I, Morgana (30 page)

Next, a young man with a lute appears. I recognize him from one of Guenevere’s entourage, a rather tiresome young lad and an inferior poet, although his voice is pleasant enough as he serenades his queen and all in attendance. Guenevere favors him with a smile, but most of her attention is reserved for Launcelot.

I sense my daughter’s growing disapproval, although she doesn’t voice it. She settles back and gazes around the company. I hear a stifled gasp and feel her stiffen beside me. Alarmed, I turn to her. She is staring across the room. Following her gaze, I discover that she is being stared at in return. Indeed, the young man’s eyes are almost starting out of his head, his expression is so intent.

Guinglain. His father has also become aware of the intensity of this first sighting between our offspring, and we exchange smiles. I am overcome with relief. All I can think of at this moment is that Marie may yet be saved from a life in the priory!

“Who is that handsome young man, Mamm?” she whispers, tearing her gaze away from Guinglain for a few moments.

“He is Guinglain, son of Gawain and grandson of my sister, Morgause.”

“We are related?” There is such great disappointment in her tone that I rejoice anew.

“Not too close that a marriage would be prevented.” I hope I am right in saying this, but I also know that there are ways and means around it, if necessary.

She laughs in protest. “I haven’t yet met him, and already you are thinking marriage? For shame, Mamm!” But there is a slight smile on her face as she feasts her eyes on the young man once more.

Her preoccupation frees me to wrestle with the problems she presents by appearing so unexpectedly at court. I cannot see any way out of this coil that won’t put her in danger, while further blackening my name. But I console myself with the thought that Marie already knows the worst: that Launcelot and I were not wed when she was conceived. Her opinion is the only one I truly care about.

I steal a glance at Mordred. He, too, is looking our way, and with a face as forbidding as thunder. He must not have any chance to be alone with Marie. I make a silent vow that if he tries to harm her, he will have to kill me first.

The meal finally comes to an end; it is time for judgment. I am wondering how best to approach Launcelot when, to my surprise, he hurries toward us.

“Marie.” He takes her hand and raises it to his lips, all the while subjecting her to a close inspection. I wonder if she will say anything to him but she is blushing, and seems too shy to speak.

“How many years are you, Marie?” he asks, still keeping hold of her hand. Now that they are standing together like this, side by side, I am conscious of the similarities in their features rather than the differences I’d thought were there before. It seems to me, from Launcelot’s question, that he too has understood their significance.

“Twenty summers, sire.”

There is a slight frown on Launcelot’s face as he does a swift calculation. Then he looks at me, and I know that he knows, and that I can dissemble no longer.

“Meet your daughter, Launcelot,” I say softly.

Shock keeps him motionless as he grapples with the truth. Although he must have expected it, I can see that he is overcome. He keeps holding Marie’s hand as if it were a lifeline.

“Why did you not tell me?” he asks at last.

I shrug. The misery of our parting cut so deep that the wound is still festering, kept toxic by all that has passed between us since that time. All, that is, except for when he lay with me thinking I was Guenevere. But I shall never, ever, confess to that!

“I owe you an apology,” he says.

“You owe me more than one!”

“Yes.” He inclines his head. He seems about to say something else but, perhaps because of Marie, he hesitates, then says, “You have been much maligned in court, Morgana, and I greatly regret it, especially as I know there is no truth in the accusation.” He turns to his daughter. “Please remember my words, Marie, no matter what anyone else might tell you.”

“I know that you were not wed when I was conceived, if that is what is worrying you. But I am so glad to meet you at last,” she says, her face radiant with wonder.

“As I am delighted to meet you.” Launcelot swallows hard, and makes a visible effort to collect himself. “I had a son, Galahad, who died shortly after finding the Sangreal. When I heard the news, I thought I might die too.” He presses her hand. “You have given me good reason to live, child, and I thank you for it.”

“More reason than the love of our queen?”

Launcelot gasps at Marie’s presumption. Even I am taken aback.

“Our daughter has been raised in a priory,” I say quickly. “She knows little of court etiquette. You must forgive her naivety, Launcelot.”

Marie frowns as she looks from her father to me. “You lay with Launcelot when you were not wed; you told me that yourself. You also said that you loved him, and that you love him still. But it is clear that my father dotes on the queen.”

“Marie!” I grab her arm, ready to drag her away.

Unexpectedly, Launcelot gives a gruff laugh. “The queen has my loyalty and allegiance, and yes, I am fond of her, Marie. But it would be high treason to love her or lie with her, so you must not ever say such things again.” I read the appeal in his eyes as he glances at me, and I give a slight nod. For his sake, I shall say no more.

