Wicked Games (4 page)

There was a reason Arthur had named Lance the royal champion—his personal defender and bodyguard.

The strange boy glanced down at the blade so close to his Adam's apple, lifting a brow in an expression of cool interest. He looked up the weapon's length to meet Lance's deadly gaze.

The champion's eyes widened. He actually backed up a pace before he caught himself and brought his sword to bear again. “What. Are. You?”

Steel whispered on leather as every knight sitting at the Round Table rose and drew his sword. Arthur, too, held his blade at the ready as he moved closer to the trio.

The boy looked around at the lethal weapons, but there was no fear at all in his black gaze. “I am Merlin.” His voice rumbled, far too deep and resonant to come from that young mouth. “I am a Magus.” He gestured at the girl. “This is my companion, the Maja Nimue. We come to your court seeking warriors to fight in a just cause.”

Arthur could have had the pair killed—or at least tried to; given what he knew now, he doubted it would have been that simple. Instead, he'd watched in fascination as Merlin conjured a silver cup filled with a glowing liquid he'd said had the ability to grant superhuman strength and speed to the champions he sought. When Lord Kay had scoffed, the boy wizard opened a magical doorway to the Channel, and invited them all to step through.

Now the king shook his head in remembered awe. “From Camelot to the English Channel—leagues traveled in a heartbeat. You were as wonderstruck as I.”

Lance braced his elbows on his knees, his expression troubled. “But what if it was some sort of illusion . . . ?”

“We all stepped through that gate, Lance. We smelled the sea, heard the boom of the surf. That shell Gwen brought back is right here. Still smells of the ocean.” Flipping open the jewel chest that sat on the mantel, Arthur grabbed the oyster shell and held it up. “Is this some fairy trinket, spun of air and moonlight?”

Lance being Lance, he didn't back down. “No, sire. But even if Merlin does work magic, that does not mean he isn't playing some deep and lethal game. We cannot afford to lose you. I don't want to bend my knee to Mordred.”

“Do you think I'm that easy to defeat?” He tossed the shell back in the jewel chest.

“No, but I do think Mordred is three inches taller, at least a stone heavier, and nineteen years younger. Any one of those things you could overcome, but all?” He shrugged.

“Lance, I've been making war since I was fifteen. Hell, you were there, fighting beside me. Mordred may be built like a bull, but I can scheme rings around him.”

“You can
strategize
rings around him. Don't underestimate his talent for scheming. And if he does kill you, what happens to the rest of us?” His lips tightened. “Especially Queen Guinevere.”

R
emembering that night, Arthur clenched his hand around the hilt of his sword. “So you saw Mordred look at Gwen like a war-camp whore?”

“Aye, and I gave serious thought to calling him out on the spot.” Lancelot hesitated before admitting, “I also saw the way he smirked when he realized you'd caught him at it.”

“It was like finding the contents of the cesspit in my ale.” Any other man would have looked guilty or fearful of his king's reaction. Mordred's gaze hadn't even dropped. And what was worse, he'd grinned. Grinned the way a man grinned at some fool he'd gulled, knowing his victim had finally realized how utterly he'd been deceived.

“When Merlin announced we were to duel, I intended to tell him where to put his cup.” Arthur shook his head. “But when I saw the anticipation on Mordred's face, the way he looked at Gwen . . . When I realized my heir thought he could mock the High King of Britain like a half-wit dwarf . . .” He ground his teeth in fury. “I'll either kill that bastard or die.”

“Why not just banish him? Throw him in gaol? I'd be delighted to put him there.” Lance bared his own teeth. “Especially if he resists.”

“You know why, Lance. Half the court would whisper I did it out of fear.”

“But if you told the court why . . .”

“And expose Gwen to that kind of gossip? Everyone would whisper he'd cuckolded me.” Realizing he'd half drawn his sword, Arthur slid the weapon home and relaxed his white-knuckled grip. “I won't have my queen made the butt of wagging tongues.”

