Wicked Games (16 page)

“And as usual, you were too bloody efficient. Little martyr
.
”
Arthur sighed.
“Well, we're just going to have to deal with the aftermath.”

“God help us
.
”

At least his lethal rage had been replaced by weariness—though damned if he knew what they were going to do about the situation.

•   •   •

W
ith the exception of Lancelot—who was cooling his heels elsewhere—the Knights of the Round Table stood on the balustrade, tension obvious in the way every man held himself.

Kay sensed Arthur and Gwen's approach first and turned. Arthur saw relief flash across his foster brother's face when he saw Gwen. As if despite everything she'd done, he didn't want her dead any more than Arthur did. A moment later Kay frowned, taking in the protective way Arthur circled her slim back with his arm, plainly seeing the political ramifications of the king's sparing his adulterous queen.

Then the other knights turned and spotted them, and the same relief flashed across every man's face. Arthur wasn't surprised; Gwen had always been popular with his men, for she'd treated them with a kind of warm respect for their heroism and sacrifice, yet she never fawned over them. What did surprise him was their obvious expectation that he'd slay her out of hand. Did they think so little of his self-control, his basic chivalry? Arthur stopped and stared at them. “You expected me to kill my queen.”

“You were pretty angry, sire,” Gawain said, with his usual blunt honesty.

It took a moment for Arthur's outrage to cool enough for him to see their point
.
“True enough,” he admitted. “And I have my father's temper. But I am satisfied my queen committed no treason.”

Anger flashed across their faces. Gwen mentally shrank back even as she lifted her chin and pasted an expression of royal hauteur on her face.

“Then Lancelot did force her?” Tristan demanded.

“No!” Startled, Gwen stared at them, realizing belatedly they were angry for her, not at her. “He didn't know who I was. He didn't even know who
he
was.”

Kay's frown deepened. “So he did use force, then?”

“My wife said he did not,” Arthur growled, icy menace in his voice. “Suffice it to say I know exactly what happened. We are Truebonded.”

“Arthur . . .” Kay began in an involuntary protest that died the moment his king looked at him. The seneschal could get away with a great deal, but he also knew where the boundaries were. He knew to the inch how far he could push.

Arthur had been pushed entirely too far as it was.

•   •   •

L
ancelot was locked in one of the cells for rebel prisoners in the barracks. Gwen hadn't been happy to learn Kay had put him there, but Arthur had only shrugged. “He had to be locked up somewhere until I made a decision, and it kept the other knights from beating his arse. From what I understand, he wouldn't have put up much of a fight.”

He had the guards open the cell and ordered them to withdraw. Judging from their expressions, the two men didn't think that was a good idea, but Arthur gave them a look that sent them out anyway.

Gwen walked in on her husband's arm to find Lancelot on his knees, his dark head bent. There was nothing in the pose that suggested fear, or anything except calm acceptance. Knowing Lance, that calm wouldn't break even if Arthur drew his sword and prepared to behead him on the spot.

The king sighed. “Speak, du Lac.”

“I do not ask for forgiveness, my king. The crime I committed against you and the realm is unforgivable. The fault lies entirely with me—I forced the queen . . .”

“Am I my father?” Arthur snapped.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, Lancelot's gaze lifted and met his before flying back to the stone floor. “No, sire.”

“Am I a violent, jealous fool, incapable of recognizing that the greatest of my knights committed no crime?”

“No, sire, but I've . . .”

“Am I so lost to human compassion I can't understand a moment of weakness I knew myself but three days before?”

“Of course not, but . . .”

“Am I so bloody stupid I would deprive myself of my greatest knight going into a civil war that may destroy my kingdom?”

“You have ten other knights who more than match my skills.”

“Am I in the habit of flattering you, Lord Lancelot?”

“No, sire.”

“Then quit fucking questioning my judgment!” His lip curled. “It grows tiresome.”

Another man—including many of those who occupied the Round Table—would have flinched in the face of Arthur's royal fury. Lancelot simply knelt there, as erect as a sword blade.

