Susan Squires - [Da Vinci Time Travel] (32 page)

“I . . . I think it was a son of Merlin. Not the young one. This one is full grown. But he has the look of him . . . and his eyes. There was something about his eyes. I couldn’t quite see. . . .”

Mordred sucked in a breath. They’d come for him.

The possibilities began to click over in his head. They must have come in the machine. That meant it was here in the fifth century somewhere. Gawain had brought the girl.
Excellent. Kill Gawain. Force the girl to tell him how to power up the machine.
And the twenty-first century was his again. Or some other century. All time, all societies, all power, was within his grasp.

“Where is he?” Mordred’s voice was soft now, because the possibility of power seemed to hum in the air around him and he could afford not to shout.

“We left him down at the hall, but that was hours ago. He may have moved on.” Agravain looked frightened.

Mordred smiled. “Go down to the village. Make inquiries.”

“If we find him, should we kill him?”

“You will find out where he is, and report to me. You are no match for him. I am.” With the help of Gawain’s own father. A scene flashed before Mordred’s eyes of Merlin having to make a . . . what did they call it in the future? A “Hobson’s choice.” He had seen the movie by that name on AMC. Oh yes. That would be delicious. It might even break Merlin. That would be advantageous. It was dangerous to have a vicious dog at the end of your leash. Maybe if he could tame Merlin for good, he would take Merlin with him to the future. Merlin’s gifts could help Mordred make short work of any resistance to his path to power.

Agravain nodded and strode from the room, motioning to several men to follow him.

Mordred was suddenly stone-cold sober, with no desire to head for his bed.

“Send Merlin to me,” he said.

Diana woke in the bed beside her mother. Light was streaking in around the shutters in dusty golden beams. The sun had been up for a while. Her mother was still asleep. For a while Diana just looked at her. She was pretty. No wonder Mordred had taken her the night he killed Arthur. She was only meant to prove his manhood, but in any group that contained all but the most beautiful of women she would certainly be the chosen one.

Did Diana look like this? There were no mirrors
around. But she recognized the features, the texture and tint of the skin, the fringe of lashes. The chin was small, like her own. She’d always thought that indicated weakness. But her mother was a strong person. And the face was heart shaped, just like her own. Diana always despised that it made her look like a Kewpie doll. But that wasn’t how it seemed on her mother. It seemed . . . feminine. What would her life have been like if this was the face that sent her off to sleep at night, that leaned over to wipe her forehead when she was sick? Would she have been a different person? Would she have seen herself reflected in this face and not felt so alone, so different, so . . . lost?

She
was
different and she was lost. Had been lost since her biological mother died and she was passed to Merlin. Lost since he’d thrown her forward in time and her life had broken in the middle, over the spine of the rift between fifth century and twenty-first.

She reached out and pulled a strand of hair from her mother’s face. To know her now was an artificial joining of that rift that had rent Diana’s life in two. She had proof of where she came from, here in her mother’s face. This good and beautiful woman was her past, and lived on through Diana into the present. It was a circle. For the first time, she felt . . . almost whole.

The almost was that she still didn’t remember her childhood. She didn’t remember Gawain, or Merlin. It struck her that it might hurt Gawain that she couldn’t remember him.

Gawain. Where was he? She realized she’d been hearing a rhythmic crack from outside the cabin. That was probably what woke her up. She slid from the bed without waking her mother. The bed was a pallet of straw laid over woven ropes strung between four posts. It had been surprisingly comfortable. She had on an ankle-length
shift with long sleeves that tied at the wrists. Her mother had given her the shift last night and the long belted tunic worn over it. She slipped into the tunic now, along with the knit stockings and soft leather shoes. They were her mother’s best. Diana hated to take them. Her only comfort was that Gawain would give her mother silver enough to buy a hundred replacements. Diana slipped out the door quietly. Her mother stirred but didn’t wake. As close to birthing as she was, she needed her rest.

As close to death.

There was nothing to change that. Diana’s heart contracted. And if she could change her mother’s death, she wouldn’t. It was too dangerous. Diana wouldn’t risk changing history again.

