The lower stables were bustling, grooms and stablelads heaving hay, shovelling oats and pulling bucket after bucket of water from the yard’s central well. A row of enormous destriers stood in the shade, awaiting the assiduous washing and brushing that horses of sporting prowess required.
“Where’s the boy with the broken leg?” Alys asked a passing lad.
He managed a surprised half bow, then called for the boy’s father, one of Camelot’s senior grooms.
“I didn’t expect you, Lady Morgan,” he said, ushering us towards a large stone building. “Every leech in the city said they’re too busy.”
“I will always come—everyone must learn that,” I said. “How is your son?”
“Robin’s somewhat awake now,” he replied. “A barber-surgeon travelling with a group of knights gave him a heavy sleeping draught. I’ve been watching his breathing all morning.”
He guided us into a huge high-timbered barn, hazy light filtering over a long row of stalls occupied by highly bred horses. The entire stable was immaculate, clean-swept and smelling of fresh hay and leather.
“Do you know what was in the draught?” Alys asked.
“No, my lady, nor who ordered it. Some knights complained Robin was crying too much with the pain—they said it was disturbing their competition horses.”
She tutted. “How noble.”
He pushed a door on our right, which opened into a spacious whitewashed room, cool despite the day’s hot air. A truckle bed stood against the far wall, a slight whimper emanating from under the sheets.
“May I look at him?” Alys said.
The groom nodded, then turned to me with wretched eyes. “The barber-surgeon said his leg is in splinters—that it’ll fuse twisted if it heals at all. Robin only ever wants to ride and run around with the horses, but they say he might never bear weight again.”
“He’ll be bounding about in no time now we are here,” I said. “I don’t make promises I cannot keep. All we need is time alone, and as much quiet as possible.”
“Thank you, Lady Morgan,” he said. “I’ll tell the lads to keep everyone out.”
Once he left, I went immediately to the bed. The child wasn’t overly small but seemed shrunken by the pain, his pallor greenish-white, red hair darkened with the sweat of drugged sleep.
Alys sat by his side, one hand on his forehead and the other at his wrist. “His essential signs are good, and he’s calm.”
“Robin,” I said, “we’re going to help fix your leg. Can you sip some water?”
The boy struggled to wake, so I brushed my thumb across his forehead and chased away the fog in his skull. His eyes flew open, hazel and alert.
“You’re Lady Morgan,” he said. “I’ve heard of you.”
“All good things, I hope,” I replied, because in Camelot such a comment could mean anything. Robin only smiled enigmatically. “How old are you?” I asked.
He thought about it, then declared, “Ten years, nine months and twelve days.”
Alys poured a cup of water and brought a vial out of her belt purse. She measured a powder into her hand, eyes flicking to the boy in calculation.
“What’s that?” Before we could stop him, Robin wriggled up on his elbows in curiosity, emitting a sharp cry of pain when his leg reminded him it was there.
“All right,” Alys soothed as tears poured down his freckled cheeks. “Drink this. It’ll help with the pain.”
She held the cup and he gulped at it, chest hitching in distress. I considered the misshapen limb beneath the bedsheets, profound damage already radiating forth to my senses. His small body seemed strong but would not be without limits.
I drew up a stool and took his hand. “Robin, you are wise enough to hear the truth. I will fix you, but it won’t be easy and there is much left to feel. But if you help me, together we can do it. Yes?”
The boy drew a deep breath, taking hold of his pain, his fear. “Yes, Lady Morgan,” he said stoically. “I’m ready.”
I folded back the sheets to reveal his leg, which had been splinted on both sides in a rudimentary fashion. The entire limb was mottled with inky-green bruising; his bones hadn’t pierced the skin, but several ominous bulges declared this pure luck.
“The horse must have kicked him more than once,” Alys murmured. “A curse on whichever petulant knight did this.”
I took my falcon-handled knife from my belt and cut through the splint’s strappings. Hands on either side of his knee, I closed my eyes and focused, letting my fingertips map his injuries in my mind.
I had healed bones before, though the fractures I had knitted were uncomplicated slivers—the Prioress’s arm at St. Brigid’s, or my own wrist after Urien had cracked it. The boy’s shattered leg was a catastrophe, a broken glass I would have to gather shard by shard and rebuild with utmost delicacy, maintaining both form and strength. It could not be done without complete concentration, or in half measures.
Robin twisted under my searching pressure, his pain so fresh and raw that I felt it like ice water in my veins. Alys stroked his head to settle him, and her hushing whispers were the last thing I heard, vanishing behind the serene roar of my blood turning to light, fanning like tributaries into my waiting fingertips. There, I began.
Splintered bones shivered and rose, fragments shifting at my request. The ghost of Robin’s femur remained, and I sought the distinct shapes of absence in layers, some pieces slotting perfectly and others needing more experimentation to fit them into place.
A ripple of sound broke through my concentration. Robin twitched as if disturbed, but I steadied my hands, refocusing my mind to the larger bone fragments I had left until last. One more surge sent bolts of light along the final fissure, bone weaving together like flax on a loom, and I knew it was done.
