Page 95 of The Faerie Handmaid

She bowed to the king and then to Lancelin. “You asked for me,” she said.

Lancelin said, “Yes, and thank you for coming so swiftly.” He gestured to the chair at his left hand. “The king and I would like you to hear this man’s petition.”

Slowly, Braithe walked to the chair and sat down. She had no idea what was expected of her, but it seemed there was nothing to be alarmed about. She sat on the edge of the chair, not relaxing against the back as Mordred and the others were doing. The chair was too big, more suited to Morgana’s long legs than Braithe’s short ones. Her toes barely reached the floor, and she had to resist swinging them as a child might. She folded her hands in her lap and waited.

The king said, “This is the headman of a village on the eastern shore of the Chindl. Some weeks ago, we sent a bullock to him from our own herd, as they had lost theirs and wanted to breed such cows as they had. He has come to ask for another. He says the one we sent died.”

“The problem,” Lancelin said, making a slight gesture toward the headman, “is that we have sent three in the past two years. This man—Samuel, is it not?” The man nodded. “Samuel says they have had bad luck with their cattle.” He turned to Braithe. “We wonder if this is true.”

Braithe’s lips parted, and she cast a quick glance at the headman, who still kept his eyes on his feet. She sensed his fear and his shame, and she wished she had not been put in this position. Her heart was too soft for this, though she believed it had grown harder. She couldn’t help seeing the headman of her own tiny hamlet in this man, struggling through misfortune to see that the people of his community had enough to eat, adequate shelter for their families.

But there was something else in this Samuel’s mind. Something deceptive. Something that was hard to understand. Her brow furrowed, and her lips pursed. She still gazed at the man, but she wasn’t really seeing him. She was feeling him, and when the truth flashed through his mind, it flashed through hers as well. It was different from hearing thoughts but no less clear. It was her empathy coming into its full bloom.

“It was his son,” she said to the king. Her voice shook a little, with sympathy and with unease about her role in this. She said it again, speaking in a low voice that was full of regret. “It was his son who took the bullock.”

Samuel’s head shot up, and he stared at her with an expression of horror.

She blinked, and he came back into focus. She met his gaze, and it pained her to see the fear in his eyes. “I am sorry, sir,” she said. “I cannot help seeing the truth.”

“His son?” Mordred asked.

“His son took the other bullocks, too, and sold them. To the Romans.” She felt the eyes of the assembled knights on her, burning on her neck and shoulders. Resolutely, she kept her own eyes fixed on Samuel.

“Why would he do that?” Lancelin asked, looking from Braithe to Samuel and back again. “Does he need money so much?”

“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.