Outside, the morning was a crisp blue that probably didn’t exist in the twenty-first century. The air wasn’t clean enough to let through this translucent light. This was the way the world was meant to be. Gawain’s cloak lay on the tiny porch as well as his chain mail shirt and his linen one. His cloak was laid out as though he had slept there. She headed round the house.

He stood in a green open circle of grass. Several tree trunks had been dragged from where they fell into the circle. The hewn stumps clustered near the house. Had he dragged those entire trees away from the house? Now he was stripped to the waist, swinging the axe like he knew how to wield one, his hands sliding easily along the handle. The muscles in his shoulders and back, over his ribs, bunched, undulating under his skin. Already a sizable stack of fireplace-sized chunks was growing between two trees. Their vertical trunks held the woodpile in place. Even in the crisp air of morning, he was sweating with his effort. His skin gleamed. A thrill between her legs told Diana that fifth century or twenty-first, she was vulnerable to her attraction to him. The axe swung down. Wood
chips made a fountain onto the grass. The log split from the trunk. Gawain’s strength never ceased to amaze her.

He must have sensed her there, because he looked up. The smile that lit his face was so tender and sad, her heart swelled open. Her own smile just . . . happened, without her intending it.

She started over the wet grass. “You’ve been busy.”

His eyes were violet again. “I wanted to get an early start, so I can get up to Camelot by the time Mordred is up and about.” A preoccupied look came over his face.

“Do . . . do you have a plan?”

He started. “Of course.” But he looked quickly over to his woodpile without elaborating, and she wondered if he said that just to reassure her. “This time I don’t want any guff from you about coming with me. This is going to get bloody and I can’t be worried about protecting you.”

“The last thing I want is to endanger you.” As she had when she’d appeared during his fight with Mordred.

He shrugged. She realized that he would gladly sacrifice himself to ensure Mordred’s death. His eyes went steel blue. “If something happens, you get back to the machine and get out of here.” He tossed his axe aside and stalked over to her. “You remember the way?”

She didn’t want to face that possibility, but his eyes were so serious she couldn’t avoid answering. “I go back down to the main road through the village and turn left. When I come to that flat place by the river, I wade across, then follow it upstream to where that creek comes in. I strike off to the right at the big boulder.”

He nodded, and his face softened. “I’m impressed.”

“Hey, I’m used to finding my way around San Francisco.” As if that was the same.

He had to smile at that. At least it got that serious look off his face that told her he thought he might not come out of this alive. Guilt stabbed her. Her gaze darted around
the clearing. “I’m the reason all this has gone so wrong. Why did I have to come back here that first time? Why did I have to rescue someone who should never have been rescued?”

He took her shoulders. “Look at me.” His eyes caught her gaze. Her panic stilled. “You came back because, whether you could consciously remember it or not, you were looking for your past. You rescued Mordred because you have a kind heart and a brave one.” His gaze softened. “You are much like your mother in that.”

She was about to say she wasn’t like that at all when Beth herself came round the corner of the little hut. “Oh,” she squeaked when she saw the growing woodpile. “Thank you,” she said to Gawain. “You are more than kind.”

“Nonsense,” Gawain returned gruffly. “I’m trying to pay, in some small measure, for the courage and kindness that led you to take us in last night.”

“You’re more than welcome, Sir Knight. I . . . I was glad to meet your lady.”

“Your daughter,” Diana corrected. Gawain was frowning. “She knows.”

Beth smiled. “I see your knight knows the truth of what you say.”

Diana blushed. “He . . . he isn’t really my knight.” She glanced to Gawain in apology. Gawain’s face had gone still. She couldn’t read his expression. What kind of a writer was she? But his eyes went a soft, clear green.

“I think he is . . . ,” Beth said.

The clop-clop of hooves on the path made them all turn. Horror washed over Diana. She felt Gawain tense, even before they could see the rider, perhaps in sympathy of her own reaction. “Mordred,” she whispered. “He’s going to . . .”

“Well, well, what have we here?”

“. . . . hail us,” she finished lamely.

Beth’s face had gone white. Gawain glanced from his sword and shield, leaning against the side of the hut ten or twelve yards away, to where he’d tossed the axe, now at least fifty feet from where they stood. Diana could feel him cursing himself.

