“You’re not imagining anything,” he growled. “They expect me to lose. I won’t. Too much rides on this.” His gaze lingered on her face in a way that told her he was talking about her more than his throne.
Gwen stared up at him, struck by the savage determination in his eyes. She’d always known Arthur loved her, of course, but on some level she’d thought he loved his country and his knights at least as much. It was startling to realize he held her dearer than any of it.
His knights started toward them. Arthur and Lancelot advanced to meet them, with Gwen trailing. She broke step as her attention fell on one particular face among those seated around the courtyard.
Gwen and Morgana Le Fay had become unlikely friends soon after Arthur’s former lover appeared at court with her young son. At the time, Gwen hadn’t expected to like the woman, had only meant to pretend friendship as a way to quiet any rumors that Morgana and Arthur were still lovers.
And the ruse had worked. Gwen did not have a reputation as a pliant wife; the court reasoned that if she’d become friends with Morgana, there must be nothing to all those lewd whispers.
Yet if the friendship had started out as pretense, that soon changed when Gwen realized Morgana was as witty and bright as she was beautiful.
Best of all, she was loyal. Morgana had never tried to use their friendship to wheedle riches or favors as too many others did, and she never repeated anything the queen said to her. She quickly became the dearest friend Guinevere had ever had, the one person, other than Arthur himself, whom Gwen trusted without question.
Which was why Gwen worried for her friend now. Morgana’s lovely face wasn’t just pale, it was almost ghostly, and her green eyes looked huge with anxiety.
Gwen couldn’t blame her. No matter what her own feelings were, Morgana would soon have to watch her son either die or kill his father. Another woman might imagine all the riches that would come her way as the mother of the new High King. The healer wasn’t that woman. She was far too intelligent not to see the implications.
Her anguished gaze met Gwen’s. The queen glanced at Arthur, now deep in conversation with his knights, then gestured Morgana over. Her friend shot off the bench and started toward her.
Gwen was so intent on the healer, she ignored the soft ring of approaching chain mail. She realized her mistake when Morgana’s eyes widened in horror.
A male hand clamped over Gwen’s right upper arm hard enough to bruise. Hot breath gusted against her ear as Mordred whispered, “After I’ve killed him, my sweet stepmother, I’ll fuck you. In your cunt and your mouth. In your ar . . .”
She wheeled and slapped him with every ounce of her body weight behind her hand. As he released her in shock, she jerked the dagger from her jeweled belt sheath and plunged it toward the only unarmored part of him she could reach: the underside of his jaw.
Her knife wrist slapped into Mordred’s palm. For all that he looked like a bullock, he was fast.
“You ungrateful cur!” Gwen raged. “I will die before I ever let you touch me!” She lunged at him, her sandaled feet thumping harmlessly on his booted shins, her free hand curling into claws as she went for his eyes. He grabbed her wrist and jerked her off her feet. He didn’t even have to work at it. She was distantly aware of outraged male voices, drowned out by Arthur’s furious bellow.
Gwen barely heard them. She was utterly focused on Mordred’s face, so disturbingly like Arthur’s—except for those cruel eyes. “If you kill my husband, by the womb of the Virgin, I’ll see you dead. Get out of the habit of sleeping, boy. My assassins will come at you from behind every tapestry and column, every rock and hedgerow. You’ll know every smiling friend could belong to me, just waiting to dig that viper’s heart out of your . . .”
“Shut up, Gwen!” Morgana screamed.
Blinking, the queen realized her friend had both arms wrapped around Mordred’s forearm as she desperately tried to keep him from hitting Gwen.
Then Lancelot was there, his fist slamming into Mordred’s jaw so hard, the prince dropped Guinevere and staggered back. She hit the packed dirt of the training field, her head striking hard enough to send stars shooting behind her eyes.
A pair of booted feet came down on either side of her hips. She looked up woozily to see Arthur standing astride her, his sword raised to protect her. “By the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I am still High King of Britain! Any man who lays hand on my queen dies now!”
“She’s gone barking mad!” Mordred spat. “I but spoke to her, and she tried to bury her dagger in my throat!”
