“I’ll go at once, madame.” The girl pauses. “As soon as I can find a horse to take me.”
I raise my hand in acknowledgment, and she scurries away. I hope she knows how to ride such an animal. It is fortunate she has not thought to ask for my name; perhaps she believes the king already knows it as he is expecting my gift. I mentally congratulate myself on the quick-thinking that has smoothed my path to success. Now, there is nothing else for me to do but return to the priory, and wait impatiently for news.
While I wait, I return to the sacred pool to try to determine my future. This time the still, dark water reflects my image—but shows me nothing else. I am alarmed that I may be losing my magical powers, until I remember that I was able to change my appearance and also weave the cloak for Arthur without any difficulty. Why then, should this be different? I am frustrated by my lack of success, but suspect that my actions have offended the spirits and this is their punishment.
I look into the pool and think of all that I have done since last I saw a vision. I have abandoned my son. The thought of Mordred brings my anxiety and frustration to the fore. He is in danger; he will need me at Camelot to deflect Arthur’s questions about his parentage if he arrives before my plan succeeds. But I cannot return, not yet, not until I have news that Arthur is dead. I try to calm my fear as I continue to itemize what else I have done since leaving the priory. I have met and lain with Launcelot. I have tricked Accolon, a trick that brought about his death. I have tried to kill Arthur once, and this time I will succeed. In addition, I have tricked his wife into barrenness and into an ill-advised liaison with Arthur’s most trusted knight. I have also imprisoned and maybe killed Merlin, the man who acted as a father to both Arthur and me. I have told so many lies I can scarce remember every one of them. It is a litany of black deeds and, as I gaze into the water, I feel intense shame—until I remind myself that whatever I have done was only because of what was done to me when I was but an innocent child. Nevertheless, I humble myself and ask pardon of the spirits of the pool if I have offended them. But the waters reflect nothing other than my image back at me. Perhaps the spirits are telling me I am the true ruler of the realm, not Arthur. I try to summon his face, but the water stays dark as blood.
I wait for news, and I wait. And finally word comes from a traveler seeking refuge at the priory for the night. “There has been another attempt on the king’s life, with a death beyond explanation,” he tells the gate-keeper. Unfortunately she has neither the wit nor the good sense to ask anything further, but passes on the news to others until, inevitably, it filters down to me.
It is the sign for which I have been waiting. At once I take my leave of the prioress and, with a confident heart, set off toward Camelot. As I go, I make plans and dream of the future. With the baby’s birth still some months away, I shall start with a progress around the country to win the hearts and minds of my subjects, so that they will accept me in Arthur’s stead. I must also ensure that they will acknowledge my son’s right to rule after I am gone, but I foresee no obstacle to this for once they meet him, they will surely love my son as I do.
Although I am so close to realizing my dream, the thought of Guenevere and Launcelot is a constant shadow. I want them out of my sight and out of my life and yet, when I pass the guards and enter the gate, I cannot help looking up at the ramparts of the castle, seeking the one man above all that I long to see. But the rampart is bare, although the courtyard is busy with traders, with dogs and children, with knights and squires and visitors, all in a bustle about their business. I hand my mount over to the groom, and stand for a moment to look about me, enjoying the noise and movement after the silence of the priory. It occurs to me that they all look far too cheerful when, by rights, they should be mourning the death of their king. Have I misunderstood the traveler’s message? I am suddenly assailed by doubt.
A group of women comes out onto the ramparts then, and I squint up my eyes to see more clearly. The focus of the group is Guenevere; she is easy enough to identify with her golden locks, her youth and beauty. If she is grieving over her dead husband there are no obvious signs of it. In fact, I have never seen her so animated. She gestures as she speaks, and the ladies lean closer, shaking their heads as they listen. It appears to be her usual entourage, but without Launcelot. I wonder where he is and whether they are already planning their nuptials. My heart turns over within my breast. But there are more pressing issues for me to take care of right now: the arrangements for Arthur’s funeral and the court’s acknowledgment of my succession to the crown.
I lower my head to avoid recognition and continue through the great door of the castle, only to find the same commotion going on inside. I make my way to the Great Hall, ready to take my place at the Round Table, albeit briefly. I’ve already determined that the Round Table will go once the knights have accepted my right to rule in Arthur’s stead, and I shall preside over future discussions of state business.
I give my name to the guard who pushes open the great oaken door. I rush inside before he can prevent me and gaze quickly around the room, looking for the man I love.
I stop dead, feeling as if I have turned to stone. The hum of conversation quietens; all swivel in their seats to stare at me.
