing a long sword. Armed knights jumped out of their hiding places in the sausage wagon. "Lancelot!" someone called, a cheer. "Lancelot! Lancelot!"
And then another voice yelled: "Burn her!"
CHAPTER 7
Instantly everyone was on the move. Friends and family members got separated. Already the crowd had divided into three contingents: those who wanted the Queen rescued, those who wanted her executed, and those who wanted to get out of the way as quickly as possible while the first two groups fought it out.
On the raised platform, the executioner wavered. He was looking toward the castle, to see if King Arthur watched from one of the windows, obviously hoping the king would give him a sign.
"Go!" Gaheris hauled Kiera to her feet and pushed her back toward the doorway from which they had just come.
The force of his push caused her to stagger forward several paces, but then she stopped to look over her shoulder, to watch what he was going to do. A dog, scrambling out of the way of all the suddenly running feet, got entangled in her legs. She put her arms out to regain her balance, and hit somebody in the face. As she turned to apologize, someone else ran into her, and she flipped over the dog, smacking her palms and scrapping her knees even through her dress. A woman heavy with child, already fallen, screamed into her ear.
The dog gave one warning growl, then began snapping at the surrounding knees and calves. Someone tried to kick the animal, hitting Kiera's elbow instead. But the menacing snarls kept the crowd back long enough for her to get to her feet.
In another instant she was almost trampled down again, but this time she clutched at the nearest person and managed to stay standing. Her hands were swatted away, and she was swept along with the crowd, facing backwards.
"Gaheris!" she called, unable to see over the mass of stampeding bodies—for, though she was too tall for a girl, at least half the crowd were men.
Nobody warned her, and the next moment she backed into rough masonry, the castle wall. The flow of people angled sharply off to the right, toward the nearest door. But it was already impossibly crammed with those trying to get through, away from the courtyard.
Her back scraping against the wall, Kiera forced her way instead to the left. She suddenly broke through the surge of humanity and had an unobstructed view of the courtyard.
There were knights killing each other—Arthur's men, recognizable by the winged dragon that had given the Pendragon family its name, and Lancelot's supporters, who wore no emblem.
But it was not only knights. Townspeople fought each other, using knives or stones or bare hands. Others ganged up on individual knights, often ones who were already wounded. The blacksmith had leaped to the front of the platform where Guinevere was tied, and picked up a bundle of the kindling. Now he waved it before him, jabbing its bristling ends at anybody from either faction who tried to approach. Half-trained squires retrieved weapons of knights who had already fallen, and they were, in turn, cut down.
Kiera squinted, unable from this distance and with her poor eyesight to recognize individual faces. There was one cluster where several of the palace guard fought, and she guessed that to be where Lancelot was. But something was wrong—there weren't as many of the King's men as there should have been. Even given that some would risk the accusation of treason by refusing to fight their former captain, they should have vastly outnumbered Lancelots group, which couldn't have been more than fifty or sixty.
The sweat on her back and arms chilled and began to prickle as she thought of Gareth and Gaheris unarmored. Once more she entered the crowd, pushing her way closer to the fighting.
A holiday-garbed merchant lurched into her, even though that portion of the crowd which was doing the most frantic pushing had already clustered at the various doorways. "Excuse," the man muttered, his breath stale with wine.
She edged sideways.
He took hold of her shoulders, tried to straighten her dress that was all twisted from sliding against the wall. "Excuse," he repeated, tipping forward.
"Get away from me!" she cried, loudly, to be heard over the clamor of the bell.
He backed away, bowing. "Looking for the door," he said. "Excuse." He sat down suddenly, looking surprised.
Kiera circled around him. "Gaheris!" she called. "Gareth!" Her voice didn't carry. She herself could barely hear it over the ringing of the bell and the clashing of swords and the shouts of men, both battle cries and death cries. Let the others do this on their own! she wanted to warn them. Oh, let the others do it.
A hand grabbed her shoulder from behind. She whipped around, suspecting the drunken merchant again, but it was Gaheris. She was ready to hug him, but he held her out at arm's length and shook her. "I thought you were safe inside. Dammit, I can't be nursemaid to you."
She opened her mouth to try to tell him the awful danger he was in: how she had seen him and Gareth, as well as Agravaine, dead.
"Burn her!" shouted the man standing next to them, his voice drowning out hers.
Gaheris flashed him a look of loathing.
"Gaheris," she tried again. Already his attention had moved off her, was focused instead on the center of the courtyard, where Guinevere was still tied to the stake, where Gareth stood, arguing with the black-hooded executioner who held his lighted torch. The blacksmith, whichever side he'd been on, was sprawled face down among the kindling. "Gaheris," Kiera insisted.
"Burn her!" the townsman next to them yelled again, and threw a rock that hit Gareth on the back, between the shoulder blades. Gareth whirled to scan the melee.
But Gaheris was closer, was there already. He took handfuls of the man's shirt and flung him against the sausage wagon. The man staggered and Gaheris kept him from falling by bouncing him off the side of the wagon again, and then again.
