I, Morgana (17 page)

I snatch up the silver flask and hide it within the folds of my gown. “I have done nothing other than come to Arthur’s court to honor him—and to tell him of the Lady Morgana’s dismay over the calumny being spread around the court about her.”

“My belief is that you were sent by Morgana to corrupt the king and drip poison into his ear.”

“Morgana is ever the king’s loyal sister.” A flash of inspiration prompts me further. “If you continue to spread these false accusations about her, I shall go to her and suggest that she comes to court herself so that she can speak for her own good name.”

“Do that, Nimue—if that is who you really are.” Viviane is looking at me closely now, her eyes searching my disguise. “I think that’s a very good idea indeed.”

And so I take my leave of the court. I long to visit Mordred, to reassure myself of his wellbeing, but there is no time for that. I console myself with the thought that he will come to court soon enough, in company with my sister, who I hope will help me allay Arthur’s suspicions. I shall see my son then. My heart fills with joy at the thought of our reunion.

I turn my mount toward the priory. I intend to stay there for a few days, so that I may search my scrying pool for glimpses of the future. I’m anxious to find reassurance that my plans will bear the fruit that I desire. But once I am there, I discover that no matter how hard I try, the water is always so troubled that I can only glimpse flashes of movement. If there is any message, it is rendered meaningless. I wonder if I am being punished for my meddling, but there is nothing I can do about it.

Finally, when I judge enough time has passed, I return to Camelot in my true guise. I discover that Launcelot is holding some sort of trial into the affair of the fake scabbard and the death of Accolon, and he requests me to appear before him so that he can hear my evidence. I comply with his request, defiant and strenuously denying all of the accusations that have been put before him. For his part, he is apologetic, seeming sorry that the affair reflects so badly on a reputation that is already mired in scandal. He is polite, courteous—but no more than that. It is obvious to me, and possibly to all the court by now, that he and Guenevere are smitten with each other. The trial seems a chore to him, an annoyance that takes him away from the queen, and he dismisses me and discharges the affair without a result and, more important for my purpose, without a stain on my character—or so he says.

Nevertheless, I am left in no doubt that my supposed liaison with Accolon and my tumble with the shepherd have been much discussed by all the court, albeit in whispers behind hands and with many half-suppressed titters that I am supposed to ignore, just as I am supposed to ignore the rudeness of those who turn and hurry away at my approach so they will not have to sully their good names by having anything to do with me.

Mordred and my sister have not yet arrived in Camelot, but Urien of Rheged is there, having come to court in an attempt to clear his son’s good name, and also to bury him. There are bridges to build between us, and I determine to make the most of my time, with Arthur’s assistance, to weave my future. But before I can do anything, I am summoned by Arthur. To my relief, he is alone. He pats my hand in the manner of an elderly uncle.

“About your marriage, Morgana,” he begins.

I cast my eyes heavenward, knowing already what he is going to say, and wondering how I might turn it to my advantage.

Sensing my impatience, Arthur hurries on. “I know you believe Urien of Rheged is unworthy of you, but I beg you to reconsider your position.” He stops, perhaps waiting for my reaction. I remain silent. “He has come to court to cause trouble over the death of his son, Accolon. He says that the boy was bewitched by you and therefore he should be forgiven for the harm he caused while under your spell. More, he says that I, as your brother, should make reparation for the loss of his only son and heir. I have assured him of your innocence, as has Launcelot. But if I can convince him that he has your love and that you would make him a good wife—” Arthur breaks off when I am unable to stifle a snort of bitter laughter. “If I can offer him marriage to my sister, it will enable me to buy his loyalty. It will help repair the rift between us caused by Accolon’s death,” he finishes in a rush.

Despite my resentment at being used as a pawn by Arthur and his queen, I know that the marriage makes sound political sense. But for the moment I keep hidden the fact that it might also suit my needs, for it can only work in my favor if Arthur believes himself beholden to my good nature. The question is, can I persuade Urien to forget the past, and my tarnished reputation, and believe in Arthur’s dream of the future?

“Very well,” I say.

Arthur blinks in surprise. Obviously he has not expected such an easy victory.

“I shall do as you ask, since it is you who request the favor,” I add.

“Thank you, Morgana. I understand he is not your first choice for a husband. I am in your debt.”

