Chapter 45
Chapter 45
1,573 Years Ago
Mordred goes through the motions of the spar against Sir Agravain with a near bored expression. Even when Sir Agravain shows his frustration, switching up his movements with more aggression, Mordred simply adapts.
He is good. Very good.
But my nephew knows that—he’s arrogant.
It shows in the way he holds his sword, and the way his feet lazily drag through the footwork. He knows his skills are well established, and any knight with them should be so confident. But his effort is lacking. His heart isn’t in it. Confidence is necessary in battle. Arrogance, however, and lack of passion for what it means to be a knight—especially a Knight of the Round Table—is what gets a man sliced through and left to bleed out on the field.
He reminds me of myself before being humbled by my mentor, Merlin.
“Enough,” I call, fists planted on my hips.
When they stop, Agravain sheaths his sword, casting a scowl at Mordred, before bowing deeply to me. Mordred sheaths his sword slowly, acting like I am not standing here.
“Mordred,” I snap with a tone of warning.
He responds by facing me and bowing at the waist, but just as was apparent in his sparring, his arrogance belies the act. “Your Majesty,” he mumbles.
“Everyone is dismissed,” I grind out, “except for my nephew.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end when Mordred exchanges a loaded look with Sir Meliagaunt. There is meaning there that I will need to investigate further, but right now my focus is on bringing my nephew into line.
“Why are you here?” I ask, when the others have gone.
“Because my mother”—he sneers the word, surprising me—“insisted that I become one of your knights.”
I frown. “You do not wish to be a knight?”
The laugh he lets loose is dark and full of bitterness. “No, uncle. I do not wish to be a knight.”
“Then why—”
I do not get to finish my question of why my sister would push him to do so, an onslaught of chaos ringing out through the castle and carrying to us on the wind. My head whips around at the noise, dread settling in my gut. Camelot is normally a very peaceful place. Not full of caterwauling and discord.
“I wonder what could have happened.” Mordred says, his tone mocking. “Tell me, uncle. Where was Sir Lancelot while we trained?”
The bellows and noise echo in my ears as I slowly turn back to the boy. The smug look on his face is no different than the smug look that got him singled out just now.
“Lancelot was away on a quest for me,” I answer, furrowing my brow.
He had been away, at my request, to see to it that a nearby village was in order. Given the position of the sun, I would suspect that he had returned by now. But if he wasn’t here, then that could mean…
Mordred chuckles as realization dawns on me. “It sounds as if he made it back.”
True enough, amidst the uproar, a chant has started up.
“Sir Lancelot the Traitor! Sir Lancelot the Traitor!”
“Fuck,” I breathe.
I sprint away from Mordred, his laughter following me as I go. My pounding footsteps echo in my ears—or maybe that is my heart shutting out the noise I am running toward. I slide to a noisy stop on the stone floor as a mob heads my way.
And in their midst are Guinevere and Lancelot.
Various people in the throng, which includes several of my knights, servants, and other lords and ladies of the court, shove and bat at them. Guinevere clutches at her shift, the thin material loose around her and untied, a fearful expression on her face as she stumbles after a particularly hard push. Her eyes are darting around wildly, never landing on anyone thing, like a frightened animal seeking an escape. Lancelot is keeping on his feet better, his chest bare and his breeches pulled up but left undone.
His eyes clash with mine, and they’re full of regret. Unspoken words fly between us as he is herded forward, his eyes darting to Guinevere when she lets out a shrill cry as someone snatches a handful of hair and ruthlessly tugs.
“Enough!” I bellow, my voice echoing in the hall and bringing the entire spectacle to a halt. Immediately, Guinevere finds me, her eyes wide and watering. My subjects don’t hesitate, bowing deeply with murmurs of reverence.
I swallow hard, unsure if I can spin this how I need to. If anything is obvious, it is that Lancelot and Guinevere were caught together. With reluctance, I drag my gaze back to Lancelot and give him the smallest nod, hardly perceptible to anyone else.
