“For the Morrigan’s sake, you don’t need to be so godsdamn loud,” she muttered, dragging herself to sit up. She blinked into the pitch-dark; the hearth had gone out, and her vision was blurry with sleep. The knocks sounded again, and she dragged herself to her feet, finding she was still fully dressed, save for the boot she’d removed from her injured ankle. She grabbed it and shoved her foot into it, cursing under her breath as she shuffled to the door.
When she pulled it open, the light of the moon and the torches bracketed to Camelot’s serpentine stone walls nearly blinded her. “Yes?” she asked.
“You the new apprentice?” a short, squat man of middle age asked. “I’m the stablemaster.”
“I am the new apprentice,” Nyneve confirmed. “Galen’s in the noble quarters with Lady Morien, I’m afraid.”
“I just need some herbs taken to the stable,” the man said. “Colicky mare. I’d take them myself, but a scouting party returned and I need to meet ’em at the gate.” He stepped back, examining her with a narrowed eye, the same way he might have appraised horseflesh. “Can you handle that?”
“Walking herbs a few hundred paces?” Nyneve asked in a breathy, maidenish tone, her eyes doe-wide. “Why, yes, sir, I do think I’ll manage it.” Like most men, the stablemaster did not catch the derision in her tone.
“Good,” he replied gruffly. “Chestnut, chamomile, and elm. For a draught.” And then the stablemaster turned without another word, disappearing down the path and into the sweep of nightfall.
“Lovely to meet you,” Nyneve said into thin air, leaving the door open as she turned toward the shelves, searching for the herbs. Once she found them, she bundled up the jars in linen wrapping as she’d seen Galen do, grabbed a single crutch for appearances’ sake, and then set out for the stables.
At the cottage’s fence line, she paused, driven by years of Druidic apprenticeship. She reached deep into her overdress’s pockets and produced a few iron nails, as well as dried rowan buds. With a few quick words, she sprinkled them at the cottage’s gate and then was on her way.
She’d noticed earlier when assisting Galen that the stables weren’t too far from the physician’s cottage, which pleased her. She’d always liked horses—animals in general, but particularly horses. Though more rest and sleep would’ve served her well, a little part of Nyneve was pleased at the prospect of spending some time in the stables, surrounded by the smell of sweet hay and the muskiness of horses’ coats.
Moonlight shimmered on the stable’s thatched roof, the base of which was made of the same dark gray stone that seemed common throughout Camelot. The structure was impressive,Nyneve thought, a spacious L-shape set at the top of a hill with paddocks on either side, the larger pastures farther downslope, accessible by a well-worn dirt path.
She steadied the crutch under her arm and walked through the entry arch. The stables were quiet this time of night, only the soft munching of hay meeting her ears. At the far end of the aisle, though, someone led a pretty, fine-boned gray horse away from her—likely the colicky mare, she knew.
“Hello,” she called out, setting the herbs on a wooden trunk pushed up against the wall. “Galen sent me. I’ve got the herbs the stablemaster requested.”
At the far end of the aisle, the mare turned, coaxed by her handler. A few lanterns lit the stables, but considering how quickly fire took in a place filled with hay and straw, they were few and far between, making the horse and the person difficult for Nyneve to make out.
Until, all at once, she could. Her breath caught. Beside the pretty mare walked a tall, powerfully built man. By the sword at his waist, she knew him to be a knight or a noble—or otherwise someone of import to Camelot’s society. The lantern light carved out his angular features: deep-set eyes and a sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and a slightly aquiline nose. He moved with a kind of easy grace that Nyneve had only ever seen in predators. She bit down on her tongue, frozen in place as he drew closer, until the knight from the clearing stood only a few paces from her.
He raised one large hand to stroke the mare’s mane, the glow of the lanterns tracing the veins and tendons of his forearm, exposed by the rolled sleeve of his tunic. Unbidden, she wondered what those long fingers would feel like on the curves of her own body. She met his oceanic gaze, suddenly aware of every stitch and seam of her garments, her bust straining against the laces of her kirtle.
“Hello, again,” he murmured, his voice deep and rumbling. “Come to steal another horse, little thief?”
Chapter Six
Mordred
Lantern light leapt along the maiden’s hair, spinning threads of gold in the deep auburn locks. Though she was garbed simply in a linen overdress, cream tunic, and well-worn boots, she held herself like an old, nameless thing of untold power. Her meadow-green eyes captured his gaze. Mordred watched her breath hitch, but no fear skittered across her features.Fascinating.
“It’s you,” she said lightly, though he could hear the clench of her teeth. “I’ve been looking for you.”
The maiden’s words surprised him, and Mordred hated surprises. But her unexpected statement also stirred the coil of power in his chest, a bored cat finally given a mouse to chase after an eternity of solitude.
“Have you?” he asked, walking the mare the final steps to the Druid girl. “Pray tell why a maiden of a noble house would seek the likes of me.”
“To express my gratitude, of course,” she replied, one brow arching. “How chivalrous of you to lend me your mount so I might make it to the gates safely.”
More likely, he knew, to ensure she had not made an enemy. Beside him, Awen, Guinevere’s favorite mare, shifted and kicked at her stomach. He stroked the crest of her neck, sliding his hand under her mane to find her coat damp and hot. Frowning, his attention shifted back to the horse; the creature did not deserve to suffer simply because of the inept stablemaster.
“’Tis only what any knight of Camelot would do,” Mordred demurred with an incline of his head, which seemed to surprise the maiden in turn. “I am glad you made it safely. And even gladder you have brought what Awen needs. Might you retrieve hot water from the stablemaster’s quarters?” He gestured to the hallway at the end of the stall block.
Nyneve followed the direction of his hand slowly. When her gaze tracked back to him, suspicion glimmered in her eyes, but after a moment’s hesitation, she went, disappearing into shadow.
He turned Awen, keeping the mare moving despite her protests. “I know, love,” he murmured, rubbing the place on her withers where she was always itchy. “Just keep walking for me.”
The mare exhaled hard, her nostrils wide and pink, but she obliged, putting one foot in front of another. By the time they reached the top of the stall block, the maiden had returned. She stood at a tack trunk, which she had turned into a tabletop for her purpose, crushing and mixing the herbs into a small pot of water from the stablemaster’s hearth. Distantly, he appreciated that she was making a paste and not a draught—much easier to get into a horse’s mouth, he had always found. But he was terribly distracted by the easy, confident flow of her hands, the sway of her wide hips, the way she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. A thrill shot through him, warmth blooming inside his chest. Perhaps making Nyneve Or’Afon reveal her secrets would beenjoyable.
“Chestnut,” the maiden said suddenly, not turning toward him. “I don’t often see that used in colic remedies.”