“I hope you will stay here at Camelot for some time, Marie, and give me a chance to come to know you?” I detect a slight nervousness in Launcelot’s tone. I suspect he has already taken Marie’s measure and understands that her keen scrutiny and quick mind will not leave much room for hiding and deception. Nevertheless, it seems he truly cares for her and is grateful to have a daughter, for he bends to kiss her on the forehead.

I hear a low moan from behind us, and turn just in time to see Guenevere vanishing through the door. I feel a moment of fierce triumph and joy. Launcelot has also marked the queen’s retreat. He looks devastated, and is about to hurry after her when Gawain arrives, with Guinglain in tow.

“I will be given no peace until I present my son to Marie, Morgana.” He frowns at Launcelot, no doubt curious about his presence by my side.

“Marie, this is Guinglain, and his father, Gawain.” I put my hand on Launcelot’s arm, thinking I might as well get it over with, for it will be all around the court soon enough. “And this is Marie’s father.”

I read the shock on their faces, and smile grimly to myself. Their shock is as nothing compared to Guenevere’s. I wonder if she’ll ever forgive Launcelot.

Marie and Guinglan retreat a little way. Their heads come together in deep conversation, while Gawain and Launcelot stand a little apart, not looking at each other. I cannot speak my heart to Launcelot with Gawain present, nor can I find the words to smooth over an awkward situation. Finally, Gawain gives me a shame-faced smile, and makes a poor excuse about having something to attend to before hurrying away.

“Gawain will see this as yet more proof of my loose morals,” I say bitterly, and gesture toward Marie and Guinglan. They appear rapt in each other and oblivious to all else. “You had better pray that he doesn’t interfere with this relationship on the grounds that Marie’s mother spreads her favors too freely and that Marie is not worthy of his son. I will not see her happiness jeopardized by a lie.”

“I will not allow Gawain to think so!”

“You’ll tell the truth about your night with Guenevere?”

Launcelot is silent. I know that he cannot, will not, put the queen in danger, nor will he sacrifice his own safety. There is nothing for me here, and I turn to go.

He catches my hand. “Marie said that you love me, and that you love me still,” he says softly, in a tone that I recognize from our time together at Joyous Garde when I was so happy; when I thought our love would last forever. It is enough to utterly undo me. I feel tears spring hot and heavy in my eyes, and I cannot speak. He wipes away my tears before they can fall.

“I have been cruel and unkind to you, and very unfair. I was also far too quick to judge you, and I am more sorry than I can say,” he tells me.

I gulp and nod.

“But you understand why I need to keep silent now?”

I will not say yes. I will not grant him absolution. I stay mute.

He sighs. “I loved you too, more than you will ever know. After you left I searched for you everywhere, thinking I had been wrong to insist on coming to Camelot alone so that I could give the appearance of being impartial. Because I was not impartial, I was determined to prove you innocent of all charges. After you left, I realized that I should have brought you with me so that we could face your accusers together. That was my first big mistake with you.”

I stay silent, consumed with guilt and regret. I can find no words of comfort to say.

“But my biggest mistake was to fall in love with Guenevere. And yet I know not how that came about, because I loved you still.” Launcelot’s brow creases into a worried frown. “One moment she was just a rather silly young woman, albeit the consort of a king. The next …” He shakes his head. “It’s like an enchantment that I cannot escape. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Launcelot has explained it perfectly. I am engulfed in misery. I, in turn, should not have been so quick to judge him. I should have listened more carefully to what he was saying; I should not have acted so hastily. I have no one to blame but myself for what followed. Yet I can no more confess the part I have played in our downfall than he can confess his night with the queen.

“I spoke the truth to Marie,” I tell him. “Yes, I was angry when I fled Joyous Garde, and yes, I misunderstood your motives for acting as you did. But I have always loved you, Launcelot. And I always will.”

“Your beautiful tapestries still hang in my hall, a constant reminder of the love we once shared.” He leans down to kiss my cheek. I long to put my arms around him, to draw him closer and show him my need. But I know that to do so will achieve nothing. Nevertheless, for those fleeting moments I relish the smell and feel of him, so familiar and that I have missed for so long.

As he straightens, we become aware of a furious shouting in the distance: screams and wild cries and heartfelt sobbing. “The queen,” I say, and he nods. We both know the source of her wrath and her grief.

“I must go to her,” Launcelot says, and hurries out of the hall.

Curious, I wait a few moments, and then venture after him. I am just in time to watch him disappear into Guenevere’s private solar and the door slam shut behind him. It opens again almost immediately and her retinue of women emerge. They close the door but do not disperse. Instead, they huddle close and listen intently. I join them.

