Arthur came home to interrogate the court, and received a variety of answers: gold, jewels, a handsome lover, a good husband, wealth and status. I could have told him the true answer but I did not, for I doubted he would believe its simplicity. Besides, I was intrigued to see how it all played out; it was my hope that, all being well, the giant might carry out his threat without my having to do anything further to bring about Arthur’s death.
Finally, and as requested, Arthur took all the answers he’d heard back to the giant. Along the way he encountered a loathly lady. Reports as to her extreme ugliness vary, but all were agreed that the poor dame was bent and hideous, that she had but one eye and only a slit for a mouth, and that her hair was gray and bedraggled. But she claimed to know the true answer to the giant’s riddle, which she would only tell Arthur in exchange for a boon. And he, without asking any further questions, agreed to it. And so she whispered in his ear and he told the giant, who roared with rage but was forced to spare Arthur’s life because the answer was correct.
You would think the ninny might have shared this wisdom with the others in his party, but he did not. Instead, he returned to the old hag and agreed to carry out whatever she might ask—and what she wanted was for a young and handsome knight from Arthur’s court to marry her! Arthur returned to court in a great bother, and finally Gawain, fool that he is, put himself forward—or was pushed into it—when no one else would agree to the crone’s request.
We all witness Gawain’s return to Camelot with his poor, deformed bride-to-be riding in front of him. Everyone at court falls silent; all are embarrassed by her appearance, for surely no woman should suffer such deformity and live. Everyone pities Gawain to the depths of their souls. Everyone except me, for when I gaze at the poor wretch I suspect there is some magic afoot, and I wonder at it.
Guenevere, to her credit, and perhaps because of the debt Arthur owes Gawain, makes much of the creature, whose name is Dame Ragnell. She takes her away to bathe in scented water, and arrays her in a costly gown, one of Guenevere’s own, but nothing can conceal the dame’s loathsome appearance.
I wonder even more about magic after we break our fast the following morning. I expect Gawain to appear gaunt and haggard after sharing his bride’s bed, and yet his eyes are bright and there is a spring in his step, although his bride is as ugly and deformed as ever. Indeed Gawain appears so much more lively and mirthful than usual that I cannot help but take him aside to question him in the hope of satisfying my curiosity.
It is a strange story. He tells me that, utterly cast down and unable to face his bride, he sat staring at the fire burning in their room while wondering how he was going to endure the night.
“She spoke to me then,” Gawain says. “She asked if I could not bear to look on her face—and when I did, I beheld such loveliness that I was struck dumb with it! I swear, Nimue, she is more beautiful even than the queen! But I could weep at what has happened to her, for she says that she and her brother, the giant encountered by Arthur, have had an enchantment put on them by an evil lord. She says that she is doomed to be fair for one half of the day, and hideous for the other, and that only I can free her of the spell—but I need to choose the right answer to be successful.”
“The right answer to what?”
“I cannot say, for she did not tell me the riddle. But she has asked if I would prefer her to be beautiful by day—when all will see that I have a beautiful bride—or by night, when I may have joy of her. When I asked for her beauty at night, she wept most bitterly for she knows she is an object of scorn and loathing to others; she says she would prefer to appear beautiful before them. But if I grant her wish, I shall have no joy of her at night, while knowing that other knights at court will lust after her by day, and try to win her affection. What then if she should decide she prefers another to me?” Gawain looks wretched at the very thought of it. “I’ve never been much use around women, Nimue, but I would be loath to lose my wife to another having seen how comely she is, and how sweet her nature.”
I revise my opinion of the giant of Arthur’s imagining; it seems that magic really is afoot here, and I wonder who has instigated it.
“Can you help me, Nimue?” Gawain implores. “Can you fathom an answer that might remove the spell?”
I am almost sure I can, if it is the same answer that Arthur was seeking only a day or two ago. And so I tell him, and hope that my guess proves correct.
