The Book of Mordred (19 page)

"I'll bet you have," Mordred said.

"Why, my dear
brother,
I mean for the beer and ale. And for lodging, for ourselves and our granny, since we have been so unexpectedly caught on the road."

Mordred began to lift the barrels off the wagon. "Dangerous game," he warned.

Romola shrugged, then shrugged again at Nimue's look, for Nimue was thinking that Mordred was right: Flirting with the guards
was
dangerous. It could quickly go beyond what Romola intended. Romola said, "Dinner in the lower kitchen whenever we get there, if anything is left. We can sleep there, too, instead of the stables."

Nimue admired her bravery and her ability to speak and act quickly. "Well done," she whispered and gave Romola's hand a squeeze.

"Coming through," Mordred said because Romola stood where he wanted to set down the barrel he held.

"No, no, really," she told him. "Don't mention it. It was nothing." She tossed her black hair over her shoulder and headed for the kitchen.

"
Don't,
" Nimue whispered at Mordred from between clenched teeth, "get her angry at us."

Mordred laid his arms on the barrel, pretending to rest a moment; but Nimue cut him off with a motion for silence: A castle servant was approaching, sent by the seneschal to help unload. Nimue stayed in the back of the wagon, moving from one barrel to another, whichever she guessed the servant planned to pick up next. She cackled, and scratched herself noisily, and made a general nuisance of herself until there was only one small jug of wine left; and for that they had special plans.

"That ain't been sold," Nimue said and slapped at the servant's hand. "We need something to keep us warm on the ride back, my grandchildren 'n me."

"Old witch," the man called her, not knowing how close he came to the truth of it.

By the time they got the oxen bedded and made their way to the kitchen, they found the cook and his helpers setting things out for the next morning. There was no sign of Romola.

Do not be TOO brave and quick,
Nimue thought on Romola's behalf. That could easily prove as risky as timid and slow.

Dinner was a round loaf of bread for her and Mordred to share and two pieces of smoked haddock. They found a corner where they would be out of the way and sat on the floor to eat.

"Is she always like that?" one of the scullery boys asked after Nimue bared her teeth and barked at someone who came too close.

Mordred looked at Nimue, then back at the boy. "Like what?" he asked innocently.

After that, they were pretty much left to themselves. But in any case the others soon pulled out blankets and mats and settled down for sleep.

Mordred had brought in the blanket roll in which his sword was hidden, and they used this as a pillow. The wine they kept close by also.

"What about Romola?" Nimue whispered. Where was she? What was she doing? Why hadn't she returned?

Mordred said, "She is not our problem."

Nimue lay with her back to him, furious that he could be so callous. Was Romola in trouble—was that why she didn't come to the kitchen? And if she
was
in trouble, did they help or harm her by not going to look for her? Nimue could argue it to herself both ways. Maybe that was what Mordred meant, why he did nothing.

Wishful thinking,
she chided herself.
You could talk yourself into anything.

But nobody had forced him to help her.

Which proves what?
she asked herself. What would Merlin do? Had Merlin ever said that Mordred was totally evil, not to be trusted in
anything?

Needing to be reassured, needing the proximity—to anyone, even Mordred—she moved closer, not caring that as far as the others knew she was snuggling with her grandson. She rubbed Merlin's ring for reassurance and felt herself dangerously close to tears. She was out of her depth: In a hostile castle, about to face a renegade wizard, here she was bedding down with Merlin's mortal enemy, someone who could blithely say "She is not our problem" about the youngest, least experienced, member of their group.

Merlin was her lover, and he had trained her in sorcery, but they both knew she wasn't an adept. "
Don't lose your head,
" he'd kept warning. "
Don't just jump into things without thinking everything out first.
" In this it turned out he had trained her too well. How could anybody ever think out
everything
first? She sent out well-wishes for all of them, and knew that well-wishes would never be enough.

A tear balanced itself on the tip of her nose, and she didn't move to wipe it because she hoped that Mordred thought she was asleep. But he pulled her closer and gently brushed her hair away from her face. For an instant her mind went blank in panic. He wrapped both arms around her before she remembered that she wore a seventy-year-old body. "Go to sleep," he whispered. "I'll watch."

She squeezed his hand, but continued to listen to the noises all around them. The kitchen staff bedded earliest since they would have to be up again before anybody else, but the rest of the castle was becoming quiet also.

Footsteps approached the door, paused as someone apparently looked in.
Romola!
Nimue almost turned her head to look, but then heard the soft clink of metal—a guard on his rounds.

She lay still and tried to match the slow steady rhythms of Mordred's heart and breathing without thinking of the youth himself.

Finally she felt him move his head, then sit up to look around.

No one reacted.

He unwrapped the sword.

She took the wine and crept after him, as silently as possible, to the door.

Still no reaction—which, she hoped, meant everyone in the kitchen was asleep.

Once out in the hallway, Mordred whispered, "Where shall we meet?"

"Meet?" Candles lit the hallway only sporadically, and she was unable to make out his face. Only the dark scar she had painted on his cheek showed clearly. "
Meet?
"

He motioned for her to keep her voice down. He asked, "What is your plan?"

For an awful moment, she thought he was asking for her advice in strategy.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

She didn't like the sound of that "you" as opposed to "we." "What are you talking about? To rescue the prisoners from the dungeon, of course."

"I," he said, "am here to make sure Halbert is dead once and for all. No more resurrections for that phoenix."

