Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Mordred
“Pull that kind of fucking horseshit again,” Bedwyr said in Mordred’s ear, deathly calm, “and it’ll be your pretty aunt in her tower who pays the price.”
The threat lodged a hot prick of alarm in Mordred’s chest. No mortal man was a match for Morgana of Tintagel, no, but he did not like that his affection was so apparent. Furthermore, he did not like that he felt anything for the mortal woman who had raised him in the first place.
“Threatening the king’s sister?” Mordred asked coolly, taking a long swig of mead. “An interesting choice, Bedwyr, even for you.”
“Half-sister,” the older knight replied, leaning toward Mordred.
For all the talk of Lancelot and his prowess, Bedwyr was a mountain of a man with a cold, methodical proficiency that had always put Mordred on edge.
“Their bitch mother a filthy Druid before Uther’s kindly interventions, nonetheless. ”
Mordred took another sip of mead and sighed. “You do understand, Bedwyr,” he began, watching Merlin settle into the empty throne at Arthur’s side with another twinge of alarm, “that you harbor a baseless hatred inherited from distant ancestors who abandoned your bloodline on this island, yes?”
“Baseless,” the powerfully built man snorted, following Mordred’s gaze.
Whatever his opinion of Merlin, Bedwyr did not display it on his heavy, slab-like features.
“They consult with the Fair Folk. They refute the salvation of the true religion our forefathers brought to these shores. They refuse to acknowledge your king’s dominion over these lands. ”
At this, Mordred finally turned to look at Bedwyr, interested despite himself.
Though he had suspected the older, respected knight—one of the first members of the Round Table—held such opinions, Bedwyr was normally far too cunning to spout them so willingly.
He glanced back at the royal dais. Merlin lounged across the throne that had been brought out for the queen, the jeweled cross about his neck winking in the candlelight.
The sorcerer’s return reignited many things.
Mordred found he did not enjoy any of them.
The last time Merlin had been at court, Mordred had been barely out of boyhood, but he was sure there had been no cross about the sorcerer’s neck.
Merlin had studied with Druids. Some people even thought him a member of the Briton clans’ educated upper echelons who held what remained of the old ways, anything not snuffed out by the Roman-delivered apocalypse.
Mortal beliefs would be fascinating were they not so dangerous.
“Lovely talk, Bedwyr,” Mordred said, tilting his goblet toward the knight. “Enjoy the feast.”
“Where do you think—” Bedwyr began, but another cheer from the crowd cut him off.
Mordred slipped away, pulling the shadows around him like a cloak to conceal his exit—magic so subtle not even the power-hungry sorcerer would feel it, not amidst all the loud and overly complex enchantments Merlin had strewn about the courtyard.
At least no Fey arrow would shatter this evening’s feast, he supposed.
A small comfort. In truth, another baseless aggression from the High King Ragrshydan might be easier to contend with than the command Guinevere had issued.
Mordred could handle the politics of his court and his people. But he was not sure if he had the strength to face Nyneve Or’Afon again and offer her another deal, this one from the queen of Camelot.
All the noise of the banquet’s festivities buzzed in his skull like insects as he slipped through the crowd.
His body ached. Humbling Lancelot had not been worth the price.
Arthur was furious, and all the older noblemen who already had a distaste for the king’s bastard son were in a collective rage.
He sighed, sinking down on one of the low stone benches that marked the entrance to the Queen’s Green.
Mordred did not care about the farce of the duel. He did not care if people thought Lancelot the better fighter. Setting his goblet down at his side, Mordred searched the crowd for a second time and tried to pretend that he had little idea what had made him fight so very hard.
He pretended it was not because of those sharp eyes on him, that clever little spellwork with his saddle leathers, that rosebud mouth cursing him with ancient charms. The very thought of her sent heat flooding his body, invading all the spaces of cold, deadly calm.
Perhaps he should ask for a brief leave.
Just long enough to ride out to Tintagel and seek Morgana’s assistance with the Druid girl’s spellwork.
Mordred was no longer sure he could wait until her annual autumn visit.
Whatever hold Nyneve had managed to get on him was driving him mad.
Besides, no one understood the rare instances of mortals besting the Fair Folk like Morgana did. She had practically invented the art.