“My liege, no one will slander Queen Guinevere in my presence,” Lancelot told him quietly. “And I know I speak for all your knights.”

“Lance, did
you
know I'd raised a viper?”

“I'd have warned you if I had.” The knight frowned. “Though Galahad did tell me once Mordred has a reputation of being someone you had to watch if you didn't want a dirk in the ribs.” The youngest of the Round Table's knights, Lancelot's son had grown to manhood beside Mordred. “At the time, I thought, ‘Well, what prince doesn't have that reputation?'” Lance grinned. “Present company excepted, of course.”

Arthur snorted. “My father really
did
believe he'd raised a viper. He accused me of plotting treason on more than one occasion.”

“Usually when he was drunk. I don't think he ever truly believed it, save when he was in his cups.”

“Either way, every time I had doubts about Mordred, I told myself that paranoia about one's own children must be a hazard of kingship.” Arthur raked a hand through his hair and sighed. “Deep down, I knew what he was, but I always told myself I could fix him. If I only showed him enough love, enough understanding, gave him enough training, he'd become the man I wanted him to be.”

For once, there was no deference in Lancelot's stare, only a friend's honest compassion. “Arthur, you did everything you could for that boy.”

“Except the one thing that would have made a difference—keeping him safe from that bastard priest.”

Soon after he acknowledged Mordred as his son, Morgana had told him and Gwen that when the boy was only five, the village priest had named her a heretic for being Druid. Morgana had believed his antipathy had more to do with her bad judgment in healing a sick child when Father Bennett's attempt at a miracle failed. Bennett apparently did not appreciate being shown up; he'd claimed Mordred was the product of Morgana's fornication with the devil.

While Morgana tried to defend herself against the village's outraged elders, Bennett had taken the child away, saying he would cast out Mordred's demons. Afterward, the boy would never say exactly what he did, but for years he'd wake screaming from nightmares he had far too often.

The priest was lucky he'd been dead of plague by the time Arthur heard the story, or he'd have learned what hell was like at the king's own hand.

Arthur had always felt that experience had been the thing to warp his son. It was why he and Gwen had been so patient for so long in the face of Mordred's rages, the reason they made so many excuses for the inexcusable.

“For God's sake, Arthur!” Frustration tightened Lance's mouth into a tight line. “At the time, you didn't even know the boy existed! How the hell could you have possibly protected him?”

“By making sure everyone in the kingdom knew I won't tolerate that kind of treatment of any child, mine or not.”

“Men like that donkey's prick don't care about laws—not even those of God. Why do you think he'd listen to you if he wouldn't listen to Christ?”

“Good point.” Arthur threw himself down on his bed with a grunt. “It's too bloody late now, in any case. Mordred is the vicious little prick he is. Which brings me to the reason I sent for you.”

Lancelot bowed his head in submission. “I am honored to serve you in whatever way I can.”

“Protect Gwen.” He picked up the gauntlets he'd left on the bed and began to tug them on. “If it becomes evident I'm losing, take the rest of the Round Table and get her to safety.”

“We will, of course, guard Queen Guinevere with our lives.”

Arthur met his eyes, letting him see the gratitude he felt. “I know you will. From the time we were boys, you always served me with complete dedication.”

“Then you shouldn't send him from your side.” Gwen swept into the room, looking regal in an overtunic of imported blue silk embroidered with silver thread. Its short hem revealed the thin white linen underskirt swirling around her sandaled feet. A thin white veil concealed her bright hair, secured by a golden circlet inset with sapphires. She looked lovely—and furious, flags of color flaming on her cheeks. “If you want me protected, let the Table knights remain where they belong: at your back.”

Arthur sighed and moved to take her in his arms. She refused to relax against him, instead glowering rebelliously up into his eyes. “How can I keep my mind on winning if I'm wondering whether you'll be picked off by some assassin's arrow? If anything happened to you, it would gut me. Don't you think such an advantage would tempt Mordred?”

