Wicked Games (5 page)

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.

A
rthur 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.”

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.

Pain twisted the king's heart. God's blood, he actually had to stop himself from asking if his son was all right.

Stop seeing him as your son, or he'll destroy everything you hold dear. Your kingdom. Your knights. Gwen.

Why didn't I realize what he is before we came to this? Am I that bloody blind?
He tried to ignore the thought, knowing he couldn't afford the distraction.

Sure enough, the moment's distraction cost him as Mordred leaped into an attack. Arthur brought up his sword, only to miss the parry. The prince's blade clanged against his helm so hard, he saw stars and tasted blood. Reeling back a pace, Arthur caught himself before Mordred could take advantage of his disorientation with another attack. Steadying, he began circling his foe.
I've got to see this bastard as nothing more than armor, shield, and sword
.

Saints knew Mordred had no problem seeing him in that light; frigid green eyes watched him with a wolf's bloodthirst.

The two men settled into the familiar dance of combat. Attack followed block followed attack, swords licking in search of vulnerable flesh. Just as Lance had predicted, the prince's youth, strength, and longer reach soon began to tell as fatigue weighted Arthur's blade and dragged at his feet.

To make matters worse, Mordred knew Arthur's weaknesses as only a family member could, like that old hip injury that plagued him whenever it rained. The prince went after it at every opportunity with hammering attacks, harrying him until Arthur had to work not to favor that leg.
Damned if I'll give the little shit the satisfaction
.

It was hardly the first time the king had fought a man so much bigger. Or even so much faster, though it was rare to meet one who was both. It certainly didn't happen as often now as when they'd called Arthur the Princeling King. He'd won those early fights through strategy and cunning; he'd win this one the same way.

Ignoring his complaining hip and tiring muscles, Arthur focused on his foe. Mordred's mouth had gone tight and thin with either pain or building fatigue, until he abruptly broke away and retreated. Arthur, old wolf that he was, went after him, almost stepping on his toes with a long pace inside the prince's guard.

“You're old and slow and weak,” Mordred spat, leaping back. “It's time to let a younger . . .” He attacked in midword, his shield ramming Arthur's into his chest. The prince's sword arched low around the locked shields to spear the king's aching hip.

Pain lanced up Arthur's spine in a scarlet thunderclap. He ignored it to muscle against Mordred's shield, forcing it down one finger width, then two . . .

The king struck, ramming his sword point into the protective leather gorget around his foe's throat. The blow sent the prince sprawling flat on his back, gagging in agony as his blade flew from his hand.

Arthur's foot landed squarely in the center of Mordred's chest, bearing down hard as the younger man struggled to breathe. Coolly, the king angled his sword against the bare skin on the underside of the prince's jaw. All he had to do was lean his weight against the blade to cut Mordred's throat. Instinctively, Arthur looked up, his gaze seeking his queen's face. Under the awning, Gwen and Morgana wore matching wide-eyed expressions of maternal horror.

Dammit, he threatened you!

He jerked his gaze downward as the prince dragged his helm off and fell back with his arms flung wide. Making a point of being no threat.

Calculation filled Mordred's green eyes as he tried to speak, only to break off in wracking coughs. Arthur's sword strike apparently hadn't crushed his larynx; he'd be dying now if it had. But the blow was definitely causing him considerable pain.

If I don't kill him now, he'll drown my kingdom in blood.

“Do it, Arthur,” Gwen's voice rang across the field, over the silent crowd.

“Yes,” Morgana said, though she had to know she had no say in this. “You must.”

Mordred croaked a rasping sound of shock, presumably at his mother's endorsement of his execution.

Arthur set his weight and lifted the sword over his head. Green eyes widened in fear and disbelief.

Damn it, there came another memory: Mordred's smile as a boy, lighting his face with mischief, bright as sunrise. He hadn't smiled often, but when he did . . . Tears stung Arthur's eyes, but he braced to bring the blade down and end his child . . .

And realized he couldn't do it.

You fucking fool
, he raged at himself,
he'll destroy everything you love! Gwen, the kingdom . . . My enemies will gather around him and drag us all into war!

But though he could have slain Mordred in combat, the king simply didn't have it in him to slit the boy's throat. Blade still raised over his son's head, Arthur snarled, “Did I raise you to keep your word like heart's blood?”

Mordred's gaze didn't even flicker. “Yes . . . my . . . liege . . .” he croaked.

Lying little fuck
. Fortunately there were ways to keep a man from finding followers. It might not be enough to satisfy Merlin, but it would have to do. Arthur used his best battleground roar. “Do you swear by your honor that you will make no attempt to incite rebellion against your king?”

