"Aye. Name it, be it half my kingdom, and I will grant it, dear sister." The way he says dear sister makes me believe Morgause is anything but.
"Ah, my request is nothing as grand as that," Morgause says with a smile. She puts her arm around the shoulder of the young man at her side and pushes him forward a bit so he stands at Arthur's feet.
"Greetings, sire," the boy says, a bit shyly.
"Allow me to introduce you to Mordred," Morgause says with a twisted smile. "Your son."
Chapter 13
The court erupts with murmurs as everyone tries to talk at once, buzzing at this bizarre twist of events. After all, it's not every day the high king's sister waltzes in and presents the king with the bastard son no one had any idea he had.
But the loudest cry of all comes from Guenevere's side of the room: a half scream, half moan as the queen stares, openmouthed, at the teenager before her.
"It cannot be," she whispers, her face as white as a ghost, twisted in agony. She looks as if she's going to pass out, and I really can't blame her. Poor girl. She's been trying for years to give Arthur a kid, an heir to Camelot. Then his sister shows up one day and basically says, "Oh, by the way? Arthur has a son already, and he's full-grown." In front of the whole kingdom. How humiliating. Poor Guen.
Courtly manners be damned—I hurry to the queen's side, kneel by her throne, and squeeze her shoulder in what I hope is a comforting gesture. "Shhh," I hush her in her ear. "Don't let them see you upset."
I glance over at Arthur, who still sits there, a dumbstruck expression on his face. Evidently it's a big shock to him, too. So who, I wonder, is the mother? Some damsel in distress he screwed before meeting Guen? Judging from the fact that the kid looks about eighteen he'd have to have been a teenager himself when he planted his royal seed in this kid's mom. Guenevere herself would have still been in diapers—if they have diapers in this century. I guess she can take some comfort in the fact that it's not like he cheated on her.
Mordred himself looks rather uncomfortable, probably due to the fact that he's in court, surrounded by about fifty gaping strangers. Poor guy. He shoots a stressed look at Aunt Morgause.
"Mother..." he whines.
Mother?!
Arthur groans and flops his head in his hands as the court breaks out into furious chatter once again. My mind whirls as I try to figure out what the heck I'm missing here. Mother? How can Morgause be his aunt and his mother? He must mean adopted mother, right? Right? Arthur couldn't have ...
Ew!
Guenevere trembles against me, burying her head in my chest. I can feel her trying to rein in her sobs. "It's going to be okay, sweetie," I whisper in her ear, brushing a hand over her golden locks. Of course, I have no idea how this optimistic statement could possibly be true. It's clearly not going to be okay, and everyone here, especially Guenevere, knows it.
Guen turns on Arthur, her face twisted in rage. Gone is the bubbly girl queen, and I wonder, under the circumstances, if she'll ever regain her sweet innocence again.
"Tell me this woman lies," she demands, her once musical voice icy and cold. "Tell me you did not father a child with her. Your very sister!"
Oh, man. This is so Jerry Springer. I'm waiting for them to start throwing thrones any second now. Though I'm not sure who Guen would like to hit first, the sister or her husband. I glance over at Morgause, who I realize is trying to hide her smile. She's actually enjoying this! Bitch.
"Be still, woman," Arthur commands. "This is not a discussion to be had in front of the entire kingdom."
Whoa! That's a confession if I ever heard one.
"So it's true," Guen hisses, at least keeping her voice down this time.
I watch as Arthur tries to surreptitiously brush a hand to his eye. Is he crying? " 'Twas a mistake," he whispers so only she—and I, since I'm standing beside her—can hear. "I did not know her as my sister. She bewitched me long ago, during the feast of Beltane, wearing the face of the goddess herself. Seduced me to her bed. The next morning I was horrified to find 'twas her. I left immediately and have not seen her since that day. Merlin made sure she stayed far away from me by marrying her off to King Lot."
Oh, good one, Kat. I knew aiding and abetting in Lot's death would come back to haunt me. If the evil king had lived to fight another day he probably would have headed home and played father to Mordred. Taught him how to rape and pillage, or some other useful evil-king-in-training skills. After all, he had been griping that all his other sons had abandoned their dear old dad. Now my well-meaning actions have probably ruined Guenevere's life.
