Believe

by Victoria Alexander

  The guards had brought them down an endless flight of stairs and through a long, narrow corridor lined with thick, rough-hewn doors, each one probably leading to the latest in medieval torture chambers. Mordred’s men had tied them up and left immediately, leaving a torch burning in a holder on the wall. Could have been worse. At least she didn’t see a rack in this little hellhole. Not that she knew what a rack looked like. Probably similar to a Nordic Track. Still, it was shadowy and damp and very creepy and Tessa could swear she heard endless scurrying sounds. She didn’t want to think about exactly what those sounds meant.

  “I guess they don’t call it a dungeon for nothing,” she muttered and glanced at Galahad. “What are you doing?”

  Galahad stared upward at his hands. “I am attempting to untie these ropes.”

  “Good luck. I can’t even move my fingers.”

  “’Tis not necessary to move a great deal.” His brow furrowed.

  She watched him for a minute. “You don’t seem to be making any progress.”

  “And you do not seem to have any patience,” he said mildly.

  “I’d have a lot more if I wasn’t trussed up like a side of beef in a meat locker.”

  He ignored her, too intent on focusing his efforts to divide his attention. She heaved a heavy sigh. Between the distance and the dim light she couldn’t see any headway. “What are you doing now?”

  “The same as I was doing a moment ago.” His voice echoed the concentration on his face.

  “Oh.” It wasn’t bad enough she was dangling here but he wouldn’t even give her the satisfaction of listening to her. “So, what are you—”

  “When I was a young boy,” he said, his tone patient as if explaining something complicated to someone not too bright. “A traveling magician came to Arthur’s court. Oh, his was not true magic, not like Merlin’s—”

  “Merlin.” She ground out the name. “If I ever see that son of a—”

  “—but entertaining nonetheless. Sleight of hand, minor illusions, that sort of thing. But, and perhaps this was indeed true magic…” He worked steadily at the bonds. Did she actually see a bit of give in his ropes? “He could untie any knot, even those binding him. And he told me exactly…” The ropes loosened. “How he did it.” In a moment he held the ropes in his hands.

  “Way to go, Mr. Human recorder! All right!” She bounced slightly. “Now me.”

  He bent and untied the ropes around his ankles. “I think not.”

  “What do you mean—you think not?”

  “’Twould be a mistake.” He straightened and grinned. “You will be safe and out of harm’s way here for the time being.”

  “I don’t want to be safe and out of harm’s way.” Her voice rose. “I want to be with you.”

  “’Tis not wise.” He stepped to her and kissed her, her mouth for once on a level with his.

  She jerked her head away. “Don’t think you can make everything all right with a lousy kiss.” He kissed her neck and she shivered. “Or a couple of kisses.” He trailed his fingers along her side in a long line from her elbow to her hip and she bit her lip to keep from gasping out loud. Her voice sounded a lot weaker than she wanted. “Or…um…that.”

  Her trussed-up position and the low neckline of her dress left her chest thrust forward like an offering to a pagan god. He bent his head and kissed a point deep between her breasts and she stifled a groan. Here she was all tied up and all she could think about was sex. His voice murmured against her. “We shall have to try this again someday.”

  She sighed. “You think so, do you?”

  “Indeed I do.” He brushed his lips across hers. “But I still do not like this gown.” He turned to leave.

  “Galahad, get me out of this!”

  “’Twould be my pleasure to rip it from your body but I fear there is no time.”

  “Not the dress.” She grit her teeth. “Untie me.”

  “Nay, not now.” He stepped carefully to the door, pushed it open and glanced around. “Odd, there is no guard.”

  “Of course there’s no guard. We’re supposed to be tied up. Both of us. Now, get me—”

  “Tessa,” he said sharply. “’Twill be easier for me if I am alone.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “’Tis not easy to entertain children at court. And young boys find great fun in escaping the watchful eyes of their elders, choosing their own sport and making up their own games. Ours were down here.”

  She cast him an exasperated glare. “You didn’t tell me you’ve been here before.”

