Chapter 30 #2
As he drew closer, he realized that the monks appeared to have brought food to the market square.
Mordred frowned. A good decision, hopefully made by Arthur, but clearly orchestrated by someone who had never fed hungry people before.
Long tables were set up in the square, the monks fighting to keep everyone in orderly lines.
Much better to deliver directly to people’s homes; no one was forcibly unhoused thanks to Guinevere’s policies.
Those who chose to live out-of-doors had regular haunts that any knight or guard familiar with the area would be able to relay.
The monks were shouting and shoving people, which was another terrible idea. The villagers were not malicious. They were starving. Prolonged hunger could make even the most even-tempered of mortals fight like a cornered wolf.
Mordred stopped on the edge of the square, calling the villagers who were within earshot over to him. To avoid being swarmed, he wove a few Threads to induce calmness in anyone who came toward him. But he did not truly need it; many of the common folk recognized him.
“They’re giving the same amount to everyone, whether it’s an old widow like me or a young mother who’s got six mouths at home,” one woman, a weaver named Elora, explained to him. “When we tried to redistribute it to better suit our circumstances, they shouted at us.”
Mordred furrowed his brow, looking over the crowd.
Someone awaiting rations from his supply pushed another townsperson, distracting him.
Shoving his damp hair out of his face with the flat of one forearm, he called out to the man, only to find he had an infant at home and a mother whose milk had run dry.
Thanks be to Oryane, of all people; the sack she had given him not only refused to run empty when it absolutely should have, but it also seemed to have a strange ability to provide the kind of sustenance each person or family needed.
Something in Mordred’s bones ached. He had so much power and yet would never be able to do a working like Oryane’s. Sourness bloomed on his tongue.
A sudden commotion in the square drew his attention. When a scream rang out, he handed Elora the sack. “Can you handle this, please?” he asked, to which the weaver nodded solemnly, her eyes filling with fear when a second shout rose from the square.
Mordred thought he might have to fight the crowd, but despite whatever was happening at the center of the square, enough people recognized him and cleared a path, tapping the shoulder of the person next to them and picking children up off the ground.
More than one villager warned him of the monks’ behavior.
When he finally reached the center of the square, he was appalled to find nothing but mealy bread and bruised apples from last year’s stores.
His blood simmered. Arthur’s inner court had supped on freshly roasted boar with sloe berry jam just last night.
Hoofbeats sounded, and he turned, relieved to find about ten mounted knights trotting into the square.
The monks should never have been unaccompanied in the first place.
He raised a hand in greeting just as a large group of monks, seemingly for no reason at all, formed a defensive line and shoved the villagers back.
Elderly mortals stumbled and fell. Children wailed. Someone cried out a name in anguish.
Mordred pushed through the crush of bodies, his hand on the hilt of his blade.
Just as he arrived at the front line, he watched in horror, too far away to stop it, as a monk pulled a short blade and viciously stabbed a woman twice in the stomach.
She cried out in agony and stumbled forward.
The brown-cloak grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her toward him, the exact same way Mordred might finish someone off in close quarters, too.
The Cynosbythrae roared behind his ribs, rage sweeping through his body like a current.
It was not safe with so many people near him, but he let the ink-black Threads wrap around the monk’s wrist, halting the man’s next blow.
He pushed through the crowds toward the woman, fighting with the dark power that desperately wanted to tear the monk apart.
“You have harmed one of Camelot’s people!” Mordred roared, kneeling beside the woman. Someone cradled her head in their lap, another villager packing the deeper wound with a scarf. He looked down into her face, and his stomach dropped.
“Elaine?” he murmured.
“Mordred,” the healer sputtered, blood spilling from her mouth. “Get me . . . Galen.”
The villager packing her wound pulled back, looking at the knight. “Mordred,” they exhaled. “Thank the goddesses you’re here. Take her to Galen, fast as you can.”
The knight nodded as shouts broke out around him, the people screaming “Shame!” at the monks. With the villager’s help, he gathered the healer up in his arms. Someone else removed their belt once Elaine was off the ground, wrapping it around her abdomen to apply more pressure to the wounds.
