Long after the army had become indistinct in the distance, Kiera remained where she was, letting the early morning breeze blow her hair away from her face.
Finally she pushed away from the balustrade, but then she leaned forward again. A sudden fog had formed in the hollow the men were just entering. It was too quick to be earthly fog, for in a moment it had engulfed not just army and hillside but was sweeping up toward her.
"No," she whispered, but had no power beyond that to resist.
The gray swirled up and she could no longer see the balustrade, just a handbreadth away from her fingers. The air hissed about her and stung her eyes and she saw the shadows of knights fighting near her, although that would mean they were suspended high above the countryside.
"Arthur," she called, though she couldn't get her voice above a whisper for she saw the King bent double, on his knees, his silver armor bloodied.
"Mordred," she heard Arthur gasp. "Mordred."
Kiera stepped back, unmindful that her senses had become confounded and she might be heading for the edge. "No," she said, afraid of what her vision could possibly mean. "Please, Mordred, no."
She glimpsed him in his black armor; his sword raised, turning to face her.
"No!"
The scream was echoed by the buzzards that wheeled above.
She covered her face, staggered, felt the rough stone of the parapet against her knees. The air smelled of dew on grass, not burning bodies, and the sun was warm on the back of her hair. She lowered her hands. Far away, King Arthur's army continued to march under the cloudless sky, and—not quite so far—a herd of sheep grazed unperturbed on a green hillside.
She passed her hands over her face and turned to go back indoors.
And met the appraising gaze of Hildy, watching her steadily. Hildy, who had been so friendly that first day in Queen Guinevere's service.
Hildy said, "Please, Mordred, no—what?"
Kiera moved to walk by her, but Hildy put her arm out to block the way.
"You said, 'Please, Mordred, no.' And you also said, 'Arthur.' Why?"
She was not answerable to Hildy, but she said, "I ... I must have just been thinking out loud. Daydreaming."
Hildy glared at her with loathing. "Another dream?" she said. "Such as the one you had that night in the ladies' chamber?"
"Please," Kiera said, "it's not that I caused anything bad to happen. I had a nightmare."
Hildy folded her arms and asked, "Oh, yes?"
Her sneering tone made Kiera add, "And you can't seem to make up your mind if that makes me a traitor or a witch. But I am neither. It was just I..." How could she possibly explain this, her confusion, her constantly shifting vision of what she now realized was a battlefield? "...I dreamt I saw Sir Gawain's dead face, only it didn't even happen exactly as in my dream—"
"Sir Gawain?" Hildy asked in an outrush of breath.
Kiera clapped her hands over her mouth. What had she said? "Agravaine," she whispered. "I meant to say Agravaine." She fought back a wave of nausea. "Of course Gawain is still alive. I just misspoke. I dreamed Agravaine was dead the night he was killed. But it didn't happen the way it did in my dream, so it wasn't any kind of prophecy—please don't hate me: I had that dream, and Agravaine is dead, but Gawain is fine, and I didn't mean to say Gawain, truly I didn't."
Hildy was watching her with a smile that was eager and hungry.
"I have to go now," Kiera said.
"Witch," Hildy called her.
It was no use arguing. Kiera turned to go.
"Witch," Hildy repeated, much louder.
Kiera fled indoors, but Hildy followed.
"Witch!" Hildy shouted.
People looked up. People stopped what they were doing.
"She's a witch!" Hildy's face was all red and puffy. "She just put a curse on King Arthur."
Kiera whirled around. "I did not!"
"She's a witch! She just put a curse on King Arthur! She's a witch!"
Hildy just wasn't going to stop. Kiera ran down the corridor and still Hildy followed, shouting, demanding attention. Kiera gathered up her skirts and ran down the flight of stairs leading to the level where she and her mother had their room.
"She's a witch!" Hildy screamed yet again.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Kiera looked back just in time to see Hildy start down after her. Except that Hildy was too busy pointing to hold up her skirts.
"She's a witch! She just put a curse—" Hildy's foot came down on the hem of her dress. She grabbed for the walls, but tumbled all the way down.
Mercifully, she didn't hit her head. Kiera ran to her side, and for a few moments, Hildy was too shaken to utter a sound. Then she began to wail. And finally, when it seemed everyone in the castle was gathered there around her, Hildy sobbed, "She's a witch! Did you see her make me fall? I heard her put a curse on King Arthur, so she tried to kill me."
"That's not true," Kiera said to the horrified faces around her.
"She looked at me," Hildy insisted. "She has the Evil Eye and she willed me to fall."
"I didn't do anything!"
"No," Hildy said, fighting back a sob, "and she didn't know anything about Agravaine's plans the night he broke into the Queen's chambers, either."
It didn't matter that Kiera couldn't find an answer. They wouldn't believe her anyway; they chose to believe the injured Hildy instead.
Somebody was pushing his way through the crowd—Padraic from the infirmary. But he hardly made note of Hildy. He took hold of Kiera's arm, hard enough to hurt. He told her, "You are an abomination against the natural order of God and his most Christian church."
"But," Kiera said, "but—"
"Throw her in the river and see if she floats," someone suggested.
Kiera whirled around but couldn't tell who had spoken.
Padraic smiled. "We shall bring her to Prince Mordred," he said. "We shall present our testimony. The result will be the same: trial by ordeal, trial by combat, or trial by jury—the truth shall be known, regardless of who may try to hide it. Then, Mordred himself will have to condemn her."
CHAPTER 12
Kiera didn't know what they called Mordred away from, but he was obviously displeased. Sitting on his father's throne in the Great Hall, with a crowd of loud people all demanding immediate action, he looked at her coldly. She had hoped she would be brought to him in the smaller council room, where only a dozen people could fit—if that many—beyond whichever twelve men were seated at the Round Table. But this, apparently, was a matter for the entire court.
Alayna came rushing in, before the hearing started, but the guards that kept the crowd at bay would not let her approach where Kiera stood, along with those who would testify against her.
Mordred didn't even look at her. Kiera rested her fingertips against her throat and could feel the pounding of her heart there. It was only Mordred, she told herself, and she had never been afraid of Mordred before.
And so it began...
"She looked at my sister," Enid addressed the assembly. "From across the courtyard—glared at her, and my poor sister miscarried."
"Across the courtyard?" Kiera said. "I would not have even been able to recognize her from that far. I can't see that well."
Enid sucked in her breath. As did several others.
"Even if I had wanted to," Kiera added belatedly. Mother Mary, she'd made things worse.
"You heard her!" Enid cried. "She admitted it! She was after my sister!"
"No!"
"Four fine babies she has had," Enid persisted. "Four healthy, perfect babies in four years, and never a problem until you look at her. Explain that."
Mordred said nothing, and Alayna finally managed to push her way forward. Kiera fought the inclination to cling to her, as a toddling child might. Can she see? she wondered. Can she see how grateful I am to have her here?
Not that she believed there was anything her mother could do to save her.
Alayna stepped betwe
en Kiera and Enid. "Come, come. These things happen, ask any midwife. You can't—"
"Well, what of my cakes then?" asked an older woman Kiera didn't even recognize. "I'm making sweet cakes for my niece's first-born's Christening, and that one comes by my window, and none of the cakes turn out. They're all hard and heavy and no good to eat, and sweet cakes has always been my specialty."
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 DuLa
c," 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.