31 #2
“He has gone,” Braithe said. It was a picture in her mind, a young man slipping away from his home in the darkness.
Mordred said, “Samuel? Can you explain?”
The man’s mouth worked, but he seemed too terrified to speak.
Braithe said gently, “My lord, from what I saw, I would guess Samuel’s son wanted money so he could leave the village.
” Samuel hung his head again, and he covered his face with his work-roughened hands.
Braithe saw in Samuel’s mind a woman on her knees, sobbing into her apron.
She murmured, “His son’s mother is heartbroken. ”
Samuel dropped his hands and lifted his head. His face was blotched with red spots, and his lips trembled so that he could hardly form words. “She begged me not to tell. Afraid they’ll catch him, punish him, yah? Cut off his hand. My boy’s hand!” His voice broke on a sob.
One of the knights, a lanky, fair man whose name Braithe didn’t know, said, “And so we will, old man. He stole from the king. You should have turned him in the first time.”
“He swore he wouldn’t do it again,” Samuel choked. “Every time, he swore.”
Lancelin’s voice was as hard as that of the other knight. “You’re the headman, Samuel. This is your responsibility.”
“Aye.” Samuel shook his head and went on shaking it, as if he could deny everything, escape it all. “I will give it up, sir. Don’t want to be the headman, never did. Let someone else—” He broke off, throwing up his hands in defeat.
“Is there someone who can replace you?” King Mordred asked.
Samuel dropped his hands and let them hang open and empty beside him. Heavily, despairing, he said, “Aye, my lord. Someone younger.”
The fair-haired knight said, “We should punish this man in his son’s place, my lord. Set an example.”
Samuel barely suppressed a gasp and caught his left hand in his right as if he were on the point of losing it. The terror he felt made Braithe’s heart lurch.
Mordred said, “No, Sir Bedivere. The example will be one of charity. There has been suffering enough meted out by our enemies without inflicting it on our own people.” He made a dismissive gesture with one hand.
“Go back to your village, Samuel. Tell them everything that happened, and everything that was said in this chamber. That will be your punishment.”
Samuel froze for a moment, stunned by relief, in awe of the gift his sovereign had just bestowed upon him.
When he managed to recover himself, he bowed, bending too low, as if he would like to put his forehead to the floor.
It was an embarrassing demonstration, and Braithe had to avert her gaze.
He babbled, “My lord. Thank you, sir. Thank you. I swear…”
Lancelot said, “No more swearing, man. Go home. Face your people.”
“Yes, my lord, I—yes. I will.” He bowed again and was gone, trotting out through the door in the manner of a frightened pony.
In the silence that followed his departure, Bedivere said, “Too soft, perhaps, my lord?”
“Perhaps,” Mordred answered. He tapped his chin with one finger as he considered. “But I think not.”
“Nor do I,” Lancelin put in. “Samuel will tell the tale when he returns to his village. He will have no bullock, but he will have two intact hands. Word will spread of a kind and good king.”
There was silence again as those present contemplated this.
Braithe tucked her chin as she watched them.
None of this was what she had expected. She had not imagined the knights sitting around this table were so thoughtful, even respectful of each other’s opinions.
Their deportment contrasted dramatically with that of the Royal Council of the White City.
When Mordred stirred and said, “That is the last for today, I think,” all the knights except Lancelin stood up and started for the door, inclining their heads to the king as they passed him.
Braithe stood, too, but Lancelin held up a hand.
“Please wait, Braithe,” he said. “We would like to speak privately with you.”
Warily, she sank down again.
When the room was empty except for the three of them, Lancelin went to the door and closed it. The king smiled at Braithe. “I hope we are not frightening you.”
“No, my lord,” she answered, though it wasn’t quite true.
Obviously they wanted something from her.
She hoped she would be able to give it to them.
She linked her hands in her lap, doing her best to appear calm.
It would have been easier if her feet actually reached the floor in the overlarge chair.
Lancelin came back to the table and pulled his own chair out so the three of them sat in a triangle, facing each other. To the king he said, “Braithe has given you a fine demonstration of her abilities.”
Mordred nodded, but his gaze was on Braithe. “You have so many talents,” he said. “Magic was not one I expected.”
She drew breath to deny this but remembered what Lancelin had said. He had been right. She had found her magic after all, and in full complement. There was no point in false modesty.
She lifted her chin. “My lord, I have always longed to have magic, since my first days as an acolyte of the Temple. I would never dream of having Priestess Morgana’s power, but it seems I have acquired my fair share.”
“I would certainly say so.”
“My time in the White City, though it was brief and I must say unpleasant, seems to have awakened what little magic I had before. I have used it several times, but today—today was different.”
“Tell us how,” Lancelin said.
She turned to him, encouraged by the familiarity of his strong face, the intelligence in his eyes.
“Sir, I have recently had several experiences of using my magic.” Even saying that, owning the truth of it, made gooseflesh rise on her arms. “When I held Faolin in a block, I was fighting for my life. When I heard—forgive me, sir, but when I heard your thought, I was caught by surprise. It was not intentional. But today I did it on purpose. I was not in danger, nor was anyone close to me, but I sensed Samuel’s mind, the details of his thoughts, in a way I had not known was possible. ”
“Do you think you could do it again?” Mordred asked. The question was posed casually, as if the answer weren’t terribly important, but Braithe was not deceived. This was what they wanted to know. This was why they had summoned her.
“I can try,” she said. She wrinkled her brow, watching the king, letting the image of him grow vague, as if he were surrounded by the mist that encircled the Isle of Apples. He sat very still, and beside him, Lancelin did the same. Neither man moved a muscle for several minutes.
At last, Braithe took a sharp breath and blinked to clear the mist away. “You are worried about sword practice, my lord,” she said.
Mordred’s narrow eyebrows flew up. “What?” he exclaimed.
“Sword practice.” Braithe cast Lancelin a glance, wondering if she had overstepped. It was true, though. The king hated sword practice, though he attended it diligently. The thought was as clear in his mind as if he had spoken it aloud.
Lancelin’s lips twitched, but he said nothing. Mordred, after a moment, sighed noisily. “I am no swordsman,” he confessed. “This will come as no surprise to Sir Lancelin. ”
“You were not born to war, sir,” Lancelin said.
“Every king is born to war.” Mordred spoke with sudden bitterness, and a wave of frustration and resentment flowed from him to engulf Braithe.
She pressed a hand to her breast, and the king, sensitive as always, noticed.
“I am sorry, Braithe,” he said. “It is the burden I carry but one I never wanted to take up.”
“I know, my lord,” she said softly. “But you are bearing it with courage and grace, and your people take note of this.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment.
Lancelin said, “So, sir, another demonstration, and a fine one. I think we could put our proposal to Braithe now.”
“Please do.”
Lancelin shifted so he could face Braithe directly. He put out his long arm and took her hand. She looked down at her small, freckled white hand in his long-fingered dark one and then, wonderingly, up into his face.
“Braithe of the Temple,” he said gravely, with no trace of humor in his eyes or his voice. “Your king wishes you to become Braithe of Camulod.”