"Gaheris!" she begged, but he wouldn't be diverted. She looked toward the stake again. She couldn't hear, but she could tell that Gareth was angry by the way he waved his arms at the executioner, who, in return, shook his torch practically under Gareth's nose. Gareth grabbed his wrist and the man tried to pull away.
Another rock flew from a different direction to fall harmlessly among the kindling.
And then a third stone was hurled, and this one struck the executioner's hand. He jerked back.
And dropped the burning torch.
Into the kindling.
The dried wood burst into flame, and the crowd erupted into noise—cheers as well as cries of dismay.
Kiera caught a glimpse of Lancelot, wading through the concentration of Arthur's men who had positioned themselves around the platform. Not enough, she realized: They'd never stop him. He swung his broadsword before him, and his own followers were having a difficult time keeping up. She saw Sir Ag
lovale go down, and Sir Belliance, then lost sight of Lancelot.
She turned to Gaheris and found that he was gone, too. She finally made him out already halfway to the stake. There Gareth stamped on the flames. Guinevere shrank back against the stake, away from the fire. Then Kiera noticed the executioner. Apparently he had decided that in absence of a decision by the King, he'd take the fallen torch as a sign from God. He was running full-tilt at Gareth from behind.
"Look out!" she yelled. Not in time, even if she had been loud enough. Gareth went sprawling.
Just beyond the platform, Lancelot crouched as a peasant swung a thick, rough-hewn stave at his head. He sprang erect, his sword angled, and impaled the man. At the same moment Lancelot was yanking his sword free, Gareth was trying to get back to his feet. He must have heard the commotion behind him, for he whirled around, still at a half crouch, just as Lancelot leaped onto the platform.
And Lancelot ran him through.
"Gareth!" Kiera screamed.
Yet even if she had been close enough, he was already beyond hearing.
But there was still time to try to save his brother. "Gaheris!" Kiera screamed with all her might.
Gaheris swung onto the platform just as Lancelot sliced the ropes that bound Guinevere. Gaheris froze when he saw Gareth's body.
"Gaheris!" Kiera pushed through the crowd. "Lancelot, it's Gaheris!"
Lancelot must have caught Gaheris's movement out of the corner of his eye. His movement, but not his face. Lancelot gave a backhanded swing of his sword without noticing that the figure did not threaten, did not—in fact—move. The blade sliced Gaheris's throat, and Lancelot didn't check to make sure he was dead, nor even to see whom, among all the many, he was.
Kiera dropped to her knees, covering her eyes, unwilling to witness any more.
Sir Bors's voice rose above the confusion. "Lance! The rest of the guards!"
Reluctantly, Kiera pulled her hands down from her eyes. From somewhere, Lancelot's people had brought out readied horses. But now, two or three dozen of the palace guard were streaming into the courtyard, all on foot, all from the direction of the gate.
Numbly, Kiera realized that she was between the two groups of armed men. Arthur's men had been waiting, she saw, expecting a frontal assault, not infiltration. And now they were straggling in, a few dozen at a time, out of breath from the run in full field armor, and found themselves in the unaccustomed position of foot soldiers facing the lowered lances of mounted chevaliers.
From behind she heard Mordred's voice, yelling to the King's men to fall back, not to stand up against the horses.
Lancelot, mounted behind Guinevere and surrounded by his men, dug his heels into his destrier's sides. The group formed a wedge, and aimed themselves at Arthur's men, who scattered.
Move! Kiera told herself, but there wasn't time. She threw her arms up to protect her head—much good that would do, but it was all there was time for.
An arm circled her waist, dragged her backwards, so that she and the person who had pulled her back tumbled to the ground. She felt a tug on her dress, felt and heard the tear of fabric, and knew that a horse's hoof had landed on the trailing hem.
She recognized the feel of her mother's arms, then the voice, shouting in her ear, cursing Lancelot's men as savages who endangered the lives of innocent children.
Kiera twisted around to gape at Alayna, this soft-spoken, soft-bodied woman who shunned situations of crowding and noise, who had somehow been close enough to see her danger.
Now that Lancelot and Guinevere had escaped, those of the townspeople who remained in the courtyard were joined by many who had initially retreated indoors. Dead bodies were identified. The widow Clive's son. Sir Priamus. Young Sumner who had just been accepted into the Woodcrafters' Guild. Friends and relatives with caved-in skulls or gaping wounds. The summer evening was pierced by voices raised in mourning, sending chills up the backs of all who had not yet located their loved ones.
Once again, people were running.
A second pair of arms plucked Kiera off the ground, away from her mother. Mordred held her while he called directions for the setting up of an infirmary for the wounded, then impatiently, as if he had asked before, demanded where the horses were. There was still no sign of Arthur, and the people seemed to instinctively acknowledge Mordred as being in charge.
"I'm not hurt," Kiera said as soon as she could speak without interrupting him. "I can stand."
Mordred set her down. He had been supporting her weight mostly with his left, uninjured arm and didn't look as if he could have done so for much longer. But still, he looked at her closely before turning away. "Gawain, go see if you can find out what the delay is at the stable. They will be half the way to France before we ever get started." He raised his voice to carry into the crowd. "Has anybody seen Gareth or Gaheris? And would somebody please get that fool to stop ringing the bell? Sir Lucan..."
