The Book of Mordred (14 page)

Reynard shook his head or nodded it at the appropriate times.

"Thank you," Nimue told them. "That's very kind of all of you."

Dolph winked as he handed her the drink, but she suspected he didn't mean it the way many men would have, for her blond hair and green eyes and fair features. Nimue saw he only had eyes for Romola, and he would have been as kind to any hungry, thirsty stranger.

Romola brought her a platter of meat and bread to choose from, but Nimue had hardly taken a few mouthfuls when the door crashed open with a splintering of wood.

Two knights strode into the room, naked swords in their hands, surveying the scene: fewer than a dozen customers, Dolph just straightening up from the barrel that held the mead, Romola and Yolande waiting on tables. Reynard had just gone downstairs to where the barrels were stored.

Oh no,
Nimue thought. She didn't know what this was about, but
Oh no.
On their armor was painted a bold red phoenix, but though she had no idea whose emblem that was, there was obviously something very wrong with the world that knights should be breaking down a door they could have just as easily swung open.

For a moment, no one said anything. Then one of the customers, sounding more surprised than challenging said, "Hey."

And one of the knights swung his sword and took off the man's head.

Nimue heard the two distinctive
thuds
as first head, then body, struck the floor. She had certainly seen people die before, of illness and injuries neither her herbs nor her bit of magic could cure. But she had never before seen anyone killed.

Perhaps the first thing Merlin had taught Nimue, and certainly the point he had repeated most vigorously, was that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. This was a law of something he called physics, which Nimue gathered was going to be invented in the seventeenth century by a man called Newton. Merlin said it applied equally well to magic as to apples.

Nimue wasn't very good at history—and particularly at history that hadn't happened yet. But she
did
understand magic. She understood what he meant when he said you couldn't pull a rabbit out of a hat, so to speak, without knowing exactly where that rabbit was going to come from and what were the likely consequences of its disappearance from Point A and subsequent reappearance at Point B. It was damn irresponsible, Merlin used to say, not to take into consideration such things as ethics, spatiotemporal complications, and transmogrificational effects on the sub-etheral plane.

"Not to mention probable damage to the hat," Nimue had pointed out once. But Merlin had gone into one of his foot-stampmg, beard-pulling tantrums, and she hadn't brought the subject up again.

Nimue weighed all these problems. She was so busy weighing, she was unable to move even when one of the knights kicked the bench out of his way and shoved Yolande hard enough to cause the innkeepers big wife to fall.

In the stunned silence that followed, everyone at the inn could make out the sound of Reynard running up the stairs—no doubt he had heard the commotion from the cellar—and the knight moved farther into the room, toward the cellar door, raising his sword.

"No!" Nimue cried, though actions or words sometimes could have as far-reaching and unexpected effects as magic, and though she was well within his striking range.

In this case, the result was the knight grabbed Nimue, digging metal-sheathed fingers into her shoulder.

Time seemed to stop.

Reynard hesitated in the doorway. By chance—or by Nimue's hasty wish for his well-being—he was beyond sword's reach, though probably he had not as yet even seen the sword. He was obviously taking in other matters: his wife sprawled on the floor and the decapitated customer.

Nimue was fervently hoping that her wish for Reynards well-being couldn't somehow cause something worse to happen; and, simultaneously, she was hoping that her hoping wasn't actually another wish that she'd have to keep track of and worry about later.

The other seven or eight customers stood or sat motionless, most with their eyes downcast and their faces purposely dull lest the knight holding Nimue take offense. The second knight hadn't stopped in the common room but continued toward the back wing, where the overnight rooms were. Now there was a loud crash. Apparently he was searching for something, and apparently his method of search was to kick over the furniture and then throw it against the walls. As everyone waited to see if Reynard was going to get himself killed, there came a ripping noise—a mattress slashed.

Reynard finally saw the knight whose hand gripped Nimue's shoulder. He took a step back, and time seemed to catch up with itself.

The knight obviously dismissed the thought of him—a peasant who had come to his senses, and not worth dirtying ones sword on. But then he did something which, for Nimue at least, was totally unexpected. He flung her away, sending her crashing into one of the unoccupied tables.

Nimue stayed where she landed. Her known affiliation with Merlin, and the strange rumors about his disappearance and her role in that, had resulted in several unpleasant episodes. Shed had trouble with people whom Merlin had helped—who assumed she was a treacherous witch who had murdered him; and she'd had trouble with those who didn't care what had happened to Merlin but thought they had spotted in her an easy opportunity for power. Coupled with her good looks—it would be coyness to pretend she was unaware of the effect her appearance had on men—all of this had made her assume that the destruction at the mn was somehow related to her.

But apparently she had just been another fixture in the way, like the stools and the innkeeper's wife. The knight reached beyond her and grabbed Dolph.

Romola dropped the tray she had been carrying. Tankards of ale splashed over the dirt floor, filling the air with their bitter smell. The knight dragged Dolph outside.

Dolph?
Nimue thought.

She had never thought of herself as being quick, but she was still the first to reach the door. She was jostled as the others risked the remaining knight's displeasure by crowding to see what was going on.

Any thought that the sweet-natured, pasty-faced Dolph had somehow crossed these knights dissolved as soon as she looked outdoors. All the way down the street of St. George, doors to shops and homes had been kicked in. She heard cries and moans and knew that more than two knights had swooped down on the town, and that more than the one customer at the inn had been killed.

Nimue started to form a wish that would freeze the knights in their tracks.