A fortnight ago, when Meliagaunt had approached me about Lancelot, I’d sought him out privately.
“I have been looking for you,” I say, leaning against the door into the stall where Lancelot is grooming his steed. It is something below his station, but he insists on caring for Bhatair himself.
Lancelot sends me a lust-filled grin. “For what?”
I snort. “Not…that.”
“Ah. That is too bad.”
My blood heats and we lock eyes for a short moment before I shake it off. That is not what I’m here for. “You have caught the attention of Meliagaunt. He came to me to inform me of the way you stare at my wife.”
Freezing with his hand hovering above the horse’s flank, Lancelot grits his teeth. “Fucking meddling ass,” he grumbles, looking down at feet as he angrily kicks at straw.
“We need to discuss how to handle this,” I say reluctantly. “We always knew this was going to be difficult to hide, the longer we let it continue. It is too late to go back to what we were now.”
“We cannot go back to what we were, Arthur,” he murmurs, looking up at me.
“I know.”
My whispered declaration increases the tension building between us.
“She cannot suffer for this,” I add, slipping into the stall. “If it comes down to it, we take the brunt of the guilt. She is innocent.”
“Agreed,” Lancelot answers.
I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face and beard. “The two of you are being watched more closely than all three of us. If you are caught alone, Lancelot…”
My voice trails off, but he catches on. “If we are caught alone, you’ll have to punish me,” he finishes.
“Short of killing you, I will have to banish you,” I tell him, searching his eyes. “We will figure out a way to be together when things have settled. But until then, you’ll have to go.”
“I understand.” His hand lifts and his fingers float over my torso like he is holding back from grabbing me.“And if all three of us are caught together?”
“I do not know,” I admit. “The crown might buy us a pardon.”
Lancelot’s eyes lock on mine. “And if it is only the two of us caught?” he asks quietly.
“We both know that the church wars with the old ways,” I murmur. “The old ways would neither approve nor disapprove. The church will burn us at the stake.”
He nods, his hand falling away from me. “And Guinevere would suffer for it, too,” he muses, glancing toward Bhatair.
I am not sure what makes me do it—maybe the look of defeat on his face—but I reach for him, trapping his head between my palms. His look of surprise does not stop me from leaning forward, nor does it keep him from angling his head so our noses do not smash together.
Our open mouths meet, locking our lips together. My pulse thrums rapidly. We have only done this when Guinevere is with us. I want to find the part of me that feels as if we are betraying her, yet I can’t seem to do it. All I can see is her approving, encouraging smile in my mind. She has been promoting this as much as I have promoted her and Lancelot’s relationship, urging us to explore and try new things. We have both been hesitant, sticking to kisses and touches, but nothing more.
Tongues tangle as we consume one another, and I force him back roughly. The air is knocked out of him, into my mouth, as he collides with the stone wall. We break apart, but our chests stay pressed together, my hands still cradling his face and his hands gripping at my shoulders. I can feel the hardness of him pressed against my thigh. My own cock is painfully stiff, caught within the material of my breeches.
Almost frantically, we study one another, our breathing fast and heavy.I can tell he is just as unsure as I am about where to go from here. Normally, we would have Guinevere as a buffer between us. I suck in a breath and lean into what feels like the natural thing to do—the thing I have wanted to do since his mouth was on me.
I drop to my knees in front of him, keeping my eyes locked on his. They widen with shock at the sight of his king on his knees before him. His lips part when I tug at the laces of his trousers, loosening them. Only when I have them open and find warm, velvety skin under my fingers do I tear my gaze away.
Freeing his cock, I grip at the base like I would my own. A strangled noise erupts out of Lancelot’s throat as the ring of my fingers tightens as I hold him. The skin that encases the head of his cock pulls back when I stroke him with my other hand, revealing a bead of pearly white liquid.
Suddenly desperate to know what he tastes like, my tongue darts up, swiping along his slit. A low groan rumbles through me at the salty taste and I lick again before latching my mouth on him with a steady sucking motion, trying to recall what I like most about a mouth on me when Guinevere has been the one on her knees.