  He raised a brow. “I did not have the chance.” He glanced down the corridor. “Castles are fortresses, Tessa. More often than not designed to keep people out, not imprison them within. Long ago, there were escape routes and passageways down here. This castle is like a comb of honey. I can best determine if the tunnels I remember are still passable if I am alone.”

  “But if you’re alone, I’m alone.” A pleading note rang in her voice. “And I really don’t want to be here alone.”

  “You are quite safe.” He nodded and stepped through the doorway. “I shall return shortly.” The door closed gently behind him then quickly swung open. “I give you my word.” He grinned and shut the door.

  “Don’t you leave me here! Damn it, Galahad!” It probably wasn’t a great idea to yell but she couldn’t help it. Fear did that to her. Besides who was going to hear her down here? Nobody home but us rats. “Galahad! So help me, Mordred won’t have to kill you I’ll do it myself!”

  The hay shifted beneath her and she stilled. This was not the sturdiest support in the world. If she moved too much, she’d probably knock away the damn thing away. Then she’d really be in trouble.

  She strained to hear something, anything that would tell her he’d changed his mind and was coming back. He’d already been gone a good thirty seconds. Wasn’t that enough time? How could he leave her here alone? Tied up. She sighed. Safe.

  “I love you, fair Tessa.”

  In spite of her annoyance, the memory warmed her. She smiled to herself. He loved her. And she loved him. Of course, she hadn’t told him yet but she would.

  When?

  When he came back.

  If he came back.

  Of course he’d come back. Then she’d tell him. No, it would be better if she told him after he untied her. Or when they escaped. Or when they found the Grail.

  Or when she had to say good-bye?

  Her smile faded. How could she leave him?

  How could she stay?

  This was not where she belonged. She could never adjust to the Middle Ages. Oh sure, she’d gotten along fine so far, if she wanted to overlook minor inconveniences like capture by a crazy prince and left to hang by her wrists in a dungeon, but this was just temporary. She was going home.

  Maybe it would be better if she didn’t tell him. He hadn’t asked if she loved him although she’d bet he probably assumed his feelings were returned. After all, what woman in her right mind wouldn’t be in love with Sir Galahad? He was a knight.

  And maybe, if she didn’t tell him, he wouldn’t hurt quite so much when she left. He’d chalk it up to one more challenge to be overcome and whatever pain went along with it was simply the price to pay. He’d go on about his life with honor and courage, whether that involved the Grail or simply a nice little castle with a picket fence and someone like Oriana. And he’d forget all about Tessa.

  And maybe, if she didn’t tell him, she wouldn’t hurt quite so much when she left. She’d return to her modern life and all its wonderful conveniences and all her thoroughly contemporary ideas and figure the pain of leaving him was the cost of the adventure of a lifetime. She’d file their days together in a safe little compartment in the back of her mind and go back to not believing in myths or magic or love. And she’d forget all about him.

  Her throat ached and she sniffed away tears. What good would it do to tell him? For once, it was probably best to keep her mouth shut. But even as
she agreed in principle she knew she was lying to herself.

  How could she ever forget him?

  Every time she looked up at the stars on a warm spring night she’d be back in his arms. And he’d be in her heart.

  “’Tis as you ordered, my lord.”

  “Excellent, Oscar.” Mordred raised a brow. “Is all else in readiness?”

  Oscar nodded, seemed about to say something then changed his mind. No doubt the wise thing to do, yet…

  “What is it, Oscar?”

  The soldier hesitated. Mordred sighed and leaned back in his chair. Galahad’s wench was right—Oscar was not a prime example of the best man had to offer. Still the creature was loyal as a dog and ruthless as the devil and, better yet, would slash a foe’s throat upon Mordred’s order without a second thought. “Spit it out, man.”

  “I was just thinking, my lord—”

  “Tsk, tsk, Oscar. You know the trouble you can get into when you think.”