“How could you lie with that whore?” Guenevere screams.

“You will not refer to Morgana in those terms. It is unjust, and I forbid it.”

“I’ll call her what I will!”

“Do so, and I shall refute your words with the truth of what happened at Meliagrance’s castle.” There is a moment’s silence, broken by a howl of fury.

“I mean it, Guenevere.”

“Get out! Get out of my sight! I hate you!”

We hastily disperse, moving away just in time to hear the door open and quietly close, after which a wild sobbing breaks out once more. Guenevere’s ladies look at each other, sigh, shrug, and go to do what they may to comfort their mistress. I peep into the hall, where servants are busily clearing up the remains of our feast.

Marie and Guinglan still stand to one side, talking softly. I hope they are making the most of this time together. I suspect Marie has now given up all thoughts of taking her vows—if her threat was ever real in the first place. Smiling to myself, I approach them and give a slight cough to attract their attention.

“May I leave you safely in the hands of Guinglan, Marie? I do not want you wandering around the court on your own.” Perhaps Guinglan hears the concern in my voice for he assures me that he will take good care of my daughter until my return.

I venture out into the garden, needing the peace and quiet of nature to ponder all I have seen and heard and felt these past few hours, for in truth I feel as though I have been swept up in a whirlwind, and my spirits are battered and bruised because of it. More than anything, I need to find my calm center once more. And I need to come up with a way to keep my daughter safe.

There is much to bring me joy, and also to cause me worry, in the weeks following Marie’s unexpected appearance at court. She has resisted all my attempts to send her back to the safety of the priory and so I have emphasized the unrest and danger here at court, without being too specific as to its nature. I have also instructed her to make sure that she is always in company with others when she is not with me. Although she expressed her surprise, she has given me her word, easing somewhat my fears for her safety. To my joy, she and Guinglan have become inseparable, to the extent that Gawain approaches me with both an apology and some words of the future.

“I have spoken to Agravaine,” he tells me. “I have heard what really happened on that night in Meliagrance’s castle, and I ask your forgiveness for misjudging you, Morgana.”

I nod, knowing it could only have been a matter of time before Agravaine confided in his brothers. He ever loves to garner information, and delights in spreading it.

“The problem is that most of the knights also know the truth now. Probably all of them, in fact, with the exception of Arthur.” Gawain’s voice is grave as he continues. “Mordred, of course, is using it to his advantage among the younger knights to sow more trouble against the king.”

“You must stop him, Gawain. He is a danger to us all.”

“I know. And I say what I can, although I suspect that even while the knights listen to me, they reject what I am telling them.” Gawain gives an unhappy sigh. “I am sure there is a plot afoot, but I don’t know what it is. I suspect Agravaine knows of it, but even he won’t tell me.”

I remember Agravaine’s promise to me. I had almost forgotten it, but now I feel cold tentacles of fear wrap around my body, and I shiver. “I hope they will do nothing rash.” The doom of Camelot, foretold by the tablets, comes to the forefront of my mind once more. I vow to increase my efforts to alert Arthur to the danger of his queen’s love for Launcelot, and his son’s hatred and ambition.

Gawain shakes his head. “It is ever in a young knight’s nature to be rash,” he says somberly. “They need wise heads to guide them—not that any young person will ever believe it until they themselves have the gray hairs that denote some getting of wisdom.” He shrugs, as if mentally freeing himself of a burden. “However, there is one young couple who has my blessing. I believe Guinglan is in love with Marie and serious about making a life with her. Do you have any objections to that, Morgana?”

“None at all!” My heart lifts with joy. “I haven’t dared speak to Marie of this, for fear of endangering their romance, but I shall speak to her if you wish?”

“No.” Gawain’s smile broadens. “Let’s not interfere. Let them believe they are the first to ever experience the joy of love and the ends to which that might lead.”

“Marie is slightly older than Guinglan, but she is chaste and unworldly, having known only her life in the priory. I trust that he will treat her well, and with honor?” I can’t help feeling anxious about my beloved daughter.

“I shall make sure of it,” Gawain promises, “and so will his mother.”

“And no doubt Marie’s father will also watch over her.” It is my greatest pleasure to see father and daughter together. I had thought, in view of Guenevere’s ongoing fury with Launcelot, that he might spurn his daughter in order to win back her regard, but he has not. I have seen Marie and Launcelot walking in the garden on more than one occasion, heads bent close together and in deep conversation, and I watch them with love and with pride.

It makes my vow to change the future by changing the present even more difficult; more heartbreaking. Nevertheless, I know that I must try. And so, once again, I seek out Arthur. I find him in the garden and I hurry to him, taking his arm. He frowns at me. He has not forgiven me for my disgraceful behavior, as he believes it, at Meliagrance’s castle.

