by P. C. Cast
“I understand,” James said, then caught the countess around the waist when she tried to slip around to his right side. He held her sideways and had a rather fun and easy time deflecting her attempted blows to his body. Although he had to admit that he could understand the master’s attraction to her passion.
“Let Isabel go,” Harry demanded as she squirmed in James’s arms. “She is a countess!”
“I apologize, Countess,” James said, knowing he could be in deep trouble for even touching her. But he had one loyalty, and that was to his king. “Please allow me to explain a thing or two afore you head in there with heads blazing.”
The countess stopped wiggling in his arms, even though he kept a gentle hold.
“I promise not to try to run ahead of you, James, should what you tell me be important and relevant.”
James had a deep desire to twirl her once afore setting her on her feet but decided the king would not take kindly to that playfulness. He set her upright upon her feet, and then bowed. “My apologies. But truly, there are things you must needs be made aware of afore you rush in there, m’lady.”
Isabel kind of wished James had twirled her around once or twice before setting her down. Could have been kind of a Six Flags ride in Camelot. But she needed to understand. So she got over it. “Tell me, James.”
Harry harrumphed and she amended it to, “Tell us, James.”
“This . . . how do you call it? This thing ’twixt Mordred and the king has been a long time brewing. For reasons I may not speak of, they have bad blood betwixt them. It is a constant source of misery for my king.”
Isabel felt the fire starting to stir in her belly. Pretty soon it was going to be steaming out of either her nose or mouth. Or both. “And why does this make you try to stop me from going in and kicking the little shit in his—”
“What the lady means,” said Harry, slapping a hand over her mouth, “is that we do not understand why we are appeasing this young man.”
The big man shook his shaggy head. “Mayhap because the king loves the boy, no matter what agony the child brings him, no matter what pleasure Mordred takes in making my king suffer for young sins.”
Isabel grabbed Harry’s hand from her lips and glanced over at him. “Do you see why I never wanted to procreate now?”
“I’m beginning to understand the concept,” Harry said out of the side of his mouth. “But I still think you’d have made a great mother.”
“You are asking me to act with due diligence?” she asked of James.
“That I am, Countess. Please allow the king to handle this situation. Perhaps ’tis time for you to retire to your chamber for the evening?”
Isabel nodded. “Perhaps. But not a chance in hell, as we say in Dumont. I insist that my man Harry and you, James, escort me to the stables.”
“I fear trouble brewing,” James said to Harry.
“You have no idea,” Harry said, before oomphing at Isabel’s elbow to his belly. “But let us go.”
“Then so we shall.”
Isabel, still reeling from the knowledge that Arthur had a son, and that his son was a total jerk, felt a little impatient. She lifted her skirts and yelled, “Catch me if you can!” and made a run for it.
They both ran after her; however, neither was as fast.
James and Harry did not catch the countess until she was facing Mordred in the stables. And she was already speaking her piece. She held out her arms to hold them from stepping forward.
“What brings you here, sir?” she asked Mordred. “What business do you have in Camelot?”
“Who are you to even presume to ask my intentions?”
Isabel studied him. There was no doubt he was Arthur’s son. They looked alike in so many ways, including the deep green eyes. The difference being Arthur’s eyes were so filled with kindness and laughter, whereas Mordred’s emanated venom. “I am Isabel, Countess of Dumont. And a friend of the king. Apparently, you are not. So I ask again, what brings you here?”
Mordred made a mockery of a bow. “How do you do? However, Countess, my business here is none of yours. Has my father stooped so low as to have need of a mere woman to come riding to his defense?”
“A mere woman? Listen, you little shit—”
“No, you listen, Countess,” he spat out. “I am heir to this kingdom, and have every reason and right to travel to Camelot to oversee my future holdings.”
“The king is quite healthy. I believe he will remain so for many years to come. So don’t count your cows before they . . . breed.”
Wow, that was lame, but the best she could come up with on the spur of the moment.