  An embarrassed flush swept up Oscar’s face and Mordred smiled. At this moment, the guard probably hated him. Unlike his allies across the land who conspired with the prince against Arthur, Oscar and all of his compatriots in Mordred’s employ had no noble sentiments about their purpose here. Plain and simply, they were brutes. Their allegiance was provided in return for shelter and clothing and food plus a few coins on a regular basis. And all lived in the hopes that one day he would reward their faithfulness with power or land or wealth. Perhaps he would. Perhaps not.

  “I was wondering, my lord, why you did not have them chained instead of tied.”

  Mordred cast him a pitying look. “If I had them chained, Galahad might never get free.”

  Oscar’s brows pulled together in confusion. “I do not understand.”

  “Nor is it necessary for you to do so.”

  “But, my lord—”

  “Are their horses within easy reach in the stables?” Oscar nodded. “And their possessions suitably at hand?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Then we are ready.” Anticipation surged through him. He had waited for this moment for a long time. “Gather your men and I shall meet you at the castle gates shortly.”

  Oscar stared, then abruptly, comprehension lit his face. “I see, my lord.”

  “I thought you would, Oscar.” He waved toward the door. “Now.”

  Oscar nodded and left the room. Mordred reached for the goblet of wine on the table beside him. This was it then. At long last he and Galahad would cross swords without Arthur to interfere.

  He drew a long swallow of the wine and noted a shade of reluctance lurking in the back of his mind. ’Twas nonsense. He had waited for this day for years. Had wanted it since the first moment Galahad had bested him in a game or a fight or in the ongoing competition for the king’s affection. No doubt Galahad had never even noticed Arthur’s expression of pride when Lancelot’s son had performed well or honorably. But Mordred had. And had noted further still how his father showed not the same interest in his heir’s accomplishments.

  He took another sip of the wine, its taste now oddly bitter to match his memories. ’Twas not his father’s part in his mother’s death that drove such hate between them. In truth, Mordred knew ’twas not Arthur’s actions but rather his indifference that caused her death. The king did not care for, nor did he dislike, his first wife. She was the queen and whether she lived or died seemed to matter little to him. As it did to her son.

  But, by all the fires of hell, he—Mordred—was Arthur’s son and deserved to be treated with the respect and—aye—affection accorded such a position. His hand tightened on the metal goblet. Affection Arthur preferred to bestow on Galahad.

  Still, perhaps he owed all he was to the good knight. Growing up side by side, ’twas the desire to beat Galahad that spurred him on. But the king’s favorite was always a moment faster and a touch stronger. Mordred could triumph over the other boys and later, other men, but not Galahad. Never Galahad.

  And did the competition not continue to this day? Should Mordred not have been the one Arthur sent on the quest for the Grail? Should it not be the heir of the kingdom sent on the mission to save it? Arthur knew of his son’s treachery, only his misplaced sentimentality kept the old man from acting upon it. Yet, even if it were not so, Mordred had no doubts his father would never ask him to pursue such a quest. Nay, such a noble venture would be reserved for the king’s favorite.

  Now, ’twould be different. Now, at long last, he would triumph. And Galahad would die. Oh, the lady’s arguments rang true enough. Arthur would be furious when he learned of Galahad’s death at the hands of his son. Mordred would not keep such a tragedy from him. Nay, he looked forward to the well-chosen moment when he would tell his father the man Arthur had always preferred to his own son was dead at his son’s hand. ’Twould be the very moment before Arthur and Lancelot and all else still loyal to the old ways joined Galahad in death.

  And what of the woman? He drew his brows together and considered her. She was indeed fair of form and would provide interesting entertainment. Yet, once Galahad was dead, ’twould not be the same. He had relished the idea of sending Galahad off and keeping the woman, knowing with every step away from her, the knight’s head would be filled with anguished thoughts of exactly how Mordred was enjoying the fair lady. With Galahad dead, he no longer cared about her. Until then, she may well be Galahad’s lone weakness.