The answer comes as a radiant Ragnell appears beside Gawain when we meet for dinner. There is a buzzing around the table as everyone asks who the dame is, and it is Gawain who says, in triumph, “This is my wife, who had a curse placed upon her, although the curse has now been lifted.”
He brings Ragnell over to me after we have dined, to thank me for my help in breaking the spell. It seems I guessed the right answer to both the giant’s question, and also to what lay at the heart of Ragnell’s request that Gawain choose when she should appear beautiful: “What is it that women most desire?” I told Gawain to suggest the lady choose according to her own will, for indeed, isn’t that what all women would prefer?
I am fond of Gawain; he is perhaps my favorite nephew, and it pleases me to see that he is happily wed, and to someone who will be good to him, and who will help him be more at ease among both his fellow knights and their ladies.
*
A blast of a hunting horn tells me that my waiting is finally at an end. Once more I hurry to the parapet to watch Launcelot’s arrival. As if drawn by an invisible thread, he looks upward in expectation, and his eyes meet mine. I stand there, brazen in my disguise, and watch with great satisfaction the disappointment that flashes across his face before it smooths into lines of indifference.
“We had hoped to see you at our court some weeks ago, Sir Launcelot.” I arrive in the courtyard just in time to hear Guenevere’s greeting. There is a slight waspishness beneath her sweet tone.
“My apologies for my delay, lady. I … I mislaid something and needed to find what was missing before I could obey the king’s summons.”
Mislaid something? Does he mean me? Not sure whether to be angry or amused—or flattered—I wait to hear more.
“You are here now. That is all that matters.”
I can see, from the way Guenevere takes Launcelot’s arm to lead him into the solar, that she is already establishing an intimacy between them. I grit my teeth as the queen sweeps past me without making any effort to introduce us. While it suits me to have Guenevere think of Launcelot as her possession, it grates my heart raw to see them together. But I follow them into the solar, and witness Launcelot’s introduction to those knights already gathered there and who have not yet made his acquaintance. To my dismay, for I had not foreseen the consequences until now—Morgause’s sons are among them, with all their knowledge of their aunt’s downfall and the child that resulted from it. But there is little I can do other than push myself forward and curtsy before Launcelot, hoping to take his attention and distract him from the gathered assembly. More than anything, I want to restore my good name, to witness his regret and, hopefully, recover his regard.
Now I have a chance to look more closely at him, I note how gaunt he looks. There are new lines of strain on his face, and a bleakness in his eyes that perhaps only I, who know him so well, can recognize. It would seem that my abrupt disappearance has taken its toll, and I feel a sharp stab of regret that such a love as we shared has come to this.
“The Lady Nimue,” Guenevere says coldly. “She brought us news of Arthur’s sister, Lady Morgana.”
Launcelot’s body stiffens and stills at the mention of my name. I feel a momentary pleasure that I still have that power over him, made sweeter when I realize that Guenevere has also marked his reaction. But my satisfaction turns to bitter ashes as soon as Agravaine butts into the conversation.
“Morgana is our aunt,” he tells Launcelot, before turning to me in accusation. “Why did you not say that you know her?”
“I don’t know
her, not really,” I answer. “The lady is now living quietly at a priory where I happened to take shelter for some days. She has been accused of a terrible crime, but I have helped the king discover the truth of the matter: that she is innocent.” I look Launcelot square in the eye, glorying in his manifest discomfort.
“So you say, but we have only your word for Morgana’s innocence,” Guenevere snaps. I wonder if she suspects that Launcelot was my lover. It is clear, from the way she is looking at him, that he is already far more dear to her than her own husband. And from her words, it is also apparent that she will let no rival stand in her way.
“Our mother has always believed that Morgana is not to be trusted,” Agravaine says, perhaps trying to earn favor with the queen. “In fact, she was heartless enough even to abandon her own son. She left him with my mother and simply disappeared.”
“Morgana has a son?” Launcelot’s face turns pale as curd.