“Will you walk with me around the garden, my lord?” I ask. “It is so warm and sunny, it is surely too fine a day for old grievances to come between us.”

He hesitates, then falls into step beside me without removing his arm from my grasp. I take this as a most encouraging sign. For a few moments I prattle on about the flowers and herbs that add their scent to the air, admiring their beauty while also reminding him of some of their properties. Finally, when I judge his attitude has thawed somewhat, and he has relaxed in my company, I broach the subject of our son.

“You already know how bitterly I regret what happened between us that led to his birth,” I tell Arthur. “But I feel I must warn you that even as we speak he is fomenting trouble among the younger knights.” I will not mention, not yet, the reason at the heart of Mordred’s troublemaking. “He tells them you are too old now to hold the kingdom in safety. He tells them that he is your rightful heir, and that it is time for you to step aside and let him come into his own. He is trouble, Arthur—for you, and for the kingdom.” In my anxiety, I stop walking and face Arthur. “But it is not too late to act, my lord. Please, put a stop to his mischief, I beg you!”

“And how do you propose I do that, Morgana?”

By acting against him instead of dithering, as usual! The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I am finally learning to think before I speak.

“You sent Gaheris into exile for killing his mother, our sister,” I remind him. “Surely you can do the same to Mordred.”

“And have half the knights of our country follow him when I do so?” Arthur’s quiet comment confounds me. I had not thought that far ahead. I must credit Arthur for more brains and sense than I realized.

“No, Morgana.” Arthur resumes pacing. “I would rather have him here, at Camelot, where I can keep an eye on him, and his friends too. I still have knights loyal to me. They tell me what is going on.”

Except the most important thing of all. But it is difficult to broach that most sensitive of all topics. And then I have an idea. It wrenches my heart, but I hope it might suffice.

“I understand that Marie’s appearance at court has caused the queen much grief, for I know she longs for a child of her own. And perhaps her low spirits have added to the uncertainty and division within Camelot. If Sir Launcelot were to go away for a while, home to Joyous Garde, perhaps she might recover her spirits?”

“Perhaps she might recover them even sooner if I were to banish you instead.”

“Perhaps Launcelot and I should both leave your court, along with Marie,” I say quietly, determined to conceal how much his words have hurt me.

We walk in silence for a few moments while Arthur thinks about it. “That time Launcelot disappeared, you went missing also. You were with him then, at Joyous Garde?”

“Yes, Arthur. I loved him then, and he loved me.”

“But he does not love you now, for I have seen where his affection truly lies.”

This is the moment I have been waiting for.

“Then you must take action, my lord, before—” I stop talking. We both halt as Launcelot and Guenevere swing around the corner, arm in arm, their faces flushed with laughter—and something else. They see us, and stop, quickly stepping apart.

“Arthur!” Gunevere runs up to him and gives him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “Isn’t it the most beautiful day!” She steals a glance at her lover. There is such happiness, such serenity in her expression, that I am immediately suspicious. She links her arm through Arthur’s. Her voice chills markedly as she acknowledges my presence. “Morgana.”

I step away from Arthur, from them all, and hasten out of the garden and into the fields beyond. I need to be alone, for in those few brief moments when Launcelot and Guenevere thought themselves unobserved, I saw what I have most dreaded. Guenevere has discovered that she is with child, and has now disclosed the news to Launcelot. Their joy is a dagger through my heart. I can scarce keep my tears in check as I move swiftly toward the barns and sheds at the far side of the field. There, witnessed only by the incurious eyes of several cows, I am no longer able to support myself. I sink to the ground, and weep until I can scarcely catch my breath. I cry until my eyes are sore and raw with rubbing; I sob until I am exhausted.

Finally, worry for Marie forces me to stand and attempt to compose myself into some sort of order. I left her in the company of Guinglan, as usual, but that was hours ago. I need to find her, to reassure myself that she is safe. It is an effort to walk; my aching limbs make me conscious that I am no longer a young woman, as I look in the garden and then climb the stairs of the castle to search the rooms there. I can find no sign of either of them.

Becoming worried, I walk upstairs to my small room, hoping she may be waiting for me there. But she is not. I am about to search further when she rushes in. On seeing me, she casts herself into my arms and begins to sob bitterly.

“Marie!” Even while I tell myself that she is alive and apparently unharmed, panic seizes me by the throat. “My darling child, whatever is the matter?”

