On one occasion in this Otherworld I manage to escape Merlin and I run off on my own to explore the marketplace. A jongleur stands beside a cross at the center with a crowd around him. He is holding everyone spellbound with his recital. Curious, I come closer to listen, for we also have jongleurs and entertainers in our world and I am always eager to hear their stories.
It is a pleasing tale of knights and their ladies at a court called Camelot, and of the knights’ adventures against dragons and Otherworldly beasts. I wonder if the jongleur has also visited Otherworlds or whether this is a fancy of his own invention, and I question him afterward.
“Have you ever seen these dragons and unicorns of which you speak?”
He looks puzzled. “No, my lady. Everyone knows such fabulous beasts exist only in legend.”
“And where is this Camelot with its knights and its courtly adventures? Is it real and of this world, or is it also a legend?”
The jongleur looks at me for a long moment. “I believe that is something you need to find out for yourself, my lady.” He bows, and turns to talk to someone else.
I am torn between wanting to stay and question him further, or returning to the abbey, where I left Merlin looking over an old manuscript in the great library. Finally, I decide it would be best not to risk incurring Merlin’s wrath, and so I reluctantly leave the marketplace.
To my relief, Merlin hasn’t missed me. Indeed, he continues to praise my efforts to please him. I take comfort from this for, when he is not in Merlin’s presence, Arthur continues to taunt me about being a girl, which he insists makes me unfit to rule a kingdom. I realize ambition has awakened in him, but he is clever enough not to plague me in front of Merlin. Instead, he spends all his free time at the archery butt and the tilting yard, learning how to become a warrior, and he boasts of his growing prowess. I ignore him, content in the knowledge that I have Merlin’s support, and that my intelligence coupled with my ability in the magical arts will prove far more important for the safety and future of our kingdom.
I can feel my power growing as I learn all manner of spells: to transform, to bind and to release. The only spells Merlin cannot teach me are the spells I want most: to travel back in time to wreak revenge on my enemies, and to have the power of life—and death—over them. I have one particular enemy in mind, and I hate him with a great passion, a hatred that grows stronger as I grow older. My relationship with my mother has descended into indifference but toward my stepfather I am openly hostile. I provoke and defy him at every opportunity, despite Merlin’s command that I must rise above my petty grievances and make peace with my family. Somehow, being with Uther brings out the worst of my temper, always.
The best times are when Uther goes off hunting, or parleying, or else takes to his bed, for there is some unknown malady that keeps striking him down. If I had the skill, I would ensure that the malady became terminal. As it is, there seems little I can do to defeat my most hated enemy, but that doesn’t stop me searching for the means to bring about his downfall.
*
After long months of winter, a hunt is planned. I beg my mother to allow me to accompany the men, for I am almost losing my wits being shut indoors with the ladies, being made to spin, stitch and weave, and other such womanly things. But my mother forbids me to go.
“Why? I’ve always gone hunting with the men in the past. Why do you prevent me from doing so now?” I am close to tears; I am desperate to be free.
“You are sixteen summers grown, Morgana; old enough indeed to be a wife and a mother. It is not seemly for you to ride out with the men.”
Beside her, Uther nods in agreement. My hands curl into fists.
“It is time we found you a husband worthy of your position, but there is still much for you to learn before you can become a wife,” my mother continues.
“My father said I should choose my own husband—when I inherit his realm.”
Uther looks as if he is about to speak, but my mother quickly shakes her head.
“I’ve already learned all the skills needed to run a household,” Morgause says, looking smug. She sits on a stool close to our mother, her usual position as our mother’s favorite.
“Morgana could learn a great many things from you, Morgause.”
I make a rude noise in the back of my throat. I would rather visit the Isle of the Dead than take instruction from my sister!
“I will go!” I say loudly. I can tell from Arthur’s expression that he longs to come too. “I can take Arthur with me. He’s old enough now to go hunting.”
