by Jack Porter
The Bastard 2
Jack Porter
Copyright © 2020 by Jack Porter
All rights reserved.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Also by Jack Porter
1
“Again,” Lady Emmeline said.
We were in her courtyard, an open space with uneven stones on the ground to trip unwary feet, and an assortment of potted plants and ornaments that could be moved into a different configuration for each visit.
Lady Emmeline stood before me, perfectly balanced as usual, her slim, elegant body angled slightly away, her sword relaxed and ready.
I found myself starting to grin. We had been dancing together for half an hour already, and it seemed I was finally making her work for it. The sweat on my brow stung in the cut Rolf had given me above my eye, and which I’d asked Ember to stitch closed. There were other points of fire here and there as well, at my shoulder and leg, where Rolf’s blade had made it through my defense. But I ignored all my various discomforts, pushing my weaknesses aside as I focused on the woman in front of me.
Lady Emmeline was dangerous. She was a viper when she needed to be, capable of lightning strikes that were hard to predict, impossible to block, and supremely difficult to avoid. She was a ghost, able to vanish from right in front of me, only to reappear somewhere else with her weapon lashing out like the stinger of a scorpion. She was like the wind itself, delicate and fleeting when required, but able to conjure the force of a hurricane if needed, launching into a series of attacks with no warning, the tip of her sword always between me and her, a stabbing, cutting, whirling specter of death that I had never been able to fully keep at bay.
Yet today, things were different.
Today, I was grinning as I launched my own attack, clumsy by Emmeline’s standards, yet swift and sure by my own, my eyes open and alert for every subtle clue as to my opponent’s intent. I watched her feet, the set of her shoulders, the angle of her hips, and knew in advance the steps she would take to turn defense into attack, and countering them on the fly.
Our blades clashed against one another six times in the space of a heartbeat, Emmeline turning my blade from her with ease even as she angled and spun, like a bullfighter toying with his opponent.
My advantage in strength and slight advantage in reach were negated by her exceptional skill. A woman into her seventh decade, time had yet to rob her of speed, and her timing was beyond precise.
Yet, perhaps for the first time ever in our sparring sessions, it seemed I was making her work for it.
Usually, Emmeline emerged from our practice as fresh and unruffled as she had been at the start.
But this time, there was a distinct sheen of sweat on the swordsmistress’ forehead.
My attack couldn’t last. I could sustain my efforts only so long. Perhaps if Lady Emmeline had stood before me and traded blows one-on-one, I could have kept going. But as she spun and danced about, forcing me to change my approach with every attempt at a stroke, I couldn’t keep it up.
After a while, my fluidity suffered, and I knew I had to break away before I made some fatal mistake.
I did so, grimly aware that Lady Emmeline would be waiting for the opportunity to sneak out a swift counterattack, as fast as the cracking of a whip, and barely got my sword in place to offer a riposte.
I stood back from my opponent, breathing hard, my sword at the ready in case she wanted to counter.
“Good,” she said. “Very good. Your attacks have gained an edge of determination that they have lacked until now. I had wondered if you would be able to step up to this next level. It seems that you can.”
Emmeline was usually frugal with her compliments, preferring to focus on my flaws. But she didn’t give me the opportunity to bask in the glory. Even that was a ploy, a deceit intended to open me up to attack. She had been watching for me to relax, even if just a little, and launched herself at me as if she had never known tiredness in her life.
It was like fending off a swarm of angry hornets, each one of them attacking from a different direction, a thousand sharp barbs all aiming for my eyes, throat, or anything soft and vital they could reach.
A few weeks earlier, my defense would not have held. Even a few days earlier, Emmeline would have got through my guard with relative ease, and may have gone as far as pricking my skin as a reminder.
But she was right. I had leveled up. My fight with Rolf had taught me many things.
It had taught me that I could stand up against a superior fighter, and I could still win.
Use what you’ve got, I thought to myself. Fight to win.
They were two of the rules I was trying to live my life by. And even though I was sparring with Emmeline, not fighting for real, I had no intention of practicing to lose.
I lacked much of Lady Emmeline’s skill. She was faster than me, and her timing was better. But I had strength and determination on my side. Rolf had taught me not to give up, and the lingering points of pain all over my body were ample reminders of the cost of doing so. I used all of this to keep Emmeline’s darting, dangerous blade away, my grin having faded into something more feral and visceral as I blocked and swayed and countered for all I was worth, my teeth locked together in a grimace.
