I, Morgana (10 page)

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “I meant what I said about keeping our liaison secret, Morgana. I have no idea why you acted as you did. Perhaps you would care to explain it to me?”

Unable to give Arthur the real reason, I think quickly. “It was a momentary lapse, Arthur, brought on by the peril of the night,” I say softly. “Not wanting to disclose my whereabouts to you, I came to the battlefield in disguise, with the aim of doing what I could to help with the wounded. As you know, I have some skills in the art of healing. But when I witnessed the terrible harm done to your army, and when I saw your utter despair, I realized that you were more in need of comfort and encouragement than anyone else. And who better to provide both than—”

“You tricked me into lying with you!” Arthur’s tone is savage.

“I had not intended it to go so far, and I have regretted it ever since.” While I cannot regret Mordred’s birth, now that I have met Launcelot this is most definitely true.

“Merlin was right when he said that you were always too quick to act, and too slow to think through the consequences. You were kind to me in our childhood years and I cannot forget that. But nor can I forget—or forgive—your tricks and your treachery. And I warn you, if any hint of what we did together is made known, I shall at once deny it as the ravings of a madwoman. And you will be removed from court and kept under guard in a place of safety for the rest of your life. Be in no doubt that I mean what I say. Give even the slightest hint, and I’ll not hesitate to take steps to ensure that you will disappear forever.”

I am so angry I could shove Arthur’s tongue down his throat. How dare he threaten me with banishment from my own kingdom! Again I keep my eyes downcast so he cannot read my hatred.

“I am so sorry, Arthur. I swear no one will ever hear what happened between us on that night of Samhain.” It is a relief to know that at least our vows guarantee that Launcelot will not learn the truth.

He nods. Making a visible effort to regain his equilibrium, he says, “We shall not speak of it again. But remember my words, Morgana.” The hard edge is back in his voice. “I shall regard anything that comes between me and my queen, or between me and my kingdom, as a threat to be dealt with—and deal with it I shall.”

He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, just as if he is sending away a lowly goose girl. I am white hot with rage, and I clench my fists tight to contain my anger as I stand up and march to the door.

“Good rest and God be with you, Morgana.”

Arthur’s words take me by surprise, and I reply without thought.

“
May the gods be with you,

And bless you this night.

And hold you, and guard you,

till morning brings light
.”

It is my own cradle song, composed to allay his fear of the dark and a familiar ritual from his childhood. I regret it the moment the words slip out. Not trusting myself to say anything further, I carefully close the door behind me, although what I really want to do is slam it so hard it will fly off its hinges.

I am still seething as I walk across the courtyard. At least I’ve been given my own sleeping space and do not have to share with those women who are either too young to marry, or too old to hope for an offer. My fists clench and unclench as I fantasize about punching Arthur in his smug and smiling face and I am well prepared and able to defend myself when a figure steps suddenly out of the shadows and touches my shoulder. I swing my right fist and hear it connect with a satisfying crunch, but before I can follow up with a blow from my left, both of my arms are seized and held in a tight embrace that brings me face to face with Launcelot.

“Lady,” he breathes. “I beg your pardon if I frightened you—but you have certainly proved beyond doubt that you are well capable of protecting yourself.”

Shock keeps me speechless for a moment. Then a blinding fury sweeps over me and I push my hands against his chest in an effort to set myself free. At once Launcelot releases me and steps back, sketching a small bow by way of apology.

“I was so sorry that our pleasant interlude together was interrupted,” he says smoothly. “I waited to waylay you in the hope that we might continue our … conversation?” His eyes in the moonlight promise so much, but I am still furious and in no mood for loving.

“Leave me alone!” I hiss, thinking that this is the way of all men: first Arthur imposing his will, and now Launcelot. I want none of them. I turn on my heel and stride away, rather regretting my hasty action as I recall the sweet sensations I felt earlier.

“Lady?” I hear his soft voice behind me as I pause at the door of my bedchamber.

I turn to him. He reaches across me to open the door and gestures for me to go through. I feel a spurt of disappointment that he seems merely to be seeing me safely to my bed, but then he follows me inside and closes the door behind him. It is the first time I’ve ever been alone with a man in a bedchamber. The silken bedhangings are drawn back; the fat pillows and fur blanket invite us to comfort and rest, but I stay standing, facing Launcelot. My heart is thumping, but whether from fear, or anger, or desire, I can no longer tell.

He raises a hand and smooths a tendril of hair from my eyes, tucking it behind my ear with a gentle touch. I blink, unused to—and almost undone—by such a loving gesture.

“You were happy while we were dining, but something has happened to upset you.” Launcelot’s tone is as soft as his touch. “Do you want to tell me what it is, Morgana? Perhaps I can help you put things right again.”

