I, Morgana (14 page)

By now it is late afternoon; the setting sun tinges meadow grasses, flowers and reeds with a ruddy glow. Moorhens bob and cluck, and rooks call raucously from their nests. I hurry beside the water channels until I reach the deep spring that feeds them. There I pull the scabbard from where I have concealed it and hold it for a moment in my hands. Doubt assails me, but I know that it is too late now to change my mind and leave the future to unwind along the unknown spool of life. Camelot’s destiny is cast, its doom sealed by the betrayal of Merlin, and Arthur, and Launcelot. With no further time for regret, I cast the magical scabbard into the water. I watch it arc through the air, watch it splash down, float a few moments and finally sink into the depths. Arthur’s protection has gone forever. Now, he is as vulnerable as the poorest churl in his kingdom.

For the first time since the messenger called at Joyous Garde, I feel my spirits quieten into a semblance of peace.

Mindful of my excuse, I pick a selection of wildflowers on my stroll back to the castle to replace the posy I gathered the day before. Their fragrance sweetens my corner of the room I share with the castle’s unwed ladies. It is there I take shelter while making the utmost of the uproar over the missing scabbard that has erupted throughout the castle and that keeps everyone else away. I quickly brew the magical potion that will ensure that Guenevere will never bear a child. I utter the incantation that will bind it, and then hide the flask where no one will think to look for it. Having already submitted to a search of my own belongings, and an interrogation regarding my departure from the castle, which I explained away with the posy of flowers, my innocence in the affair has been accepted. I offer to join in the search for the missing scabbard, and my search is as diligent as that conducted by anyone else. To everyone’s amazement but mine, the scabbard is not to be found anywhere at all.

Once darkness falls, I hurry out into the garden to meet Guenevere as arranged. She is seated on a turf bench screened by a woven trellis. Red and white roses spill over and around it, adding their rich perfume to the spicy scents of rue, sage, marjoram and other fragrant herbs planted among the flowery mead nearby. She half rises to meet me as I arrive, and then settles back as if remembering that she is the queen and I merely a lowly subject, even if I do carry in my hand the means to achieve her heartfelt desire.

I feel a flash of shame as I offer the flask to her. I, too, had once known joy, reveling in the world and my place in it. Now I have traveled further than I could ever have imagined along this road of deception and revenge, all with the intention of bringing despair and even death upon those who have wronged me. I tell myself that the queen is not really of that ilk; she has done no more against me than any woman in love and therefore she should not be part of my plan, but then I remind myself of her poisonous gossip regarding Accolon and me. More important by far: her very presence and her potential to produce an heir threaten my son’s right to the crown. Besides, I need her, for she is my instrument, the means by which I shall perhaps bring them all undone.

And so I hand over the flask with the instruction that she drink the potion now so that I can take it away with me. To protect myself, I shall destroy the flask and deny everything if I am ever asked—but I do not tell her that.

She hesitates, the flask held to her lips. “And you swear this will help me conceive a child?”

“Unless God wishes it otherwise, madame,” I say smoothly, knowing that once she drinks, she will never conceive a child with Arthur. If God can be blamed instead of me, so much the better.

She nods, but lowers the flask again. “What’s in it?”

I hear the suspicion in her voice, and I hurry to allay it. “It’s a love potion made from herbs, your majesty; something that will render your love-making more pleasurable and ensure that a child results from the union.”

Her expression sours. “The king treats me like a brood mare,” she says furiously. “Slaking his own appetite is all he knows how to do. Do you really think this will help?”

“I give you my word,” I say, hiding a smile. Poor, unfortunate Guenevere. “It’s important, my lady, to maintain a loving relationship with your husband if you wish to conceive a child,” I add, thinking to use Arthur’s incompetence as a lover as a further excuse when the queen demands to know why she is still barren.

Quickly, as if steeling herself to the act, Guenevere swallows the contents of the flask and hands it back to me. “My thanks, Nimue,” she says, and licks her lips. “It tastes quite pleasant.” She sounds surprised.

“Remember, madame: a passionate relationship will ease conception.”