Kiera felt her mother's arms around her again, and realized she had swayed, almost fallen. "Mordred," Kiera said, unable to get much louder than a whisper.
He had hold of her other elbow. "Can somebody—"
Several people were yelling all at once. "The horses. They've gone and killed the horses."
Two squires tried to force their way through the crowd to Mordred's side.
"Move!" Gawain, behind them, pushed one insistent man out of the way, intimidated the rest with his voice and sheer bulk. He grabbed Mordred's arm, which made his younger brother wince. "Lancelot's men," Gawain panted. "They've killed the stable master and his assistants. A good quarter of the horses are dead or cut up. Much of the equipment is slashed and unusable. They tried to get a fire going, but thank God our people caught it before it spread too far."
Mordred swore. "Get together what you can..." Mercifully, the clamor from the bell cut off abruptly. "See what you can salvage—"
"Done, it's done. They'll be out as soon as they can, but good Lord, Mordred, the horses! There was no need for that."
"Did you see Gareth or Gaheris?"
Gawain shook his head. "I had trouble convincing Arthur to stay inside. Maybe they're with him."
"Mordred," Kiera said, still not much more than a whisper. "Gawain." She noted the quick looks behind their backs and knew she wasn't the only one who had seen. Why were they leaving this to her? Why didn't one of the adults tell them? Somebody had hold of Mordred's arm, was asking about the Channel crossing should Lancelot's men get that far.
Kiera tugged on his shirt, despite Alayna's continued fretting. "Mordred."
He gestured for her to wait, and she repeated his name much more loudly. He turned, even though the squires had started to bring out the surviving horses, accoutered in what remained of saddles and bridles. Gawain, asking something of one of the squires, realized he was suddenly the only one in the vicinity talking, and stopped midsentence.
Mordred's dark gray eyes surveyed the crowd. Perhaps he recognized the hunger, the way their eyes expectantly flicked from him to Kiera.
Vultures, she thought again. They're waiting to feed on him.
She searched for the right words, but there were none.
"He didn't see them," she blurted out, not any reasonable way to start, but the silence could go on no longer. "Mordred, he didn't mean it."
Mordred's eyes narrowed.
"Lancelot," Kiera said, and in that moment, he knew. She could see he knew. She said, "There were so many people, armed knights and townsfolk throwing stones."
Mordred turned to face the platform, the stake.
How had she come to this, that she was defending Lancelot, who was destroying the people she loved most? She insisted, "He didn't recognize them!"
People moved out of his way faster than they had done earlier for Gawain. Gawain was fighting comprehension, obviously trying to fit a different meaning to Kiera's words, but his face was pale above his beard. "Not Gareth," he said, laying his large hand on her shoulder. "He would never have hurt young Gareth."
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But a path had opened from them to the platform, and his keen eyes would have been able to sort out the sprawled forms at the foot of the stake. His hand fell from her shoulder and he walked woodenly after Mordred.
Kiera ran after them.
Mordred had knelt next to Gareth, but looked up at the clatter they made mounting the platform. "They weren't armed," he said—though everyone could already see that.
"Apparently that don't matter to Sir Lancelot," somebody yelled up. "My neighbor's boy, Kent, warn't armed neither."
The crowd murmured, sympathy or impatience. Several of the knights hesitantly mounted the readied horses.
Gawain sat down heavily between his two dead brothers and looked from one to the other.
"They weren't armed," Mordred repeated.
"No," Gawain agreed numbly. He ran both hands over his face, covered his mouth.
Kiera felt icy fingers brush against her heart. For as long as she had known him, Gawain had always had a beard—the only one of the five brothers who did. Now, with it momentarily hidden, Kiera saw that his resemblance to Agravaine was greater than she had ever realized. An image of Agravaine, dead in the Queen's chambers, forced itself into her mind.
Gawain let his hands drop, and he was suddenly just Gawain again. "It could not have been Lancelot," he said. "He was always a friend to the boys, especially Gareth. For God's sake, he knighted Gareth."
"It was Lancelot," someone called out. "I seen it."
"Me too," another voice said.
"Aye, he never saw who it was," a third added, grudging concession, "but it was him."
"I told them it was madness." Mordred seemed oblivious to the crowd that closed in. "Honor guard. I told them to keep out of it."
"I never thought..." Gawain started. "Lancelot has never ... Oh, God, they weren't armed."
Mordred sat back on his heels. He pulled something from his shirt. For some reason, the gesture gave Kiera a rush of unexpected panic, an echo of a recurrent though never quite recalled nightmare. But it was only Nimue's ring, held around Mordred's neck by a thin strip of leather. He held the gold band in his fist, his eyes closed, his face tipped back toward the evening sky. Gawain, on the other hand, bent over Gaheris so that his hair—dark shot through with gray, much the same as Lancelot's—fell forward and hid his face. Yet his shoulders shook. Everyone could tell that he was crying.