Arthur's still talking, still pleading. "I swear to you, my love, I had no knowledge that our affair produced a child." He lets out a soft moan and makes the sign of the cross. "May God forgive me!"
Guenevere shakes her head. " 'Tis not God's forgiveness you need, Arthur," she says loudly, spitting out his name as if it were poison, "but that of the poor boy who stands before you." She gestures to Mordred, who's shuffling from foot to foot, looking completely freaked out by the whole encounter. Guess it's not every day you find out your father and mother are siblings. I feel bad for the kid. " ‘Tis not his duty to pay for his parents' sins," Guenevere continues. "Will you now claim him as your rightful son and heir?"
"Guenevere," Arthur hisses furiously, eyes wide, pleading. "You know that I cannot. If I claim him, if I acknowledge him as heir to the Pendragon line, then our future child will be left with nothing."
The queen stares at him, hatred distorting her face. "Our child?" she asks loud enough for everyone in the court to hear. "Our child? We will have no child, Arthur. Is it not obvious that I am barren? If your seed be so fertile as to impregnate your very sister, surely 'tis I who have no gift of life in my womb. You might as well recognize your bastard son, for you will get no child from me."
My heart aches at the pain in her voice. Poor girl. Poor, poor girl. I can see so clearly now why she and Lance get together. I almost want them to, after all she's been through. She needs someone to take her in his arms, comfort her, gently kiss away her humiliation, and promise her love in a life that's done nothing but hand her cruelty.
"Guenevere, my love," Arthur begs, reaching his hand over to clasp hers. She rips it from his grasp, and cradles it protectively in her lap, her face stony. Then she slowly and deliberately rises from her throne and storms out of the room. The crowd murmurs excitedly. This is like one big soap opera to them.
Arthur frowns after her retreating figure. Go after her! I beg him silently. But no—like a typical man, he gives up too quickly. Instead of chasing after his distraught wife, the king turns back to the court, to Mordred, who stands fiddling with the hem of his well-cut black tunic.
"Well, then," Arthur says, his voice artificially cheery. "What remains to be said? Welcome to Camelot, my son."
###
Even with the interruption of the king's incestuous kin, it seems the show must go on. Or, in this case, the party that's being thrown in my honor. Though now I'm sharing the bill with Prince Mordred.
After court's over, I find Guenevere’s room and bang on her door, begging her to let me in. A servant girl opens the door a crack and tells me the queen wishes not to be disturbed. I try to talk the girl into it, even attempt to bribe her with a cool silver ring I found in my room, but she won't budge. I next decide a little physical force is in order and try to grab the door and push it open, She slams it on my knuckles.
Bruised and defeated, I head back to my little in-castle apartment. I've been moved to a pleasant suite of rooms, complete with roaring fire and canopied bed. My personal maid (I love saying that!), Elen, escorts me to a tub room, where I bathe in a hot bath of rose petals and spices. I try to enjoy it, but I can't stop thinking about poor Guenevere and this whole disturbing scenario.
At the same time, I'm dying to meet up again with Lancelot. He's been away all morning hunting, and so I don't even know if he's heard about Arthur's surprise guest yet. I wonder what he'll say. Wi
ll he feel bad for the queen, too? Will he try to comfort her? Is that when they get together? I wish Nimue had given me a better idea of exactly where and when the two hooked up. It'd be a lot easier to plan things out.
As I step out of the tub, an ache settles in my stomach. Will Lancelot fall in love with Guenevere? It seems like he loves me, but how can I be sure? He hasn't said that he does. And besides, even if he is, love can change. You can be in love with someone one day and someone else the next. Or you can be in love with two people at once. What if he's not out hunting after all? What if he's in Guenevere's chambers right now? What if that's why she won't answer the door? The ache starts burning a hole in my stomach, and I rush to dress. Elen begs me not to rip the delicate silk sleeves as I shove my arms through.
I break out into a run down the hall to Guenevere's chambers, breathless with worry and anticipation. Could Lancelot be in there? A flash vision of the two of them writhing in each other's arms pounds through my brain. Would he betray me like that? Hot blood pulses at my temples.
