Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Nyneve
“There is little point in taking him to the infirmary,” Nyneve said flatly, looking up at the monk hanging from the bell tower in Camelot’s central square.
Torchlight illuminated the trails of blood running down the stone.
His cloak had been turned into a noose, his belly slit open, intestines spilling out.
She raised her torch, stepping closer, reminding herself she couldn’t spit on his corpse in plain view, no matter how much she wished to.
“Were he not hanging from the bell tower, I would think an animal had done this,” Galen observed, his tone entirely too approving.
“The initial cut is rather clean,” Nyneve replied, knowing his eyesight was not the best in the dark. “The rest . . . Well, whoever did this ensured it was not a quick death. He was likely still alive when he was hanged.”
At her side, Galen glanced toward Sir Gawain, who had escorted them from their cottage to examine the corpse on King Arthur’s orders.
“Well-deserved,” the physician muttered under his breath.
Nyneve agreed. She’d helped Galen further stabilize Elaine, and though she did not tell the physician, she’d repaired some of the internal damage with magic.
The woman was resting now under Palamedes’ watchful eye, hidden away with Guinevere’s handmaidens.
But they were no longer in private quarters, so she poked him in the shoulder to get his attention.
“Gawain is safe,” she whispered in the physician’s ear, gesturing toward their supplies as if discussing the clean linen and medicinal pastes. “Ector is not. He helped raise Arthur when Merlin hid him from the world.”
Galen looked at her with wide eyes and leaned closer, his hand gripping her shoulder. She braced herself. Was Gawain not safe, either?
“Girl, I have been at this court for five-and-ten years,” Galen whispered. “I damn well know Sir Ector is not a reasonable fellow. I also know his hearing in his left ear is terrible. You could probably shout and he would not hear you.”
Nyneve suppressed a smile, fairly certain it would be frowned upon for a maiden to be laughing at such a grisly scene.
Biting down on her tongue, she turned her gaze back to the monk.
It was as though a door to another world had been opened in his belly, glimmering in the torchlight—it was all so elegant.
Here she stood, staring at the aftermath of a brutal murder as heat gathered between her legs, her heart beating against her ribs. This was precisely why the Elders had bound her.
Mordred had done this.
Gods, she wished she had seen it—seen those powerful hands curl around the dagger and tear through the skin of this cowardly man. She wished she had seen the faerie knight descend on the monk like a predator, teeth bared, muscles coiled beneath his moonlight skin.
“Nyneve?” Galen said loudly, as if it was not the first time he had spoken her name.
“Yes?” Nyneve replied, pressing one hand against her bodice. She was strangely breathless.
“You agree that we should cut him down now, yes?” the physician asked. “Not much more we can deduce from here. The king wants as much information as possible.”
Nyneve nodded, her stomach twisting. She and Galen gathered their supplies and trudged up the hill behind the corpse cart.
Bedwyr, one of Arthur’s favored knights, met them at the castle gate.
Nyneve did not like the man. He set her on edge.
Guinevere’s embroidered letters had never warned of him in the specific context that many men were dangerous to women, but there were so many avenues for men’s cruelty.
They were led into the castle and shown a private room where they could work before preparing the body for burial. It was typically a task undertaken by the deceased’s family, but the monk did not appear to have any, so Galen and Nyneve were commanded to handle it.
She had no idea what hour it was when they finished, only that it had to be late with so many of the torches extinguished, no quiet background murmur of servants and handmaidens.
“I need to check on Elaine,” Galen said quietly.
“It’s late,” Nyneve said. “Let me go.”
“You were with Lady Gwendolen all day,” Galen protested, pulling the shroud up over the monk’s pale face.
“I’m a spry, young thing,” Nyneve reminded him, crossing her arms. Galen sighed, leaning against the wall. His color was wan, the usual bags under his eyes even deeper, darker. Her throat tightened. “And I was supposed to be there today. In the village. Not Elaine.”
His heavy brow furrowed. “Nyneve, you cannot—”
“It’s my fault she was there!” she replied, nearly shouting. “Let me check on her.”
“Fine,” he said, throwing up his hands. “Fine, Nyneve. But do not punish yourself.”
She drew in a sharp breath and decided to hold her tongue as she gathered up their bag of supplies. “Palamedes is with her now, yes?” she asked.