She doesn’t speak; she is so upset she is shaking. I look about for Guinglan, but there is a different young knight standing straight and stiff beside the doorway and looking as if he’d rather be a thousand miles away. They have had a lover’s tiff, I think, and she doesn’t know how to bear it.

“Have you had an argument with Guinglan?” I ask her tenderly.

She shakes her head vehemently, and draws apart from me. “No. Guinglan was called away. He wanted me to go with him to find you, but the garden was so beautiful and the day so warm and sunny, I insisted on staying out there on my own. There was no one else about; no one to cause me any trouble. But as I was leaving, a man pounced on me and tried to drag me behind a sheltering screen. He put his hand over my mouth to stop me crying out for help. He had a knife, Mamm! I was so frightened, I hardly knew what to do. In my terror I bit his hand, and then screamed as loudly as I could. A party of knights was nearby, and they shouted to let me know they were coming to my rescue. So the man let go of me and ran away.”

Shattered, I listen as Marie stammers out her story. I know well the identity of her attacker, but does she?

“Who was he?”

She shakes her head. “He wore a scarf that shrouded his head and his face. I don’t know if he was a knight or even one of the servants, for he didn’t speak to me at all. He just grabbed me, and tried to drag me away. He was going to kill me, I know it.”

My daughter begins to cry once more; I pull her into a close embrace and try to comfort her. “You’re here with me now. You’re safe.” I look at the young knight hovering in the doorway. “Did you not go in pursuit of him?” If Mordred has been captured, Arthur will have to take action against him.

“My companions did, while I stayed with your daughter, my lady. But they could find no sign of the assailant. They said it was as if he’d just vanished into the air.” The young man shakes his head. “But of course, the garden’s such a maze of little paths …” He gives me a nervous smile.

“I thank you for looking after my daughter, and bringing her safe to me,” I say. The young man bows and withdraws, leaving the two of us alone. As I continue to comfort and console Marie, my head spins with new worries.

Has Mordred acquired some magical powers of his own that he is able to disappear so completely? If so, he is far more dangerous than I suspected. I shudder as I think what might have happened to Marie if her screams had gone unheard. We shall have to leave the court now, just as soon as we can, I realize. But what can I possibly say that might persuade her to leave Guinglan and come back to the priory with me?

It’s not only the threat to Marie’s safety that troubles me. I am desperate to leave Camelot. I cannot bear to stay and witness Guenevere and Launcelot’s happiness. The child could not be Arthur’s, that much is certain—but only I have that knowledge. I could not prove otherwise if Guenevere chose to claim Arthur as the father—as indeed she must, and with Launcelot’s consent. And would it be such a bad thing to have that child acknowledged as the legitimate heir to the throne?

In all honesty, I would have to answer no. Although based on a lie, an obvious heir, one acknowledged by Arthur, would put an end to much of the trouble within the court. It would also serve to prove Guenevere’s fidelity to Arthur, at least in the court’s eyes. More than anything, it would negate Mordred’s claim to succeed Arthur. I remember the smashed skull of the baby rabbit, and Mordred’s threats against Owain. Would Guenevere’s baby manage to survive to adulthood? It is a thought too dreadful even to contemplate.

Somehow I must find a way of warning Arthur – or Launcelot – before I leave. I don’t want to see this child. I don’t want to know anything about it. I would far rather retreat to the priory and hide there, and lead a quiet and contemplative life with my daughter. Yet I also have a duty to fulfill: to Arthur and to his people. What else can I do?

I suspect that we have missed the evening meal. A swift peek out the window confirms that the castle is already cloaked in a dark mantle. It is too late now to think of packing and leaving. A decision must wait until morning, by which time I hope that I may see the way ahead more clearly. I tell myself that I can do no more to unravel and reverse the doom I have foreseen in the tablets. All that I set in motion so long ago, when I set out to seduce Arthur, will inevitably come to pass just as I have foreseen it.

I frown as I reconsider my judgment. There was one small difference in the second reading: a child. I had taken it as a representation of Marie, but there is now Guenevere’s child to consider. What role will it have in Camelot’s future—if it survives? If I stay, can I make a difference? Or is Marie right in her belief that it is the will of God that dictates our future and that nothing we do or say can influence our destiny?

I shall follow Marie’s way, I think. I shall leave Camelot forever.

“But what of the child? Save her, Morgana! Save us!”

The voice seems to come from nowhere. I stop and look for its source, but I can see nothing and no one. It was a voice in my mind—but whose? Too high for Merlin—although I doubt he’d speak to me even if he were still alive. It sounded like the voice of a young woman—but it was not Marie’s voice, nor anyone else I know. The girl I saw when first I was able to scry the future in my secret pool? Is Morgan telling me that I must go on as I started?