“She means so much to us,” the villager said, gripping Mordred’s forearm. “Please.”
“I will do everything I can,” Mordred promised, shielding Elaine’s head from another rush of the crowd. “Nyneve is not . . .”
“No,” the villager replied. “Not today.”
He nodded shakily and then, looking for a safe way out, noticed three knights breaking through the crowd on the other side of the square and let out a small sigh of relief. Though he did not recognize the men from this distance, they should have no issue arresting a single monk.
Instead, the knights positioned themselves in front of the monks’ battle line, pointing their spears at the villagers. More knights pushed through the opening that the first three had created, taking up the same position.
“What are you doing?” Mordred screamed, holding Elaine tightly to his chest. “Protect the people! That is your fucking oath!”
But from their vantage, he was just another dust-covered, sweat-slicked commoner shouting at them. Rage and horror twisting in his stomach, he managed to break through to the side of the crowd, only to find a spear leveled at his throat.
“Do you not see the injured woman in my arms?” he snarled, batting the spear away. “Cease this utter disgrace. A monk stabbed a healer. I need to make way for the citadel.”
The knight slid their helm up to reveal Lancelot’s reddened face, his blond curls plastered to his head. Mordred bit down on his tongue. Of course it could not have been Gawain or Palamedes.
“Mordred,” Lancelot called. “Bedwyr is in command. Why are we protecting Merlin’s monks?” He paused, his eyes widening as he looked at the woman in Mordred’s arms. “Mordred, in the name of God, is that Elaine? They stabbed Elaine?”
Someone jostled his shoulder hard. Rebalancing himself, Mordred took a deep breath. “Yes, that is why Elaine bleeds out in my arms while you demand a conversation, Lancelot,” he replied through his teeth.
“This cannot be right,” Lancelot called back. But the monks were already retreating, protected by the line of destriers and knights in mail.
Clenching his jaw, Mordred strummed a quiet song on his Threads, reaching out to mark the monk who had stabbed Elaine. His dark, hungry magic latched its teeth onto the man, forming an inky black tether. The crowd surged forward, pebbles beginning to ping off mail and barding.
“What should I do?” Lancelot asked, sounding panicked. The knight’s eyes were locked on Elaine. He looked as though he might be ill.
“Give me your fucking horse,” Mordred shouted, watching the group of brown-cloaks retreat with five knights bringing up the rear. “And then take off your helm. They know you. The little ones joust in the streets, pretending to be you. Keep them safe.”
Absolutely baffled at having just entrusted such a thing to Lancelot, Mordred watched as he dismounted and held out his arms for Elaine.
With chaos raging around the two knights on all sides, Mordred settled the woman carefully into Lancelot’s arms so he could mount.
After Lancelot handed her up to him with a surprising amount of gentleness, he pulled off his helm, just as Mordred had suggested, and raised his voice to speak to the crowd.
Mordred did not stay to see what happened next.
He gathered up the reins and closed his legs around the destrier, grateful that Lancelot at least had good taste in horses.
They galloped up the hill, taking a shortcut through the dried-up marshes.
It would be dangerous, Mordred knew, for the monks to discover that Elaine was still alive in his arms, albeit barely.
A dead healer was a senseless tragedy. A seriously injured one who could recount what had happened to the king and point her finger at Merlin? That was a liability.
The archers at the gate recognized him, thank the goddesses, and Mordred thundered through, shouting for everyone to clear the path. He did not so much as slow his pace until he arrived at the physician’s cottage. Galen, having heard the hoofbeats, came running.
“It’s Elaine. Riot in the village,” Mordred explained as he carried the injured woman inside. “Stab wound from one of the monks. The wound is field-dressed. I did not examine it myself.”
Galen paused for only a moment, a great and terrible sorrow on his expression.
Then he just nodded and laid a fresh length of linen across the large table in the front room.
“Here,” he said hurriedly. “I will move her immediately to a more fortified location if she’s stable enough for it.
” The physician paused, meeting Mordred’s gaze.
“I imagine Merlin would prefer that the respected and noble-blooded Elaine of Astolat did not go to Arthur with her version of events. Perhaps I am being . . . overly cynical?”