To my horror, tears well hot and heavy behind my eyes. I have learned to steel myself against hatred, scorn, rejection, even indifference. But Launcelot’s loving concern is more than I can bear. I try to blink back my tears, but they begin to slide in a steady stream down my cheeks.

Launcelot draws me into his arms and holds me close. He doesn’t say anything, just drops soft kisses onto my hair as I begin to weep in earnest. I am crying for everything I have lost, for everything I haven’t allowed myself to mourn before. I cry also for all the mistakes I have made that threaten to blight my life even further. And all the while he holds me, until my tears cease and I am mistress of myself at last. I pull out of his embrace and sink down onto my bed, wiping my face and nose on my kerchief. I am all too conscious of how my ravaged face must look after that storm of weeping, but it cannot be helped. In truth, I feel a little better, for my tears have purged my anger and bitterness, at least for the moment.

“It is ever my role to console a damsel in distress,” he says, attempting a smile and a light tone. But he cannot disguise his concern as he adds, “I pray you, Morgana, tell me what ails you. It distresses me to see you so unhappy. You are born to laughter and joy, not to this bitter weeping.”

If only I could confess my past to Launcelot; if only I could start again! But I cannot, and I sigh with bitter regret. “My brother and I had a slight quarrel, and it upset me,” I say. “But it is over, forgotten. Thank you for your concern and for your patience, Sir Launcelot. I really am quite recovered now.”

There is a momentary awkwardness between us. Conscious that we are alone in my bedchamber, I wait for him to decide on what will happen next. Perhaps he, too, is waiting for a sign from me.

When none comes, he bows again. “God be with you this night, and pleasant dreams, my lady.” And within a heartbeat he has opened the door and is gone.

I strip off my gown. Clad only in my shift, I slip into bed. The sheets are cold, and I hug myself in an effort to keep warm. And in a while, with my arms around me, I imagine that I lie with Launcelot and that his arms hold me tight. My body begins to heat until the wanting becomes unbearable. As has happened in the past I try to pleasure myself, to ease the ache. But desire has a name and a face now, and with Launcelot full in my mind, I weep with emptiness and regret.

Thoughts of Mordred keep tugging my mind back to Lothian. I long to see my beloved child again, although secret reports from Morgause indicate that he is thriving and is enjoying the company of her own sons, Gawain, Gaheris, Agravaine and Gareth. I tell myself that Mordred has had little enough to do with boys and men, staying with me in the convent as he has, and that some time without me will be good for him, will show him how boys and men behave, and that this will help him grow into his own manhood.

So I tell myself, but in truth I cannot tear myself away from Arthur’s court and from Launcelot. After those first tender moments we shared, I wait impatiently to be alone with him once more. Not for weeping this time, but for what I tell myself will be my real initiation into womanhood, my union with Launcelot. I am determined that sooner or later it must happen; I cannot bear to leave Camelot before he beds me. But now that Launcelot has come to court, it seems that Arthur cannot have enough of his company; they are either out hunting together or attending to other affairs, while their nights are spent carousing in the Great Hall until the hour is late. Launcelot and I never have a chance to be alone together, to speak in private and explore the attraction that leaped between us right from the start.

My plans are further thwarted when Arthur sends Launcelot to fetch his bride to him. Frustrated and angry, for I am sure Arthur has sent him on purpose to get him away from me, I am almost ready to leave Camelot until I realize that to do so will give Arthur the victory. And so I stay, and amid the busy preparations for the coming nuptials, I stitch a sumptuous gown of royal blue velvet that I embroider with pearls and gold thread. I am determined to look beautiful for Launcelot at Arthur’s wedding.

Without Launcelot at court to distract me, I become aware of a new danger: that a bride for Arthur could mean the death of my hopes of claiming what is rightfully mine. Should they make a child together, that child would inherit the kingdom—unless I’m prepared to confess Mordred’s true parentage. But that I can’t do, at least while Arthur is alive, for he has already made his thoughts on that matter quite clear.

Mindful of my need to protect Mordred from his father while also safeguarding my claim to the crown, I try to devise a way of ensuring my best interests. After a great deal of thought, I finally find a solution. I have learnt that, shortly after becoming king, Arthur was given a new sword, this one even more beautiful and more magical than the one he pulled from the stone as a result of Merlin’s trickery. The new sword is called Excalibur and all at court know that while Arthur possesses it, he can never be harmed or defeated in battle. I alone suspect the sword’s real provenance: that Merlin himself formed it, perhaps with the help of the high priestess Viviane of Avalon, for it seems she was at court at the time the sword appeared. I know also that, while the sword itself possesses an Otherworldly strength, it is the scabbard that imbues it with the power to keep Arthur safe. If I wish to have a chance of overthrowing Arthur, I must remove his magical protection.