“Talk to him, Gwen. Make him see reason, or cast a spell on him, I care not. Just do something before I lose my mind and knock his teeth down his throat.”

Unfortunately, she knew talking to Lancelot was an exercise in futility, given the spell she'd cast on his memory. She had to break that spell before he'd be willing to listen to reason. But when she reached for his face to begin the counterspell, he jerked away. His gaze met hers with such pain, betrayal, and fury, the emotional impact felt like a blow from his fist.

“She does not deserve your rage, du Lac,” Arthur ground out. “She only tried to save your ungrateful life. Gwen . . .”

But when she tried once again to cast the spell to reverse her magic, she slammed right into a mental wall, a psychic fortress around his consciousness built of rage, guilt.

And most of all a sense that she'd betrayed him as much as Arthur by using him to force the Truebond her spell insisted she'd wanted.

As her heart sank, she realized
Lancelot's mind was locked beyond the reach of hers, in a mental fortress more impregnable than Camelot's stone walls. One thought sliced through his furious mistrust:
I loved you. All these years, I loved you, and you did this to me.

Gwen stared at him, feeling sick. He didn't drop his eyes. Desperately she fought to penetrate his mental barriers, but she couldn't get through.

Finally Arthur had enough. “Get out of here, du Lac, before I forget our years of friendship.”

Lance rose without a word and stalked out. The cell door closed behind him with such exquisite control, it barely made a sound.

The king sighed.
“Maybe Merlin can undo the spell. Lance is not going to let you in. Period.”

Gwen looked up at her husband, bewildered.
“I had no idea he felt that way.”

“I did. I've known for years. There were times when he looked at you, and his face lit with the same kind of love I feel. I also knew he'd never act on how he felt, which was why I was so pissed off when it seemed I'd been wrong.”

“But you weren't.”

“No. But he's crazy if he thinks it's that easy to fall out of love with you. God knows I couldn't do it
.
”

•   •   •

T
he following night, the Knights of the Round Table gathered to train. Arthur had led his men in training sessions on a daily basis for years, but this one was very different from the ones that had come before. They were Magi now, and they had to learn how to combine their formidable sword skills with their new supernatural strength.

“Having power does no good without the knowledge of how to use it,” Merlin told them as they stood or crouched, listening. “It becomes too easy to overshoot your target, to try to leap over a blade only to come down on top of someone else's instead. There are also your other magical talents, like shape-shifting into wolf form. Used strategically, these abilities can make all the difference in battle—but only if you know how to use them.”

He called Marrok over to demonstrate. The big knight was more than a foot taller than the wizard, and likely outweighed him by nine stone or better. He should have been able to break the boyish sorcerer like a rotten twig.

Instead, Merlin attacked in a furious blur, his sword licking out with such speed, Marrok was obviously hard-pressed even to see where it was, much less block it with his shield. The big knight was forced into a retreat, crouching behind his shield as Merlin's attacks dented it with their raw power.

Until Marrok's dark eyes narrowed with an expression his fellow knights knew well. He was beginning to lose his temper—and that meant trouble for whomever he faced. His rages in combat, combined with his size and strength, made him a man to be feared.

He attacked, barreling toward Merlin, who leaped back, simultaneously driving his shield into Marrok's sword so hard, the weapon snapped, its pieces cartwheeling into the moonlight. Before the big knight could retreat, the wizard had his blade pressed against Marrok's throat.

“As you are now, few men could defeat you—unless you defeat yourself through clumsiness or miscalculation,” Merlin said softly, not taking his eyes off Marrok.

When the big knight backed up, his empty sword hand lifted in surrender, the wizard turned toward the watching warriors. “Pair off. I would suggest beginning your practice with hand-to-hand, until you have a better sense of what you're doing.”

•   •   •

U
p on the balustrade, Gwen watched with the eleven other ladies who'd received Merlin's Gift. She knew all of them well. Morgana, of course. Elaine, Fenice, Iblis, Lynet, Tyra, Yserone, Vivien, Prydwyn, Lunet, and Diera.

