Goddess of Legend gs-7 Page 14

  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 needs a brace on that knee.”

  Arthur took Mordred’s waist, then hoisted him up into his arms.

  “Father! I cannot be seen carried this way.”

  “Do you think you will be able to navigate those long steps on your own? I assure you that I will set you down should I hear another coming along. To keep up appearances, of course, that father and son are just upon a walk, discussing father and son things.”

  He swiveled, his son cradled close, as he so wished he had been able to do since Mordred was a babe. “Isabel?”

  She turned, just as she was about to reenter her quarters. “Yes?”

  “Do you know the whereabouts of your healer, Dick? I know that mine is far off this day, visiting the outlying huts of our farmers.”

  “Last I heard, he was cracking the necks and backs of many of your men. He is in what I believe you call the healing quarters.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and it held meaning much beyond just directing him to her own healer. He had high hopes that she understood just how much.

  “You are welcome. And again, sorry, Mordred, though you had it coming.” Then she looked again at Arthur. “Yes, I do understand.”

  She stared at Mordred, cradled in his father’s arms. “And you, you little jackass, try to figure out who is caring for you right now. He loves you, more than you know. Without his love for you, there would be a ton of his loyal men and women who would have demolished you by now. Including me.”

  * * *

  As they navigated the steps that would take them to the healing rooms, Mordred looked up at Arthur. “She is a fierce warrior, Countess Isabel.”

>   Arthur nodded, trying not to show strain. After all, Mordred was no babe at this time. “That she is, most when those she holds dear are threatened or hurt. Did you harm her horse, Mordred?”

  “I ne’er meant it to be a lasting injury.”

  “’Twas a nasty, horrid thing to do.”

  “Yes, I understand now.” He laid his head against Arthur’s face, which was such a feeling unlike any Arthur had ever felt afore with his own son.

  “Are you going to banish her for attacking your son?”

  Arthur stopped for a moment, then kept taking the steps. “Yes. The same day I charge you with attacking her horse.”

  “So you would choose her horse over me?”

  “No, Mordred, I choose good over evil.”

  “Do you call my actions evil?”

  “I am sad to say that, yes, I do. You attacked an innocent animal. To what purpose, Mordred? To what gain?”

  Arthur needed to shift Mordred in his arms. “Please, son, help me understand your purpose.”

  “The countess threatened us, Father.”

  “How? She is nothing but kind.”

  “You are carrying me to the healer, my father.”

  “You provoked, harming her animal.”

  Mordred said nothing for moments. “I feel she is a threat to our dynasty.”

  “’Twas the closest Arthur had ever come to wanting to toss someone down a staircase. And his son, no less. But he held on and kept moving. “Why the countess? She comes in peace. She comes to make treaties that will benefit us all. Why, Mordred, is she such a threat?”

  “Because you are clouded by your feelings for her.”

  Arthur stopped again, this time considering stomping his own son. “You know this how?”

  “By the way you reacted when I made a pass at her.”

  Arthur laughed. “Son, if that is your belief of a pass to a woman, I have much to teach you.”

  “She means more to you than Gwen.”

  Again, Arthur was stopped, but only in his head. “I have known her but awhile. I know not what I feel about anything. ’Tis very dangerous to judge afore an assessment has been made. It is the fatal flaw of any losing battle.”

  Again, silence as they descended, and Arthur felt his arms might well give up the fight all too soon. He strained to keep his son secure.

  “Is all she said true?” Mordred asked, breaking the silence.

  “Who? Countess Isabel?”

  “Yes, is what she said the truth?”

  “It is.”

  “Why did you never just explain this afore?”

  “Son, I have told you this many times over the years. Yet you refused to believe me. How is it that hearing it from the countess finally got through to you?”

  “Perhaps because she was so fierce in the telling, whilst you always just spoke quietly.”

  “Ahh, I must keep this in mind. To get through to you I must begin shouting.”

  Steps from below had Arthur placing Mordred back on his feet, so that his son would feel no shame. ’Twas the young girl, Mary, skipping up the stairway. She stopped short as she encountered them. “My pardons, my king and ...”

  “My son, Mordred.”

  She curtsied. “Sir.”

  “Are you off to Isabel’s room, Mary?”

  “Yes, my king. With herbs and flowers for her bath. Is that . . . acceptable to you, sirs?”

  “Absolutely,” Arthur said. “And should you have a chance, please pick flowers just for her pleasure.”

  “Yes, my king. May I . . . may I pass?”

  “Of course.”

  Mary smiled and skipped right on by. As soon as she reached the top of the steps and turned the corner, he again heaved his son up and into his arms. “You are most assuredly a man, Mordred. You are heavy beyond measure.”

  They traveled several more steps before Mordred mumbled, “She was protecting you. I believe she cares for you very deeply.”

  Arthur did not have to ask from whence that thought appeared in his son’s head.

  “As do I for her, Mordred. She is a fascinating lady.”

  “When did you and the queen lose that love? When the countess arrived?”

  Arthur nearly tripped. “As I have said, Isabel and I have not been lovers. We have just met.”

  “I believe this. But that was not my question.”