But if they were unable to move, then surely the townspeople would set on them in retaliation for the deaths and damage already done. And then either she would have to watch the knights be slaughtered, or shed have to release them. If she released them, of course they'd fight back and kill more townspeople. On the other hand, if the knights were killed, wouldn't somebody come looking for them? And then wouldn't there be more knights, more destruction?

Nimue hesitated, as—she had to admit to herself—she often did.

Any wish or action she might have started would have been interrupted anyway by the return of the second of the two knights who'd entered the inn. Back in the common room, he pushed through the customers and was suddenly behind her. He gave a shove that caused her to stagger forward, out into the street.

With him, the knight dragged the boy whom Reynard had taken in three summers ago to help clean the rooms and stables and to run errands. She didn't know his name. Perhaps even the innkeeper himself didn't know or could no longer remember, for everyone just called him Boy. The lad, who couldn't have been more than sixteen, was simple-minded and generally fearful of folk, and he was being pulled out of the inn with his head tucked under the knight's arm.

Down the street another knight pulled at the village's young wainwright, who had hold of a large wagon wheel which he had jammed sideways into the doorway of his shop. The knight made to twist the youth and therefore the wheel around, but the youth managed to keep the wheel caught in the door frame.

Angrily the knight gave such a great yank that the wheel wrenched free, and knight and wainwright tumbled into the street. Though the wainwright landed on top, he didn't take advantage of his position, but only bent over his hand and moaned, which probably meant at least some of the fingers were broken.

Boys,
Nimue thought, as the image of what she was seeing finally sank in.
They're rounding up very young men and older boys.

Behind her, Romola pushed through the door of the inn, trailing her parents behind. Yolande and Reynard, recognizing the hopelessness of the situation, were clinging to her, trying to keep her from compounding the family's loss by getting herself killed. But Romola was all flying fists and elbows, and she shouted obscenities into the street where now the only other sounds were the stifled whimpers of grief. One of the knights—Nimue counted quickly, there were twelve—one of the knights glanced in her direction with a scowl. But then one of the inn's regular customers finally came to the innkeeper's aid and helped drag Romola out of view.

Others, too, were retreating, turning their backs on family and neighbors before more harm came of it. A few were distraught or foolhardy enough to lean out of windows, or to peek around doorways. But even a crowd could do little against twelve armored knights.

Nimue found herself alone on the street with the knights and their captives. She took a step—not back into the inn but behind the huge barrel that identified Reynard's establishment.

Crouching, she rubbed the plain gold band of Merlin's ring that she wore on one thumb and tried to concentrate. Who
were
these knights who bore the symbol of the twice-born phoenix, that immortal bird revitalized by its own funeral pyre? And why had they gathered together seven of the youths of St. George?

No, six.

Even as she watched, one of them must have been deemed unacceptable. The knight who seemed to be in charge of this raid had grabbed a strapping peasant boy by his loose shirt and pulled him in for a closer look, then pushed him away hard enough to cause him to bounce off the wall of one of the shops. The youth stayed where he landed—unhurt, Nimue guessed, but fearful enough to be content to leave well enough alone.

In the long days of barbarism between the retreat of the Roman legions and King Arthur's formation of a united Britain, there had been times that groups of mercenaries or knights could settle on abducting a town's maidens as an afternoon's diversion. But since before Nimue's birth, Arthur had declared that the peasants were
not
to be considered fair game, and she couldn't imagine anyone crossing his code lightly.

And not young maidens, her mind kept repeating, young
men.

The serf who had been rejected was trying to crawl away without attracting notice. He passed by Nimue's barrel and glanced at her. A purple birthmark stood out prominently on his pale face.

Nimue took another look at those who had been chosen. They ranged in age from about fifteen to no more than twenty-three or twenty-four. And they were all nicely featured, even down to Reynard's Boy. Half-wit that he was, it didn't show in his face, as it did in some.

Where?
she mouthed at the young man with the birthmark. Where were the knights from? Where were they taking their captives? She didn't have time to ask all that needed asking.

No matter. The young man didn't know or was too intent on escaping before they could change their minds. He shook his head and kept on crawling.

How could she make a reasoned decision on a course of action if she didn't even know what was going on?

She closed her eyes.
Oh, Merlin, help me.
But, of course Merlin wasn't there, as he wouldn't be now for she-wasn't-sure-how-long.

What were they going to do with their captives? She would never find out hidden here behind Reynard's barrel. What should she do? Send to Camelot for help? There were a whole townful of people perfectly able to ride to Camelot—they didn't need her for that. But did they know the phoenix symbol any better than she? Would they be able to tell rescuers
where
to look? And fast upon that she thought:
A little more time spent thinking, and I'll he too late to do anything.

She squeezed her eyes even tighter and rubbed the ring. Merlin had said she didn't need to rub, but it made her feel more confident.

Casting glamours always made her a bit dizzy, and—before she was quite ready—she took a step out into the open to steady herself.

The leader of the knights looked over. Nimue glanced down at her new body, which looked like that of a seventeen-year-old boy wearing loose homespun.

Too late for second thoughts.

She was grabbed and flung across a horse, like a carcass, like a bag of gram. It had seemed a better plan before it actually started.

Merlin, help me. What should I do?
she thought as her ankles were bound. She knew that her indecisiveness had no doubt already cost her opportunities. Yet it was Merlin who had always been after her to keep her wits about her. Merlin
could
think of several things at once.

Perhaps, she thought, if she remained calm and accompanied the knights without fighting, she might be able to help the other captives later on. Wait and see might, after all, be the best immediate course of action. Never one to try to fool herself, Nimue knew it was also the easiest.