Goddess of Legend

“Oh, right back atcha,” she said.

“Until this evening?”

“Yes.”

He stood back, albeit appearing totally reluctant to do so. His eyes swept over her, from face to feet. “Trust me, Isabel, you have no need of shyness. You are so beautiful.”

He went to move past her, but she touched his arm and he turned back. “Yes?”

“So are you.”

He grinned. “You are presuming. You may take back those words some day. I have many a battle scar on this body, Isabel.”

Although the thought of him being hurt nearly made her shudder, she understood this was the way of this world. And then she thought of Curtis and Afghanistan, and realized brutality hadn’t changed, only the nature of it. Still, she couldn’t wait to explore every single one of those scars. If she ever got the chance.

She walked with him to the door, but before he opened it she stopped him again. “Arthur? The next time we have the chance to speak, I promise the truth. Because you’re right. In the end it is all we have.”

He smiled. “I look forward to it. You have an endlessly fascinating life, Isabel.”

If he only knew.

“Until this evening, then,” he said with a slight bow.

“Yes. Be careful out there. Sword play isn’t for sissies.”

He laughed. “I know naught what a sissy is, but I can well imagine.”

They were both smiling as he swung the latch and opened the door.

Their smiles fizzled instantly.

“Mordred,” Arthur said.

The smug little bastard shoved off from the wall across from Isabel’s door. “Father. Countess. I feared that you would not emerge the entire day.”

ARTHUR knew that Isabel’s first desire was to lunge at his son and claw his eyes out. So he quickly blocked her path to thwart disaster. “Did you have issues to discuss, Mordred?” he asked. “You had but to knock.”

“Oh, issues aplenty,” he said. “And another to add to my list.”

“Then let us do so, at some other—”

“You smug little stalking, animal-abusing, ungrateful creep,” Isabel hissed, attempting to break through Arthur’s barrier. With no luck, thank the gods.

“Please, Isabel,” Arthur said, “allow me to handle this situation.”

Her breaths were coming fast. “How do you think he knew where you were if he didn’t follow you?”

Mordred’s grin widened. “The countess is very astute. And lovely. You have chosen a lover well. Should you care to share her services with your son, I would not object.”

Arthur felt a rage like no other. He leapt forward and grabbed Mordred’s tunic with both hands, shoving him back against the wall. “You will apologize to the lady. This very moment, Mordred.”

Mordred’s smile had gone missing, yet the malice in his eyes still gleamed bright. ’Twas such a sad sight for Arthur. He shook his son. “Apologize. Afore I have you escorted from Camelot and ban your presence for all time.”

“If what I have said is untrue—”

“’Tis untrue. Isabel and I are not lovers. I say again, Mordred. Apologize to the lady.”

“Forget it,” Isabel said, coming up beside them. “This kid is incapable of an honest apology.”

And then she performed an act that was remarkable and shocking all at once. She twirled once and then with one leg raised, rammed it into Mordred’s knee.

Mordred yelped in pain and might have collapsed, were it not for Arthur’s hold on him.

“And that is for Samara. How does it feel? Should you ever come near my horse again, you will receive worse. Understand, you little shit?”

Arthur then witnessed something in his son’s eyes directed at Isabel that had never been directed at his own father. A spark of respect.

Mordred winced as he tried to regain his footing on his own. “My apologies, Countess, if I spoke out of turn.”

“I don’t give a good damn about your meaningless words, Mordred,” she said. “Your actions are what define you. Just shows that nurture won out over nature in this little genetic pool battle, you creep.”

Even though Arthur had Mordred at least five inches above the ground, Mordred managed to ground out, “You are allowing a mere whore to berate your only son and the heir to your crown?”

“Oooh, you had me at mere whore,” Isabel said, and wound up once again to attack.

“Isabel, no!” Arthur said. “Allow me to finish this.”

He dropped his son back to the ground, knowing the pain it would inflict on his leg.

Mordred yelped.

The pain to his son was hurtful, but the words against Isabel hurt as much. “You will accord the countess the respect and courtesy she so rightly deserves,” Arthur prompted. “She has never wronged you. It is you who appears to have wronged her, with words and deeds. Make this right, Mordred, or I shall drop you on that leg many more times. Or worse, I will allow the countess to have at you.”

“I will.”

“You will what?”

“I will attempt to set things right.”

“Not good enough,” Isabel said, the heat of her anger in her eyes still so strong, it could manage to warm the entire castle.

Arthur nearly groaned. “He has apologized, Isabel.”

“To me, not to you.” She glared daggers at Mordred. “Your father loves you. He has been doing his best to make up for the years he didn’t even know that you were his son. And you have repaid him with nothing but hatred and retaliation in mean, evil ways.”

“Isabel,” Arthur began, but was apparently not allowed to finish, since she was . . .

On a tear.

Once again he knew not where that voice in his head was coming from, but it seemed appropriate, as Isabel appeared to be able to tear Mordred limb from limb.

She stepped even closer, right in Mordred’s face. “He loves you, you little brute. He would have gladly taken you and cared for you had he known. But he did not know! He is paying penance for something that was not his fault. And you are adding to it, forcing guilt upon him. A burden he doesn’t deserve to carry. So you either straighten up and treat your own father with the respect he deserves, or I will be certain to make your life as much of a living hell as you are making his.

“He has the resources to make it happen, but you are counting on his love to keep you cozy and safe. I also have the resources to make that happen, Mordred, but I do not give a rat’s ass what happens to you, so hiding behind your father’s love in my world is just not going to happen. Do not underestimate me. Capisce?”

“Capisce?” Mordred and Arthur said at the same time.

“Understand?” she enlightened.

Mordred nodded. “I . . . Capisce.”

“Apologize.”

“He needs not—”

“He absolutely does.”

Mordred swallowed hard, and for the first time since e’er Arthur laid eyes upon the lad, there seemed to be no menace in his eyes. “I . . . apologize, Father.”

“For?” Isabel persisted.

“For believing you had abandoned me. That you cared naught what had become of me.”

“Not true, my son. Had I known ...”

Arthur couldn’t go on because he felt choked by unshed tears.

Isabel pushed off from the wall. “Then I suppose it’s time that you take him to your healer. He probably