  “Mordred, you are my son. Whether you believe it or not—and at this moment you should believe as my arms may never survive this journey—there are pieces of life that are private to every individual, whether he be king or serf. This is a part of my life that I must ask you to allow me to keep private.”

  They were almost there, thank the gods.

  “I say only this, Father, I would not place blame. The countess speaks her mind.”

  “You touch her horse again, Mordred, and she will speak with a knife. Or worse. And I do not believe you want to come face-to-face with worse.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MARY all but cartwheeled into Isabel’s room not five minutes after she’d sent Arthur and Mordred on their way.

  The only thing stopping her from acrobatics was the tray in her hands. More delicious-smelling herbs, flowers and those damn twiggy things she was forced to use to clean her teeth.

  “Hello, Mary,” she said, smiling at the young girl’s exuberance.

  “Good afternoon, mum!”

  Mary looked around for a place to set the tray, as the table was still filled with remnants of other trays. “How about on the bed, Mary?” Isabel suggested.

  Mary turned, but stopped. “I was certain I had made up your bed finely this morn.”

  Whoops! She and Arthur hadn’t gotten very far, but far enough to dishevel the coverlet. “It was my fault, Mary. I was . . . restless.”

  “No worries, mum, I will tidy up.”

  Isabel sat her butt down beside the tray, then patted the bed on the other side of the tray. “If you can manage to sit long enough, please tell me what has you so excited.”

  “Gilda says she can easily fix the gown to fit me! Is that not wonderful?”

  “Oh, Mary, it truly is! But I had no doubt.” She grabbed Mary’s hand. “You will make such a beautiful bride.”

  “Thanks to you, Countess.”

  “Hey, my gown had nothing to do with that. It is you. You are a lovely young lady, and you would shine, even in a burlap sack.”

  Of course, Mary looked confused. But before Isabel could attempt to explain, Mary—bless her heart—shrugged off what she failed to understand, apparently trusting that Isabel had given her a compliment.

  “Leastways, mum, I have a missive as well. From the queen, no less!”

  “From the queen, no less! Impressive. And what does the queen have to say to me?”

  “She would like you to meet her in the loft where the seamstresses work.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Mary giggled. “She is attempting to teach them how to make man breeches for ladies. Yet she has no stitching skills, lady. None at all.”

  “There is no difference other than size, Mary, but I will happily meet her, for this might be a very good day for us all. Let’s go.”

  Isabel took Mary’s hand and then led her through the door. “Show me the way.”

  Mary began leading her through a labyrinth of stairways and hallways. “May I ask, m’lady, what kind of play we will be engaging in wearing these garments?”

  “Whatever floats our boat.”

  Mary giggled again as they ran up more steps. “Betimes I do not understand your meaning, Countess, but I do not question because you are so much fun.”

  Isabel stopped her. “You, Mary, are the little sister I wish I had.”

  “Oh, mum, that means more to me than I can possibly say.”

  “Good. Will you now finally call me Isabel?”

  “No, mum.”

  Isabel grinned. “Yes, indeed. The stubborn little sister I always wanted.” She glanced upward. “Beat
you up the stairs.”

  “When it snows in Hades,” Mary said as they raced.

  MARY and Isabel were both still a little out of breath by the time they arrived in the huge seamstress room. It was truly amazing! There were at least fifty women, stitching at a pace that would make a Singer proud.

  Some appeared to be working on new tunics for the men, many appeared to be sewing up pants, others working on plain muslin gowns, a few on basic aprons.

  Mary grabbed Isabel’s hand and dragged her to a woman who was the spitting image of Betty White. This must be Gilda, the woman who was working on Mary’s wedding gown.

  Isabel grinned and held out her hand. “You must be Gilda.”

  “That I am, mum,” she said, staring at Isabel’s hand as if it were a boa. She set everything aside and attempted to stand.

  “No, no! Please sit,” Isabel said. “I didn’t mean to disrupt.”

  “She speaks a fair bit different from the rest of us, Mary.”

  Mary huffed out. “She be from a different land and ’tis how they speak in hers. But she is also a countess and deserves your respect.”

  Gilda grunted but went right back to stitching.

  Mary stomped her foot. “She gifted me this dress.”

  “Let’s hit the road, Jack,” Isabel said, trying to walk away as fast as possible.

  Mary stood her ground, grabbing Isabel’s arm and holding on tight. “Would James want you to act thusly to the woman who gifted his son’s future wife with something so beautiful?”

  The woman stopped stitching and looked up slowly. “’Twas a very nice thing you did, m’lady. I thank you on behalf of James and Mary.”

  “And?” Mary prodded, still with the death grip on Isabel’s arm.

  “And my future daughter would be ever so proud to have you stand aside her at her vow ceremony. Even as I have told her the foolishness of the request.”

  “I would be proud to stand beside Mary.”

  Gilda looked up, her huge brown eyes full of surprise. “In truth?”

  “Of course! Mary is my friend.” She turned to Mary, who was nearly jumping up and down. “Don’t you have closer friends you would prefer, Mary?”

  Mary stopped bouncing on her toes. “I do, m’lady. Or I did. But my choice is you. If it does not upset you.”