“You threatened to rape me!” Gwen had just enough self-control not to screech the words loud enough for the entire court to hear. Above her, Arthur froze.
“Mordred!” Morgana cried in stricken betrayal. “Guinevere took us in, treated you like her own . . .”
“Because she knew she’d never give Arthur an heir,” Mordred sneered. “That blond bitch is as barren as a salted field. Which is to the good, or she’d have surely presented our king with his champion’s brat.”
“You lying lickspittle cur!” Arthur launched himself at his son, sword aimed at the prince’s throat. Mordred parried and retreated, his gaze icy with calculation.
Arthur’s knights lunged at Mordred’s followers with a chorused roar of outrage. The prince’s men bellowed and drew their weapons. The air filled with clangs and curses as the two groups began to fight.
“Get up, Gwen, before you get trampled!” Morgana swooped down and helped her to her feet.
“Get the queen off the field!” Arthur bellowed at Lancelot, stalking his son with murder in his eyes.
Lance planted his palm against the small of Gwen’s back, urging her toward the dubious shelter of the awning. “Move!” Galahad backed along behind them, keeping an eye out for would-be attackers as he brought up the rear.
“No!” Gwen set her feet, looking back at Arthur. “Protect your king! I’ll go . . .”
Arthur’s sword bounced off something invisible in a cascade of blue sparks.
“Enough!” Merlin’s roar could not possibly have come from the throat of the beardless boy he appeared to be.
Both men flew off their feet as if dragged into the air by an invisible giant. It dropped them again to land, staggering. Everyone else froze in astonishment as Merlin stalked between the two groups of warriors. “You will cease!” the wizard snapped, “Or I will leave this little world of yours to drown in blood, as your vicious nature apparently dictates!”
“He threatened to rape my queen.” Arthur glared at Mordred, who snarled back like a reflection in a demonic mirror. “I’ll see him dead!”
“Kill him, then!” Merlin spat, stepping right against the king’s chest with an expression so savage, the larger man retreated a step in sheer astonishment. “And then watch as humanity sinks into darkness because you lacked the strength of will to control your ugly temper.”
“Who do you think you . . . ?” Arthur began.
Merlin talked right over him. “You are supposed to be High King of Britain, Arthur Pendragon. If you can’t put the good of your people above your pricked ego, you are no good to me.”
“A threat to my wife is not an ego prick.” Arthur glared at Mordred. “Especially not when it’s my own son who threatens her!”
“I do not care!” Merlin roared. “This is your test, Pendragon. And you are failing it!”
The sound of his voice was like being plunged into a frozen lake. Every hair rose on Gwen’s body in atavistic terror. She wouldn’t have been more astonished if the stripling wizard had turned into a dragon.
She wasn’t alone, either. Every face she saw drained of blood in unison. Men as well as women cried out.
Gwen had never seen her husband retreat from anyone, including other kings, but he actually took a step back from Merlin. Even so, he didn’t let his gaze drop as he curled a lip. “You’ve made your point. I might as well slay my bastard in ten minutes as now.”
Catching Lance’s
gaze, he jerked a thumb at the pavilion and the chairs standing there. Lance dipped his head and sheathed his sword. “My queen?” He offered his arm.
Gwen schooled her face, concealing just how shaken she was behind her best regal air, and placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Morgana, attend me.”
Mordred’s mother blinked once. “Of course, your majesty.” She fell in behind them, all three of them ignoring the astounded stares of their audience in the stands.
Morgana dropped her voice low enough to reach no further than Gwen’s ears. “My queen, this will look strange to the court. I am Mordred’s mother, after all. Never mind that sometimes I fear . . .” She broke off.
Gwen shot her a grim glance. Recently there’d been bruises on the healer’s lovely face she’d refused to explain. Gwen and Arthur had believed she had an abusive lover, but neither of them were able to ferret out who it was in order to put a stop to it. They both hated to see anyone victimized, woman, man, or child.
But what if there was no lover? Had Mordred been beating his mother? The thought made Gwen feel sick. He’d proven today that he was certainly capable of it. But his own mother . . .
