Wicked Games

by Angela Knight

  Knotting the thick leather belt around his waist, Arthur strode into the sleeping chamber, his chain mail hauberk ringing softly. As he closed the door behind him, he could hear women’s voices as the maid dressed Gwen’s hair.

  Knuckles banged the balustrade door in a decisive knock. “My liege?”

  “Enter, Lance.” He sat down on the bed and began pulling on his boots.

  His dearest friend strode in, dressed in a mail shirt almost as finely made as Arthur’s, his helm tucked under one arm. At thirty-nine, he was a big, dark-haired man, hard-eyed and steady. He was also the best swordsman Arthur had ever known—and the king had known many fine warriors over the years.

  “My lord Lancelot.” Arthur gave him a formal nod and dropped into one of the chairs sitting beside the cold fireplace.

  Lance had never been slow at picking up on cues. He promptly dropped to one knee and bent his head, though as boyhood friends, they weren’t normally so formal. “My liege, how may I serve you?”

  “Be seated.” Arthur waved him toward the high-backed wooden chair Gwen normally occupied. “I would give you your orders before I begin this day’s work.”

  “Of course.” Lancelot rose to his feet as easily as if he wore wool rather than chain mail. The knight’s expression was coolly attentive, but there was a certain tension around his eyes that suggested some strong emotion roiled beneath his courtier’s mask.

  Arthur could make a pretty good guess what he was thinking. “You have my permission to speak, Sir Knight.”

  Lance paused as if choosing his words carefully. “Am I still your champion, my liege?”

  Arthur lifted a brow. “Have I told you you’re not?”

  “I wondered if I had given some offense. It is a champion’s honor to fight for his liege. Unless you don’t believe I can win?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not the point. Merlin made it clear I must prove myself worthy to drink from this enchanted cup of his. If I refuse the challenge, none of my court will be allowed to attempt it. Given the political situation, we can’t afford to spurn any advantage.”

  “That cup’s still not worth your life, sire.”

  He grimaced. “Don’t assume the rest of the court shares your opinion.”

  “Most of them do. Arthur, your subjects love you. You are fair, quick to rein in abusive lords even when it costs you politically, and generous with those who need it, whether noble or peasant.” He believed every word he said, too; Lance had never stooped to flattery.

  The king grunted. “My father was a stone-hearted bastard, but on one subject he was absolutely correct: if God grants you a crown, He expects you to serve as much as you’re served. Which is why I cannot allow myself to be branded a coward before my entire court.”

  Restless, he rose and began to pace the chamber, his mail ringing. “Another thing—what if I refuse? Merlin said he needs powerful champions for this great mission of his, whatever that should prove to be. What if he decides to repeat his offer to someone else, who then moves against us for whatever reason? I have no desire to face unkillable warriors with the strength of ten.”

  “So you believe Merlin’s cup can do what he claims?”

  “You don’t?” Arthur leaned a shoulder against the wall and eyed his friend.

  “Merlin has worked some impressive magic,” Lance admitted. “But so did that magician who came to court two summers ago, the one who claimed he could bring the dead to life. Him you sent packing with a boot in the arse.”

  “Merlin is not some simple trickster.”

  He’d proved that last week.

  They’d been in the midst of the evening meal in the Table Chamber when Arthur looked past Gwen’s shoulder to see a circle of air ripple like a pool of clear water disturbed by a tossed pebble. The ripples stilled, revealing a moonlit wood, as if he looked through a window.

  Gasps sounded. As they all stared in astonishment, a boy stepped through the opening to look around with cool interest. Tall and slender, he was perhaps fifteen, with a long, intelligent face framed by black hair that fell around his narrow shoulders. He wore a blue tunic of fine embroidered linen that matched his leggings and knee-high leather boots.

  A girl stepped through the impossible opening, which vanished with a silent burst of sparks. A delicate nymph of a maid, she wore a thin silk gown in verdant green, her hair a tumble of blond curls that cascaded to her waist. Her enormous black eyes were set aslant in her heart-shaped face, and her mouth was small and pink, with lips that brought rosebuds to mind.

  Where in the name of all the saints had the pair come from?

  A sword licked out in a bright arc, stopping a fraction from the lad’s throat. “Who are you,” snarled Lancelot, “and how the hell did you do that?” Silent and lethal, the knight had risen from the Table to challenge the pair.

  There was a reason Arthur had named Lance the royal champion—his personal defender and bodyguard.

  The strange boy glanced down at the blade so close to his Adam’s apple, lifting a brow in an expression of cool interest. He looked up the weapon’s length to meet Lance’s deadly gaze.

  The champion’s eyes widened. He actually backed up a pace before he caught himself and brought his sword to bear again. “What. Are. You?”

  Steel whispered on leather as every knight sitting at the Round Table rose and drew his sword. Arthur, too, held his blade at the ready as he moved closer to the trio.

