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Mordred stopped, placing his vambrace down on the bench, his heart sinking. For a moment he concentrates completely on his armour, how could he answer such a question? Telling her would mean her life and the lives of those whom called Camelot home. An impossible predicament.
The young knight turns to face her, his fingers brushing lightly against the metal of his armour. “I’m not hiding anything” he tells her simply.
They’ve left her in a jumbled heap of limbs on the ground, rope still about her ankle. Her face is smudged with dirt and tears, and where she was slender before, she’s nearer skin and bones now. Her breathing is slow and shallow, eyes flickering under the lids as she nears consciousness.
A look of horror crossed the ex-knight’s face and he turned back to them. “What do you think you’re doing?” Mordred asks, his voice rising slightly. At this Ragnor chuckles and Mordred purses his lips into a thin line, completely unamused. “Your friend wants slaves, Mordred, not princesses.”
“Naw, boss, le’s keep ‘er a while. C’uld use a woman.” The ensuing laughter is coarse, several of the men winking and nudging each other. One of them stoops to pull at her body, twitching her skirts upward, and flashes a smirk at Mordred. “‘e c’uld have ‘er first, loosen ‘im up.”
“Loosen ‘er up too,” someone else cackles. The handling rouses Summer, and her eyes blink slowly open.
And then the man touching her is on fire.