I, Morgana (25 page)

And indeed it proves to be so, for he laughs and, forgiving son that he is, gives me a warm hug. “I’ll be careful,” he says. “But Mordred has little to fear from me, for his bloodlines are purer than mine.”

“But tainted.” It is true, as Owain will find out soon enough. At the same time, Mordred’s comment regarding the tainted bloodlines of Launcelot and Galahad come into my mind. I reflect how mortified Mordred will be once he hears of their illustrious ancestor, and I can’t help laughing out loud at the thought.

Owain looks somewhat alarmed. “Come in and rest, Mother,” he says kindly. “I should like you to meet Laudine, who has consented to become my wife.”

It is a temptation, for I am so tired. But the last person I want to see is Arthur.

“I thank you for your invitation, but I was on my way to Rheged and after your news, I am even more anxious to get there.”

Owain looks somewhat skeptical, and I can’t blame him. To his credit, he tries once more to change my mind. “I have left Rheged in the trustworthy hands of a good steward. There is no need to rush back. You must be tired and hungry after your long ride.” He looks about for my horse, and sees none. His brow furrows in thought.

“My mount is in the stable,” I say hastily. “And no, I must set off at once, although I am sorry not to meet Laudine.”

“Are you sure you can’t stay for the night at least?”

I shake my head and Owain does not press me further. I wonder if he knows that I am not welcome in Arthur’s sight. Instead he escorts me to the stable to fetch my so-called mount, which means that I am forced to steal a horse and claim it as my own.

I wave farewell, and ride some way from the castle. I am cast down by the news of Urien’s death, and regret that I was not there to ease his passing. I also feel some responsibility, for, although Owain claims to have left the realm in good hands, he is Urien’s heir and the kingdom depends on him for good governance. If he follows this quest for the Sangreal he may well be gone for quite some time; I should be there in his stead to ensure that Rheged does not suffer in his absence.

With Owain soon to be wed, I realize that I should be giving some thought also to a suitable match for Marie, especially in the light of what I have just learned about her father! My conscience troubles me. My thoughts turn around and about as I am tugged between duty to Urien and Rheged, and my desire to speak with Marie about her future.

Marriage to Urien was not as hard as I’d supposed. After the first joy of having me in his bed, his ardor had waned and we had settled into a relationship more akin to that of brother and sister—better than that, in fact, for he was a kind man, with a wry sense of humor that more than once lifted me from black despair into laughter. If I could not wed Launcelot then I did well to marry Urien; I acknowledge that now. And I owe him a great deal for giving me shelter and status as his wife despite my tarnished reputation. I knew he was unwell when I last left him. Now I know I should have stayed and taken care of him until the end.

Making up my mind, I continue on to Rheged. I know that I owe Urien’s faithful retainers a debt of gratitude for their care of my husband and his demesne, and in turn I too have a duty of care. I need to ensure that the man Owain left in charge can be entrusted with managing the estate in our absence.

On my arrival I am greeted warmly, and all looks well. Nevertheless, I stay at Rheged long enough to reassure myself that both the steward and the reeve are more than capable, and that I can leave Rheged in their good hands for the time being. Only when I have settled my concerns do I finally take the road that will lead me back to the priory. I promise myself that, as soon as I have spoken with Marie, and assured her future, I shall return to Rheged to assume my role as regent until Owain recalls his duty to his father and to his heritage.

Just as Owain is becoming a man, so Marie has reached an age to wed and bear a child. Now that I’m looking at her, not as a daughter but as a grown woman, I am somewhat alarmed by what I perceive. The nuns have given her a good education, as I had requested, but they have also worked their influence on my child. She has become quiet and thoughtful. She attends Mass regularly, and I see her cross herself when she thinks I am not looking. I draw out Merlin’s tablets, for I remember that her presence at the scrying pool helped both of us to see a vision. Now that I know of the Sangreal and its significance, I hope that between us we may bring new insight into what the tablets are telling us. But she draws back at the sight of them.

“Is this another part of your magic, Mamm?” she asks.

I nod, and fan them out in front of her.

 “I want to talk about your future, Marie, and what lies ahead for you.” I give the tablets a light tap. “I have already taught you much of what I know about the craft of magic, but now I need your help to decipher these, for I confess I find it difficult to understand their true meaning. You have inherited my gifts and may well see more than I can, for I hope that these tablets will help us find a way to tell the future; that they may even help us solve all the secrets of our world and those Otherworlds around us!”

“No!” She springs up and puts her hands behind her back. “No, Mamm, I don’t want to practice magic any longer. I don’t want to learn any more about it.”

I stare at her, speechless with disappointment. When I neglected Mordred, he turned to darkness and evil. In my frequent absences from Marie, it seems she has turned toward the light and sanctity of Christ. But I shall fight for her; I shall not let her go! I quickly gather up the tablets.

“Of course, Marie. Whatever you think is best for you,” I say lightly. “You are old enough now to choose your own path. But at least let me tell you what I have discovered about this one tablet, for I know it will interest you.” I show her the hand holding the golden cup. “I believe this tablet represents the Grail, the Holy Cup of Christ.”