It wouldn’t have mattered, for now there were rustlings all around them as men rode out of the trees. They must have been stationed there for some time, waiting. Otherwise, how could she and Gawain not have heard them approach?

Diana looked for Lamorak and the others from the drinking hall the other night but didn’t see them. After hearing that they had acted as Diana’s protectors while Gawain fought Gareth, Mordred didn’t trust them enough to participate in what was going to happen here. Agravain was there and a glaring Gareth, among a dozen well-armed knights.

Gawain faced Mordred, ignoring the men at his back. The horses snorted and sidled. Steam puffed from their nostrils in the crisp air. How had she and Gawain not heard the danger?

“Because I damped the sound.” The weary voice was disembodied until, from behind Mordred, Merlin walked out of the trees. He looked older than he had when she had seen him last. Deep lines cut his face around his mouth and his eyes had dark circles under them. But they still blazed with swirling color. Some of those colors no human eyes should be. His eyes glowed gold and red and orange, mauve and burgundy, as well as blue and gray and brown and green and black. He glanced to her, then fixed his stare on Gawain. Disbelief, wonder, chased across his face as he recognized his son.

Diana shot a glance to Gawain and saw a bleak look there. His mouth was set in a grim line. Here was the first real evidence that his father supported Mordred.

“I have new allies since last we fought,” Mordred smirked. “You’d not win now.”

Would Merlin stand against his own son? Or stand by and let him be killed?

“Let’s try your theory,” Gawain growled. He made no move for his sword. He’d never make it. Agravain was swinging a lethal-looking battle-axe casually at his side, waiting for a chance to use it on Gawain. Gawain waited. He didn’t even have a shirt, let alone armor or chain mail, or even hardened leather as protection. Diana couldn’t help but imagine those sharp swords and axes cleaving his bare flesh. It made her want to vomit.

Mordred laughed. “Why should I exert myself? My men can dispatch you.”

“Give me my sword and shield and bring them on. When I’ve finished with them, I’ll take you.” Gawain’s voice was steady, as if he were talking about taking them on in a game of pickup basketball, instead of in a battle where he would suffer terrible wounds.

“Don’t be so eager to die, boy,” Merlin said softly. “There’s always time for that.”

Mordred tore his gaze away from Gawain and glanced to the women. His expression dismissed Beth and came back to Diana. “I want that one, too.” Then he blinked and jerked back to Beth. “Oh, ho . . . ,” he murmured. The gears churned in his head behind his eyes. “What have we here? Some . . . some anomaly of time?” His horse sidled in impatience. “I must know more of this. Bring all three.” He turned his horse in a short circle to steady it. “Bind the man tightly.”

Mordred cantered off down the path. The knights bore down on Diana and Gawain. Diana could feel Gawain thinking about lunging for his sword, but before he could act on his intention the sword moved smoothly through
the air to Merlin’s outstretched hand. The shield followed. There was no incantation, no visible sorcery. Merlin’s brow didn’t crease in concentration. The sword and shield simply did his bidding. Diana swallowed hard. Magic should have to be harder than that, shouldn’t it? Gawain stared at his father, his face tightening into a mask that only just covered the sense of betrayal underneath.

Merlin turned without a word and trudged up the path after Mordred, carrying Gawain’s sword and shield, while several of the men encircling Diana, Beth, and Gawain leaped from their horses. They jerked Gawain’s hands behind his back and bound them with a length of rope. They tied another rope around his neck, and the end of this one they tossed to their captain.

Apparently no one knew about Gawain’s ability to turn into mist. He’d be able to escape any bonds. That gave Diana some comfort. It was little enough. They were outnumbered and weaponless. Even Merlin was ranged against them, in spite of the fact that Gawain was his son.

“Bring the women,” Gareth ordered. He spurred his dapple gray into a trot, dragging Gawain into a stumble beside him. The others herded Diana and Beth before them. Diana put her arm around Beth’s shoulder as a sword point urged them into a jog. This couldn’t be good for Beth so late in her pregnancy. Beth cradled her belly as she ran. Soon they were gasping for breath, but no one allowed them to rest. Now they could see the palisades of Camelot above them on the hill. And just entering the gates was a party on horseback of perhaps a score. The rich colors of their cloaks were like bright jewels in the morning sun.