Mordred’s eyes went wide for a moment, and then he broke out in nasty laughter. “If you have not been fully informed, mistress, my father already has a wife. One quite younger than you. I see his interest, as you are fetching; however, you will never take her place as queen. Unless you plot to murder her.”
James and Harry each grabbed one of her arms, apparently hoping to ward off her jumping forward and scratching the bastard’s eyes out. There was no need. She had no intention of launching herself at the boy.
She knew her breasts were heaving with fury, especially when Mordred’s eyes leveled on them and couldn’t seem to let go. Then she realized his gaze was fixed on her necklace.
She took a calming breath. “Please tell me again why you have come to Camelot.”
“I have learned there will be a very important knights-of-the-realm gathering here shortly. I need to be sitting at that table.” Mordred blinked several times, obviously a little confused about why he’d given up that piece of information.
“Were you invited to this meeting?” Isabel asked. “Are you a knight?”
“Of course I was not,” Mordred said, finally breaking his gaze from her necklace. “My father didn’t deem me high enough in the order to invite me. He is a pig.”
This time James and Harry had to hold her back. She most definitely wanted to scratch his face, no matter what it did to her nails.
“How dare you? Your father loves you. Why is it that you find pleasure in bringing him pain?”
Mordred stepped closer and closer to Isabel, swapping his crop on his thigh. “You know nothing, lady. Including how a proper woman dresses. Are you his tart this evening? Are you going to give birth to his next bastard child?”
“What are you going to do, Mordred?” Isabel asked. “Whip an unarmed woman?”
James tried to step between them. “She is a countess, Mordred. Back away.”
Mordred sneered. “She is a slut, as is my father’s wife.”
“Back off, James,” Isabel said.
“I cannot, Countess. The king has asked me to protect you.”
“Back off. This little snot has just smeared the queen’s name.”
“M’lady!”
“Back off. I demand it.”
James backed away, although Isabel guessed he was worrying about his future. Not a problem; she’d make certain he was rewarded for his actions.
Mordred grinned and moved even closer.
Thank the gods for Tae Kwon Do. Isabel kicked the damn crop out of his hand, turned and jumped, kicking him in the belly, and had him on the ground, his hands bound with reins, within seconds. “Sorry, son, time to answer to your dad,” she whispered into his ear. “He would never have let me get ahead of him. You, on the other hand, are just slow and stupid.”
“You will pay for this,” Mordred said.
“I’m sure I will. Your father loves you so much he will be very angry with me. Tough fucking shit. It felt too good, you little worm.”
“Bitch,” he spat out.
Her knee dug farther into his back. “Excuse me? I’m sorry, I believe you meant to say, ‘My apologies, Countess.’”
“Apologize to the countess, son.”
Isabel’s head jerked up, and sure enough, there was Arthur, appearing pained and amused at one and the same time.
She attempted to ris
e gracefully, but that wasn’t about to happen. Harry took her hand and helped her up. “I am very sorry, Arthur, but he kind of pissed me off.”
Arthur moved forward and brushed hay from her clothing. “’Tis a talent of his.” Then he helped his son to his feet. “Welcome home, Mordred!”
“SHOULD you care about me at all, father, you will have that woman brought before the King’s Court.”
Arthur sat on his throne, his head being held up by a forefinger. “Because she bested you when you attempted to whip her? I think not.”
“You disagree that she deserves a beating?”
Arthur stared at Mordred, wondering how he had gone so terribly wrong as a father. “No woman deserves a beating, Mordred. Never. They are to be cherished.”
Mordred laughed. “As you cherished my mother?”
“Your mother said nothing to me, son. No matter what your aunt might have told you, I knew naught of your existence until I asked of her well-being. I know it was too long, Mordred, but she never, ever told me. It never occurred to me. That is my fault, I admit. But once I learned of her death and your birth, I tried, son, I truly tried.”