She has already heard from visitors to the priory that the knights of Camelot have gone in search of the Sangreal, and her interest sparks as I relate what I have learned of its origins. I touch briefly on the subject of Launcelot and then go on to tell her about Galahad and their lineage that dates back to the time of Joseph of Arimathea.

Marie regards me thoughtfully. “You have never told me anything of my own father,” she says wistfully. “It must be such a joy to Galahad to have found his father after all this time. Will you tell me something about my own father? I care not how low born he was, I would just like to know.”

It is the question I had always dreaded she would ask. I had rehearsed a hundred different replies but, in the face of her earnest gaze, I know that only the truth will suffice. Besides, there is a difference now, for her father is descended from someone of whom she can be proud. If she believes in the Christ, then this will mean everything in the world to her.

“You are of the same lineage, my dearest daughter,” I tell her tenderly. “You are half-sister to Galahad, although he doesn’t yet know of your existence. Neither does your father.”

There is a dawning horror in Marie’s eyes as she comes to understand what I have just told her. “You lay with Launcelot?” It is more an accusation than a question.

“Yes. I did so because I loved him more than I can say. I love him still.”

If I hope this will make Marie think better of me, I am wrong. “But you were never wed, at least not to him.”

“No. It was only after I realized there was a child growing in my womb that I wed King Urien.”

“Surely you did not pretend that I was Urien’s child?”

“No.” I tell her the truth, although I know it probably won’t redeem her good opinion of me. “I had thought to do so. I was tempted, but at the end I found that I could not. And so I came to the priory instead, knowing it would be safe for me to give birth to you here.” Pray to the gods that she never finds out about Mordred, or worse—that he finds out about her!

“So you’ve kept your shameful behavior a secret! Does anyone outside the priory know about me, that you even have a daughter?”

Faced with Marie’s anger, there is nothing I can say. I shake my head.

“So I may as well not exist at all!” Marie turns and runs away from me.

My heart aches as I watch her go. The bells for Mass are ringing, and I know that she answers their summons. If she confesses what she’s learned to the priest, I can only hope that her confessor will honor the silence of confession, and that his discretion is absolute.

I retire to my bedchamber and spread out the tablets, hoping that I might be able to decipher their meaning even without Marie’s help. As I did once before, I lay them face down and jumble them up. This time, I hold Merlin’s crystal in my hand, praying that it will help me find enlightenment. Again I choose fourteen, and turn them over. I gasp in amazement as I notice that in spite of my care to choose blind, I have turned up exactly the same tablets as I did before, but the crystal in my hand enables me to see more clearly. The two crowned figures on their elaborate thrones are an aging Arthur and Guenevere, scarred by life and by experience. The knight bearing the cup is definitely Launcelot, and I am the woman beside him. I recognize Merlin with his collection of magical objects. The knight bearing a sword and galloping through storm clouds is Mordred as he is now: a grown man. The burning tower deepens my unease as I notice its resemblance to Camelot.

Once more I try to empty my mind of my thoughts and fears. I study the tablets in order, beginning with the first one I turned over, and finally I am able to understand their message. I, the innocent, step into the abyss, gulled by Merlin who, through his trickery with the sword Excalibur, ensures that Arthur inherits the kingdom in my place. The responsibility has taken its toll; I see it on the faces of Arthur and Guenevere. Beside Guenevere is Launcelot, and I am seated on his other side, with my wand in my hand. We are lovers, but a sword pierces my heart. Here is the hand with the cup, offering what I now know is the Sangreal. And Mordred rides toward it, with crown in one hand and sword upraised in the other, hell bent on destruction. The devil looms over the lovers, who are chained and powerless—and I know that I must take responsibility for their fate. The tower burns and people leap into the air. Death follows, trampling over all that has gone before. Finally an angel calls the dead souls to judgment—and I know I shall be judged most harshly of all, for I have caused this and I am doomed, as are we all if the fate of Camelot cannot be overturned.

My hands clench in fear and in sorrow. A cry bursts from my throat: a prayer for the knowledge to turn back time, to change things around, to have the chance to make everything anew.

With shaking hands I scoop up the tablets, ready to pack them away with the rest of the pile. How bitterly I regret learning this skill. I would rather have died in ignorance than know the fate that will befall us all.

But it seems that I have inadvertently picked up an extra tablet, which lies close to my hand. A young child carrying a pentacle, the magical crystal. The world spreads out beneath its feet, ready for exploration. This child has an eager, innocent expression. I have seen this tablet before, and now I recognize who it represents. The child is Marie, inheritor of my knowledge of magic whether or not she is prepared to accept it.

I take in a deep, quivering breath, striving for calm. What can this mean? That, after all, there is hope for the future, that Marie holds the future in her hands? My gaze strays to the turned-down tablets. I long to know more. I stretch out a tentative hand, and choose one. An older woman, with a crown on her head, is seated on a throne with a crystal pentacle on her lap. Eagerly, I study her face. She is not Marie, nor me. So who is she, and what does this mean? My heart hammers in my breast.