And I’ll make sure you remember it
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“Of course it depends on whether Urien will have me as a wife,” I say, “but I shall speak to him, Arthur. The matter will be better arranged if I give him an explanation regarding Accolon’s behavior, and if he thinks my willingness to marry him comes from me rather than from you.”

“You are right as always, Morgana.” Arthur smiles his relief. “I shall leave it all in your hands.”

“By your leave, I shall seek him now.” I cannot waste time, for my belly is beginning to show the presence of a child. Soon enough even the loosest of garments will not be able to hide the signs of my pregnancy. I stand up, bow to my brother, and walk out of the room.

I realize that Arthur hasn’t raised the topic of my bastard-born child. Perhaps he believes that I’m not aware of what he has found out. Perhaps he wants me out of the way, so he can interrogate Mordred on his own. I shall not allow that to happen, but it’s a matter to be dealt with on another day. For now, I have the future of my unborn child to consider.

I go in search of Urien, and find him drowsing under a tree in the orchard. I ask him if he would care to escort me around the castle garden. He looks somewhat surprised but, after I flutter my eyelashes and glance at him flirtatiously, he arises and courteously offers me his arm. And so we commence a decorous progress along the pathways, pausing here to sniff a rose and there to admire some ripening fruit. He is somewhat flinty and stiff at first, until I say what needs to be said.

“I was so sorry to hear of the death of Accolon. It must be a great grief to you.” I pat his arm in sympathy. “But I feel I owe you some explanation of this sad affair. Just between us, sire: your son desired us to wed, he set such great love upon me.” Here I pause, and modestly lower my eyes. “But he was too young for me, and so I told him often enough. Believe me, sire, it was a great dread to me to hear what he did in my name, and for my sake.” I raise my hand to wipe away a non-existent tear and utter a little whimper for good measure.

Urien takes the bait as I hoped he would. “Do not trouble yourself further over my son’s deeds, lady,” he says, and places his arm around my shoulders to comfort me. “He was a rash, hot-headed young fool. I can quite see why a woman of your … sensibilities would look to someone older and with more experience to guide her, and show her the ways of love.”

“Indeed, sire,” I say fervently, “you understand me only too well. Where the son could not go, the father …” I break off and give a delicate sniff.

Urien draws me closer. We continue to walk while I question him about himself and make flattering comments about his deeds, and generally worm my way into his affections. By the end of it, I know we understand each other and that it is only a matter of time before he asks Arthur for my hand. We part with great satisfaction on both sides.

Launcelot’s closure of the trial has reinforced my innocence, although the question of who wove the fake scabbard for Excalibur has not been addressed. No doubt the old man still believes that Accolon was enticed into the act somehow, but I hope that I have allayed his suspicions. I know that Arthur will also reassure him on my account. Also in my favor is the fact that it is believed I was absent from court when the scabbard went missing a second time.

To assist my wooing of Urien, he—or Guenevere, perhaps—has ensured that we sit together when we dine. As dinner is served, I continue my seduction. In fact, I had come to know Urien slightly during the time Accolon pursued me. He suffers from a sore back and stiff joints, and so I made up a rubbing lotion that I helped him to apply. Unlike his son, Urien has courtly manners and a wry sense of humor, often at his own expense. I gaze at him, wondering how it will be when we are wed. Marriage may come sooner or later but, for my purposes, I need to make sure that he beds me, and quickly.

At the thought, I glance involuntarily at Launcelot. As always, he sits on one side of Guenevere while Arthur sits on the other. I watch the flirtatious banter between the two as they explore their growing love for each other, and I wonder if Arthur is blind as well as stupid. Watching Launcelot look at Guenevere the way he once looked at me makes me want to howl like a wolf, but it is too late, now, for regrets. Of far more importance are my survival and the survival of my children, and the need to clear the path to the throne—for Mordred, if not for me.

I turn back to Urien, and this time all my attention, my flattery and wiles, are for him and him alone.

“I so enjoyed our walk in the garden,” I tell him demurely. “Perhaps we might walk there again after dinner—if the day stays fine?” I hesitate. “It is hard to speak in private here, with so many courtiers around to observe us.”