“Yes, indeed. He was conceived under a hedge with some churl, I believe. It’s a family scandal.” Agravaine smiles, while I want to throttle him. How I wish I’d had enough sense to ask for his silence on this affair. As it is, I can only stand impotent with fury as he prattles on about his saintly mother and how readily she took in my motherless child and made him her own. And then I become aware that Arthur has joined us, and that he is listening carefully.
“Who is this churl who sired Morgana’s child?”
Agravaine stammers to a halt, perhaps aware at last that he is slandering the king’s half-sister. “I … we know not, sire. All she told my mother was that she lay with a shepherd boy, and that a child was conceived.”
“And how old is this child?” Arthur’s voice is quiet; the whole court has hushed to hear the answer.
“Ten or eleven summers, I believe.” Agravaine cannot know what lies behind Arthur’s question; none of them knows, except me. And my worst fears are realized when Arthur turns to the Orkney brothers. “I bid you go fetch your mother, Gaheris. And the boy. I want them both to come here to my court.”
“I did not know that the Lady Morgana had given birth to a child.” Launcelot looks sick and shaken.
“And with a lowborn churl at that!” Guenevere smiles with malicious glee. “Who would have thought it, after all her airs and graces while she was at court? It is time for her to wed, husband, for her wantonness sullies the reputation of decent women everywhere. A good husband will keep her in check, some good knight with lands far distant from here. We have already suggested Urien of Rheged as a suitor. The king believes him an excellent choice.”
It takes all my self-control not to launch myself at Guenevere and scratch out her eyes. How pleased I am that I have given her the potion. Truly, it is no more than she deserves. I wait for Launcelot to contradict her, hardly aware that I am holding my breath as I give him this one last chance to be my champion.
“She seems to bring trouble in her wake, I grant you,” he says slowly. “But rather than condemn her to a loveless marriage, perhaps you should leave her at the priory? It might be the best place for her—she’ll be away from the temptations of the world and she’ll have the good example of the nuns always before her.”
“It suits me to have her wed to Urien,” Arthur contradicts, going on to detail why the marriage would be seen as an act of good faith on his part.
“And an old husband would have a steadying influence on Morgana,” Guenevere chips in, with a quick sideways glance at Launcelot to see how he’s taking the suggestion.
He nods gravely. “Rheged is certainly far enough away from court to prevent any further temptation or lapses from grace.”
Bereft and furious, I can hardly bear to look at them. I hate them both: Launcelot for betraying our love, for wanting me far away from temptation and for equating my love for him as a lapse from grace. And Guenevere, for her lies and her simpering morality. Their words have sealed their fate. But underlying my anger is a fluttering panic. I carry Launcelot’s child; I must think how to keep it safe. And Mordred too. Arthur is bound to find out the truth—and then what? Two things I know for certain: I must be here at court when Mordred arrives, but he must know me as his mother, Morgana. At the same time, I must think of some way to see this through to a conclusion that will contribute to Arthur’s downfall, while keeping me safe.
The course of action I have devised will fulfill some of my requirements, although the very thought of it wrenches my heart and almost stops the breath in my body. Do I have the courage to see it through? Every step is laden with sorrow as I walk down to the water meadows to pick flowers and herbs for a second concoction, one that may prove far more dangerous and will have far-reaching consequences. At the back of my mind is the thought that it will be to Launcelot’s and Guenevere’s blame if my trick succeeds—but despite myself, I pray that it will not, for it will be Launcelot who, at the end, holds the fate of the kingdom in his hands and who may yet save it if he proves to be all that I once thought him.
