I, Morgana (32 page)

“Pray, seat yourself and let me hear your explanation.”

Guinglan gives the sisters an appalled glance before turning to me once more. I recognize his difficulty, and so tell our chaperones that they may leave us.

“Oh, but can’t we—” I can tell young Sister Agnes is agog with curiosity, but the older Sister Martha fastens an iron grip on her arm. “Come, Sister Agnes. I am sure you have work to do,” she says, and drags her companion away.

Guinglan visibly relaxes once they are gone. In fact, he is so bold, he strides over to Marie, sits down and takes her hand. I note that she does not pull her hand away but instead leans close to him.

“I know all the reasons Marie has given for not wanting to continue our relationship,” Guinglan begins, “but no matter how I countered her arguments, she would not listen to me.”

Marie nods, and now tries to draw her hand out of his grasp, but his grip tightens and she snuggles into him once more.

“It was only when I learned that you had left Camelot that I realized I could not let Marie go. I badgered my father for information and, as soon as I knew your likely destination, I followed after you on the fastest horse I could find. And here I am.”

“Here you are indeed,” I murmur. “And what do you propose to do about it, young man?”

“I will marry Marie tomorrow, if she will have me. Even today, if it can be arranged. That is, if I have your permission,” he adds hastily.

“Please, Mamm,” Marie adds softly. It is a wrench, I confess it, to hear my daughter so determined to pledge her life and her love to another, and I hesitate for long moments.

Their faces grow anxious. Guinglan pats Marie’s hand as if gentling a nervous horse. He is a fine young man, and with the best of bloodlines. Now that he has shown courage and determination, I cannot fault him. And so, finally, I say, “Yes, of course you have my blessing.”

The next few hours see a whirl of preparation as Marie plunders the gowns I have left in storage at the priory, seeking something fit to wear for her wedding ceremony, while the nuns splutter and squawk like hens at feeding time as they plan a feast in celebration.

As evening falls and candles and lanterns are lit, my Marie comes to the side entrance of the small chapel where her love awaits her. In front of witnesses, the couple make their vows.

It is done. My child has grown and flown away, I realize, as we sit down to celebrate their nuptials after the ceremony. I watch them watching each other while everyone else feasts and drinks their health, and I am happy for them. I have done what I can to secure the future, but already I feel my daughter’s loss, for I intend to send them both to my Castle Perilous, and keep them safely away from Camelot and Mordred’s plots.

As soon as it is polite to do so, the couple bid us all a good night and, with glowing faces and hand in hand, they hurry away to consummate their love.

How I envy them their first night together! Memories of Launcelot torment me and keep me awake through the long dark hours. To take my mind off my heated imaginings, I think instead of the woman in my scrying pool, and try to fathom what she wants. At once, all my doubts and fears come rushing back, along with a deepening sense of doom that I cannot shake. I relive the terror of the burning citadel that in the end vanishes as if it has never been, and I hear again the screams of the dying and the damned.

I am filled with the sense that I need to do something more if I am to answer the unknown woman’s plea for my help. But what is it she wants from me? The night seems endless as I think of first one plan and then another, only to discard them all. Finally, I sense the glimmering of an idea—but I reject it utterly. And yet it sits like a burr in my brain, fretting me until I can no longer ignore it but must examine it more carefully. I don’t like it; I’m not sure I’ll have the courage to see it through. But I cannot think of anything else that might suit the purpose.

The twittering and warbles of birds as they practice their morning songs heralds the pale light of early dawn. It is time for me to act, but I am conscious that it will take Marie even further away from me, and that it may earn me her enmity forever. Nevertheless, it is the only way I can keep her safe while at the same time I try to fulfill the young woman’s request and bring about the destiny foretold in Merlin’s tablets.

Before I go to Marie, I venture into my secret garden once more to gaze into the sacred pool. I wish that Marie was with me. I am so afraid. My one desire is to receive a blessing, some confirmation that what I propose is the right course of action. I am almost sure of it—but not entirely. But although I linger, the waters stay dark and still, portending death and destruction.