She shook her head. Permanently stopping the wizard was important, but the armed men Nimue hoped Sir Dunsten was fetching from Camelot could do that. More pressing, they had to make sure Halbert did no more immediate harm. She told Mordred, "We know where the dungeon is. How will you find Halbert? Ask around which is his bedroom, then slit his throat while he sleeps?"

Mordred gave one of his infuriating committed-to-nothing grins—which may or may not have meant that that was his plan exactly.

"The important thing," she whispered, "is to get those boys out of here."

"The important thing is to kill Halbert. Else we shall never get away from here with those prisoners."

"There would be five extra men to help if we do the rescue first."

"I thought you just said they were boys."

"Mordred!" Her voice was getting too loud, and Mordred again gestured for quiet. "Do what you will," she told him, knowing he would in any case.

Just as he had known she would do what she wanted, she realized, about the time she got to the end of the corridor. That was why he had assumed they would separate. She looked back, but by then he was gone.
Get killed
, she thought at him.
I don't care.
But that was too much like ill-wishing. She sent a hasty wish for his safety after him.

Nimue turned the corner and someone's hand clapped over her mouth.

"Don't drop that
jug,
" a voice breathed into her ear. "I promised it away." The hand lowered.

"Romola!" Nimue was shaking, partly startled, partly relieved. "Where have you been?"

"Where have
I
been? Where have
you
been? And where is your knight, Sir What's-His-Name, the King's friend?"

"Sir Mordred is busy practicing his pigheadedness. And he is not the King's..." She decided against complicating things further. "He is not coming to the dungeon with me. He wants to find the wizard first. What about you?"

"Me?" Romola snorted. "I'm not interested in wizards. I got Sir Litton to introduce me to the dungeon guards. They're expecting us—if we can get there before their watch is over."

"Sir Litton? The seneschal you were flirting with?"

"Aye."

Nimue didn't like this plan at all. "Three dungeon guards?" she asked, hoping they hadn't raised the number since her escape—as though three weren't bad enough.

Romola nodded.

"Plus this Litton..."

Romola was shaking her head.

"Won't he come looking for you?"

"No."

No. Nimue recalled that the girl had originally gone after Mordred armed with a dirk. Presumably Mordred had given it back. Nimue didn't want to hear anymore details. "Right," she said and headed for the area of the castle from which they could get to the dungeon.

"Ahem ... Nimue?" Romola said. "The guards are expecting me and my friend, not me and my granny."

"I would have remembered," Nimue told her. Which she might have. Eventually. She returned herself to her normal age and appearance. She guessed the guards were expecting a good-looking friend.

Romola blinked at her sudden transformation, but said nothing. She took a torch from the entry and led the way down. "It's us," she called. "Romola and Emelme."

' The door swung open, and one of the guards had his arm around Nimue's waist before she passed through the portal.

"Spirits!" Romola announced, holding up Nimue's hand that was still clenched around the wine jug. "Don't hold her too tight, Cheston. She's ticklish and she might drop the jug."

The guard named Cheston laughed and pulled Nimue in even closer. The second man, a veteran of some battle or mischance that had left him with one leg shorter than the other, held Romola in similar fashion. The last one in the group was a youth whose face showed the first scraggly signs of a red beard. He put his arm around Nimue from the other side, while relieving her of the wine.

"Ay! Easy!" Romola said when he pulled the cork out with his teeth. "That's the kind of stuff's supposed to be drunk out of a goblet, you lout."

"Yeah, right, a goblet."

"Go on, you heard the lady," Cheston said, though nobody could possibly mistake Romola and Nimue for ladies. "Get out the fancy crockery." He tugged on Nimue's shoulder. "Come on, girl, relax. Don't you ever smile?"

She worked on it, while over his shoulder she watched the other guard kissing Romola's throat. This was going all wrong—and much too fast.

"Well, here, this is the best we can do." The scraggly bearded youth had found a wooden bowl, which he wiped with his sleeve. "A loving cup, just like the Greeks. Or was it the Romans?"

"No matter." Cheston emptied the wine into the bowl and handed it to Nimue. "Here, you need this—make you friendly." As she drank, he twirled a lock of her long blond hair.

What had she gotten herself into?

The bowl went all around once. Then a second time. The young guard with the sparse beard had given up on Nimue and stood behind Romola nibbling her ear while Romola continued to laugh with the other man. Cheston looked as if he was considering a similar move. Nimue wished she could wish she were back in the cave at Avalon, asleep next to Merlin.

"So," said Romola, "are you going to show us what kind of dangerous people you guard down here?"

"Dangerous people," scoffed the man with the short leg, Aric, Romola had called him.

"I mean"—Romola leaned into him—"don't you have any
extra
rooms?"

"Oh, extra rooms." Cheston looked interested again.

The men scrambled to their feet and started marching the women down the hall.

Three men. The two of them against three men: Romola was probably self-confident enough to be satisfied with those odds.

"Excuse me," Nimue said. "We usually have this understanding: one at a time."

The three men looked at one another.

"One
each,
sweets," Romola said. "Not one of you at a time. Don't get all excited."

The two older men turned on the bearded youngster. "You guard the door, boy," Anc told him. "Rank hath its privileges and all that."

"But," the young man said, "but..."

Romola patted the young man's cheek and blew a kiss. "Long time till dawn," she said.

He still didn't like it. With a muttered oath, he threw himself onto one of the benches. Then he pulled out a knife.

Nimue's breath caught, but he only flung the knife into the tabletop. Then he pulled it out again.
Thump-thump,
over and over, the sound accompanied them down the hall.

"Here, let me hold that." Nimue took the torch while Cheston unlocked one of the cells. She hoped Romola's plan would start soon. And that it would be a good one.