Why did we fail with him? How did we go so wrong? Gwen had been just as involved in rearing him as Arthur and Morgana. She had to be; Arthur had often been called away by his duties, while Morgana was kept just as busy in her role as Camelot’s healer and midwife. Gwen tried to fill in for them, reasoning that if she couldn’t give birth to Arthur’s heir, she could at least help raise him.
But I failed in that, too. With an effort of will, Gwen relaxed her tight fists. We’ve got to deal with the man he is, not the man we tried to make him.
They reached the awning’s shade, and Lancelot conducted the queen to her chair. She gestured to one of the hovering servants. “Fetch a seat for my lady Morgana.”
The man nodded and hurried away, returning a moment later with a low wooden bench. He positioned it beside the queen’s chair, and Gwen motioned for her friend to seat herself.
The healer hesitated, frowning at the number of staring faces turned their way. “My queen . . .”
“I have been providing exercise for wagging court tongues since I married Arthur. I couldn’t stop them wagging if I took religious orders. Sit down, Morgana.”
Her friend obeyed, then leaned closer and dropped her voice. “I am so sorry! You’ve always been kind to both of us, even when few would have been. How could he treat you like this?”
Gwen reached over and rested a calming hand on the healer’s, bunched in white-knuckled fists in her lap. “Morgana, your son is a man grown now. His sins are his own.”
“I know, but he didn’t have to be so bloody stupid about committing them. He’s given Arthur no choice except to kill him.” Her gaze went to Mordred’s face. “He cannot be allowed to take the throne, or he’ll plunge Britain into darkness.”
“He’s still your son. No mother could be thought disloyal for wanting her child to survive.”
“I’m not speaking as a mother, but as a citizen of Britain. Mordred would be a disaster as king. He’s too ruled by his appetites and passions rather than his head. Arthur feels just as deeply, but his sense of justice always balances his temper.”
“Usually,” Gwen murmured back. “But not always.” Both women fell silent, watching warily as Merlin returned to Nimue in the pavilion’s shade. Lancelot promptly moved to position himself between the pair and the queen, but they ignored his protective stance. Their shifting expressions suggested they were having some kind of intense discussion, but neither spoke. Not out loud, at least. Magically? There was no way to tell.
Arthur completed whatever consultation he’d been having with his knights. As he strode under the awning, Gwen and Morgana rose and sank into curtseys. Merlin and Nimue, too, bowed as their audience stood respectfully. The Knights of the Round Table knelt.
Mordred and his contingent did not.
Arthur swept a cold gaze over the crowd as he offered a hand to his wife. Gwen took it and let him draw her to her feet.
His hard stare reached Mordred and his men. He lifted an icy black brow. The prince promptly sank to one knee, his men following suit. No sooner had he done so than Mordred’s expression turned sour, as if he’d belatedly realized he’d yielded a tactical point. Gwen suspected the habit of obeisance to his father’s royal authority had kicked in automatically, despite his lethal ambitions. The king gave him an acidic half smile.
Don’t play power games with Arthur, boy, Gwen thought. He is far beyond your weight.
“Today I do battle to the death with Mordred, son of Morgana Le Fay, before this day my heir,” Arthur announced in a voice that rolled across the courtyard like a trumpet call.
Mordred gasped audibly in outrage at his summary disinheritance. Arthur shot him a cold glance that clearly said, After the performance you just gave, what did you expect?
The king turned to Merlin. “Now, wizard, if you would state the stakes of this combat.” He sank onto his chair and lounged back with the chime of mail. His expression suggested he didn’t give a damn one way or another.
Merlin eyed him a moment, then straightened and addressed the crowd. “The winner of this contest may win a sip from my enchanted Grail.” The goblet appeared on his palm in a burst of golden sparks.
The audience murmured in awe. Gwen wasn’t surprised; there was an overwhelming sense of power about that cup that was definitely no conjurer’s trick.
“Be it known that though this is a duel to the death, I alone shall judge whether to award the Grail based on who fights not only with the most skill and courage, but with the greatest sense of honor.” Merlin turned to Arthur and bowed, the cup vanishing from his hand. “Now, sire, if you and your opponent will enter the circle?”