I wonder if he understands my meaning. His hand fumbles for mine, and he gives it a quick squeeze. I think he knows what is on my mind, although my courage fails me at the thought of the probable outcome.

And so it comes about. We meet, we stroll through the garden until we find a private bower, and there, after some awkward fumbling, he takes me. I close my eyes, and think of Launcelot, and I cry.

Urien knows he’s not the first to bed me; nevertheless, he is kind. He consoles me with promises of his love and loyalty, and expresses his dedication to making me happy in our new life together. He follows this with an assurance that he will be as a father to my child.

I am so alarmed that my tears cease immediately, until I realize that he speaks of Mordred and not my unborn babe. Most important of all, he promises me that he will speak to Arthur at once so that our union can be blessed by God. And for all of these promises, I am more grateful than I can say.

At Urien’s request, Arthur receives us both. He expresses his pleasure at the news and, of course, gives his permission for the marriage, going even further with the offer of a lavish celebration “as befits the sister of the king marrying one of his most loyal subjects.”

Guenevere smirks, and wishes us a long and happy life together, adding that she hopes our union will be blessed with children. I wonder if she has guessed that I am already with child, and I search her face carefully. But there is no hint of jealousy or bitterness, only triumph at satisfactorily settling my future far away from Camelot, along with a certain wistfulness that I translate as a wish for a child of her own.

Having secured Arthur’s blessing on our nuptials, I announce my intention of leaving the court for just a few days, citing the need to arrange my affairs at the priory, my old home, before leaving for Rheged. Arthur graciously agrees to my request, while Urien offers to accompany me. I hasten to dissuade him; there are the beginnings of a plan in my mind, hatched in haste and out of necessity, but urgent for all that, for Mordred will come soon to court and I must return in time for his coming. I am desperate to protect him from Arthur.

“I hate to leave you,” I reassure Urien, “but the priory houses only women. Your presence will cause consternation, and besides, there will be nowhere for you to stay.” It’s not quite true, but it is enough to quieten him.

I kiss his cheek, and he puts his arms around me and holds me tight. I sense his need and it takes all my courage not to pull away from his embrace. It is becoming increasingly obvious to me that I cannot go through with this marriage. I will not be banished from court, not again. Nor do I intend to make my home in far away Rheged. The realities of married life are also beginning to dawn on me: that Urien will be a presence in my life day after day, and in my bed night after night. I already know that I won’t be able to endure it. It is enough protection that our union has Arthur’s blessing and my unborn child a father, for even if our marriage does not take place, as I desperately hope it will not, I shall make sure that everyone knows that Urien and I anticipated our vows and that the child is most definitely his. Everything, and most especially my future happiness, rests on what I may achieve while I am away from court.

“I’ll return soon,” I whisper in Urien’s ear. “I’ll return just as soon as I can, I promise you.”

“And in your absence, my dear, I shall hasten to Rheged to ensure that my castle and my people are ready and prepared to welcome you when you come to make your home there as my bride.” Urien grasps my hand and draws me close to kiss me farewell.

As I set off toward the priory, I mull over my ideas, so hastily stitched together. I believe my plan has every chance of success; that it will ensure the death of Arthur while attaching no possible blame to me, for I shall be at the priory making sure that my ignorance of the affair—and my innocence—cannot be called into question.

At my insistence I ride alone, and I recognize soon enough the danger of having nothing to distract me. The anguish I have suppressed for so long surges to the fore and in such a wave that I am in danger of drowning. Memories of Launcelot and all that I have lost haunt me, leaving no room in my mind for anything else. I recall the moment when Launcelot and Guenevere discovered their love for each other, and a wailing grief arises in me that nothing can assuage. I try to seek comfort from the memory of what we once shared together—a love that I still believe was true, no matter how shaky its foundation proved to be. But I am left trembling with a desire that can have no fulfilment, and I find that a hundred times worse than my howling despair. My ride to the priory becomes a nightmare journey through a desert plain of thorns, pricked with desire, and pain, and loss, and with no relief in sight. When I finally arrive at my destination, it takes all my self-control to compose myself to greet the prioress and beg her to give me refuge once again.