“Mmmmm,” Diera purred as the men faced off hand to hand. “That looks like thirsty work. I don't know about you ladies, but I'm looking forward to helping someone either celebrate his victory or lick his wounds.”

“More like lick your wounds,” Iblis shot back, snapping her teeth in a mimed bite.

“I'd like to lick Tristan's wounds,” Vivien murmured wickedly.

“Tristan's married, Viv,” Diera reminded her.

“Barely,” Vivien retorted. “Isolde failed her challenge, and she's pissed that Tristan didn't—and accepted the Grail anyway. She's left him. Left Camelot, come to that. They say she's gone home to her parents' holding.” The Maja sighed, her sad tone in contrast to the heat in her eyes. “Poor Tristan. All alone and
hungry
. Whoever shall he eat?”

“Viv, you are such a slut.” Iblis shook her head.

“Oh, come on, just look at him. So blond and big and good with his blade . . .” A roll of her hips said the weapon she spoke of was not the one in his scabbard.

As her women traded gossip and good-natured raillery, Gwen straightened, her gaze on her husband.

Arthur strode across the courtyard, headed right for Lancelot, his eyes narrow. The twisted grin on his face suggested he was looking forward to burning off some of the frustrated rage Gwen knew he'd felt since she'd landed them in this mess.

“Looks like the king is in a mood,” Fenice observed. “This should be good.”

Gwen knew what she meant. The Knights of the Round Table—including Arthur—were as prone toward getting angry at each other as anyone else. They'd always used the combat practices as an opportunity to burn off any resentment and anger they felt so it didn't grow into a problem.

Of course, as king, Arthur could have used his authority to punish his men in other ways—and did on occasion, at least with lapses of discipline he considered more serious. But his current problem with Lance was personal, and he obviously wanted to solve it in a more personal way: by giving his champion that threatened arse-kicking.

Judging by the set of Lance's broad shoulders as he watched his king's advance, the knight was in the mood to give him a fight. Normally, of course, the champion wouldn't even consider offering resistance to anything Arthur cared to do to him. However, when it came to practice combat, the king had given his men standing orders not to hold back when they fought him.
“I can assure you, neither the Saxons nor Varn and his rebels will hesitate to slit my throat—if they can.”

So now Lancelot took him at his word. With a bellow of rage, the champion bounded into the air to come down on the king like an avalanche.

Everyone—knights, ladies, Gwen, even Merlin—froze in shock.

But Arthur had never been anyone's idea of easy prey, even before his transformation. Now . . .

He kicked his champion squarely in the belly. Lance went flying, hit the ground rolling, and bounced to his feet to launch another attack. The two men collided with a meaty thud and a chorus of snarled curses that sounded more animal than human. Blocking, punching, kicking, they traded brutal blows.

“Sweet mother goddess,” Morgana breathed at Gwen's shoulder, “I wouldn't have expected Lance to put up that much of a fight after he . . .” She broke off, as if belatedly remembering who she was talking to.

“Lancelot blames me,” Gwen told her softly. “But since he can't punish me, he's taking it out on Arthur.”

“Is he insane?” Tyra demanded. “He's lucky the king didn't kill him.”

“I'm not sure Lance sees that as ‘lucky.'” Feeling the eyes of her women locked on her in speculation, Gwen pointedly ignored them. Still, her cheeks grew hot.

Morgana's hand fell on her shoulder in a comforting squeeze. Bless her. There was a reason she was Gwen's dearest friend, Arthur's old lover or not.

Yet within minutes, Gwen had forgotten her discomfort in her fascination with the fight. It was hardly the first time she'd seen the two men go at it, even with one of them enraged about something.

This was different. Not least because she had the uncomfortable feeling neither of them was fully in control. They fought with such blurring speed and brutal force, it wasn't long before arcs of blood flew. There was an animal savagery to their attacks that was as fascinating as it was horrifying. More than once, Gwen nearly begged Merlin to put a stop to it.