I can feel the blush of shame burning my face as I crumple up the parchment and throw it on the ground. “What they’re saying about me and Accolon—that’s not true,” I say fiercely. “I never had a liaison with Accolon, no matter what anyone, including the queen, might say.”
“No?” Launcelot raised one eyebrow. “But what about the false scabbard, Morgana? You’ve never told me that you have a knowledge of magic and otherworldly matters. What do you know about the scabbard’s provenance—and what else haven’t you told me?”
I cannot answer and so I turn away, knowing that I have lost Launcelot’s trust and that things can never be the same after this. I want to howl my misery aloud. Once again, and more than ever, I wish for the power to turn back time so that I can make everything clean and pure between us. But it is too late for that; my fate was sealed when first my mother, then Merlin, and finally Arthur, betrayed me. A flash of bright, hot anger dries my tears as I come to a bitter understanding that once again I’ve been betrayed by someone I love. Launcelot was my lover, but he could also have been my husband and the father of our child. Instead, he has turned his back on me in his haste to find favor with Arthur and the queen. And for that I cannot and will not forgive him.
“Go and do Arthur’s bidding then, and I wish you well of it,” I say.
Without further words, or even a farewell kiss in parting, I walk out of the room and down to the stables, not even waiting for my belongings to be packed. I am appalled at how quickly our joy has turned to ashes, but I keep my head held high and my chin uplifted while the groom saddles my palfrey and makes everything ready for me. The tide is out, so I can ride across the causeway rather than wait for a ferryman. I am glad of that. I do not want Launcelot to witness my distress.
My eyes stream with tears as I ride away from Joyous Garde. I wonder if Launcelot is watching me from the parapet as once I watched for him. I steel myself not to look around for one last glance of my beloved, and I ride on until the castle is out of sight. To take my mind off my despair, I try instead to focus on my immediate future.
My first thought is to go to my sister Morgause and reclaim my son. My heart, a solid rock in my breast, softens slightly at the thought of seeing Mordred again. Together, we can go back to the priory and take shelter from the world. I can have my baby there; we shall be safe. It is a tempting thought, yet one that leaves me feeling strangely dissatisfied until I realize that unless I make some effort to redeem myself, I shall for ever afterward be known as Morgana, the betrayer. For Mordred’s sake, and for the sake of my unborn child—and yes, to shame Launcelot—I need to fight for my good name and reputation.
Going to Camelot feels like the right course of action, for I have never run from a challenge in all my life. If I am at court, and if I can convince Arthur of my innocence, I can punish Launcelot at the same time. I will not have him back in my bed: not now, not ever. I intend to make him regret that he ever doubted me, especially when he finally understands that he has lost me forever.
As I have lost him. Grief shudders through me; I howl my misery aloud. I whip my palfrey into a gallop, but I cannot outrun my despair. I know that I will live with this loss until death brings sweet oblivion.
But I cannot think of death, not now, not while there is a new life growing inside me. I press my hand against my stomach, imagining the child forming within. Another child without a father. Another story to invent. What shall I say this time?
There is some ease to be found in stoking my anger against Launcelot, and against all those others who have stolen my destiny and laid waste to my future. I determine that Camelot will be my destination, because I need to settle matters there. I won’t forget or forgive Launcelot’s disloyalty, nor the conniving and faithless queen who perhaps may be used to my own advantage, now my carefully wrought plan against Arthur has gone awry. Instead of going to court and throwing myself on my brother’s mercy, can I instead find some other way to bring him undone, some way that can never be traced back to me?
Mordred? I thrust that thought aside. Although it was my original intention, I know that I cannot use my child to punish Arthur. Not Mordred. Not this unborn child either. Once more I caress my stomach, seeking to reassure the babe within of my goodwill toward it.