Perhaps she sees and understands something of my inner torment for she is all kindness, and assures me that I may stay at the priory for as long as I wish. And so I am able to flee to my garden, to mourn in private within the secret heart of it. There I abandon myself to a sorrow that seems without end. I cry; I wring my hands and tear at my hair; I scratch my skin, and pinch and hurt myself in an effort to block the misery in my heart and gain relief. Nothing helps, but at least I am left alone.

It is the thought of Mordred that saves me; my son who even now may be approaching Camelot, unaware of the danger that faces him. It is time to put aside my anguish, and act—both to save him and also to save myself. I have no compunction about putting my plan into action. I blame Arthur and Merlin for all the hurt I have suffered and all the pain I now feel. But for their meddling, the kingdom would have been mine, and Launcelot too, along with a life of great happiness and fulfilment. As it is, I have rewarded Merlin for his treatment of me, and now it is Arthur’s turn.

And so, using all the magical skills at my disposal, I fashion a beautiful cloak as a gift for Arthur. I weave it through with golden and scarlet thread, each thread steeped in a deadly substance designed to ignite and kill him as soon as he puts it on. Once it is done, I change my appearance into that of an elderly crone. I view myself in the scrying pool and hastily change my mind. Above all, I need to look respectable—and also as unmemorable as possible. I become a plump woman in early middle age with a cheerful expression and dressed unremarkably as the wife of a well-to-do merchant. I gaze again, and nod in satisfaction. To complete the illusion, I sally forth into the village through my secret way, complete with a shopping basket in which the cloak is carefully hidden underneath several hanks of wool.

I walk the high street looking at all the passers-by, and finally I make my choice: a young girl, fresh faced and innocent, but poorly clad and looking in want of a good meal, is coming my way. I greet her, and she stops. I ask her if she will undertake an errand for me, and press a few coins into her hand so that she understands it will be worth her while.

“I shall oblige you, of course, madame,” she assures me.

“This is a gift for the king,” I say, reaching beneath the hanks of wool to draw the cloak out of the basket. The girl gasps at its magnificence and I am momentarily assailed by doubt. What if she should undertake my task, but sell the cloak instead to a local merchant? The price it would fetch would be enough to keep the child in comfort for many years to come. I hesitate, and the girl looks up at me.

“Is it your wish that I take it to the king at Camelot, madame?” she queries.

“Yes, indeed.” After a moment’s thought, I produce a few more coins, which I hold in front of her. “The court is some distance from here and I have not the time to make the journey myself. But these coins will be sufficient to hire a fine mount to take you there and back. And there will be a silver penny on your return as a reward for your diligence. May I entrust you with this?”

“Oh yes, madame,” she breathes. “On my honor, I shall do whatever you instruct me to do.” She quivers with the need to snatch the extra coins from my grasp, but has enough self-control to keep her hands by her side.

I smile then, and reach for her hand to press the coins into it. “Please leave as soon as you may,” I tell her. “The king is expecting my gift and I am anxious that he receive it without delay.” As well for her to believe that a gift is known and expected by the king, I think.

“I’ll go at once, madame.” The girl pauses. “As soon as I can find a horse to take me.”

I raise my hand in acknowledgment, and she scurries away. I hope she knows how to ride such an animal. It is fortunate she has not thought to ask for my name; perhaps she believes the king already knows it as he is expecting my gift. I mentally congratulate myself on the quick-thinking that has smoothed my path to success. Now, there is nothing else for me to do but return to the priory, and wait impatiently for news.

While I wait, I return to the sacred pool to try to determine my future. This time the still, dark water reflects my image—but shows me nothing else. I am alarmed that I may be losing my magical powers, until I remember that I was able to change my appearance and also weave the cloak for Arthur without any difficulty. Why then, should this be different? I am frustrated by my lack of success, but suspect that my actions have offended the spirits and this is their punishment.