“So you have said.” Mordred stood and paced, and Arthur almost laughed at how much this resembled his own actions.
But Mordred’s anger still hung to him as dung to a bull. And smelled as poorly. “So you will choose the bitch over your own son?”
Arthur rose quickly, attempting to quell his fierce anger. “First, my son, there is no choice. Countess Isabel bested you this eve, and that is between the two of you. However, should you attempt revenge, I will most definitely come to her defense, for she has done nothing against you. In fact, her man tended to your horse. This after you planned an assault on his lady. Should you even attempt to show vengeance, I must act.”
“So, one more time, you choose a woman over your son.”
“I choose caring over spite. I wish one day you will understand the same.”
“When, Father, did you choose your bastard son over your kingdom?”
When, son, did your mother choose not to inform me that she was carrying my child?
Once again, Arthur had no idea where this thought had appeared from. But he had to admit it was a fairly good one. “Your mother chose not to inform me she had my babe inside her. I was given no choice in the matter.”
“You lie.”
Arthur hung his head and rubbed his temples. “You, of course, will never believe me. However, the truth is when I learned of you, when I learned that your mother had died during your birth, I attempted to lay claim to you and bring you back to Camelot. Your aunt wouldn’t allow it, as she blamed me for her sister’s death.
Mordred stopped pacing. “I do not believe that.”
“As I said you would not.”
Arthur rose and began pacing as well. Mordred continued his. They kept passing one another. The rushes beneath their feet were taking quite a beating.
“We, Father, are at an impasse,” Mordred finally said.
“’Twould seem so, my son. You may join my men, or you may join those who would take me down. ’Tis your choice.”
“I am honest when I am loyal to Richard of Fremont.”
That bit harshly at Arthur’s heart, but he nodded. “Then, my son, you are a guest in my home. But you are a man who wishes to do harm to Camelot. Thus, you are considered an enemy. You have stated your intentions. I cannot tell you how deeply this cuts.”
“As much as I was cut when you denied me?”
“I have ne’er denied you. ’Twas your aunt who—”
“Enough!”
“Fine, believe what you must. But know this, son: Should you harm a man, woman, child or animal whilst I give you comfort in my realm, I will show you no mercy. You will see the same penance as any other.”
“I take note that a woman was sent to do your work this eve.”
Arthur grinned. “No, I did try to stop her. But she was angry, and I did not get there in time. Regardless, son, that bruise upon your eye tells me that she won that small battle.”
“For which she’ll pay.”
Arthur wanted to grab his son and shake him. Instead, he took deep breaths and said, “Touch her, and you will certainly suffer.”
Mordred’s laughter was almost sad. “And once again you choose another over your own son.”
“No, son, I choose allegiance over treason. And I choose happiness over hatred. Your chosen path on both is a sad one.”
Arthur turned to leave the room, feeling a disgust and sadness he had ne’er felt before.
“You owe me, old man!” his son called out to him as he closed the door.
Okay, there was still sadness, but disgust was fairly taking over. And a bit of fear.
The safety of his people was paramount. And it alarmed him that Mordred would perhaps attack them first. And the first, most assuredly, would be the woman who had humiliated Mordred this night. Even as Arthur stole one bit of a smile at her cheek, he knew he needed to round up Tom, Dick and Harry to formulate a safety plan. Isabel’s safety was a priority.
It had to be private, however, because should Isabel learn of it, he’d sustain more than a black eye.
Truth be told, ’twas a good bet that should he ever want to produce another child, Isabel would make that impossible. She was a bit cranky that way.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE next morning Isabel was luxuriating in her bath filled with freshly picked lilacs and spices when there was a soft knock on the door.
“I have told you, Mary, you do not need to knock,” she called.
“’Tis not Mary, Countess. ’Tis Guinevere.”
Isabel splashed all over the place, grabbing for a towel and her robe. “One moment, your Highness!”
She set world speed records jumping out of the tub, drying herself and donning her robe. “Please come in,” she said.