They’d hastily created a schedule to ensure one of the queen’s closest handmaidens and a trustworthy knight were with Elaine at all times.
Rumors had already begun spinning, but they were either intentional misdirection or completely contrived.
Only Camelot’s court of nobles was gossiping.
The hundred-some people in the square, though, had only seen one thing—and that was the monk stabbing a woman without cause.
No one had seen who she was. No one had seen the face of whoever carried her away.
Nyneve smiled a little at the fierce unity of the villagers as she slipped out of the room, rounding the first corner for one of the lesser-used stairways.
Of course, she knew all of it. It was Mordred who had carried Elaine from the scene. Mordred who had given the brown-cloak his due. Mordred who had said he might be a monster. Mordred who had a prophecy hanging over him like a noose. Mordred who had looked at her like she might be a goddess.
“Focus,” Nyneve scolded herself under her breath, climbing the tight, winding stairs. She peeked into the corridor and only emerged once confirming it empty. Then she walked quickly through the warren of hallways to find the rooms of Guinevere’s handmaidens.
She knocked in the pattern Galen had devised. A few heartbeats, and then the door opened.
“Nyneve,” whispered Lysanor. “Come in.”
She slipped through the door, thanking the handmaiden.
Two other women were seated in front of a silk screen, embroidering and mending.
Nyneve nodded at them as she moved the screen slightly aside to enter the small room lit by only one torch, bracketed to the wall.
Elaine appeared to be fast asleep on the pallet.
Palamedes stood in the shadows off to the side, mail glimmering in the low light.
“Her color looks better,” Nyneve whispered to the knight, leaning over her friend.
“It does,” Palamedes murmured back, smiling. Then his earnest eyes grew solemn. “We need to get her out of the citadel.”
“I know,” Nyneve sighed, switching out the compress on Elaine’s forehead. “We must get her fever down first. Packing the puncture saved her life, but all that grime on the scarf inflamed the wound.”
“Galen says she might be all right,” Palamedes said. “Was he just placating me?”
“That is not his style,” Nyneve replied softly. “He speaks his truth.”
Palamedes nodded and straightened, looking down at his feet. Nyneve smiled to herself, well aware of the friendship between the two. Their gods were related in some way, and both could happily speak about theology for hours.
For the next hour or so, Elaine slumbered, only awakening with a cry of pain when she tried to roll over in her sleep.
Drowsiness pulled at the Druid girl, but she fought it off, holding tight to the protective glamour she’d already woven over Elaine’s bed.
Some time later, she stood to change the compress on her friend’s forehead and check her bandages for blood.
As she rose from her chair, a loud bang boomed from the door.
She exchanged a worried glance with Palamedes, who drew his sword. A man’s voice cut through the silence, commanding that the door be opened immediately.
“You will not state your name nor your purpose,” Lysanor called back, her voice clear and firm as it rang through the chamber. “I am under no obligation to obey. Her Royal Highness will certainly hear of your willingness to accost her handmaiden at such an inappropriate hour.”
Nyneve’s pulse fluttered in her throat. She slid her hand to her belt, fingers closing around her dagger just as a terrible splintering noise filled her ears.
“They’ve taken the door down,” Palamedes whispered, putting his back against the wall.
Nyneve nodded, pulling one of the blankets up over Elaine’s head and then drawing the heavy curtain around the bed.
In the darkest corner, she waited with bated breath.
A handmaiden—not Lysanor—screamed. Every instinct in her body shouted at her to run out past the silk screen, dagger raised high.
But then she met Palamedes’ gaze, and the resolute look in his eyes reminded her of what everyone in this room had agreed to do.
“Run,” a voice growled. “Run, you stupid girls.”
She gripped the hilt of her dagger tighter, hoping that the handmaidens went like they were supposed to, running to alert Gawain, Morien, or Mordred. When she heard the sound of slippers and skirts against the stone floors, Nyneve breathed a small sigh of relief.
She turned to Palamedes, who had gone pale beneath his rich complexion. Neither one of them had any time to react before the silk screen imploded, splintered wood and tattered fabric flying into the air. Four monks appeared in the midst of the chaos, their knives already drawn.
“You are harboring a fugitive who raised her hand against a holy man in the square today,” one droned tonelessly. “Turn the woman over and you will be rewarded.”