Lady Emmeline’s attack was sure and fluid, and unlike my own, her balance was such that she could keep it going for as long as she wished.
But there was one other thing the fight with Rolf had given me.
He had given me a simmering rage that burned deep inside.
All my life, I had wondered who I was. Wondered where I came from. My earliest memories were those of living on the street, scavenging for my very survival.
And yet, there were other memories as well. Memories of marble floors, of a different sort of life completely. I had no more than images of that different life still in my mind, but they had always been a source of confusion.
And now, because of Rolf, I understood them.
I was King Arthur’s bastard. One of the many he had brought into existence, but the only one who still lived.
And that simple truth, and the injustice that went with it, had awakened something within me that wouldn’t be quelled.
I was the King’s bastard.
&
nbsp; It didn’t mean I was his heir or anything like that, but I could have been. I could have led a life much different from the one I’d had until then.
Except that even to claim such a heritage was tantamount to stepping up onto the executioner’s platform for a second time.
I had survived my first hanging through little more than good luck, and the magic of Meghan le Fay.
I had no false expectations of surviving if King Arthur knew I still existed.
With a snarl of frustration and anger, I beat Lady Emmeline’s sword to the side and took a step forward, intending to rest the tip of my blade against her throat.
The move was quick, filled with a sudden explosion of strength, and against nearly anybody else, it would have worked.
But not Emmeline. With a smile of her own, she danced back with all the grace in the world. It was as if she expected the move, as if it had been just another step in the dance.
She slipped past the tip of my sword with casual ease, and the next thing I knew, her own weapon was pressing against my leather vest just to the left of my sternum.
I froze in place, knowing with certainty that I had been beaten. That Emmeline could end my life simply by leaning forward a few inches.
It was a difficult truth to acknowledge, but not unexpected. In all the practice sessions I’d had with this woman, every single one had ended the same.
We each held our respective postures for a heartbeat or two, then stepped back.
“Good,” Lady Emmeline said. “There is more strength to you today than there has been in the past. More determination. It will serve you well, if you do not allow it to make you bristle.”
One corner of Lady Emmeline’s lips was still twisted into the smallest of smiles. I knew she was proud of me as her student, that she enjoyed getting the best out of me.
And, I had to admit, I enjoyed our sessions as well. Lady Emmeline was remarkable in so many ways. A gifted swordsmistress, she seemed to be able to defy time itself, defying the ravages expected with age. And her acceptance of me as her lover in lieu of payment… That was not only surprising, but educational as well.
As if she was reading my mind, Lady Emmeline’s gaze slipped to my crotch and lingered for a moment. It was as if she was deciding whether the session was done, and if she wanted to move on to the other part of these sessions. The one that took place largely in her bedroom.
But then she looked me in the eye once more. “Again,” she said.
We kept at it for longer than we normally would have. Not once did I truly gain the upper hand. Never was my blade poised for a defining thrust or cut that would have ended the match.
Of course, I would have pulled back on such a stroke. It wasn’t my intention to hurt Lady Emmeline any more than it was her intention to hurt me.
But I came close. I swear I came close. More than once, Emmeline had to resort to a quick riposte or fancy footwork to carry her away from the danger. Never before had I pressed her so hard, never had I come so close to getting through the guard.
But close wasn’t the same as done. Nearly was no more than a whisper, and when all was said and done, I still had nothing to shout about.
Lady Emmeline had stood against the best I could offer and emerged unscathed, with barely a hair out of place.
At the same time, my efforts did not go unnoticed. A ghost of a smile played at Emmeline’s lips throughout much of the bout, and I understood why. She actually enjoyed the closer contest. Where before, her lessons had been little more than work, teaching me her ways and watching over my progress, this time, for her, our match had been fun.
When we finally broke apart for the last time, the swordsmistress stood back to study me for a moment.
“Very good,” she said finally. “There is a steel in you that was missing even a couple of days ago. Perhaps,” she allowed, “we might make a swordsman of you yet.”
My heart was beating loudly in my chest, and I was breathing hard. I was proud of how well I had fought even as I remained disappointed that I hadn’t at least been able to tag her. At the same time, I knew I was done. My arms and legs felt drained of their strength, and if I finally managed to make Emmeline sweat even a little, she had left me dripping.
“Maybe we will,” I said, keeping my voice light despite the weight of anger still burning. Taking her lead, I sheathed my weapon as well. I wondered if I had the strength to go a round or two with her between the sheets.