“No! Neither of you is to go.” Our mother sends a glance of appeal in Uther’s direction. He is reclining along the seat beside her. Although he is still recovering from his latest bout of sickness, he has announced that he will lead the hunt come morning.
“You’ll do as your mother says,” he growls.
“I won’t be confined indoors with the women,” I shout. “I will not!”
“Then I shall lock you away, for you will not come with us,” he says.
Furious at being shamed by him in front of my mother’s ladies, I turn on him. “I hate you! I wish you were dead!”
“Morgana!”
My mother’s appalled whisper is drowned in a roar of rage from Uther. “You are a rude and undisciplined young woman, Morgana. It’s time you learned how to behave as befits your position in this household. And I shall make it my duty to teach you. By soft words, if that is possible, but by the whip if it is not.”
“I’ll never bow down to you. Never! I’d rather leave this court than let you rule my life.” Even as I say the words, I know it’s a vain threat, for I would never turn my back on my realm and my people. But Uther pounces on the idea as a cat pounces on a mouse.
“I wish by all the saints you’d do exactly that!” He sounds angrier than I’ve ever heard him. “God knows, our lives would be so much easier without having to listen to your waspish tongue and put up with your disobedience. In fact, we’d have been spared a lot of trouble and heartache if you’d never been born at all.”
Aghast, I look to my mother for support. But she stays silent, and reaches to stroke the hair from Uther’s forehead.
“Your mother is right; it is time you were wed,” Uther continues. “One of my subjects will do—someone old enough to keep you under control and who lives far enough away from here that we’ll no longer be plagued by your tantrums.”
“No!” It is a cry from the depths of my heart, but my mother nods her agreement.
“It will be for the best, Morgana. It is your duty to your family to marry well and become a good wife and mother.”
“It is not my duty to marry and breed! My duty is to inherit this kingdom, as my father promised me, and to rule it wisely and well. I swore an oath than I would do as he asked, and that I would honor his faith in me. I will not betray his trust.”
Arthur has been sitting quietly beside Uther, but now he stands to confront me. “Our father is dead, and Lord Uther has taken his place. He is the High King of Britain, and you must do as he says.”
I am so angry, and so hurt by Arthur’s callous disregard for my rights, that I cannot speak. Instead, I raise my hand to slap him hard. But he catches my wrist, and holds my hand steady. I realize that his time practicing at the tilting yard has been well spent, and that his strength is equal to mine. We stare at each other for a long, heartbreaking moment.
“Go to your bedchamber,” Uther commands. “You will stay there until you have learned obedience.”
“I won’t go! You cannot banish me as if I was still a small child.”
“You will go. And you will be locked in until I give you leave to rejoin us. I hope that by then you will have remembered your manners and that you will at last behave in a way befitting the daughter of a High King.”
I begin to shake with fury; the words pour out of my mouth in a flood of hate. “I am no daughter of yours, Uther Pendragon. Nor are you the rightful king, not of this realm! My fathe
r would never have treated me as you have done, nor talked to me as if I was some common kitchen maid. He loved me! And I would have done anything for him. Anything at all. But not for you, Uther. Never for you. I swear on my mother’s life that I’ll—” But my threat is cut short as, at a nod from Uther, I am seized by two of his men and dragged from the solar.
Their grip is painful on my arms, but I will not cry mercy. Instead I maintain a dignified silence, even when they push me through the open door to my bedchamber, sending me sprawling. I pick myself up, stalk to the door and slam it in their faces. I am seething with rage—and something akin to panic.
As I pace restlessly around my room, thinking through what has just happened, I come to some painful realizations. Arthur’s betrayal is one. How greatly I once loved him—and how I fear him now. Ambition has wakened in him. If he can, I know that he will grab the crown that is rightfully mine, and Uther will support him. My mother, too, has turned against me. By not speaking out on my behalf, she has forfeited any last shreds of my love and good will. My heart is full of vengeance against them all, but most particularly against Uther. All my hopes and my dreams now count for naught, for he has made it clear he has no intention of honoring my father’s wishes. He has full power to direct my future, and I fear what he has in mind.