“Arthur,” Lancelot gasps, his hands in my hair, pulling and tugging. His hips jolt forward, driving his cock further into my mouth.I hum around his length, feeling my hand, still at the base of his cock, pressing against my lip. My throat seizes up, and I force a swallowing motion to keep from gagging.
Finding a rhythm, I glide along his cock, back and forth. Lancelot’s grip tightens on my hair as I get more comfortable swallowing him down and he gets more comfortable using my mouth as he sees fit, saliva dripping from my beard onto my tunic.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, panting. “Arthur, stop. I’m going to come.”
I ignore him, bobbing my head, rotating my head and flicking my tongue in a way that has him grinding out curses. My own hips thrust against air, the movement enough to give my prick a little friction against my breeches. We groan together as we hurtle towards finishing—him in my mouth and me in my trousers.
I feel it the moment before he erupts in my mouth, the base of his cock pulsing under my grip, and it sends me spiraling into my own release. As his cum releases into my mouth in spurts, I feel my cock throbbing as I flood my pants with my own. Our groans and grunts mingle while the bitter and salty taste of him slides down my throat in gulps before it can pool in my mouth.
His hands relax against my head, allowing me to pull away and stand. This time it is Lancelot that grabs at me, drawing me in for a kiss that I know leaves him able to taste his release on my tongue. Our kiss ends but our foreheads stay pressed together, each of us with a hand clasped to the back of the other’s head, just taking in the moment.
Lancelot closes his eyes when I hold him trapped with my look—the one that tries to apologize for everything I am about to do. He gives his head a gentle shake, but when he opens his eyes again, I see the resignation in them. I turn back to Guinevere, her gaze flying between me and Lancelot, and I can see she knows we have a plan—one she won’t like.
“What is this?” I ask, keeping my voice raised with authority.
Meliagaunt steps forward, his face pinched in anger. “Your Majesty, we caught these two traitors engaging in fornication in the queen’s own bed!”
Steeling myself, I look to Lancelot. “Is this true, Sir Lancelot?”
He hesitates, glancing at Guinevere, then turns back to me with a curled lip. The sorrow in his eyes doesn’t match the vile words that spill from his lips.
“I fucked the queen. She took me like the whore she is, even if she was telling me to stop.”
I feel Guinevere’s gasp rattle my bones, the sound louder than any of the murmurs the crowd releases, trying to stay focused on playing the part needed. I charge toward him with a roar, letting my fist connect with his cheek. It is not hard enough of a hit to take him down, but he falls anyway, playing along.
“Lancelot du Lac,” I seethe, towering over him as he looks up at me. “You are hereby stripped of your knighthood. I banish you from these lands.”
I try to convey everything I cannot say to him right now.
This is not forever. This is only for now. We will come for you. We will find you.
We love you.
Meliagaunt makes a noise of protest, but I swivel around, cutting him off with a glare before he can speak. “You dare to challenge your king?” I rage, spit flying from my mouth. “Mayhap I should banish you too!”
He ducks his head, chagrinned, shuffling backwards until he has blended into the crowd. Once he is gone, I turn back to Lancelot, who tears his eyes off Guinevere, the pain and panic obvious.
“Go,” I order. “Leave. And do not come back.”
This time no one interrupts my order and Guinevere’s soft sobs are the only noise as Lancelot turns from us. The muscles in my jaw twitch as he picks up speed until he has run out of sight. I know he’ll go for Bhatair.
“And what of the queen?”
I snap my head to the side, taking in Morgause standing next to Guinevere. “I will deal with the queen privately,” I answer sternly.
Morgause sends me a dark look. “She has betrayed you.”
I clench my teeth. “Go!” I bellow to the crowd. “That is enough for the day!”
The crowd is gone in moments, hurried by the vitriol in my tone that has never existed until now.
“Morgause, what I choose to do is my business alone,” I grit out when only my wife, my half-sister, and myself remain. “You have no authority here.”
