Queen of Camelot by Nancy McKenzie

Author:Nancy McKenzie
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780345455468
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2002-04-09T04:00:00+00:00

The garden terrace had recently been swept of snow. Mordred paced back and forth across it, his cloak swirling behind him. It was not cold, but hushed and still. I pulled my hood forward and stepped out from the colonnade to greet him.

“My lord Mordred. You wished to see me.” I made him a deep reverence, and he hurried to raise me.

“Oh, no, my lady, you mustn’t. Not to me. You are Queen, and I am still only a bastard.”

His face in the torchlight was light and shadow; it was Arthur’s face, as I had seen it by firelight, with shadows beneath the cheekbones, the face of a King.

“You are his son. It is enough for me.”

“You knew all along, didn’t you? I—I always had the feeling when I was with you that I was someone special. But until tonight—” He stopped and shivered. I took his arm, and we walked to and fro, to keep warm and to ease his tension. “I cannot believe it yet. It feels so right somehow, but I cannot believe it is me he spoke about. What a King he is!” Even in the dark, his eyes were bright.

I laughed. “He is indeed. Mordred, you have given him great joy.”

“Not half so much as he has given me,” he said fervently. “To learn I am Pendragon . . . it is beyond my wildest hope. It is true that I have wanted a place to rule—but Britain!”

“It will not come to you unless you earn it,” I said cautiously, not having discussed this with Arthur. “He has publicly declared the Dukes of Cornwall to be his heirs.”

He nodded. “I had heard that. I will try to be worthy in every way I can. All I want is a place of my own. I don’t mind if it is small.”

He had grown up in a queen’s house with four legitimate princes already in place. He had never had much that was his own.

“Be patient, Mordred, as the King is. Who knows what is ahead?”

We walked in silence awhile. He moved stiffly, but seemed to suffer little pain. When I looked at him, I saw he was frowning.

“He is ashamed of my begetting,” he said in his quiet voice.

“He is Christian, Mordred. For us, it is perhaps a greater sin than for others. All sins of the flesh are so.”

“I am afraid, my lady, that every time he looks at me he will be reminded of this shame. I would do anything to ease the pain of that memory for him.”

I squeezed his arm. “And so would I. But that is between him and God. Do not worry about it. When he looks at you, he is not thinking of Morgause.”

“Are you sure of this, my lady?”

“Oh, yes. Very sure.”

He was easier then, but still, something bothered him. “He told me that you think I resemble him, and that others have noted it. Is this so? I do not see it.”

“You have his face, Mordred, but for the eyes.

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