Another noise clattered into the room, loud and deep, tearing my connection. I pulled away, lungs and muscles pleasantly hollowed by tiredness, as if I had flown far and fast on shimmering wings. Robin’s eyes were closed in rest, a dreamlike muttering coming from his lips. Alys sat monitoring the pulse in his neck and gave me a satisfied nod.
A distinct laugh struck the air like an untuned lute.
“What is that?” I said. “Keep him soothed.”
I hastened into the stable, seeking the disruption. The horses were stirring, heads tossing, ears pricked towards two tall figures striding between the stalls.
“He’s surprisingly fresh after the journey,” Accolon said. “His legs look good and he’s settled. It was worth taking a slower pace.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d missed inclusion in the lists,” Sir Manassen replied.
“Not true! You know I’d never put competition above the health of any horse.”
My heart gave an unwanted jolt at the sound of their particular Gaulish dialect. Neither of them noticed me, vibrating angrily at the end of their path.
A dapple grey destrier gave an impatient whinny, ears flattened and teeth bared. Accolon paused and regarded it mildly. “Yes, yes, you’re very ferocious,” he said, producing a piece of carrot seemingly from nowhere. To my chagrin, the animal didn’t bite him but calmed at the offering, dropping its huge velvety nose into his palm.
He scratched the horse’s forelock and grinned at his cousin. “Today, we rest. Practice drills tomorrow at dawn.”
Sir Manassen groaned. “Why so early? I’m not even riding in the joust.”
Accolon laughed as they reached the end of the stalls. “You sleep in like the others if you wish. I prefer having the field to myself, in peace and quiet.”
“Peace and quiet would be a fine thing indeed,” I declared.
They stopped dead, noticing me at last. Accolon glanced immediately away.
“I beg your pardon, my lady?” Sir Manassen said tersely.
I pointed at the way out. “You’re not allowed in here. You must leave.”
He made to protest, but Accolon spoke first. “We weren’t told, Lady Morgan. A mistake, nothing more.”
It was courteous enough, but my name again in his mouth struck hard against my nerves. “So I am visible to you after all, Sir Accolon?” I retorted.
The Gaul didn’t flinch, but Sir Manassen recoiled as if slapped. “My fellow knight was checking his jousting horse. On whose orders is he not permitted?”
I stared at him, this man I didn’t know, who didn’t know me, and a recollection rose up of our first encounter in the Great Hall—the feeling we were locked in a battle I wasn’t aware of.
“On my orders,” I said, as if he was the greatest dolt I had ever encountered.
His neck reddened. “My lady, I’m not convinced you can order us out of here.”
Accolon turned to him in horror. “Are you mad? Of course she can. Apologize and let’s go.”
“Apologize? For what?” Sir Manassen switched back to their native language. “Why does she deserve respect when she offers you none?”
“Cousin, you swore you would not do this,” Accolon warned. “I told you—I carry this alone. Apologize.”
I was rooted, fascinated, the healing’s tired euphoria held back by a nascent desire for a fight. Sir Manassen’s face darkened with brimstone determination.
“Have you forgotten how I found you, cousin?” he said in clenched, insistent French. “Half-dead in a tavern, about to throw your spurs down on a game of hazard. She did that, she put you in that state. You know what she is, and yet––”
“For the love of God, hold your tongue!” Accolon cried.
In all my days I had never heard him shout in such a way, but his intensity dissolved just as quickly. “She speaks our language, you fool,” he said wearily. “She can understand every word you say.”
Sir Manassen paled, but his hard demeanour did not change. He squinted at me, as if trying to read my linguistic abilities from the bones of my face.
I met his gaze with cold fire. “Please, do go on,” I said in their north-of-Paris dialect. “Tell me exactly what I am.”
Accolon’s shoulders dropped, as if my words in his most intimate tongue—the tricks and quirks that he once taught me—had weighted him somehow, and momentarily I hoped that it had pained him as much to hear as it did for me to speak it.
He turned to his cousin. “Manassen, if you love me like a brother, then you will not say another word.” His tired voice contained a distinct, unyielding edge. “You want us to join this court; you want the opportunities it brings. Do you think this is any way to conduct yourself as a knight of honour?”
A flame of irritation licked up my limbs. “Damn your so-called honour,” I said. “There’s a child in there who has been through a terrifying ordeal after having his leg and dreams destroyed. He and I worked hard to restore them both, and he deserves better.”
Accolon paused and for once looked directly at me. “The boy—you healed him?” His sudden interest made me flinch, but I nodded. He smiled and it was gentle, almost involuntary. “I did not know you still––”
A sweet ache drove into my chest, deep and blunt-edged. “There is much you don’t know of me,” I snapped.
It was enough to turn him cold. Accolon drew his shoulders back, eyes dimming to detachment once more. With a sweep of his arm, he gathered Sir Manassen and they left the stables without another word.
I watched him vanish, golden dust motes settling in the wake of our conflict. So it was true: from The Gaul’s own lips, they wanted to join the court. My presence, our dangerous past, had made no dent in his ambitions.
Yet it was not that which caught in my mind, but another phrase, replaying unbidden like an irresistible tune.
I carry this alone, Accolon had said.
And though I pushed the thought aside, the mystery of his words shivered hot across my skin, like moving closer to a wildfire when I should have been running away.