“Is that why I’ve been unable to have a baby?” Guenevere asks innocently. “Is it because Arthur doesn’t really love me, he just wants an heir?”

I try to reassure her. “I am sure the king has fallen under your spell, as have most of the court. It’s your duty both as wife and queen for that love to bear fruit. My potion will help to smooth your path.”

“My thanks and gratitude, Nimue.” Guenevere pulls a few coins from the purse at her waist and holds them out to me. Greatly offended, I am about to refuse until I realize that a humble traveler would be glad of the coins. So I take them, and thank the queen as graciously as I may.

“Nimue, are you able to see the future?” Guenevere blushes, and gives a nervous giggle. “I cannot believe I am asking such a thing, but can you tell what lies ahead for me?”

How shall I answer? Yes, I have seen many things while scrying the sacred pool. I have seen a black-draped boat of mourning—but not who rides in it. And although I am plotting Arthur’s downfall, I know not if I shall be successful or even how or when his death will come about. I have seen naught of Guenevere because I have not looked for her. Nor have I had the opportunity to look for Launcelot. I feel a ripple of panic that causes me to catch my breath. I knew nothing of him, or Guenevere, when I last searched the sacred pool for answers. Should I go back to consult it before carrying on with my plan? I brush away my concerns, too impatient to brook any delay. Launcelot is due at court and I want to be here, waiting for him.

I conceal my misgivings with a cheerful laugh. “I have not the gift of prophecy, majesty, if that’s what you are asking. All I can do is attempt to grant your wishes through my knowledge of herbs and healing.” It isn’t quite the truth, but it will do. And I am curious. “What is it that most concerns you?”

She giggles again, and raises a hand to hide her blushes. “Nothing of importance,” she says, and hurries away. I watch her retreating figure and my mind spins with possibilities. Her need for a child would be obvious even to the blind, but I suspect that it is not only to provide an heir for Arthur. Guenevere wants a child to love, to hold in her arms just as I once held Mordred. I am shaken with pity, but it is too late now to regret what I have done.

Guenevere’s need has also opened afresh my longing to see my son, but I am determined to stay on here, both to punish my lover for abandoning me and also to put in place my further plans for bringing about Arthur’s ruin. My mind hardens against her.

I am nervous about meeting Launcelot, for I know how painful it will be to see him again. To while away the time until he arrives, I decide to attend to some other unfinished business. Merlin. To my surprise, he is nowhere to be found at court. A casual enquiry elicits the information that the old mage is still around, but that he’s retired from court and is living in a cave not too far from Camelot. No one seems to know where it is, and so my first task is to change from Nimue into a bird so that I can fly in ever-increasing circles around Camelot until I find out where Merlin now lives. To conserve time and energy, and also for my own protection, I become a large eagle.

As always, I relish the freedom of flight, and I take the opportunity to first spy out what is happening in Camelot itself. I see Arthur and Guenevere walking in the garden together. She is stroking his arm in a loving manner and, judging from the way he turns to her, I suspect that their next attempt at baby-making will come about sooner rather than later. I fly further, until I notice I have come close to the abbey at Glastonbury and the priory where I used to live. Realizing I have flown too far in that direction, I am about to turn when, to my surprise, I spy Launcelot’s entourage. In my feathered disguise I cannot resist flying closer. Launcelot rides alone. I am pleased to see how morose he looks. His escort follows behind. There are none of the jokes and laughter usual between men who are on a long ride and seeking to pass the time. This looks more like a funeral procession. I take a savage satisfaction from the scene as I turn away and fly on.

I spot a thin plume of smoke emanating from a woody thicket and swoop down to investigate further, but not too close for I am afraid that, if Merlin is present, he might see through my disguise. I shudder as I remember how I turned myself into a tree, and the consequences that arose from that one act. And I wonder if, instead of appearing as Nimue as I’d intended, I should instead meet him as I truly am and take my chances. But no. Even though I have tried to build a bridge between us, I know Merlin trusts me as much as I trust him. Better I try to trick him, if I possibly can.

A bird’s eye view from a distance confirms that I have guessed aright, and I memorize the way to his sheltering cave on my way back to Camelot. There I complete my transformation back to Nimue, taking comfort from the fact that I am in human form, that Merlin has not seen me for a number of years and that he may well be tempted by a beautiful young woman.