  ‘Twas no question though—Galahad would be dead. Mordred swallowed the last sip of wine and got to his feet. And soon. Mere ropes would never hold a knight. Especially not one who long ago explored the escape routes of the castle he was imprisoned in. And when the knight and his lady emerged with the intoxicating rush of freedom in their blood, Mordred and his men would greet them.

  ‘Twould be the last competition between the two. The final battle. The ultimate game. ’Twas almost a pity to end it. Yet, he would have it no other way. Mordred strode toward the door. In spite of the decadent life Galahad so looked askance upon, Mordred’s days were spent as much in sharpening his skills with a blade as in debauchery. He was ready to meet his rival in one last engagement.

  Indeed, Mordred smiled to himself, ’twas no doubt he would triumph. For the sake of his pride, he would prefer to depend on his skills alone. But should that fail, he would still best Galahad. This time, Mordred would emerge victorious. After all, he knew the knight’s weakness.

  And he would not hesitate to use her.

  “I may never forgive you for leaving me alone in this pit.” Tessa rubbed her wrists briskly in an effort to get some circulation back.

  “I was not gone long.” Galahad knelt at her feet and untied the ropes binding her ankles.

  “Seemed like forever.”

  “’Twas only a short time.” He stood, grabbed her around the waist, lifted her off the bale and set her gently on the floor. His brow furrowed. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so. It’s not my feet, it’s my arms.” She rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms. “How do we get out of here?”

  “There is a tunnel that will lead us to the forest behind the castle. I have located our horses as well as my sword, our provisions and the queen’s dagger.” He patted the knife at his side. “I would give it to you but,” his gaze swept over her costume, “there is no place for you to carry it.”

  “I’d rather have a can of mace anyway,” she muttered. “Besides, Guinevere gave it to you for luck. Did you find my—”

  “Aye.”

  “You did get a lot done. I’m impressed.”

  He strode to the door, drew his sword and cautiously glanced into the corridor. “’Twas easier than anticipated. The tunnels are as I remember them. The horses were stabled in easy sight. Our belongings were nearby. Even leading the animals through a little-used gate was not difficult.”

  Tessa crept to Galahad’s side, peeking around to see into the empty corridor. Nothing. She breathed a sigh of relief. “Let’s go then.”

  He n
odded and stepped into the passageway. She grabbed his hand and trailed on his heels. So far, this was easy. A piece of cake. Maybe…too easy. “Don’t you think it’s kind of weird that Mordred doesn’t have any guards down here?”

  “Shhh. Lower your voice.”

  “Well, don’t you?” she whispered.

  “’Tis extremely odd.”

  Her sense of relief dwindled. “When you were checking things out, did you see anybody?”

  Galahad stopped by steps leading upward, removed a torch from its metal holder high on the wall and ducked beneath the stairway into a narrow passageway. “Nay.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “Wait, hold it, stop.” Tessa pulled up short and yanked on his tunic. “Look, I know you’re the knight and all that but I think we’ve got a problem.” He halted and turned to face her. “This has all been a little too easy.” She drew a deep breath. “I think it’s a trap.”

  He stared at her for a long moment then grinned. “Duh.”

  “Duh?”

  “Is that not what you say to express the obvious?”

  “Yeah.” She shook her head. “But coming from you it has a different ring to it.” The light from the torch flickered off his features and gave a surreal effect to the moment. So what else was new? If escaping from the dungeon of a crazed prince wasn’t surreal what was? “If you know this is a trap, why are we heading straight for it?”

  His grin vanished, his lips compressed to a resolute line. “’Tis typical of Mordred’s games. He has left us no other choice. But a trap loses its effectiveness if the quarry knows of its existence. ’Tis the element of surprise that gives a trap strength. Knowing what we face, we will not blunder ahead blindly. We are prepared.”

  “And outnumbered,” she murmured.

  “Perhaps.” His tone was somber. He turned and started off.

  “We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we, Big Guy?” she said softly.

  His low laugh echoed in the stone passageway. “Indeed we have.”

  “Do you think we can make it through this one?”