I fall onto my bed and pound my feather pillow in utter despair. I cannot allow this to happen. I swore an oath to my father. Somehow I must find a way to fulfill my destiny.
The thought comes to me: What about Merlin? Can I ask for his help? I stop punishing my pillow and roll over onto my back to ponder the question. It has been some time since we last met; he has been rather evasive of late. But he, too, has promised me a golden future. Would he support me in my bid to stop Uther arranging my marriage and exile from the land that is rightfully mine?
On further reflection, I shake my head. Even if Merlin had the courage to speak out on my behalf, he is not accepted at court. Uther would pay no attention to anything he might have to say.
Magic, then? I sit up, and consider it. Persuasion won’t change Uther’s mind, I know that full well. Can I convince Merlin to help me devise a spell?
I shake my head. He has lectured me on the need to use magic wisely and only when necessary. I believe that the time is now, but Merlin might not agree.
I stand up and begin to pace once more. I know Uther will waste no time in getting rid of me by any means at his disposal—so perhaps I should get rid of him first? I stop abruptly, and a smile spreads across my face as I wonder how I might use my magic to achieve this without any blame being laid at my door.
The long hours of darkness drag on, but by the time the stars fade into the light of early dawn I have still not come up with a plan that will best suit my purpose.
As soon as the hunting party is assembled in the courtyard, I transform myself into a swallow just like the one nesting on the roof outside my window. Once free from my prison I begin to follow the hunt, flying high above the men on their horses, feeling a savage delight that I have managed to defy my stepfather. Yet I am also puzzled. Even though the hounds are in hot pursuit of a fox, the men following Uther seem to be dressed more for a battle than for a hunt. And there are so many of them, far more than would normally be invited on a hunting expedition. Not only that, they carry all the appurtenances of battle, most of them with shields, swords and lances along with their bows and quivers full of arrows. It’s as if they are expecting to meet trouble along the way.
I fly on, determined not to concern myself with minor details. My mind is wholly bent on how to get the better of Uther, although I am still debating ways to achieve my aim. Can I perhaps turn myself into a fox to put the hounds off the scent and lead the huntsmen astray? But I am afraid of being chased and possibly caught. In my imagination I feel sharp teeth shredding my flesh to bloody scraps. I wince, knowing that I can’t risk it. But how else can I spite Uther, who is leading the charge? Can I become a gryphon, or a dragon perhaps, something to frighten his horse enough that he’ll be thrown and maybe injure himself, or even die? Or what if I change myself into something fiercesome enough to eat him? The idea is tempting, but I am afraid I might not have the power or skill—or even the will—to carry it through. Another thought stops me: If I try to assume the guise of a creature from an Otherworld, might those real creatures attack and punish me for bringing their guise out of safety? Could I try to summon them here to my cause? But I have not attempted this before, and I am not sure they would come at my bidding. A further thought makes me hesitate: even a gryphon or a dragon can be captured and slaughtered by my stepfather and his men. It is too great a risk. Depositing a dropping on Uther from on high would be safe. But that’s a child’s trick, and I am no longer a child. Besides, it is not serious enough to punish him for his treatment of me, nor will it change his mind about ordering my future.
An idea stirs in my mind. As I think it through, I like it more and more. Excited now, I fly ahead of the hunt into the heart of the forest, looking for an open space where I can shape-shift into something else.
I alight on the ground and become myself once more, but only momentarily. Calling on all my powers, I quickly transform into an enormous oak tree. I tremble with fear and excitement as I listen to the sounds of the hunt drawing near. I close my mind off to everything but the fox, and I sing it toward me. Even through its panic it responds, fleeing straight to the shelter of the mighty tree, desperate to escape. The hounds chase after it, closing in on their prey. Uther leads the charge in their wake. But then I hear a murmuring behind me, the soft footfalls of men and horses, a clink and a chink as if swords are being unsheathed.