Even so, when I come to his cave I approach him cautiously, ready to transmute myself and fly to safety if need be. He is sitting outside, warming himself at a small fire, for the evening has turned cool. Beside him sit several woodland creatures: a family of badgers, a fox, two rabbits, and a long-eared owl that perches comfortably on his shoulder. I look from the owl to Merlin, amused at the owl’s resemblance to its master: tufted “ears” pricked for information; amber eyes bright and all-seeing; a sharp beak set in a lugubrious face that culminates in a whiskery gray beard.

“Greetings, Merlin,” I say, lowering my tone in the hope he will not identify my voice.

He peers up at me. I see the film of milky white across his eyes, the signs of incipient blindness. I breathe a small sigh of relief and continue with the story I have prepared. “My name is Nimue.” I pause, waiting to hear if he will contradict me, but he does not. “I have come from afar to meet you for I have heard great tales of your power and magical abilities. I wish to learn from you, Merlin, if you will only teach me.”

“Nimue?” His voice is as creaky as an old door. “Come closer, child, so that I can see you.”

I come close, and put down the basket I carry before kneeling at his feet. To my horror, he thrusts his face close to mine and inhales my scent. Apparently he does not remember me, for he stands, raising me with him. He begins to pat me down, as if his fingers can tell him what his eyes cannot. His hands pause at my breasts. I squirm at his touch, but try to conceal my aversion. He lingers to fondle me for a few moments, before his hands move on. I stay frozen, unsure how to extricate myself without causing offence. I need to win his trust before I can act against him.

His hands rest on my stomach. “You are with child.” It is not a question.

I nod, realize he probably cannot see me, and whisper, “Yes, Merlin.”

To my great relief, he stops handling me and draws back. “I once taught a child,” he murmurs. “A virgin. I can only teach the young and innocent, Nimue.”

“What happened to the child?” I am curious to know if Merlin feels any regret over his treatment of me.

“Morgana.” He gives a low chuckle. “She was ever my favorite, but so wild, so headstrong. She understood the magical arts like no other I’ve ever known, but there was still much I could have taught her. If we could have worked together, discovered those secrets still undisclosed to me, I believe we might well have conquered the world as we know it.” He breaks off and clears his throat. His expression has turned hard. Unforgiving.

“Morgana could have been a great leader if only she had the patience to learn, and the wisdom to use her knowledge with humility and generosity. But she stole from me the sources of my knowledge and power, took them before she was ready, before she was skilled enough to understand all that she had taken. And now I fear that her ignorance will undo us all.”

I am silent, caught by the regret I hear in Merlin’s voice, and by the unsettling sensation that our world is beginning to spin off course because of what I have done. I need to defend myself even to this old man. “You say she was just a child. Why did you not give her a chance to grow to adulthood?”

“She was too proud, and too wilful. I could not trust her. And now I fear great harm might come …” Merlin’s voice trails off. He looks away, off into the distance, seeing visions that even I cannot see.

Merlin is right to say that I am proud. And what is wrong with that, pray? One needs confidence to lead a nation; a ruler is nothing without pride. But to say that he could not trust me, when I would have done anything to please him, and to secure the throne? That is a false accusation, and I shall not let it pass.

“Why could you not trust her?”

Perhaps there is too much passion in my voice, for Merlin blinks and comes back to himself. “She did not use her powers wisely, for the good of all. So I found another who was better suited to take her place,” he says firmly, in a voice that resembles the Merlin of old. He bends to pick up a small log from a pile nearby, and throws it onto the fire. He pokes it into place with a long stout stick.

 “What did she steal from you, Merlin?” I have to ask, although I am afraid to show too much interest lest I give myself away.

He pauses in the tending of the fire; his filmy eyes look up at me. “Three things. She is clever enough to decipher the purpose of two of them, but the third …” He gives a low chuckle. “I doubt she has the wisdom to see what should be plain in front of her. If she can but find the key she could read the future and, perhaps, even change it—if it’s not too late.” He turns to give the fire a savage poke with his stick.