And so as well as stitching my new gown, I surreptitiously weave a new scabbard to house Excalibur, using my magical arts to match exactly the design and jeweled ornaments of the real scabbard. One of Arthur’s knights, Accolon, has set himself to woo me, although I have no interest in him at all. I suspect he has no real interest in me either, other than believing that a liaison with me would lead to an enhancement of his own status. Nevertheless, during Launcelot’s absence I lead him on with smiles and stolen kisses and the promise of my hand, until I am sure that he will do as I ask, and exchange my false scabbard for the real one when no one is looking.

I know that Arthur is unlikely to use his sword unless threatened by hostile invaders or a fiercesome creature, and I settle down to wait. But I am impatient to reclaim what is mine by rights, and I begin to wonder if I might conjure up a dangerous creature or situation in order to force his hand. I am about to put my idea into action when I hear the shrill blaring of a hunting horn that heralds the arrival of visitors to the castle.

A glance over the parapet sets my heart leaping: Launcelot leads the party. By his side is a beautiful young woman with bright golden hair. I feel a stab of jealousy, yet Launcelot seems largely unaware of his ward. He gazes around the courtyard, his expression anxious as he scans the crowd gathered to witness his approach, then looks up to the parapet. I raise my hand in greeting, hardly daring to hope I am the one for whom he is searching. I watch his body relax back into the saddle as he returns my gesture.

Greatly reassured, I hurry down to meet him. My first impression of Guenevere proves correct. I can see, from the lustful glances of Arthur’s entourage when they think their king isn’t looking, that they are all completely captivated by her beauty. But she is entirely smitten with Launcelot; her eyes, the color of deep blue gentians, are fixed on her escort with a look of adoration. I turn my attention to him, needing to allay a lingering fear that he is as taken with Arthur’s bride as are the rest of her escort.

To my great relief he seems indifferent, for after handing her over to Arthur’s care, he leaves the crowd gathering around both of them and comes straight to where I stand, half hidden in the shadows.

“My love. I have longed to see you again.” He wastes no time in drawing me toward him.

“Launcelot.” I can only murmur his name before his lips claim mine. He grips me harder, pulls me closer so that I am immediately aware of the length of his hard body pressed against me.

“I have missed you so,” he says. His kiss deepens. I open my mouth to him, feel his tongue enter and explore with tantalizing darts and licks. My body opens to him, yearning for him, and I clutch him tight, feeling as if I am drowning.

How long do we stay locked together? I cannot say, but it is a shock when he suddenly thrusts me away from him. My knees buckle and I almost fall, but he cups my elbow and hauls me upright.

“I can’t wait any longer,” he groans. “I want you, Morgana, as I’ve never wanted a woman before. But if we stand here any longer, I swear the whole court will witness our coupling.”

A savage delight sweeps over me as I hear his words and understand that his need equals mine. “Come to my bedchamber tonight,” I whisper.

“No!” He shakes his head.

“No?” I stare at him, wild with anger and disappointment. I turn on my heel to hurry away before he can witness my devastation. I am fully determined to leave him, to flee the court, when he takes hold of my arm and draws me further into the shadows.

“I won’t come to your bed, not here, not where everyone spies on everyone else and tattles to the king. Come with me to Joyous Garde, my dearest heart. If you say you wish to leave the court, and I follow you a day or two later, none will know where we have gone or that we are together. And that is as it should be, for I will not have anyone whispering about us or spreading rumors. We can be alone in my castle, my darling, just the two of us, with the freedom to do whatever makes us happy.”

I nod my agreement, while a blazing happiness sweeps away all my doubts. At the back of my mind is the thought that it is a very good idea to leave the court so that the false scabbard cannot be linked to me when Arthur falls. Added to that is the need to get away from Accolon, who no doubt will come to claim the reward I have promised him should Arthur die. Launcelot’s offer serves my interests as well as my heart.

“I shall leave just as soon as I may,” I promise. “I’ll wait for you on the night of the full moon. You’ll find me beside the two ancient oaks close to the abbey at Glastonbury.”

“I shall count the hours,” he says, and takes hold of my hand. “Wear this ring as my pledge that I shall come to you, and make you my own.” He slips a thin gold band onto my littlest finger. It is almost unnoticeable among the many jewel-encrusted rings I wear. Perhaps that is his intention, for it would be hard to explain a ring of betrothal or of marriage when no vows have been exchanged in public. This is his private vow and I give him one last kiss for it.

With a singing heart, I leave the shadowy alcove and venture out into the sunlit courtyard, closely followed by Launcelot. Half dazzled by the light, I stop a moment to shield my eyes, and feel Launcelot’s hand grip my arm to steady me. I become aware that the courtyard is still crowded with courtiers, Arthur and Guenevere among them. Her searching glance moves from me to focus over my left shoulder, and she smiles with the innocent, open face of a girl in love. At once I shift away, but Guenevere has already seen where Launcelot’s hand rests, and has drawn her own conclusions. Her smile darkens to a frown as she studies me more closely. I hurry away from Launcelot, lowering my head to avoid Guenevere’s searching gaze. I am anxious to pack up my belongings and leave, for I cannot bear to wait a moment longer to be alone with him at last.