“I . . . swear,” Mordred croaked. Lying again.

“Do you swear that you will lead no men against mine, nor kill either me or my subjects, nor commit any other form of treason?”

Mordred swallowed as if trying to force his protesting larynx to cooperate. “I . . . so swear . . . on . . . on my honor.”

Looking up, Arthur swept a cold glance over the crowd, searching out his most rebellious lords one by one. “Mordred has sworn on his honor to attempt no treason against me, my subjects, or my kingdom. If he violates that oath . . .”

Mordred jerked in protest under the booted foot still planted on his chest. Without looking down, Arthur pressed the point of his sword against his throat, spilling a bright, narrow stream of blood. The prince froze. “. . . If he violates that oath, any man who follows him is a fool. If he would break an oath to his own king—to his own
father
—why would anyone imagine his word is worth anything?”

Arthur lifted his foot and stepped back. “You are no longer my heir,” he told Mordred, making sure his voice carried to everyone present. “You are no longer my son. And you are banished. Leave Camelot now. You have three days to get out of the country. If you ride hard, you can just do it. If you are caught in Britain on day four, you will hang. Now get out of my sight.”

Pale as milk, Mordred struggled to his feet. He turned toward his pack of followers. As one, they looked away. He curled a lip bitterly, pivoted, and limped from the courtyard.

Arthur flicked a gaze at Percival, Cador, and Marrok. The three Knights of the Round Table could be trusted to make sure he left without yielding to the temptation to kill him. They were also a lethal combination on the battlefield.

The trio approached and braced to attention. “Watch him pack and escort him to the Channel. I want to make sure he actually leaves. And don't let him get himself killed between here and there.”

“Aye, my king,” Percival said, and turned to his partners. “Let's go.” They trooped off.

Now I've got Merlin to deal with
. The wizard would, of course, deny Arthur the Grail, which meant he now had to wonder which of his enemies would drink from it.

The king started toward the pavilion, forcing himself not to limp despite the pain lancing through his injured hip with every step.

Guinevere, bless her, had called for water. She stepped from beneath the awning and knelt to present the goblet to Arthur with regal elegance. He shot a glance toward the stands, but their watching audience had already dropped to their knees with a mass rustle and murmur. They all looked a bit stunned. Evidently very few of them had expected him to win.

I don't suppose I can blame them, considering I didn't expect to win, either
. Lancelot, after all, had been right; the odds hadn't favored Arthur.

Thanking his wife, the king accepted the goblet and drank a gulping swallow for the sake of his dust-dry throat. After helping his queen to her feet, he led her back to the pavilion, seated her, and sank into his own chair. Crossing one knee over the other, Arthur lifted an insolent brow at Merlin. “Well?” He took another swallow.

“Well played, King Arthur. But then, I expected nothing less.”

He damned near strangled on the water. “Didn't you?”

Merlin's voice dropped. “You could have killed him. Indeed, most men would have. Instead, you found a way to make it difficult for your enemies to use him.”

Arthur's hand tightened on his goblet. “But not impossible.”

“No. Not impossible.” He gestured, and the Grail appeared in the wizard's hand, glowing even in the bright light of afternoon. “But very little
is
impossible.”

“I thought our battle was to be to the death.”

Merlin shrugged. “You could have killed him. You simply chose not to.” He looked into Arthur's eyes, and the impact of his gaze was like a blow from a strong man's fist. “I was not attempting to discover if you are a powerful man, Arthur. You wouldn't be High King if you weren't. What I sought to determine was if you could be trusted to use power wisely, yet with mercy. Even mercy for one who betrayed you.”

“You know so bloody much,” Arthur growled. “Do you know if my kingdom will pay the price for my clemency?”

“If I could divine the future at will, would I have needed to test you?”

The king's lips twitched with reluctant humor. “I suppose not.”

“However, there are things you need to know before you decide whether to drink from my cup,” Merlin continued, raising the Grail as if in a toast. The cup vanished in a rain of sparks. “I suggest we adjourn to discuss this in more privacy.”

Arthur nodded. “I have no objection.” He rose, took his queen's hand, and limped off the field, aware of the crowd streaming after them.

•   •   •

T
he Table Chamber was the true heart of the fortress of Camelot. The massive oak Round Table dominated the impressive space that soared to a vaulted ceiling two stories overhead. Weapons glinted on the torchlit stone walls: swords, axes, lances, and shields captured from Arthur's foes. Between the clusters of arms, crimson banners hung from the vaulted ceiling two stories overhead, each glinting with the rampant dragon that symbolized the reign of the Pendragon line.