“Even Mordred would not dare have me assassinated in front of all the court.”

“Perhaps, but I'd as soon not test him. I've had all the unpleasant surprises I care to have from that quarter.”

“At least keep eight Table knights to protect you. That will leave me with three.” Correctly interpreting his expression, she bargained, “Lance, Galahad, and Tristan, rounded out with a dozen soldiers.”

“Plus Gawain, Percival, Marrok, and Cador. I want more of my elite fighters with you, Gwen.”

“What if you need them? Even if Mordred dies, he may already have persuaded your more treacherous lords to join Varn and his bandits in rebellion.” He opened his mouth to refuse, only hesitating at the pleading in her eyes. “Please, Arthur.”

He sighed and drew her close. “I'll keep five. You take the rest.”

She let her head fall against his chest. “Thank you.”

Arthur glanced up at Lancelot. “But tell all your fellow Table knights to have their fastest mounts ready in case I'm killed outright. You'll probably have to fight your way past Mordred and his men. Kill every last one of them you can, the prince included. Take her to Lord Bohort at Cornouaille.” Bohort was her sister's husband, and as formidable as he was loyal. Turning back to Gwen, he added, “Tell your maid to pack only what you'll most need.”

Guinevere nodded decisively. “My jewels.” When he lifted a brow, she growled, “I hear good assassins are expensive. If you fall, that young viper will not have long to gloat.” She turned and strode from the room, calling for her maid.

The two men watched her go. “If she doesn't want to leave, pick her up and carry her,” Arthur told Lancelot. “I don't want her at my bastard's mercy.”

•   •   •

A
rthur's great-grandfather Bicoir had built Camelot as a cross between a Roman fortress and the villas he'd seen as a young man. After the Romans pulled out of Britain, he became a war leader, building a kingdom through a combination of conquest and savvy alliances.

He'd taught his descendants the military tactics he'd learned from the Romans, along with the construction techniques the Legion used to construct fortifications.

The fortress was laid out in a great stone square around a central courtyard that was open to the sky. A balustrade ran around the inside of the two-story square, providing a way to move from room to room.

Soldiers and knights had been honing their skills in Camelot's huge central courtyard ever since. Today, one of the old man's descendants would probably die there.

Rows of wooden benches had been set up around the innermost combat circle to accommodate those who wanted to watch. Now every bench was packed with courtiers seated thigh to thigh. Those with lesser status had crowded in along the courtyard walls, and more onlookers packed the second floor balustrade used to walk from room to room.

A pair of chairs had been set up for the royal couple under a bright red canvas awning draped over a wooden frame. Merlin and Nimue stood waiting beneath it, looking deceptively young, like children playing dress-up in tunics of embroidered silk. The pair bowed deeply to the king and queen.

Chattering courtiers fell silent and rose in acknowledgment as Gwen and Arthur entered the courtyard. Catching Merlin's gaze, the king dipped his chin in a nod of acknowledgment.

To Gwen's grim pleasure, most of the onlookers appeared worried as they watched him stride onto the field. Mordred's followers wore expressions of anticipation, as did four lords Arthur had defeated in the battles that followed Uther's assassination. Gwen made mental note of them, in case she needed revenge later.

She was not in the mood to turn the other cheek.

The kingdom's elite Knights of the Round Table had gathered in a tense knot off to one side of the awning: Galahad, Bors, Gawain, Tristan, Percival, Marrok, Kay, Cador, Bedivere, and Baldulf. Like Arthur and Lancelot, they were dressed for war in helm and hauberk, shields on their arms and swords hanging at their belts. Mordred stood stonily at the head of his own eleven, though his followers included at least another twenty, most of them the sons of the wealthy. His resemblance to his sire was uncanny, save for his greater height—and the green eyes, as pale and feral as a cat's.

“Is it my imagination, or does Mordred and his pack of dogs look entirely too confident?” Gwen murmured to Arthur.

“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.