I reach the locked door and pound on it with my fist. "Guenevere!" I cry. "Open this door!"
I hear a click of the lock and ready myself to slam my body's weight against the door the second it creaks open. I see a crack of light and push. The door swings wide and I fall through the open passage, tripping and ripping the skirts of my once beautiful silk dress.
Guenevere stands at the doorway, fully clothed, looking somewhat amused through her sadness. "If you wanted entrance that badly, Kat, you should have said so."
I grimace, my face hot with embarrassment. "I wanted to make sure you were okay." I feel like a rat for being so suspicious. Here the queen has learned that her husband not only screwed around with his own sister, but had a kid with her, who will now become the heir Guenevere could never provide. And I'm worried she's shacking up with my boyfriend.
She nods her head and gestures for me to come in. The room is simple, but elegant, dressed all in purple silk. Of course, Lancelot is nowhere to be seen. My imagination totally got the best of me.
Guenevere sinks into a wooden chair, looking down at her white hands.
"Listen, Guen," I say lamely. What does one say in this kind of situation? I try to remember a good Jerry Springer final thought. "I know this sucks and all, but chin up. So Arthur's got a kid. Big deal. Doesn't mean he doesn't love you. Doesn't mean you're still not queen. Sometimes life doesn't deal you the cards you'd like. But you've got to turn those lemons into lemonade." She probably has no idea what I'm talking about. Heck, I'm not sure I do either.
"I know, Kat. I will be fine. Do not worry about me," she says in a brave voice. " 'Twas just a bit of a shock, as you can well imagine." I watch as she tries to surreptitiously wipe away a tear.
"Yeah, no doubt!" I agree. "That one definitely came out of left field."
"But"—the queen looks up with a small smile—"I do not want my personal sorrows to dampen your stay at Camelot. After all, tonight is the banquet. Sure to be a fine feast. And," she adds, her eyes twinkling through her tears, "your so-called brother, Lancelot, will be in attendance. Surely a brother-sister dance is in order, do you not think?"
I grin. "Hell, yeah."
She smiles wistfully, looking into the distance, as if the wall behind me holds the answers to all life's mysteries. "You are very lucky, Kat. The way Lancelot looks at you ... I have never had a man want me before. Not like that. With such hunger in his eyes. Such adoration. Love." She shakes her head. "I envy you a little."
My heart breaks at her words. I can't stand it. It's not right. It's not fair. Lancelot's supposed to be giving her those looks. She's supposed to find happiness in his arms. And instead, because of Nimue's and Merlin's selfish personal agendas, she's left to fend for herself all alone in this cruel medieval world. And I have selfishly agreed to hoard all the love that rightfully belongs to her.
On the other hand, if she does get together with Lance, according to Nimue's "betrayal schedule" (man, I still love that one), they've got, like, eight and a half months before getting caught. Before Guen gets sentenced to burn at the stake.
I've heard it's better to have loved and lost, but is it better to have loved and died? I look over at her grieving face. What would she want? A year of happiness or a lifetime of pain and suffering?
And why am I the one stuck making this decision?
###
After much arguing, Guenevere insists that I go to the royal banquet, though she herself will not be attending, I tell her I'd be happy to skip the event and hang with her in her chambers, but she won't take no for an answer.
"After all, Lancelot will be there," she teases.
So Elen and I set out to get me dressed. I can tell the maid's pissed that I ruined my last gown already, but since Guen's provided a whole roomful of dresses, I don't really see what the big deal is. I think she likes to complain. After she's gotten over whining about the torn fabric, the girl selects a cream-colored gown with sheer sleeves and a braided silver rope that crisscrosses my chest and back, then comes around to tie around my waist. Very Miuccia Prada-like. I wish I had a mirror to look in so I could get the whole effect. Elen wants to do something with my hair, but I shoo her away. I'm sick of wearing hats. Tonight my hair swings free, roots and all.
A knock sounds on the door. Elen frowns at the interruption, but goes to answer it. She pulls the door open, and I look behind her to see who's come to visit me.
Lancelot.