And yet, once away from the thrilling urgency of his presence, questions return to torment me. I know he’s anxious to bed me, but why this need for such secrecy? He’s given me a ring; we could live openly as man and wife, and yet we steal away like fugitives. He hasn’t mentioned marriage or our future together. Why? Does he intend this to be just a temporary—and private—liaison?

I shrug the doubts away as I fold my possessions into a bag. After all, I don’t see the need for the trappings of marriage; even less will I honor the convention that binds a woman to the will of her husband. This is not for me, especially as I believe that Arthur’s kingdom by rights should be mine. While there is a place for a man by my side, I certainly have no intention of sharing my throne.

It is too late to leave Camelot for night is drawing in, and so I am forced to sit through the sumptuous feast that has been prepared to welcome Guenevere to court; forced to watch, from my lonely bench, how all the eyes of the court are focused on the fair-haired beauty who sits between Arthur and Launcelot. It is clear that Guenevere is well aware of the attention she commands, for every action seems staged for her audience: the delicate gestures of her small, white hands; the toss of her long golden locks; the fluttering of eyelashes as she turns from Arthur to Launcelot, with a look that suggests she will never tire of watching him. Finally her attention shifts to all seated around the large table. I notice that her smiles are designed not to encompass her admirers but as a screen to search for me. Her gaze moves past Arthur’s favorite knights and their ladies until she locates me on my lonely bench outside their charmed circle. A genuine smile lifts the corners of her mouth as she observes my lowly position. Thereafter, her attention seems entirely taken by the man at her side.

Although I know Launcelot’s true feelings for me, it is an effort to keep my composure. Somehow I keep smiling; somehow I endure the long night alone. As soon as morning dawns, I complete my preparations and then go to the hall to break my fast. I am about to leave Camelot when my brother summons me to attend him. Thinking it best to keep on side with him, I obey his command. As soon as I enter his solar, Arthur stands to welcome me. He takes my hand in his and escorts me to a seat beside him, before dismissing all those who wait on him. There is a silence between us as they bow and shuffle out.

“I want you to know that I have forgiven you for your trickery, Morgana, but I also want to make amends,” he says, once we are alone. I wonder if he is referring to the way he’s usurped my throne and I warm slightly toward him. “I realize you’ve been hiding in a priory this long while,” he continues, “but I think it’s now time for you to have a home of your own. To this purpose, I propose to give you an estate, along with a castle—although of course you’ll always be welcome here at court,” he adds stiffly.

For a moment I am lost for words; my brother’s gesture has taken me completely by surprise. Even so, I need to make sure that he will not repent his magnanimity and so, after thanking him, I question him regarding the castle’s name and whereabouts, and ask him to sign a deed that names the Castle Perilous as mine. As he signs and seals the parchment, it occurs to me that perhaps Arthur’s generosity is dictated by the need to have me settled as far from the court as possible so as to keep our secret safe.

“Guenevere is concerned for your future, just as I am,” he says awkwardly. “Now that you have an estate of your own, she has begged me to arrange a prestigious marriage for you, Morgana. We believe King Urien of Rheged will make an excellent husband for you.”

Urien of Rheged! I would sooner walk over hot coals than marry that old man. I’d rather drown myself than submit to his embrace. How dare my brother and his child bride presume to meddle in my affairs! A moment’s reflection brings understanding: that this, of course, is Guenevere’s ploy to get me away from court and keep me apart from Launcelot. It seems that I have underestimated the guile that lurks behind that innocent, lovely face. A slow rage begins to simmer in my breast.

“Urien won’t do at all, brother,” I say sweetly, thinking of the plot I’ve woven that concerns Urien’s son, Accolon; thinking too that soon enough I shall be free of both Arthur and his meddling wife-to-be. “There are others at your court who are far more worthy of marriage to the king’s sister; others who are far more to my liking than Urien of Rheged. And I shall certainly inform you of
my
choice, once I have made my decision.”

Launcelot, not Urien! My heart leaps with joy, with the knowledge that we shall soon be together despite Guenevere’s machinations to keep us apart.

“But I am not ready for marriage yet,” I say hastily. “With your leave, I wish to return to the priory for a time. I have been away too long already.”

I face him, daring him to refuse, but he says only, and with a trace of disappointment that I could swear is real, “I’d hoped you would stay on and attend my marriage to Guenevere, Morgana.”

“I shall do all in my power to return to court in time for it,” I assure him, although I have no intention of honoring my promise. But it seems enough to satisfy Arthur, for he nods in agreement and even kisses my hand in farewell.