His face set like stone, Arthur nodded coldly and rose to stride onto the field to meet the son he’d just disowned.
Feeling sick with anxiety, Gwen groped for Morgana’s hand. Her friend’s skin felt like ice even in the June heat.
Mordred moved toward his father, wearing an ugly grin of anticipation. Gwen longed to slap him.
The fighters stopped on opposite sides of the packed-earth circle. Merlin stepped between them. He looked about twelve compared to the two men, both of whom towered over him. The wizard spoke to them in a voice so low, it was impossible to hear what he said. Each man replied in the same low tones. Merlin nodded and stepped back out of the circle. “Begin,” he said, and backed away.
Neither fighter moved. They only stared at each other, as if locked in some kind of mental combat. Which probably wasn’t far off; Arthur often said that more battles were won or lost between a warrior’s ears than by the strength of his sword arm. “A giant can lose to a dwarf if he lets overconfidence blind him.” The trouble was, he’d taught Mordred the same strategies, including this one: “A big man who keeps a cool head will win every time.”
For once, Gwen hoped her husband was wrong.
THREE
Arthur let his heartbeat slow, banishing both his fear for his wife and his rage that his son had dared threaten her. Instead he focused on taking deep breaths as he watched his opponent. That’s all he is, he told himself. Just another opponent, like all the others I’ve beaten since I killed my first man.
He’d been only fifteen when he’d slain the assassin who murdered Uther Pendragon minutes before. The killer had obviously expected him to be too overcome with grief to defend himself. Instead, the bastard died with Arthur’s dagger in his throat and astonishment in his eyes.
“I wonder,” Mordred drawled, “if you have any idea how many times I barely kept from laughing in your face . . . ?” He grinned, cold green eyes empty of emotion: not humor, fear, or even rage. “Every time you told me you loved me, I longed to tell you you’re nothing to me but an old man in my way. Now I can finally be rid of you, and everything you have will be mine.” His humorless grin broadened into evil. “Including your wife.”
&nbs
p; Arthur laughed. Even to his ears, it sounded icy. “That was a trifle overplayed, boy. Do you really think you can manipulate the High King of Britain into stupidity with a few schoolboy taunts?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ve never found it difficult to manipulate you before.”
“I didn’t know you were an enemy before.” Arthur began to circle to Mordred’s right. “You showed your hand a little too soon. If you’d gone on playing the dutiful son a bit longer, perhaps faked a little regret, you might have taken me by surprise. Instead, you went after Gwen and pissed me off. I always warned you your impulsivity would get you in trouble. Now, boy, it’s going to be the death of you.”
“I am not a boy!” Mordred roared, just as furious as Arthur had anticipated. “And I will be king!” Slamming his body against his father’s, the prince drove him backward with his greater weight. His sword flashed toward Arthur’s head. The king barely got his shield up in time to block.
As if frenzied, Mordred swung at him again and again until Arthur’s shield clanged like an anvil under a smith’s hammer. Fighting to keep his feet against those pounding blows, the king silently swore. He’d known Mordred was strong, known he was fast, but he hadn’t realized how much the boy had been holding back during practice.
Arthur lunged, determined to power through Mordred’s guard. The prince used his shield to knock his father’s blade aside hard enough to rattle his teeth.
But in the process, he left himself open. Reversing his swing, Arthur drove his sword’s pommel through the gap to smash into Mordred’s jaw. The younger man staggered backward.
Catching Mordred’s shield with his own, he levered it aside and thrust his blade into the gap, aiming for his opponent’s throat. Mordred tried to dodge, but Arthur felt the familiar sensation of a blade parting flesh. Blood flew, but not enough for a deep wound. Not fatal. Close, but not quite.
Fear flashed through the green eyes revealed by the Y-shaped opening of Mordred’s helm as his black brows knitted in pain.
Memory flashed through Arthur’s consciousness: a young Mordred, that same expression on his face as Morgana stitched up his palm. He’d cut himself playing with Arthur’s sword.
Wicked Games Page 4