If I go to court, if Launcelot sees me growing great with child, will he realize that the child is his, or will he suspect that Accolon is the father? I wince at the thought. I have never lain with Accolon, but I have seen that Launcelot has lost faith in me. So he might well credit Accolon as the father rather than himself, even though the timing of the birth should leave no doubt in the matter. Does a man know about this sort of thing? I shrug, doubting it. Launcelot will believe whatever it suits him to believe. But I do not want him, or anyone, to know that I carry a child.
My head spins with ideas until I finally settle on a plan that I hope will answer my desire for revenge and, at the same time, give me the power I need to rule the kingdom in Arthur’s stead. My first task is to change my appearance. There are several things I need to accomplish, but I know my mission will be impossible if I go to court as Arthur’s sister. More, it would be excruciating to meet Launcelot under such changed circumstances. I cannot bear to see his face should he learn the full extent of my treachery, so my disguise will be part of ensuring that he never will; that no one will ever find out the truth behind Accolon’s attack on Arthur. Nor must anyone associate me with anything that happens to Arthur in the future.
And so I change my appearance to resemble one of the high priestesses of Avalon, a lady whom I particularly admire. Niniane is sweet natured, but very powerful, second only to the high priestess Viviane. I am in awe of Viviane, but I am comfortable with Niniane, who has lived in our world for a time and who understands our ways, unlike most of the neophytes and guardians of Avalon, all of whom are female. Their way is not for me; my time with Launcelot has convinced me of that. Indeed, I wonder how the more worldly Niniane puts up with the catfights and jealousies inevitable among a company made up solely of women. I am sure living in Avalon is no different from living in the closed world of the priory, and there I have seen at firsthand how favoritism and backbiting can sour even the most devout believer. It is one reason why I kept myself apart from them all.
I begin to weave the magic that will transform me, not into Niniane exactly, but into something akin. I shall say that I have come from Avalon to visit Camelot, having heard of the wonders of Arthur’s court. I know enough of my brother to understand that my flattery will win his trust and that he will not question me further. Of course, if he should ask me about Avalon I can certainly satisfy his curiosity.
I grow taller, and my hair changes in color from mouse brown to silvery gold. My eyes lighten to pale gray, which I hurriedly change to dark blue as I recall Viviane’s penetrating stare. She, too, has gray eyes. I give myself a heart-shaped face—I have always wanted one of those! And, while I am indulging myself, I curl my straight hair into luxurious waves. I set a gold band on my brow, like the ones all the sisters wear in Avalon. Finally, and because I don’t know how long I’ll be in Camelot, I devise a flowing gown in a filmy fabric shading from silver to blue and mauve, colors that shift and change and that, I hope, will detract from and hide my growing stomach if it turns out that I need to stay in Camelot long enough that the baby will start to show.
From time to time I pat and massage the slight mound of my belly, seeking consolation from this growing proof of my love for Launcelot and his love for me. My heart splinters into pieces at the very thought of what else lies ahead if I carry out my plan. Launcelot has put his suspicions, and his duty to the king, ahead of his love for me. In turn, I could give him a lesson in love and loyalty, a lesson that would have the potential to split Camelot in two and that would certainly lose him the love, respect and friendship of his king and the knights at court. At the same time, I would repay those others who have wronged me, who have set me on this path of vengeance—a path that only I can
reverse. If I have the resolve to put the rest of my plan into action, I know I could make them all repent the past, and beg for my good governance, the governance they should have recognized right from the start. And so I tell myself that no matter what the cost may be, I must continue with my tricks and deceits, and leave the outcome in the lap of the gods—and the judgment of those whom I intend to test.
Sometimes my power to change other people’s lives worries me, but I console myself with the thought that of them all, it is Launcelot’s future that is of the most concern to me. Will he see through my tricks and deceits? Will he have the wisdom and strength not to fall into my trap? If he is the man I once thought him, then his honor may yet be salvaged—and perhaps my happiness too.