But even though that had become a pattern, I sensed that on this day, things might not go the same way. Emmeline could inject a certain amount of passion into our sparring, and that would lead us both naturally to the other. But this day, she hadn’t done so as much.
Perhaps my determination had made it more difficult. Or perhaps she had something else on her mind.
“Tell me, young Mordred,” she said. “If we do manage to make a true swordsman of you, what do you intend to do with your skills?”
It was a casual question, without judgment, but I still wondered at her motivation. In all the times we had sparred before, she had never voiced such an interest.
Perhaps, with my skills increasing, the question was somehow more pertinent now.
Either way, I wasn’t prepared to answer directly.
“It’s a dangerous city,” I said with a grin. “Who knows when I will have to protect myself? I would much prefer knowing how than the alternative.”
The elderly swordsmistress knew I hadn’t given a straight answer, that there was more to it than I had said. I broadened my grin, almost daring her to ask, and perhaps she would have.
But instead, Emmeline nodded.
“Your purposes are your own,” she said out loud, choosing not to pursue it. “Although, if you intend to become some sort of robber, I would be disappointed.”
Before I could respond, reassuring her that I had no such intent, she had already moved on. “Normally, I would offer you a drink, and from there…” She let the sentence hang, her expression becoming knowing. “But sadly, today I have another, and we do not have our usual leisure.”
I raised my eyebrows, wanting to tease the older woman, to ask if she had worked out a similar arrangement for payments. And perhaps she picked up on some of that in my expression because she laughed.
“Nothing like that,” she admitted. “You are more than enough for this old woman.”
I was surprisingly pleased to hear it, and found myself laughing in response.
When I was done with the towel, I took my coat and leather satchel from where I had placed them, and in companionable silence, walked with Lady Emmeline through her home to the main entrance.
Our timing couldn’t have been better. As we both reached the doorway, someone knocked from the other side.
Lady Emmeline opened the door and showed in a tall, athletic, dark-haired woman dressed in leathers instead of a dress. Unusual for a woman, she wore a sword openly on her hip, and I found myself immediately curious.
She spoke as she entered, giving Lady Emmeline no chance to introduce me.
“Lady Emmeline, thank you again for agreeing to shift my lesson. It is much appreciated–”
The newcomer stopped abruptly as she caught sight of me. I watched as her eyes darted left and right, taking in my own sword, as well as the width of my shoulders, the slimness of my hips, before settling on my face.
“Oh, I didn’t realize…” she began, but Lady Emmeline waved the younger woman’s uncertainty away.
“Think nothing of it,” she said, addressing the dark-haired woman’s courtesy with her first breath. “Although I think you may have cost me a pleasant hour or so. Elaine, this is Mordred. He is the best new swordsman I have trained in many a year. Mordred, this is Elaine, and the same can be said of her.”
Elaine’s eyes started to flash as she studied me for a moment. “Better than me?” she asked, and there was more than a hint of challenge in her words.
I laughed and returned Elaine’s curious look in full me
asure, aware that Lady Emmeline’s expression had taken on a speculative air.
“While that might be an interesting match to witness,” the swordsmistress said, a peculiar tone in her voice, “it might not fulfill the terms of our bargain, which, if I remember, was for me to train you,” she finished, her focus firmly on the newcomer.
I understood my time with Emmeline was over for the day. And also that Elaine was as beautiful as Meghan, in her own way. With the way her eyes flashed and the natural part of her lips, Elaine seemed to be a creature of fire and passion. All at once, I regretted that I couldn’t stay, to at least watch how her lesson might progress. But that would be a little presumptuous, and besides, I had things to do that I had been putting off for too many hours already.
But I couldn’t let this beautiful woman, this Elaine, become part of the morning’s memories without at least saying something.
I stepped toward her and held out my hand. “Mordie,” I corrected. “I haven’t been called by my full name in years.”
Elaine reached for my hand with her own, and I held it for just a moment too long.
“And while I would like to see what it’s like sparring with someone perhaps a little less able than Lady Emmeline, maybe another time would be better.”
Elaine’s eyes hadn’t left my own, and I judged her at least as intrigued by me as I was by her. At first glance, Elaine seemed to be up for a challenge, and in some peculiar way, she reminded me of Anwen. They were of a similar height, and conveyed a similar presence, although Anwen’s hair was red and there was money behind her.
