Arthur hung his head and rubbed his temples. "You, of course, wil 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 al ow 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 wel . 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 final y 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 tel 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 wil show you no mercy. You wil 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 tel s me that she won that smal battle."

"For which she'l pay."

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

Mordred's laughter was almost sad. "And once again you choose another over your own son."

"No, son, I choose al egiance 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 cal ed out to him as he closed the door.

Okay, there was stil 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 fil ed 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 cal ed.

"'Tis not Mary, Countess. 'Tis Guinevere."

Isabel splashed al 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 al 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 al , 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 hel that she didn't have beard burns al over her face. "What's up?"

"Other than the beard scratches al 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? Real y, scratchy she could live with. Scary felt a little too Hal oweenish for her taste. But everything right now felt cartoonish.

"I wil 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 shal 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 tel on you, if you do not tel on me."

"Many thanks, Isabel."

"Right back atcha." Isabel laid down her towel. "Now to what do I owe this morning cal ?"

"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 al ow me to cal you Isabel. I do so hate formalities."

Isabel nodded. "As do I. But I'm afraid I might have spoken in haste. It isn't my place to tel you how to handle your staff."

Gwen, amazingly enough, appeared disappointed. "Are you saying you did not mean what you had suggested?"

Isabel dragged the other chair over to Gwen. "Oh, I meant it. Think about this, Queen Guinevere." She shook her head. "Gwen. The women who work at Camelot do only that. They work. The men work, for a certainty, but they also engage in play sport. The women should be al owed at least a smal amount of that time themselves."

Gwen nodded, although her expression definitely showed confusion. "I do understand what you propose, but truth be told, I have ne'er heard a word of complaint."

"Oh, please, do you real y believe the servants of Camelot are going to air their grievances to you?"

At that moment Mary burst into the room. "Ready to have your hair do-" She stopped short. "My apologies. I wil return later."

"No, Mary," Isabel said. "I would very much love for you to take care of my hair right now."

"But the queen-"

"Wil not mind," Isabel said. "Is that not right, Gwen?"

"Of course not. Come in and do your work, Mary."

"Yes, my queen."

"Her talent, not her work," Isabel said.

"My pardon?"

"The thing is, Gwen, that working on hair is not labor to Mary. She enjoys it. And she's very good at it."

"Thank you, m'lady," Mary said, her eyes stil glued to the ground.

"I know, Gwen, that I am being so intrusive. However, the point being that you are not using your men and women in the most productive way.

Mary, here, should be working with hair. She's bril iant. For example, she could spruce up many of the men's hair. Have you not noticed many are, shal we say, in need of de-shagging?"

"De ...?"

"They need haircuts."

"They do?"

"You have not noticed?"

"In truth, no. Another apparent fault of mine."

"It's not a fault. Just, apparently that you only have eyes for"-Isabel stopped herself just in time-"the things that matter to you. And I believe you have always felt that Arthur's men are his men, and not necessarily your concern."

"What do you recommend?"

"They need to clean up their act. For example, Arthur's first man, James, is quite a handsome brute. However, his hair is a mess."

Mary nearly choked.

Gwen took a hard look at Mary, nodding. "Oh, yes, you are that Mary. The one who turns James al amelt when he speaks of you."

Isabel was obviously missing something. "I apologize, Mary. I didn't expect for you to take on a horrid task with hair. I honestly just wanted to fight for your happiness."

Gwen tried to hide a smile but did a lousy job.

"What am I missing?"

"Oh, lady," Mary said, hands al aflutter. "My thanks. I do so enjoy working with hair. However, I wil perform any tasks my king and queen ask of me. With pleasure, of course. May we, perhaps, brush your hair alone, Countess?"

Isabel looked back and forth between the queen and the servant. "Okay, what's the deal?"

Gwen spoke up first, her eyes stil ful of mirth. "Forgive me, but I believe this is the Mary who has captured James's heart. Am I correct, Mary?"

The poor girl looked like she was going to faint.

"Wait a minute," Isabel said, trying to give Mary a moment to catch her breath. "As in James, the sweetest brute alive who is Arthur's first man?"