He was barely strong enough to get out of bed, and could eat only soup and thin wine. All life else for him was only the constant struggle to breathe, or to sleep fitfully, or to stare at the coals in the brazier and listen to people passing in the tiled corridor. We made him eat and saw that he was as warm as possible, and kept him bent over steaming bowls scented with mint and mustard to try to ease his breathing. He fought and fought against his illness, as though it were a physical creature that he held at bay. For long hours I fought with him. His unconscious fear of being hurt by anyone who touched him fascinated me; as far as Lleu was concerned it was a fear without foundation, but there is no emotion I could have understood more completely. When I was so badly hurt the summer before, I used to lie in dread of falling asleep; and more than that I dreaded your visits, your touch, your long fingers testing broken bones or securing bandages. But I had reason to dread you, and Lleu had no reason to dread anyone.
I knew so well how that game of fear might be played that I had to watch myself and guard against frightening him on purpose. Why is it such a great temptation to torment someone who is helpless? Lleu hated above all to be drugged into sleep, and I never allowed him to kterwed himnow whether the drugs I gave him would induce sleep or not. His terror at losing consciousness was so real that often he fought determinedly against nothing, against his own mind, to stay awake. I played upon his fear; though I did nothing to hurt him, nothing that could be noticed. At night when I woke sobbing or crying out against you I would vow to myself not to frighten him again. But Lleu had a sudden, imperious way of issuing questions that sounded like orders; he would demand, “Have you ever seen your real mother?” or “Tell me how you crippled your hand,” and I could not bear to let such careless cruelty go unpunished. Then I would casually remark upon an increase in his fever, or speak of dreadful cures for conditions he did not have, and watch the color drain from his thin, bewitching face.
Oh, Godmother, once he asked if I had ever had a lover. What was I supposed to answer to that?
Once he asked a question that I could at least answer honestly, even if I did not like to speak of it: Had I ever killed a man. I told him, “Seven.”
And he, outraged: “You keep count?”
It is a mystery to me how he manages to strike such crushing blows unintentionally. I tried to answer with dignity. He should never know whether or not he had shaken me. “I am not so callous or careless as to have yet lost track.”
Chastened, he said quickly, “I’m sorry. Do you mind telling me? I can’t judge you. I’ve never killed anything.” I could not tell if there was envy or horror in his emphasis.
“I’ll tell you,” I said, “and you may judge me, if you like.” He watched me through eyes brilliant with accusation, sitting elegantly upright against his pillows, his thin, pale hands resting quiet in the fur of one of the slim and regal cats that I had sent him from Africa. I thought how he must see me through those dark, accusing eyes: stronger and older than he, limping and dangerous. Healer and murderer. “The king—our father sent me to Brittany six years ago to deal with a Gaulish tribe that was rising against him. There was a small skirmish before the matter was settled, and I killed two of the tribesmen.” I stopped, and thought, and went on. “Two other men I killed when I was helping to defend a fishing village from Saxon pirates, in a desperate fight, no more than self-defense. Also in self-defense I killed a man who attacked me on a deserted stretch of highway. That was a peculiar, ugly incident.”
“And the sixth?” Lleu prompted.
“One of the men from the fishing village.” It is hard for me to speak of this. “He was very badly hurt in the attack and asked me to end his life painlessly.”
And suddenly from Lleu, a flash of sympathy: “That would take more courage than the others, I think. You can’t help defending yourself, but to have to plan and think about a death, even a merciful death, must be terrible.”
“Yes.” I said to finish, my voice level, “The seventh was an execution I was asked to perform.”
Lleu’s pale face leached to chalk, not because he was afraid, but because that was how he registered almost any emotion. If, blameless and superior, he had demanded how I could do such a thing, I would have left him to entertain himself for the afternoon. But he said, “Who asked you to do that?”
“The queen of the Orcades.”
“Aunt Morgause? Your foster mother?” Though plainly disapproving, he was not wh, he wa surprised; Artos had not taught his children to look for any gentleness in you. Lleu gazed at me quizzically, and said at last, “But Medraut, you didn’t want to do it.”
For one blank moment I thought he had seen that in my face. Then with less assurance he added, “Did you?” It had only been a question, not insight.
“No,” I answered frankly. “It was a man I had liked and trusted. There was no doubt as to his guilt, but I did not want to be his executioner.”
“Why were you, then?”
“In the end, because he requested it himself.” God, how cold-blooded am I? It chills me that I can speak of such a thing in idleness, without ever betraying what I felt then. I sat still and looked at Lleu directly, daring him to question me further. He said abruptly, “Your name means ‘marksman.’”
“Yes. The Deft One, the Skilled One.”
Lleu suddenly grinned a little, wicked and delightful. “Are you?”
Driven by mingled pride and self-contempt, I said, “I’ll show you.” I went into the little dressing room next door where I found a spool of thread and a light, sharp probe made of bone; then I returned to sit on the floor next to Lleu’s cot. With the thread and a slender twig of kindling from the brazier I strung a makeshift bow scarcely longer than my forearm. The probe served for an arrow. I used to do this to exercise my hand when I lay bored and aching in the long hot days of the previous summer, before I was able to walk. It had been a diversion from illness and fear: so, too, for Lleu.
“Choose a target,” I said.
Lleu glanced about and suggested politely, “The green cushion on the stool.”
“Even you could hit that,” I said. He caught the faint mockery in my voice; indignantly folding his arms, he challenged, “The eye of the middle fox in the tapestry over the door.”
It was so specific and small that I think he expected me to laugh and ask for a reasonable target; or if I did not, to come close but miss, and afterward receive his condescending praise. I was too proud to do either. I never miss.