Letting out a long breath, Mordred surveyed the gathered court for a distraction that might see him through another encounter with Lady Or’Afon, but he had tasted most of what was on offer already.
No one excited him. He glanced toward where Guinevere gathered off to the side with her own court, watching the candlelight turn Palamedes’ dark curls to gold.
If not for Gawain’s utter infatuation, he would likely rekindle his comfortable dalliance with the clever, well-read knight.
But Gawain was his oldest friend at court, and he knew the man to love singularly and intensely.
Guinevere’s closest two ladies-in-waiting were deeply in love and uninterested in others.
His relationship with the queen was more intense and meaningful than he would prefer given his true purpose, but it was and always had been platonic on both sides.
He had no interest in the young noblewomen barely out of girlhood that half the court circled like prey.
Mordred had been plenty of people’s first tumble.
He preferred experience, especially for the sake of a distraction.
A cool breeze tugged at his hair, and he drew in a deep inhale.
River water and meadow grasses bloomed in his senses.
The knight turned in a sharp movement, peering over the wall into the queen’s little pleasure garden.
Of course a Druid girl would seek the solace of the willow tree on a night like this one.
He let himself smile as he stood, abandoning his goblet.
For all Nyneve’s cleverness, she was young and mortal. Predictable. He could exploit that.
Without another look at the thrumming banquet, Mordred left the courtyard, his eyes keen for the flash of an auburn curl or the glimmer of her pale golden skin.
And it never took the faerie knight long to find his quarry.
Nyneve stood alone beside the willow tree, peering up into its boughs. Her long hair tumbled down her back, delicately outlined by the moonlight. Her skin glowed like mother-of-pearl. A heartbeat later, Nyneve turned to look at him, her mouth parting.
Something in his chest swelled, too big for his ribs. Mordred hesitated, all the sureness fleeing his body. He suddenly felt as though he might be losing his mind.
“Is a lady not permitted a simple stroll without a man intruding?” Nyneve demanded, crossing her arms in a way that unfortunately brought his attention to her bust.
“A lady would be, perhaps,” Mordred replied, prowling closer, his blood pounding as he fought the wave of Druid spellwork. “But you are something far more complicated, are you not?”
Her eyes flashed in the low light, upper lip curled. “Make your threats and begone, Sir Mordred. Gods forbid I have a moment’s peace beneath a willow.”
He hated the way his chest panged at her words, hated the way his entire body keened to bring her something far different than this sharp-edged displeasure.
“No threats tonight,” he murmured as he drew even with her, before his true nature won out.
“Unless,” Mordred added in a low, husky drawl, “you enjoy them, of course.”
To his surprise, Nyneve gave him a coy smile, her eyelashes fluttering like a moth’s wings. She stepped closer, her skirts pooling over the toes of his boots. “What I would enjoy,” she replied, a purr from the back of her throat, “is spilling your blood and pulling your entrails from your body.”
Heat unfolded in his chest, a boundless wildfire. “Lady Nyneve,” Mordred breathed, half-delirious with her closeness, “why do you hold such a fascination for me? Twice now you have tried to take my life.”
“Twice?” she echoed with that derisive scorn he nearly admired.
“Do not play the fool,” Mordred replied, surprised at the low, breathy tone of his own voice. He pitched himself forward, bringing his lips closer to her ear. “It does not suit you, Lady Nyneve.”
The Druid girl drew in a long breath, trying to disguise her reach for the dagger no doubt hidden away in her skirts. Something like excitement, perhaps even arousal, stirred low in his belly.
“Why are you here, Sir Mordred? For revenge, then?” Nyneve demanded, her voice tight and cold, like her flame had gone out.
Reflexively, he stepped back, schooling his expression into something more diplomatic than open hunger. “I come with a proposition,” he replied, looking down at her. The moonlight turned her hair to silver, just as it had in the meadow.
Nyneve sneered up at him. “For all your flaws,” she said flatly, “I did not think you would so crudely proposition an unmarried woman when she is alone and defenseless.”
He could not contain his amused smile, much as she could likely not contain the expression that told Mordred she desperately wanted to punch him.
“I daresay you are never defenseless,” he replied, arching a brow.
“Furthermore, what would cause you to assume such base intentions?” He paused, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Unless, of course, you wish to fuck me as badly as you want to kill me.”