And so, despite Launcelot’s betrayal and my desolation at his abandonment, and despite the failure of my latest plan to remove Arthur from the throne, my courage is high when, at last, I ride through the gates of Camelot and into Arthur’s court.
CHAPTER SIX
Confident in my disguise, the first thing I do is request an audience with Arthur. To my annoyance, I find Guenevere sitting beside him. I have my story prepared and know it is persuasive enough to convince Arthur. I am not quite so sure about his wife. Having underestimated her in the past, I shall not make the same mistake again.
It is the first chance I’ve had to really study her, and I make the most of the opportunity. At such close quarters, my first impression of her youth and beauty is reinforced. Yet there is something to mar her expression, some discontent and, when she turns to her husband, there is acid in her tone as she chides him for not calling for refreshments to welcome me. My brother does her bidding, while apologizing for his lack of courtesy. I want to tell him to act like a man and a king; to remind him that organizing refreshments is women’s work, but I keep silent, knowing that I can learn more through observation and holding my tongue.
“Pray, be seated, lady. You must be tired after your journey.” The request is sweetly civil, but Guenevere betrays herself when she turns to her husband. “Arthur!” she snaps. “Draw up a chair for our guest.”
Interesting. I remember how unsatisfied I felt after bedding Arthur, and feel a momentary sympathy for the queen. It would seem that there are no children of this union as yet. That thought brings much comfort, while also suggesting several interesting possibilities.
“Now, lady; tell me who you are and how I may serve you?” Arthur ignores his wife’s command. He settles back into his seat, and pats her hand as if soothing a fractious hound.
I open my mouth to give my assumed name. If I had done so, I would have been doomed, for the door opens to reveal Viviane of Avalon. She strides in, gives me a long assessing stare, and then goes to stand behind Arthur, forming a protective presence at his back. I can tell from Guenevere’s sour expression that the lady isn’t welcome here. Another interesting observation to think about later. For now, I am busy revising my story, trying to come up with something convincing that doesn’t involve Avalon.
“My name is Nimue, my liege,” I say, and sweep into a deep curtsy.
“You are welcome to Camelot.” Arthur holds out his hand. I take it and kiss it.
“I come from a faraway realm, but your fame, and the news of your court, has reached even the Isles of … of Annwyn.” It is the name of one of the Otherworlds that I have visited in the past. Too late, I wonder if the Lady of Avalon also knows of Annwyn. I look beyond Arthur and find her staring at me with narrowed eyes. I wonder if she can see through my disguise. To my infinite relief, she does not challenge me.
“Why have you come to Camelot?” Guenevere asks. She smooths away a crease in her gown and primps her hair. I read in her gestures all the signs of an insecure girl needing reassurance. And she will get it—but not from her husband. My heart quails at the thought of what I propose to do. But it is not time, not yet. And hopefully, never.
“I’ve come to see for myself the wonders of your court,” I say humbly. “And to serve you in any way I can, for I have heard of the recent attempt on your life and it may be that I have information that will be of interest to you.”
Arthur nods, and motions toward a bench. He turns to Viviane. “Pray, will you take a seat with us, lady?” To my relief, for I am not sure how long I can endure that questioning stare that stabs like a sword, she relinquishes her post behind Arthur and helps me drag the bench closer to the royal couple. We sit down, and she is no longer in my line of sight.
“I am greatly indebted to the Lady Viviane, who is able to see something of the future, and who came down the river to my court in order to warn me that my life was in danger,” Arthur tells me. “It seems that King Urien’s son, Accolon, stole my sword and scabbard and left imitations in their place. He provoked me to a quarrel, and would have killed me but for Viviane’s warning to be on my guard. Fortunately, I was able to seize Excalibur from Accolon and, instead, I slew him.”
“Do not forget, sire, that it was your sister Morgana who wove the scabbard that tricked you into believing that Accolon’s sword was your own,” Viviane murmurs.