My heart thumps as he steps into the room wearing a leather tunic over a billowy red shirt. Fresh from hunting, it appears. His tousled hair and five-o'clock shadow tempt me, and I can barely resist the urge to throw myself in his arms, kiss the life out of him, and then suggest we go test out my new bed. Any thoughts of him comforting Guenevere are completely out the window. He's mine. All mine.
But a glance at the frowning Elen tells me I need to behave myself around my "brother." Damn.
"Lady Katherine is not ready yet," Elen informs him curtly, making me realize that while having a maid sounds cool in theory, it can actually be a big pain in the butt.
Lance shoots a sexy smile my way. "I cannot imagine her beauty improving beyond what I already see with mine own eyes."
Standing behind Elen, I make throat-slitting motions with my right hand, trying to mouth the reminder, brother and sister, to him. He furrows his brow in confusion, having no idea what I'm trying to do. I give up. What does Elen care if a brother calls his sister beautiful, anyway? After all, this is the castle whose new heir is the product of a sibling relationship.
"It's okay, Elen," I say, touching the maid on the shoulder. "I'm ready as I'll ever be. You can take off now, and I'll give you a shout if I need anything else."
Elen stiffens. "There will be no need to shout. My own chamber adjoins your bedroom. I shall wait there for your call." She turns and walks into my bedroom and through another small door on the left-hand side.
Damn it, she's going to be right next-door? So much for a little pre-banquet hook-up. Having a live-in maid sucks.
Time for plan B. I put a finger to my lips and motion for Lancelot to follow me out into the hallway. We walk down the corridor until I find the medieval equivalent of a broom closet.
Once inside the small storage chamber, I shut the door and waste no time wrapping my arms around Lancelot's neck, pressing myself against his rock-hard body. He leans down, his lips connecting with mine.
"I've missed you," he murmurs between kisses. His hands wander down my back until he cups my bottom, pulling me closer. I can feel exactly how much he's been missing me, and rejoice in the effect I have on him.
His mouth traces my jawline, then dips lower, finding my neck and devouring it like some hungry vampire.
"I've missed you, too, brother," I quip as his right hand finds my breast. I gasp at the tingling feeling his thumb invokes as it rubs against the sensitive tip. "Mmm, very, very much indeed."
He laughs softly. "I cannot believe I w
ill have to restrain myself in court. How will anyone not be able to see how much I desire you?" He pulls at the gown's neckline, exposing a bare shoulder and covering it with fervent kisses. "My sister."
"I doubt anyone really cares," I say, digging my nails into his back, practically breathless with desire. "These days everyone's doing the brother-sister thing. We're, like, right in style."
Lancelot stops kissing me, pulling away. His eyes cloud with a question. "I do not understand."
Oh, yeah. He's been hunting. Hasn't heard the latest. While I'd rather have my way with him first, I resign myself to filling him in on the details of Morgause's visit. When I come to the part about Mordred, his jaw literally drops.
"A son? Arthur has a son? By his sister?" He rakes a hand through his black hair.
"Yup. As you can imagine, poor Guenny's very upset," I continue. "I've tried to comfort her, but—"
"The queen must be devastated," he says. "I should go see her."
I frown. "She told me she wants to be left alone."
"How can anyone who has heard such news know what they want?" Lancelot asks. "I am her knight. I must attend her."
With that, he darts out of the storage chamber without even so much as a "see you later." Probably right into the arms of Guenevere.
Nice work, Kat.
###
With little else to do, I head back to my chambers and collapse on my bed, curling my body into a large feather pillow. I try to shake the image of Lancelot and Guenevere alone together in her bedroom. He loves me, I try to remind myself. Well, sure, he's never said those words, exactly. But I'm, like, his girlfriend, and he's a loyal, devoted guy. Not the type who goes and cheats on people. Especially not with a married woman.
I can't help thinking about the last time I had a guy cheat on me—back in college, with my best friend, in my own bed. My stomach still feels queasy as I remember catching them in the act. But Brian was a twenty-first-century scumbag, and my friend a total hippie, free-love slut. Not all guys would do such a thing. Lancelot wouldn't. Would he?
A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court Page 18