  The boy looked around at the lethal weapons, but there was no fear at all in his black gaze. “I am Merlin.” His voice rumbled, far too deep and resonant to come from that young mouth. “I am a Magus.” He gestured at the girl. “This is my companion, the Maja Nimue. We come to your court seeking warriors to fight in a just cause.”

  Arthur could have had the pair killed—or at least tried to; given what he knew now, he doubted it would have been that simple. Instead, he’d watched in fascination as Merlin conjured a silver cup filled with a glowing liquid he’d said had the ability to grant superhuman strength and speed to the champions he sought. When Lord Kay had scoffed, the boy wizard opened a magical doorway to the Channel, and invited them all to step through.

  Now the king shook his head in remembered awe. “From Camelot to the English Channel—leagues traveled in a heartbeat. You were as wonderstruck as I.”

  Lance braced his elbows on his knees, his expression troubled. “But what if it was some sort of illusion . . . ?”

  “We all stepped through that gate, Lance. We smelled the sea, heard the boom of the surf. That shell Gwen brought back is right here. Still smells of the ocean.” Flipping open the jewel chest that sat on the mantel, Arthur grabbed the oyster shell and held it up. “Is this some fairy trinket, spun of air and moonlight?”

  Lance being Lance, he didn’t back down. “No, sire. But even if Merlin does work magic, that does not mean he isn’t playing some deep and lethal game. We cannot afford to lose you. I don’t want to bend my knee to Mordred.”

  “Do you think I’m that easy to defeat?” He tossed the shell back in the jewel chest.

  “No, but I do think Mordred is three inches taller, at least a stone heavier, and nineteen years younger. Any one of those things you could overcome, but all?” He shrugged.

  “Lance, I’ve been making war since I was fifteen. Hell, you were there, fighting beside me. Mordred may be built like a bull, but I can scheme rings around him.”

  “You can strategize rings around him. Don’t underestimate his talent for scheming. And if he does kill you, what happens to the rest of us?” His lips tightened. “Especially Queen Guinevere.”

  TWO

  Remembering that night, Arthur clenched his hand around the hilt of his sword. “So you saw Mordred look at Gwen like a war-camp whore?”

  “Aye, and I gave serious thought to calling him out on the spot.” Lancelot hesitated before admitting, “I also saw the way he smirked when he realized you’d caught him at it.”

  “It was like finding the cont
ents of the cesspit in my ale.” Any other man would have looked guilty or fearful of his king’s reaction. Mordred’s gaze hadn’t even dropped. And what was worse, he’d grinned. Grinned the way a man grinned at some fool he’d gulled, knowing his victim had finally realized how utterly he’d been deceived.

  “When Merlin announced we were to duel, I intended to tell him where to put his cup.” Arthur shook his head. “But when I saw the anticipation on Mordred’s face, the way he looked at Gwen . . . When I realized my heir thought he could mock the High King of Britain like a half-wit dwarf . . .” He ground his teeth in fury. “I’ll either kill that bastard or die.”

  “Why not just banish him? Throw him in gaol? I’d be delighted to put him there.” Lance bared his own teeth. “Especially if he resists.”

  “You know why, Lance. Half the court would whisper I did it out of fear.”

  “But if you told the court why . . .”

  “And expose Gwen to that kind of gossip? Everyone would whisper he’d cuckolded me.” Realizing he’d half drawn his sword, Arthur slid the weapon home and relaxed his white-knuckled grip. “I won’t have my queen made the butt of wagging tongues.”

  “My liege, no one will slander Queen Guinevere in my presence,” Lancelot told him quietly. “And I know I speak for all your knights.”

  “Lance, did you know I’d raised a viper?”

  “I’d have warned you if I had.” The knight frowned. “Though Galahad did tell me once Mordred has a reputation of being someone you had to watch if you didn’t want a dirk in the ribs.” The youngest of the Round Table’s knights, Lancelot’s son had grown to manhood beside Mordred. “At the time, I thought, ‘Well, what prince doesn’t have that reputation?’” Lance grinned. “Present company excepted, of course.”

  Arthur snorted. “My father really did believe he’d raised a viper. He accused me of plotting treason on more than one occasion.”

  “Usually when he was drunk. I don’t think he ever truly believed it, save when he was in his cups.”

  “Either way, every time I had doubts about Mordred, I told myself that paranoia about one’s own children must be a hazard of kingship.” Arthur raked a hand through his hair and sighed. “Deep down, I knew what he was, but I always told myself I could fix him. If I only showed him enough love, enough understanding, gave him enough training, he’d become the man I wanted him to be.”

  For once, there was no deference in Lancelot’s stare, only a friend’s honest compassion. “Arthur, you did everything you could for that boy.”

  “Except the one thing that would have made a difference—keeping him safe from that bastard priest.”

  Soon after he acknowledged Mordred as his son, Morgana had told him and Gwen that when the boy was only five, the village priest had named her a heretic for being Druid. Morgana had believed his antipathy had more to do with her bad judgment in healing a sick child when Father Bennett’s attempt at a miracle failed. Bennett apparently did not appreciate being shown up; he’d claimed Mordred was the product of Morgana’s fornication with the devil.