Finally, hunger drives me back to the priory to break my fast. There is no sign as yet of Marie and Guinglan. Once more I am stabbed with envy as I imagine their bed games, their pleasure in the discovery of each other’s bodies. I am sure they will be late rising and I resign myself to a long wait. While the hours pass, I conjure up a pretty woven bag and place into it my most prized possessions: the ancient book I stole from Merlin so long ago, and the wooden tablets that have spelled our doom. After some hesitation, I also add the amethyst crystal. I know that I am taking a risk with this and can only pray that I’ll be able to find a replacement once I have need of it. All these I seal into the bag with an incantation that will keep them secret and invisible to all but Marie, and I finish my task with a prayer of love, and of hope that my daughter will come to understand the true purpose of my gift. With the decision made, and now irrevocable, I feel easier in my mind for it seems to me that I have done what is right.

It is mid-morning before I catch sight of the young lovers. Arm in arm, they are walking in the direction of my garden, and I know I shall never have a more perfect opportunity. I pick up the bag and hurry toward them to give them my morning blessing.

They are heavy eyed, and drunk with desire. They can hardly keep their hands off each other, and I know that I’ll not succeed in keeping them with me unless I act quickly to distract them.

“I designed that garden when first I arrived at the priory,” I tell Guinglan.

“It’s very beautiful,” Marie adds. “I’d like to show it to Guinglan.”

“But first let me show you a part of it that no one but me has ever seen. Not even you, Marie.”

She regards me thoughtfully. “How has it stayed secret all these years, Mamm?”

She is sharp as a needle, my daughter! I pat her cheek, and notice that my hand is shaking. “It is set apart in a private place. It’s where I come to meditate—and to pray. And now I want to share it with both of you. But before I do, I want to give you a gift to honor your marriage and your new life together. Not knowing what was about to happen and its happy outcome, I came to the priory empty-handed, so I have nothing to give you now but my jewels. However, they are your heritage, Marie, and I want you to have them. A beautiful young woman deserves beautiful adornments.” As I speak I am stripping off all the rings, bracelets and brooches I’ve brought with me, every costly thing I possess, and piling them on top of the bag’s secret contents.

Finally only Launcelot’s gold band is left. I hesitate. The ring came from Marie’s father, after all. But I cannot bear to part with it and so I keep it, the only adornment I have left, but the most prized.

“No, Mamm!” Marie throws up her hands in protest. Even after her time in court, she still follows the sober and devout ways of the priory nuns.

“I want you to have them, Marie,” I say, and fold the bag into Guinglan’s careful grasp. “They are costly, so guard them well.” I can only hope that the couple will remember my words in the days to come. I wish I could also give them the small purse of silver coins that I brought along for our traveling expenses, but to do so would excite their suspicion, and so I keep it for my own use. As for what else is in the bag: will my daughter be angry with me when the contents are revealed, or will she understand that what I have given her is also part of her heritage? I can only trust that she will accept the gift, and value it accordingly.

Unsuspecting, they follow me through the portal in the bramble hedge. I already carry an oak leaf while, unknowing, Marie carries Merlin’s crystal. The youngsters do not hear my silent chant that I pray will set us on the secret way toward that Otherworld where, so many years ago, I ran away from Merlin and heard the jongleur tell his stories in the marketplace. I have chosen this world because it so closely resembles our own. I do not want to excite their suspicion until it is too late for them to retreat. At all costs, I intend to keep them safe from the doom of Camelot that I fear I may not be able to prevent.

The narrow path is hedged with tall trees; their foliage interlaces over our heads so it is as if we are walking through a leafy green tunnel. But once we emerge, Marie turns to me, puzzled as she surveys her new surroundings.

“But where is your special garden, Mamm? Where is your secret place?”

I give a nonchalant shrug and look about me. “It must have been destroyed during my long absence from the priory. But see, the priory garden lies before you. Why don’t you and Guinglan explore it on your own? I am quite sure you don’t need my company. Besides, I must return to the priory; there is much to do before I return to Camelot.” I long to take my daughter in my arms, to bid her one last farewell, but I dare not.