I grit my teeth, wanting to choke her. But this is my chance to speak on my own behalf. “You are greatly mistaken, lady,” I say sweetly. “I am in the confidence of the Lady Morgana, and I know how much she loves and respects you, sire. She would never try to harm you.”
I can read the disbelief on Guenevere’s face. It is sweet to think of the fate I have in store for her. “As for Accolon of Gaul, he was ever a liar and a braggard,” I continue. “The Lady Morgana has told me how he followed her around while she was here at court, promising her that if only she would lie with him, he would conquer the world in her name and make her his queen. She said she laughed at him when he told her that, sire. Rather than stay, lest it encourage his foolish ambition, she bade him farewell and left your court. Never for one moment did she dream that he would try to make good his boast. She was devastated when she found out what he’d done. And she gives thanks that he did not succeed.”
“You are saying that my sister is innocent of the charges that have been laid against her good name.”
“On my life, sire!” I put all my heart and feeling into the oath. I can tell that Arthur believes me. But I am fairly sure Guenevere will not want to think well of any woman, particularly someone she perceives as a rival for Launcelot’s affection. As for Viviane, she sits upright and silent beside me.
“I am pleased—and very relieved—to hear of my sister’s innocence,” says Arthur. “But where have you seen her that you seem to know so much about her, for she vanished from my court many, many moons ago?”
“She is living quietly at a priory not so very far from here. I … I took shelter there on my journey to your court and, when I saw how distressed she was by the rumors that have come to her ears, I stayed on a few days more to comfort her. She begged me to put her case forward on her behalf. It would relieve her mind greatly if I could tell her on my return journey that she is absolved of all guilt, my liege.”
“And so you may.” Several servants now stand at the door, bearing jugs of spiced wine and plates of honey wafers. Arthur beckons them forward and they lay out the refreshments. Hungry and tired after my long journey, and feeling an immeasurable relief, I lick my lips in anticipation. But it seems I am not yet out of danger.
“Nimue? You bear a marked resemblance to the Lady Niniane, to whom I have left the care of my demesne in my absence.” Viviane is scrutinizing me with those big gray eyes that seem to see and understand everything.
I shake my head and assume a modest expression. “I am but a humble damsel, my lady; I can claim no kinship with anyone from the sacred Isle of Avalon.”
“How do you know I come from the sacred isle?” Viviane retorts sharply.
I think quickly. “The Lady Morgana mentioned you to me; she spoke of your power and your gift for seeing the truth.” I hold my breath as I say this for, if my magical powers are not greater than Viviane’s, now is
the time for her to reveal her knowledge of my true identity. But she stays silent. I feel a flash of triumph as I continue, “The Lady Morgana and I spent a great deal of time talking together.”
I turn to Arthur in appeal; I will not deal with Viviane again unless I have no choice. “My liege, she sought me out once she knew where I was bound. I cannot tell you how greatly her heart and mind have been affected by these foul rumors.”
Guenevere gives a delicate sniff. “Why then does she not come to court to speak for herself?”
The queen is someone else I need to watch out for, I remind myself. “Your sister fears your wrath, my liege,” I say humbly, still addressing Arthur. “But, if you forgive her, you may wish to send for her yourself?”
“There’s no need for that, Arthur.” I am grateful that Guenevere has put that notion to rest although it’s fairly clear that Launcelot’s expected arrival is behind her words. It seems she will do anything to keep me out of his way. And she will attain her heart’s desire soon enough, I think savagely, although the price she will pay is beyond her calculation.
“You forget that some questions regarding this affair have not yet been answered, my liege.” Viviane’s quiet voice alerts me to further danger. “Who wove the false scabbard, if not your sister Morgana?”
This time I cannot speak, for to do so will betray more knowledge than I should possess. Arthur shifts in his chair, looking uncomfortable. The silence lengthens until I am forced to break it.
“Surely there are other seamstresses in your court, sire, skillful enough to weave a copy for a man whom they might well covet as a husband?”
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