I cannot allow myself to be distracted, not with my quarry coming so close. I steady my gaze on Uther, who is still charging toward me. I wait, readying one of the tree’s many limbs in preparation. I’ve already chosen the branch that will become my instrument of justice, and have asked the tree I have become if I may make the sacrifice without harm to my mortal self. I’ve never attempted such a thing before but I take comfort from the fact that if I succeed, no blame can ever be laid at my door. Stay steady, stay in control, I warn myself. Do not act too soon, or too late. The wrong timing will wreck everything.
I hold the heavy branch strong and steady in my mind, ready to let it fall on Uther as he passes by in the hope that it will smash him into the earth. The fox races past my tree with the hounds in pursuit, but Uther abruptly checks his mount and holds up his hand in warning. The huntsmen abandon the chase and circle around Uther, lifting their swords and shields in readiness. Uther’s steed paws the ground uneasily. I will Uther to come closer, but instead he begins to organize his men into formation, using hand movements to indicate silence.
I remember the muted sounds behind me, and suddenly realize what is really happening. Uther must have had warning of a raiding party and, under guise of a hunt, has prepared his men for battle. No wonder I wasn’t allowed to accompany them! I keep as still as I can, hoping that no one will pay any attention to me or understand that the tree close to them is not all it seems. But my leaves rustle as I quiver with the knowledge that the enemy is already near.
Uther and his men are armed and ready, and they wait in silence. They’ve forgotten all about the fox for they have a new prey now, one that is far more deadly. The marauders charge from their hiding place in the forest and rush upon the waiting soldiers with a ululating battle cry loud enough to freeze the blood and turn strong men into mewling infants. But Uther’s warriors stand fast, meeting steel with steel and blow with blow. The earth reddens with the blood of the wounded and dying; the air resounds with their screams. Thuds and buffets, the clash and clang of weapons, grunts and shouts and curses as the men fight; the fierce battle rages around me, while I hold my breath and keep still. I am frightened to move so much as a leaf in case the tree suffers damage that might have unforeseen repercussions on my own body. Uther’s men—some of them my own father’s warriors—are as brave as lions a
nd strong as bulls. Slowly, inexorably, they cut their way through the raiding party, decimating their ranks. Accepting defeat but not capture, the marauders turn and flee.
With the enemy on the run, Uther’s men pause to regroup and catch their breath. But I notice an armed invader wheel around and turn back. It seems to me he is a harbinger of doom, and I am suddenly filled with anxiety. I try to shout a warning, but manage only a leafy rustle. Uther can’t see him. He is facing his men, and their eyes are on him as he congratulates them on their prowess. Their cheering covers the sound of the approaching rider who, with dagger drawn, leans sideways out of the saddle and stabs Uther in the back. Struck dumb with horror, Uther’s men are too slow to stop the assassin from regaining his seat and racing off to rejoin his brothers-in-arms. When Uther’s men finally come to their senses, they set off after him with a roar, leaving their king alone to die.
Too afraid to show myself, to intervene or help, I watch as the terrified horse wheels and stamps and does its best to shake off its burden. Uther topples out of the saddle, but his heel catches in the stirrups and his head hits the ground. He makes a feeble gesture, trying to free his foot perhaps, or calm his mount. But the steed continues to buck and kick until finally it is free. At once it takes off at a gallop, while Uther lies in a pool of his own blood and breathes his last.
I look down on him, my mind churning in a giddy whirl of elation mingled with regret—and fear. My wish has been granted, but did I really want Uther to die or did I just want to change his mind and at the same time teach him a lesson about power? Now that he is dead, I find it hard to believe that I ever wished him quite so ill.
The soldier huntsmen return. While I’m quite sure that Uther is dead, one of the men confirms it after feeling his chest for signs of a heartbeat and listening for a breath. He breaks the sad tidings to the assembled company, and I watch as a litter is quickly improvised and the bloody body of my stepfather is laid upon it.
I, Morgana Page 3