After my seemingly innocent posy is gathered, I again prepare the brew in secret. I cannot stop my tears from falling as I utter the incantation, this time to ensure that Launcelot will fall as desperately in love with Guenevere as she is with him: a love so strong that it will last until the day they die. Imagining Launcelot in love with anyone other than me is lacerating, but I try to reassure myself that he may be too wise to fall for my trick; that he may prove strong enough to withstand my magic. But if not, there is some comfort in knowing that while he and Guenevere may yearn for each other, they will also suffer the torment of never being able to consummate that love, for they put their lives in jeopardy if they break their oaths of love and fidelity to the king. Thus Launcelot will learn the true meaning of love and loyalty, and of the heartache that results when one is in conflict with the other, while Guenevere will learn that it is not always possible to gain whatsoever she covets. At the same time she may also discover how easy it is to lose her honor and reputation.
My chance comes at dinner the following day. Guenevere takes great care to seat Launcelot beside her while I have been relegated to a seat some distance away. But before we sit down I persuade the lady on Launcelot’s other side, an elderly dame and therefore perceived as no threat by Guenevere, to change places with me. And so, to Guenevere’s annoyance, the three of us dine in close proximity to one another. On my other side is Viviane. I would rather have any other table companion, but this is an opportunity I have to take. I am shaking with nerves as I produce the silver flask that contains my potion, and place it on the table as the young pages begin to lay out our meat and pour the wine. Will Viviane recognize it for what it truly is—and if she does, will she interfere? I wait until the knight on her other side engages her in conversation before turning to Launcelot and Guenevere.
“This is a special honey mead brewed by my own hands and brought from my home in Annwyn,” I say softly. “I have been saving it for a special occasion, and I can think of nothing more deserving than your arrival at court, Sir Launcelot.” I remove the stopper from the flask and, waving aside the page who darts forward to pour more wine, I pour out a measure of my own concoction into a cup that I set between them. “Your good health, sire.” I raise my own cup in salutation. “And for you, lady, may you live long and prosper, and your children, and your children’s children after you.”
A brief flicker of Guenevere’s eyelid tells me that she understands my words. She will not dare refuse my gift. The future of the kingdom depends on her giving Arthur an heir. She takes a sip and sets the cup down. Launcelot stretches out his hand for it—and in that moment, I change my mind. I cannot say anything, but I stare at him with desperate appeal. He glances at me, and I hear his quick intake of breath. I wonder if I have been recognized.
He sets the cup down, but Guenevere picks it up once more. She looks at him with shining eyes, and holds the cup to his lips. “Will you not share this drink with me, my lord?” she whispers.
Launcelot hesitates, and then obedient
ly takes a long draught of the nectar. And I straighten my spine and brace myself against what is to come.
They take turns to drink my potion, sip by sip, their growing intimacy clear to me if not yet to the court. Finally, Launcelot sets down the empty goblet and turns to Guenevere with such a look of love that I snatch up my own cup and quaff the wine down. It is like swallowing shards of glass. Guenevere meets his gaze, and a small, self-satisfied smile curls the corner of her rosebud mouth as she reads in his eyes what she has always longed to see. She leans toward him, and stops abruptly as she becomes conscious of her surroundings once more. And I … I cannot tear my eyes away from the knowledge dawning on Launcelot’s face: that he loves this young woman and will have her if he can.
It is only then that I awaken to the danger I have unleashed. With my preparations I have ensured that Guenevere will never bear a child to Arthur. More to the point, although I know she has always loved Launcelot, all would have been safe while he still loved me. With this new potion, I have ensured that Launcelot now loves her, and that they will love each other until the day they die. I grip both hands across my stomach in deathly fear and remorse. Will the spell of barrenness I’ve cast on Guenevere extend to a liaison with Launcelot, if they should ever dare to consummate their love? Or will she, like me, bear Launcelot’s child? I have no way of knowing, nor can I undo what I have done, for in drinking the potion they have become irresistible to each other. Their fate is sealed—and possibly mine as well. All I can do is await the consequences, and hide my anguish as best I may.
“Who are you really, lady?”
A soft voice on my other side awakens me to further danger. I turn to Viviane, smoothing my face into a mask of indifference.
“I am Nimue from Annwyn,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. She is not looking at me, she is watching Launcelot and Guenevere laughing together. “What have you done?” she murmurs.
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