  While Morgana tried to defend herself against the village’s outraged elders, Bennett had taken the child away, saying he would cast out Mordred’s demons. Afterward, the boy would never say exactly what he did, but for years he’d wake screaming from nightmares he had far too often.

  The priest was lucky he’d been dead of plague by the time Arthur heard the story, or he’d have learned what hell was like at the king’s own hand.

  Arthur had always felt that experience had been the thing to warp his son. It was why he and Gwen had been so patient for so long in the face of Mordred’s rages, the reason they made so many excuses for the inexcusable.

  “For God’s sake, Arthur!” Frustration tightened Lance’s mouth into a tight line. “At the time, you didn’t even know the boy existed! How the hell could you have possibly protected him?”

  “By making sure everyone in the kingdom knew I won’t tolerate that kind of treatment of any child, mine or not.”

  “Men like that donkey’s prick don’t care about laws—not even those of God. Why do you think he’d listen to you if he wouldn’t listen to Christ?”

  “Good point.” Arthur threw himself down on his bed with a grunt. “It’s too bloody late now, in any case. Mordred is the vicious little prick he is. Which brings me to the reason I sent for you.”

  Lancelot bowed his head in submission. “I am honored to serve you in whatever way I can.”

  “Protect Gwen.” He picked up the gauntlets he’d left on the bed and began to tug them on. “If it becomes evident I’m losing, take the rest of the Round Table and get her to safety.”

  “We will, of course, guard Queen Guinevere with our lives.”

  Arthur met his eyes, letting him see the gratitude he felt. “I know you will. From the time we were boys, you always served me with complete dedication.”

  “Then you shouldn’t send him from your side.” Gwen swept into the room, looking regal in an overtunic of imported blue silk embroidered with silver thread. Its short hem revealed the thin white linen underskirt swirling around her sandaled feet. A thin white veil concealed her bright hair, secured by a golden circlet inset with sapphires. She looked lovely—and furious, flags of color flaming on her cheeks. “If you want me protected, let the Table knights remain where they belong: at your back.”

  Arthur sighed and moved to take her in his arms. She refused to relax against him, instead glowering rebelliously up into his eyes. “How can I keep my mind on winning if I’m wondering whether you’ll be picked off by some assassin’s arrow? If anything happened to you, it would gut me. Don’t you think such an advantage would tempt Mordred?”

  “Even Mordred would not dare have me assassinated in front of all the court.”

  “Perhaps, but I’d as soon not test him. I’ve had all the unpleasant surprises I care to have from that quarter.”

  “At least keep eight Table knights to protect you. That will leave me with three.” Correctly interpreting his expression, she bargained, “Lance, Galahad, and Tristan, rounded out with a dozen soldiers.”

  “Plus Gawain, Percival, Marrok, and Cador. I want more of my elite fighters with you, Gwen.”

  “What if you need them? Even if Mordred dies, he may already have persuaded your more treacherous lords to join Varn and his bandits in rebellion.” He opened his mouth to refuse, only hesitating at the pleading in her eyes. “Please, Arthur.”

  He sighed and drew her close. “I’ll keep five. You take the rest.”

  She let her head fall against his chest. “Thank you.”

  Arthur glanced up at Lancelot. “But tell all your fellow Table knights to have their fastest mounts ready in case I’m killed outright. You’ll probably have to fight your way past Mordred and his men. Kill every last one of them you can, the prince included. Take her to Lord Bohort at Cornouaille.” Bohort was her sister’s husband, and as formidable as he was loyal. Turning back to Gwen, he added, “Tell your maid to pack only what you’ll most need.”

  Guinevere nodded decisively. “My jewels.” When he lifted a brow, she growled, “I hear good assassins are expensive. If you fall, that young viper will not have long to gloat.” She turned and strode from the room, calling for her maid.

  The two men watched her go. “If she doesn’t want to leave, pick her up and carry her,” Arthur told Lancelot. “I don’t want her at my bastard’s mercy.”

  • • •

  Arthur’s great-grandfather Bicoir had built Camelot as a cross between a Roman fortress and the villas he’d seen as a young man. After the Romans pulled out of Britain, he became a war leader, building a kingdom through a combination of conquest and savvy alliances.

  He’d taught his descendants the military tactics he’d learned from the Romans, along with the construction techniques the Legion used to construct fortifications.

  The fortress was laid out in a great stone square around a central courtyard that was op
en to the sky. A balustrade ran around the inside of the two-story square, providing a way to move from room to room.

  Soldiers and knights had been honing their skills in Camelot’s huge central courtyard ever since. Today, one of the old man’s descendants would probably die there.

  Rows of wooden benches had been set up around the innermost combat circle to accommodate those who wanted to watch. Now every bench was packed with courtiers seated thigh to thigh. Those with lesser status had crowded in along the courtyard walls, and more onlookers packed the second floor balustrade used to walk from room to room.

  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 acknowledgment.

  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.