“It is my pleasure to see you returned to court once more, Morgana,” my brother says quietly. “I ask your pardon to excuse us; as you see we are busy here with affairs of state and there is much to discuss.”
“Arthur.” It takes all my courage to say his name, to bow my head in obeisance, and to exit the Great Hall without falling over. Once outside, I lean against the stone wall and mop the perspiration from my brow. My heart shudders with remembered fright and the realization that I had allowed wishful thinking to triumph over caution. What has gone wrong with my plan? How have I managed to so mistake the situation?
I prop myself against the wall for several long moments, relishing its cooling touch for my whole body feels as though it burns with a wild fever. Only when I can trust my shaking legs to carry me do I move. I flee to the garden, and there try to order my scattered thoughts while I wait until such time as the knights may have finished their discussion. Finally, when I judge it safe to do so, I go in search of the Orkney brothers to seek answers to the questions that torment me. But first, I ask after Mordred—and the news I hear is so shocking that it puts everything else out of my mind.
“Our mother is dead, and Gaheris has been banished from the court.” Agravaine’s tone is unusually grave.
“My sister dead? How? And where is Mordred?”
“Don’t worry, Morgana, he is safe.” Agravaine puts his hand on my arm to calm me. “He and Gareth have come to court. But Gaheris …” He turns his face away. I look to Gawain for an answer.
“Gaheris slew our mother,” Gawain says abruptly.
“What?” I recall how fond Gaheris was of Morgause, and she of him. There must surely be some mistake.
“Our mother was in bed with Lamorak when Gaheris arrived to fetch Mordred. He was so incensed to see them together that he … he cut off her head.”
It’s an appalling image. I put my hands over my eyes to try to block it, but Agravaine’s words are now etched on my brain. I am finding it difficult to breathe.
“It was Lamorak’s father, Pellinore, who murdered our father,” Gawain reminds me. “We swore then to take our revenge.”
I try to collect my scattered thoughts, to make sense of this shocking affair. “But why slay your mother in so brutal a fashion? Why not rather put an end to Lamorak’s life, if you think such a bloody retaliation is warranted?”
“That was Gaheris’s intention, but Lamorak escaped. But he will be found, and when he is, he will be slain.”
“I always suspected Gaheris was wild but this …” My voice is shaking. Morgause and I were never close, but tears are coursing down my cheeks at the thought of her dreadful end. “This is an act of madness,” I finish in a whisper.
Agravaine puts his hand on my arm
. “It’s a bad business,” he says soberly, “but, Morgana, you must be strong for Mordred. He has taken our mother’s death to heart, for in your absence she became his mother too. He is inconsolable.”
“Where is he?” It is inconceivable that my son should love my sister more than me. This thought is followed by another: that Morgause’s death will make it easier for me to regain Mordred’s love and trust. The thought shames me, even while I acknowledge its truth.
“He is in the kitchen, with Gareth. We think it best that the king should not associate Gareth with Gaheris until he’s had time to get over his anger, for he is outraged to hear that his sister has been slain.”
I nod, accepting that Agravaine’s words make sense. But I am puzzled too. “What is Gareth doing in the kitchen?”
For the first time, Agravaine smiles. “He has become a lowly kitchen hand. And he has been christened Beaumains by Sir Kay, who thought him ill-suited even to that task.”
Fair hands. Well named. A knight’s hands may become scarred and disfigured in battle, but Gareth is not yet old enough for that. But even from a young age a kitchen churl’s hands will be marked by clumsy knife cuts and burns from turning and handling a hot spit. I wonder if Gareth’s fair hands already bear the brand of his new trade, and I hurry to the kitchen to find him and my son, wiping tears from my eyes as I go.
There, Gareth greets me soberly, while warning me in an undertone not to seem too friendly, nor to betray his true identity. But I cannot restrain my joy on seeing Mordred again. I find him standing close to a barrel of apples, practicing his juggling. He drops several apples when he notices me. He makes no effort to pick them up, but folds his arms and stands staring at me.
“Mordred.” I gather him up and smother him with kisses but he remains rigid. Finally, I release him, marveling at the changes time has wrought. He is no longer a child, a little boy; he is fast taking on the appearance of the handsome man he will become.
“Don’t you remember me? I’m your mother.”
He takes a few steps away from me, but otherwise makes no acknowledgment that he’s heard or understood my words. I rush to reassure him.
“I’m so sorry I’ve been away from you for such a long time. But you have been ever in my heart, my darling. I’ve missed you so much.”
He regards me gravely. “You left me,” he says, “and I forgot all about you. Morgause is my mother now. Was my mother.” The desolation in his voice brings the sting of tears to my eyes once more. I am appalled to think he may have witnessed Gaheris’s attack. My imagination has produced images that are shocking enough. How much worse for Mordred if he actually saw Morgause die.
