Goddess of Legend

“You lie.”

Arthur hung his head and rubbed his temples. “You, of course, will never believe me. However, the truth is when I learned of you, when I learned that your mother had died during your birth, I attempted to lay claim to you and bring you back to Camelot. Your aunt wouldn’t allow it, as she blamed me for her sister’s death.

Mordred stopped pacing. “I do not believe that.”

“As I said you would not.”

Arthur rose and began pacing as well. Mordred continued his. They kept passing one another. The rushes beneath their feet were taking quite a beating.

“We, Father, are at an impasse,” Mordred finally said.

“’Twould seem so, my son. You may join my men, or you may join those who would take me down. ’Tis your choice.”

“I am honest when I am loyal to Richard of Fremont.”

That bit harshly at Arthur’s heart, but he nodded. “Then, my son, you are a guest in my home. But you are a man who wishes to do harm to Camelot. Thus, you are considered an enemy. You have stated your intentions. I cannot tell you how deeply this cuts.”

“As much as I was cut when you denied me?”

“I have ne’er denied you. ’Twas your aunt who—”

“Enough!”

“Fine, believe what you must. But know this, son: Should you harm a man, woman, child or animal whilst I give you comfort in my realm, I will show you no mercy. You will see the same penance as any other.”

“I take note that a woman was sent to do your work this eve.”

Arthur grinned. “No, I did try to stop her. But she was angry, and I did not get there in time. Regardless, son, that bruise upon your eye tells me that she won that small battle.”

“For which she’ll pay.”

Arthur wanted to grab his son and shake him. Instead, he took deep breaths and said, “Touch her, and you will certainly suffer.”

Mordred’s laughter was almost sad. “And once again you choose another over your own son.”

“No, son, I choose allegiance over treason. And I choose happiness over hatred. Your chosen path on both is a sad one.”

Arthur turned to leave the room, feeling a disgust and sadness he had ne’er felt before.

“You owe me, old man!” his son called out to him as he closed the door.

Okay, there was still sadness, but disgust was fairly taking over. And a bit of fear.

The safety of his people was paramount. And it alarmed him that Mordred would perhaps attack them first. And the first, most assuredly, would be the woman who had humiliated Mordred this night. Even as Arthur stole one bit of a smile at her cheek, he knew he needed to round up Tom, Dick and Harry to formulate a safety plan. Isabel’s safety was a priority.

It had to be private, however, because should Isabel learn of it, he’d sustain more than a black eye.

Truth be told, ’twas a good bet that should he ever want to produce another child, Isabel would make that impossible. She was a bit cranky that way.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE next morning Isabel was luxuriating in her bath filled with freshly picked lilacs and spices when there was a soft knock on the door.

“I have told you, Mary, you do not need to knock,” she called.

“’Tis not Mary, Countess. ’Tis Guinevere.”

Isabel splashed all over the place, grabbing for a towel and her robe. “One moment, your Highness!”

She set world speed records jumping out of the tub, drying herself and donning her robe. “Please come in,” she said.

Gwen entered, looking so damn ethereal and sweet that Isabel felt like James on a bad day. If James could have a good day. Which she doubted.

The queen was wearing a turquoise gown. Very simple in its design, but managing to fit her like it was made for her body. Which, when Isabel thought about it, it was. Oh, to have that good a seamstress.

Then again, either the color wasn’t good for Gwen, or Gwen’s color wasn’t right. Her smile was kind, but she appeared a little pasty, and her amazing eyes weren’t glittering like they had even just the night before.

Uh-oh. Arthur had not disclosed all of the details of his talk with his wife, but Isabel had a sinking feeling her name had come up in the conversation. And this wasn’t good.

She did the curtsy thing, which was again awkward. “To what do I owe this visit?” she asked, dread nearly dropping her. After all, she’d had heart-melting kisses with Gwen’s husband just hours ago. Was the queen here to have Isabel executed as a . . . a . . . hussy? Was that a crime? Isabel’s nerves were dancing, and it wasn’t the mambo. It was the uh-oh.

Gwen floated into the room and sat in one of the two chairs. “I apologize for disrupting your bath, Countess.”

“No problem. The water was getting cool on me,” Isabel said, drying her hair with her towel and hoping like hell that she didn’t have beard burns all over her face. “What’s up?”

“Other than the beard scratches all over your face, Countess?”

She was definitely in the uh-oh dance.

And she was not a liar. So she was in a shit load of trouble.

Please, Goddess, help me through this.

I picked you, Isabel, since your truth was a plus, but right now I find it a bit of a minus. I care not one, Tom, Dick or Harry, but one of the three made your face scary.

Her face was scary? Really, scratchy she could live with. Scary felt a little too Halloweenish for her taste. But everything right now felt cartoonish.

“I will not lie. I shared kisses last eve. However, with whom I shared those kisses is my knowledge, and mine alone. Forgive me if I don’t feel the need to share.”

“And so it shall stay.”

“Forgive my impertinence, Queen Guinevere, but your cheeks and chin also show signs of action.”

Gwen’s hands went to her face. “It would seem that we are both guilty of play, then.”

“I won’t tell on you, if you do not tell on me.”

“Many thanks, Isabel.”

“Right back atcha.” Isabel laid down her towel. “Now to what do I owe this morning call?”

“So many things, Countess.”

Everything in the world went through Isabel’s mind. Gwen had learned that she’d kissed her husband? Maybe she’d learned that Isabel had kicked her stepson’s ass? Isabel had had Mary pick flowers from Gwen’s garden for her bath? “Please inform me.”

“I have need of your counsel,” the queen said.

Okay, that hadn’t been on her list. And it sounded less painful than torture and death. “My counsel?”

“Yes. My husband informs me that you are distraught that the women here have no reprieve from their daily chores. That you believe they should have, as he said, some ‘playtime.’”

Could have knocked Isabel over with a puff of air. “I most likely was out of line, Your Highness. I should not have said any such thing. I was just tossing out ideas as we spoke.”

“I am quite entranced with the notion, truth be told.”

So far, no torture and death in her future. At least she hoped not. She tried to connect with the Lady of the Lake, but the Lady wasn’t talking. Apparently Isabel was on her own on this one.

Great.

“How may I help you, Queen Guinevere?”

“Please, I am Gwen,” the queen said. “And allow me to call you Isabel. I do so hate formalities.”