Gwen entered, looking so damn ethereal and sweet that Isabel felt like James on a bad day. If James could have a good day. Which she doubted.
The queen was wearing a turquoise gown. Very simple in its design, but managing to fit her like it was made for her body. Which, when Isabel thought about it, it was. Oh, to have that good a seamstress.
Then again, either the color wasn’t good for Gwen, or Gwen’s color wasn’t right. Her smile was kind, but she appeared a little pasty, and her amazing eyes weren’t glittering like they had even just the night before.
Uh-oh. Arthur had not disclosed all of the details of his talk with his wife, but Isabel had a sinking feeling her name had come up in the conversation. And this wasn’t good.
She did the curtsy thing, which was again awkward. “To what do I owe this visit?” she asked, dread nearly dropping her. After all, she’d had heart-melting kisses with Gwen’s husband just hours ago. Was the queen here to have Isabel executed as a . . . a . . . hussy? Was that a crime? Isabel’s nerves were dancing, and it wasn’t the mambo. It was the uh-oh.
Gwen floated into the room and sat in one of the two chairs. “I apologize for disrupting your bath, Countess.”
“No problem. The water was getting cool on me,” Isabel said, drying her hair with her towel and hoping like hell that she didn’t have beard burns all over her face. “What’s up?”
“Other than the beard scratches all over your face, Countess?”
She was definitely in the uh-oh dance.
And she was not a liar. So she was in a shit load of trouble.
Please, Goddess, help me through this.
I picked you, Isabel, since your truth was a plus, but right now I find it a bit of a minus. I care not one, Tom, Dick or Harry, but one of the three made your face scary.
Her face was scary? Really, scratchy she could live with. Scary felt a little too Halloweenish for her taste. But everything right now felt cartoonish.
“I will not lie. I shared kisses last eve. However, with whom I shared those kisses is my knowledge, and mine alone. Forgive me if I don’t feel the n
eed to share.”
“And so it shall stay.”
“Forgive my impertinence, Queen Guinevere, but your cheeks and chin also show signs of action.”
Gwen’s hands went to her face. “It would seem that we are both guilty of play, then.”
“I won’t tell on you, if you do not tell on me.”
“Many thanks, Isabel.”
“Right back atcha.” Isabel laid down her towel. “Now to what do I owe this morning call?”
“So many things, Countess.”
Everything in the world went through Isabel’s mind. Gwen had learned that she’d kissed her husband? Maybe she’d learned that Isabel had kicked her stepson’s ass? Isabel had had Mary pick flowers from Gwen’s garden for her bath? “Please inform me.”
“I have need of your counsel,” the queen said.
Okay, that hadn’t been on her list. And it sounded less painful than torture and death. “My counsel?”
“Yes. My husband informs me that you are distraught that the women here have no reprieve from their daily chores. That you believe they should have, as he said, some ‘playtime.’”
Could have knocked Isabel over with a puff of air. “I most likely was out of line, Your Highness. I should not have said any such thing. I was just tossing out ideas as we spoke.”
“I am quite entranced with the notion, truth be told.”
So far, no torture and death in her future. At least she hoped not. She tried to connect with the Lady of the Lake, but the Lady wasn’t talking. Apparently Isabel was on her own on this one.
Great.
“How may I help you, Queen Guinevere?”
“Please, I am Gwen,” the queen said. “And allow me to call you Isabel. I do so hate formalities.”
Isabel nodded. “As do I. But I’m afraid I might have spoken in haste. It isn’t my place to tell you how to handle your staff.”
Gwen, amazingly enough, appeared disappointed. “Are you saying you did not mean what you had suggested?”
Isabel dragged the other chair over to Gwen. “Oh, I meant it. Think about this, Queen Guinevere.” She shook her head. “Gwen. The women who work at Camelot do only that. They work. The men work, for a certainty, but they also engage in play sport. The women should be allowed at least a small amount of that time themselves.”