They move away, arm in arm. With a heavy heart, I watch them go. They are so rapt in each other that they pay little attention to their surroundings, which is a blessing, for sooner or later Marie will realize that this garden is not the same as the one at the priory, nor is the abbey the same, and she will come looking for me.

As soon as they vanish behind the high hedges that mark the garden’s boundary, I retreat down the secret path and close the portal. Silently, I send my blessing after them and hope that they will be able to live comfortably in their new surroundings, with my jewels to pay for food and shelter and whatever else they might need while they are there. I have done what I may to keep them safe from the doom of our world, and have also given them the means to protect themselves should protection become necessary. I try to comfort myself with the thought that this separation is not forever, and that in time, I shall be able to explain everything. Even so, I tremble as I imagine Marie’s reaction when she understands my betrayal, and can only pray that I shall have my daughter’s understanding when next we meet.

Once back at the priory, I tell the good sisters that Marie and Guinglan have asked me to pass on their gratitude and good wishes, and that they have now gone to Castle Perilous to start their new life. I sweeten my own farewell with the small bag of silver coins, for I am anxious to return to Camelot to do whatever I may to avert what is about to befall us all.

On my return I sense an air of tension, for it seems that the knights are more divided than ever now. Small knots huddle in corners, casting furtive glances over their shoulders to make sure no one can overhear what they are saying. As I approach there is always a too-obvious attempt to change the subject. The weather, in particular, seems to be a constant source of wonder and amazement. I go in search of Gawain, and tell him the same story I told the nuns at Glastonbury: that Guinglan and Marie have gone off to Castle Perilous to start their new life together.

Gawain frowns. “It is as well they are away out of danger, Morgana. Arthur is still looking for someone to fetch Launcelot and Guenevere home, while Mordred’s poison grows and festers. I cannot—I will not—go to Launcelot, for he has become my sworn enemy. I cannot forgive him for killing my brothers. And yet Arthur needs the strength of the knights who are still loyal and true behind him for I fear there will be a confrontation sooner or later. While none of us wishes to support Mordred, it will be impossible to support Arthur if those two return. The king has lost the respect of the court because of his refusal to condemn them. I wish you would talk to him, Morgana.”

“I have tried, but he will not listen to me. But he might pay attention to the Lady Viviane. Is she here?”

Gawain shakes his head. “That is a good suggestion, Morgana, but where she dwells is something of a mystery. Perhaps you might try to seek her out?”

I agree. I just wish I’d thought of it while I was still at Glastonbury, and before I’d given my gift to Marie. But Viviane has come to Camelot before, when she felt there was a need—perhaps she might come again, even without my summoning? Nevertheless, I make preparations to return. But before I leave, something happens that puts the whole castle into an even greater uproar: Guenevere returns to Camelot of her own accord.

She is alone and looks disheveled, as if she has been sleeping in ditches on her journey. Her face is drawn, her eyes red and swollen from crying. I wonder what can possibly have gone wrong but I say nothing, only make myself unobtrusive as Arthur welcomes her tenderly, sits her down beside him, and calls for food and wine to be brought.

“My love,” he says. “I am overjoyed to see you, yet you look so sad. Pray, tell me what is wrong. And why have you traveled alone? Where is Launcelot?”

At once Guenevere breaks down in a storm of tears and stammers out the somewhat incoherent explanation that Joyous Garde was not to her liking and that she became fearful for her virtue once she was alone with Launcelot. I hear the words “God’s curse” before she doubles over and gives herself up to such bitter sobbing that she is rendered speechless.

But I can fill in the gaps well enough, beginning at the moment she stepped into the hall at Joyous Garde and saw the tapestries, proof of Launcelot’s love for me. What rage, what sulks must have followed. Launcelot must rue the day he brought her to his home, or alternatively, cursed the love he bore me that left such a tangible mark on Joyous Garde. He would have done his best to appease her fury, and I suspect he would have prevailed if, in the end, she had not lost the tie that would have bound them together forever. “God’s curse,” she called it, and that’s how it must have seemed to Guenevere: her longed-for baby lost because of her betrayal of her husband and king.