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 acknowledgement.
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.
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.
WICKED GAMES is out now. I hope you'll take a look at it; you'll find it here on Amazon, as well as at your local bookstore and B&N.
Best,
Angela Knight