She sniffs. “And after today?” she says, glancing the way Lancelot went. “You will have less authority. Everyone will remember the day that one of King Arthur’s knights defiled his queen and was merely sent away like a misbehaved child.”
“Morgause—”
Her eyes find mine, and they’re cold. “Send her away, Arthur. She needs to repent for allowing Lancelot into her body.”
I laugh, and Guinevere flinches at the cold sound that is not natural for me. “Jealous, sister?” I ask. “We both know you have been trying to win Lancelot to your bed for years.”
The barbed words strike hard across both women. Morgause’s spine snaps straight as she bares teeth at me like an animal. But Guinevere is the one who holds my attention. Green eyes churning like storm clouds, she glowers at an unwitting Morgause with unadulterated jealousy and anger, so unlike my sweet, joyful lady.
I suppose if there was ever a time that all of us were to forget how we typically act, this would be it. At the least, she does not tackle my sister like I can tell she wishes to.
Knowing I need to calm the situation before it gets further out of hand, I step toward Morgause, who goes still at my movement, lifting her chin and peering into my eyes with an affectionate look.
“I am not in a mood that is sufficient to handle those who would try to speak out against me.” I do not have to turn to know that Mordred has sidled up to us, the way his feet shuffle and drag a clear indicator. “And that includes your son,” I add, my stare cutting into her.
Morgause flinches at the last declaration. “Arthur, truly,” she sighs, her voice gentle. “I do not mean to defy you. I only mean to ensure that Guinevere is safe. Now that this has happened, others will attempt…unsavory things…because you did not punish Lancelot strongly.”
“I banished him,” I argue.
She eyes me. “And we both know that he should have been run through with Excalibur for touching the queen at all. Or have you forgotten about the sword which made you king while passing time in the stables with the knight you just banished?”
My stomach drops as she calmly waits for my response. Her tone, the look on her face—all indicators that my sister somehow knows about my time with Lancelot. My mind scrambles for a solution, to find a way to explain or deny what the implication is. A shared look with Guinevere lets me know she has picked up on the threat too, having known about my time with Lancelot straightaway after it happened.
With the same smile she used to give me when playing silly games she was bound to win as children, Morgause turns to Guinevere. “You must go to the convent. If not to save your own face, then to save Arthur’s. He will have lost loyalty today. Do not make it worse for him. You must be repentant for having another man inside your body.”
I have never seen Guinevere step so thoroughly into her role as queen. Endearing to our people and full of light, yes. But now those qualities are gone as she marches up to Morgause, her chin raised, her gaze defiant.
“Do not think I cannot see what you are doing, Morgause,” Guinevere hisses. “I see the way you look at him. But just as one man you longed for never found his way to your bed, neither will he. Beyond the disturbing nature of your desire, he is mine.”
I frown, opening my mouth to ask what she means, but Morgause cuts me off.
“But you will go to the convent,” she says with a wan smile.
Guinevere’s shoulders drop. Not a lot—just enough to indicate her defeat. Turning on her heel, giving her back to my sister, she comes right to me and I embrace her tightly, holding her against my body.
“I will go,” she whispers to me, clutching at my tunic. “If only so you can fix this mess we have made. There are so many apologies on my tongue, Arthur, and I—”
I place my hand over her mouth to hush her. “The three of us knew,” I murmur, too low for Morgause to hear. “We knew the risk.”
She presses her forehead against my chest and nods. “And we are paying the price.”
“You will go,” I sigh, pushing her back so I can kiss her forehead. “Go to the convent. Allow me to straighten this out and make new arrangements. I will send for you once I do. I swear it, my sweet lady.”
Guinevere pulls away, still holding her shift together, and retreats. She stares daggers at Morgause as she passes her, but turns back before she can turn the corner out of sight.
“One day,” she reminds me with a watery smile. “With no fear.”
My very soul aches as she leaves, knowing that she will not come see me again before departing for the convent.