I look into the pool and think of all that I have done since last I saw a vision. I have abandoned my son. The thought of Mordred brings my anxiety and frustration to the fore. He is in danger; he will need me at Camelot to deflect Arthur’s questions about his parentage if he arrives before my plan succeeds. But I cannot return, not yet, not until I have news that Arthur is dead. I try to calm my fear as I continue to itemize what else I have done since leaving the priory. I have met and lain with Launcelot. I have tricked Accolon, a trick that brought about his death. I have tried to kill Arthur once, and this time I will succeed. In addition, I have tricked his wife into barrenness and into an ill-advised liaison with Arthur’s most trusted knight. I have also imprisoned and maybe killed Merlin, the man who acted as a father to both Arthur and me. I have told so many lies I can scarce remember every one of them. It is a litany of black deeds and, as I gaze into the water, I feel intense shame—until I remind myself that whatever I have done was only because of what was done to me when I was but an innocent child. Nevertheless, I humble myself and ask pardon of the spirits of the pool if I have offended them. But the waters reflect nothing other than my image back at me. Perhaps the spirits are telling me I am the true ruler of the realm, not Arthur. I try to summon his face, but the water stays dark as blood.

I wait for news, and I wait. And finally word comes from a traveler seeking refuge at the priory for the night. “There has been another attempt on the king’s life, with a death beyond explanation,” he tells the gate-keeper. Unfortunately she has neither the wit nor the good sense to ask anything further, but passes on the news to others until, inevitably, it filters down to me.

It is the sign for which I have been waiting. At once I take my leave of the prioress and, with a confident heart, set off toward Camelot. As I go, I make plans and dream of the future. With the baby’s birth still some months away, I shall start with a progress around the country to win the hearts and minds of my subjects, so that they will accept me in Arthur’s stead. I must also ensure that they will acknowledge my son’s right to rule after I am gone, but I foresee no obstacle to this for once they meet him, they will surely love my son as I do.

Although I am so close to realizing my dream, the thought of Guenevere and Launcelot is a constant shadow. I want them out of my sight and out of my life and yet, when I pass the guards and enter the gate, I cannot help looking up at the ramparts of the castle, seeking the one man above all that I long to see. But the rampart is bare, although the courtyard is busy with traders, with dogs and children, with knights and squires and visitors, all in a bustle about their business. I hand my mount over to the groom, and stand for a moment to look about me, enjoying the noise and movement after the silence of the priory. It occurs to me that they all look far too cheerful when, by rights, they should be mourning the death of their king. Have I misunderstood the traveler’s message? I am suddenly assailed by doubt.

A group of women comes out onto the ramparts then, and I squint up my eyes to see more clearly. The focus of the group is Guenevere; she is easy enough to identify with her golden locks, her youth and beauty. If she is grieving over her dead husband there are no obvious signs of it. In fact, I have never seen her so animated. She gestures as she speaks, and the ladies lean closer, shaking their heads as they listen. It appears to be her usual entourage, but without Launcelot. I wonder where he is and whether they are already planning their nuptials. My heart turns over within my breast. But there are more pressing issues for me to take care of right now: the arrangements for Arthur’s funeral and the court’s acknowledgment of my succession to the crown.

I lower my head to avoid recognition and continue through the great door of the castle, only to find the same commotion going on inside. I make my way to the Great Hall, ready to take my place at the Round Table, albeit briefly. I’ve already determined that the Round Table will go once the knights have accepted my right to rule in Arthur’s stead, and I shall preside over future discussions of state business.

I give my name to the guard who pushes open the great oaken door. I rush inside before he can prevent me and gaze quickly around the room, looking for the man I love.

I stop dead, feeling as if I have turned to stone. The hum of conversation quietens; all swivel in their seats to stare at me.

“It is my pleasure to see you returned to court once more, Morgana,” my brother says quietly. “I ask your pardon to excuse us; as you see we are busy here with affairs of state and there is much to discuss.”

“Arthur.” It takes all my courage to say his name, to bow my head in obeisance, and to exit the Great Hall without falling over. Once outside, I lean against the stone wall and mop the perspiration from my brow. My heart shudders with remembered fright and the realization that I had allowed wishful thinking to triumph over caution. What has gone wrong with my plan? How have I managed to so mistake the situation?

I prop myself against the wall for several long moments, relishing its cooling touch for my whole body feels as though it burns with a wild fever. Only when I can trust my shaking legs to carry me do I move. I flee to the garden, and there try to order my scattered thoughts while I wait until such time as the knights may have finished their discussion. Finally, when I judge it safe to do so, I go in search of the Orkney brothers to seek answers to the questions that torment me. But first, I ask after Mordred—and the news I hear is so shocking that it puts everything else out of my mind.