I reach out for another tablet, promising myself that this will be the last. It seems to me that I have unlocked the past and the present, and have now been granted a glimpse of the future. But I still don’t understand what it means, nor what I need to do, or even if I have a role in determining how the future will play out. My hope is that this last tablet will tell me.

It depicts a great shining star set among a host of others. Below, a woman kneels by a pool, scooping water into a pitcher with one hand and emptying another pitcher of water onto the land with her other. I have noticed it before, but have not deciphered its meaning. Now I allow myself a moment of hope; perhaps all is not yet lost after all? There is a feeling of serenity and joy in this depiction of the water of life that nurtures us and flows on into eternity, while the stars smile down on our earthly endeavors. It seems to me a promise that all will be well.

I pack the tablets away as I ponder the future. Beyond doubt, they had spelled out our doom, yet I recall Merlin saying that if I could only learn to read the future, I could change it—if it’s not too late. These last three tablets seem to promise hope. But I must act now, for there is no time to lose. My first thought is to make all speed to Camelot, to warn Arthur of what is about to befall the kingdom, and of his fate should he continue to ignore the treasonous love between Launcelot and Guenevere, and deny the connection between himself and his son. I pray that it is not too late to put my magical powers to good use so that I may yet save the kingdom from destruction.

My momentary pride in my ability gives way to amazement. Not so long ago I would have retreated to Rheged and lived there quietly, content that in time the court at Camelot would be so divided in loyalty that it would result in civil war, the situation exacerbated by the scandalous behavior of Guenevere and Launcelot, and the overweening pride and ambition of our son. I would have waited, knowing that with the doom of Camelot would come the need for a new ruler, for the one groomed from childhood to lead our people, but who was cast aside on the whim of an old man.

And yet, and this is a grudging admission I grant, I have seen how Arthur has united the tribes and has brought peace to our land, even if I have not openly acknowledged it. I have also seen how his men love and honor him—that is, how they used to love and honor him before my meddling brought Launcelot and Guenevere together, with Arthur positioned as cuckold.

I know I could have united the kingdom as Arthur has done. I am equal to the task. But my rage has almost burnt itself out now. More than ever, I am mindful of Arthur as a small child, and how greatly I loved him then. My instinct now is to protect him from his foes, all of them, including his queen and his illegitimate son. I feel I owe it to the loving child that he was, and I acknowledge at last the part I have played in the unfolding tragedy foretold by the tablets. It is a bitter admission, and a shameful one. If Mordred is a danger now, it is because he has inherited my own pride and ambition, while my desire for revenge on those I perceived as my enemies caused me to take that first fatal step to lie with Arthur. Everything has flowed from that: the lies, the deaths, the loss of Launcelot, all leading now to the looming peril that threatens the kingdom.

Marie was right to berate me. She is a good person, my daughter. Her purity stands as a sickening indictment on the blackness of my own heart. It is a shameful legacy she has inherited from me, one that I would give all in my power to change—if only I could turn back time.

My thoughts go to where it all started. Merlin understood more of human nature than I’d given him credit for; he’d understood my blind ambition, my furious need for revenge, and my tendency to act without thinking through the consequences. No wonder he questioned my ability to rule a kingdom! If only I had accepted Merlin’s decision and done my best to smooth Arthur’s path to leadership, what a powerful kingdom we might have forged together! With Arthur’s skill on the battlefield and his ability to lead his men, matched with my quick wits and knowledge of magic, we would have made a formidable team. Unbeatable. And I would be happy, because I would be wed to Launcelot. We might have made other children after Marie, a whole tribe of them to brighten our days and keep us young at heart. With Launcelot out of the queen’s reach, and no Mordred, Camelot would not be divided nor would it be as vulnerable as it is now.

If I hadn’t meddled and Guenevere had kept faithful to Arthur, she might well have borne a child and secured the kingdom for Arthur’s line, not mine. Anger flares at the thought, but it is quickly checked. A lost kingdom in return for a long and happy life with the man I love, and the safety of the kingdom? Yes, I would consider that a good trade, especially when it seems that sacrificing my happiness has counted for naught now that our kingdom faces almost certain annihilation—if the tablets are to be believed.

I cannot change the past, I know that. But it may yet be possible to change the future, if only I am able to change what is happening in the present, for this is a foretelling only. And so I swear a silent oath to make this my mission.

Marie expresses her surprise to see me depart so soon after my arrival. Apparently she feels some guilt over her accusations, however well-founded I know them to be.

“I am truly sorry, Mamm, if I have hurt your feelings,” she tells me. “But your revelations were such a shock and I need time to come to terms with my heritage, to contemplate my future, and to pray.” She hesitates. “There is something else I must say. I know the way of God and Christ is not your way, but it has become important to me. And while I wish to obey you in all things, I know that what you have taught me about the practice of magic is against the word of God, and I want nothing further to do with it. Especially when I see the unhappiness it has brought you.” She takes my hand, and presses it gently.

Her words pierce my heart, as does the truth of what she says. I hear the determination in her voice, and recognize the finality of her decision. Nevertheless, having embarked on this path, I must see it through. I cannot give up my skills in the magical arts for I know that I shall have need of them. But I cannot tell her that, so instead I try to comfort her.