Chapter 60
Sixty
Back in Camelot, Mordred opened the door to Arthur’s chambers. The space was completely dark, save for the moonlight that poured through the windows. He knew the chapel would be unlocked, unguarded. This was Arthur’s way. It would never be Mordred’s.
He was king now. Regent king, but still king. Bards sang of his older brothers, but rarely of him. Now they would have to take notice.
He entered Arthur’s chapel, a simple room with benches, an altar and, at the back of the dais, beneath a canopy, Arthur’s throne.
The throne was intentionally tucked away, enswathed in shadows and drained of its symbolic heft.
The Round Table, Arthur believed, should be Camelot’s focal point, not his own seat of power.
Of course, such a declaration had the opposite effect.
It reaffirmed Arthur’s own eminence. But it also made him vulnerable, weak.
Anyone, it seemed, could ride into Camelot and win Arthur’s favor—even steal his wife.
Mordred had spotted them together, right after Lancelot’s very first joust. The way Guinevere rubbed a cloth over his brow, gazed lovingly into his eyes—Mordred wasn’t stupid.
He knew what was happening. But Lancelot, he figured, might prove useful.
Perhaps the White Knight could even neutralize his older brother Gawain.
But then the Lady of Astolat fell victim to Lancelot’s recklessness, and Mordred felt his world collapse. One well-placed tale was all it took to seek retribution.
The rumors about Lancelot and Guinevere would circulate, and they’d ruin both Lancelot and Mordred’s uncle Arthur.
In the aftermath, Camelot would need a strong ruler.
It would need a throne. Mordred stepped onto the dais and touched its gilded armrest. On the brocade cushion sat the crown.
He picked it up, rested it on his head. It was too big for him.
He didn’t care. Prophecies could be wrong.
Crowns could be rebanded to fit the rightful king.