“I am here, Mordred, and I’ll take care of you. I swear I’ll never leave you again.” My voice shakes as I put my hand on my heart to solemnize my oath. How bitterly I regret that my scheming has come to naught. Instead of being able to promise Mordred a kingdom as an inheritance, I must make other plans, both for Mordred and my unborn child. Marriage to Urien is the obvious solution but, looking at Mordred, I wonder if he will agree to accompany me to Rheged. I know that I cannot bear to be parted from him again and besides, I have made him a vow.
“If you wish, we can go back to the priory and live quietly there. I shall be a mother to you once more. We won’t be parted again, I swear it.” Even as I say the words, I yearn to be back there, free of the affairs of court and alone with my son once more.
He regards me with a scornful expression. “I cannot go back to the priory with you,” he says. “I will not. My place is here at Camelot, with my brothers.”
Stricken, I stare at him. He lifts his chin and stares back at me. In that gesture he looks exactly like his father—who is alive and well, and still a threat to my son. The priory will be a place of safety for him. I must convince him to accompany me there. It suddenly comes to me that no one has mentioned the attempt on Arthur’s life, and I wonder at it. Even though I’d misunderstood the words used by the traveler, an attempt had certainly been made for he’d said that a death had occurred, and there must be repercussions from that. It is essential that I remove both Mordred and myself from danger.
“When did you arrive at Camelot? How long have you been here?” I look to Gareth for answers.
He considers for a few long moments. “We arrived just after the moon was full. It is now a small crescent, but it is beginning to wax again.”
At least two weeks then. “And have you and Mordred met with the king in that time?” I ask carefully.
“No. The king is extremely angry over his sister’s death. He is also distracted by the recent attempt on his life. The court has been in uproar over it all. We thought it well to pretend we are merely the new kitchen staff and as such, he has not noticed us. But Gawain will make sure to win his favor again, and then he will take us to the king and all will be well. It is only a matter of waiting for the proper time.”
“Camelot is a much finer court than we kept at Lothian,” Mordred says eagerly. “I will not leave here, not for anything.” He folds his arms against me once more. “And you can’t make me go.”
“There’s no need to make any decisions now,” I say hastily, trying to keep my tears in check as I look at his indignant, rebellious face. “We’ll talk of this again … when you’re not so upset.” As I walk away, the thought occurs to me that I handled our meeting very badly. I didn’t tell him how sad I was to hear of my sister’s death, nor did I commiserate with him on losing his foster mother. Instead I barreled straight in and demanded that he accept me back into his heart.
Merlin was right in one thing, I think, continuing to berate myself as I join the members of the court now assembling for dinner in the great hall. I lack judgment and am ever too quick to act. I can only hope that I have not alienated Mordred for all time.
It is clear, from the way that Guenevere has arranged the seating at table, that the Orkney brothers are far from her favor, and I am dumped in with them. While she has not dared to demote Gawain to a lesser table, Agravaine and I have been banished to sit at a separate table among the scribes and other minor dignitaries at court. If Agravaine resents such treatment, he doesn’t show it. I seethe with rage but Agravaine is his usual cocky self. I look about for Launcelot, expecting to find him in his customary place on the queen’s left, but there is no sign of him. I scan the seated guests and servants, looking for the young girl to whom I entrusted the cloak—but there is no sign of her either.
It is Agravaine who unwittingly answers my unspoken questions.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard about the latest attempt on the king’s life,” he says. “A young lass came with a beautiful cloak that she said was a gift for the king from a well-to-do lady. She said that the king was expecting the gift, although he claimed to have no knowledge of it. However, he was greatly pleased with the cloak, and was about to put it on when the Lady of Avalon stopped him.”
Viviane again! I clench my hands into fists under the table at the thought of that meddling witch.
“Lady Viviane asked the young girl to put it on first, ‘so that the king can see its true beauty,’ she said, although I think she suspected even then that there was something amiss with it.”
“Something amiss? Whatever can you mean?”
“As soon as the girl put it on, it burst into flames and killed her.” Agravaine’s eyes widen with remembered fear as he concludes, “There was great magic, dark magic, involved in the making of the cloak, the king is sure of it. He believes in the girl’s innocence, that she was someone’s dupe, but unfortunately no one thought to ask where she came from, or interrogated her about the lady who gave her the cloak. We were unsure where to start making enquiries until a trader arrived yesterday searching for his horse. He told us that it had been hired by a young girl to make the journey here and back to Glastonbury, but that she had not returned it within the stipulated period of hire. So now we know where the girl came from, and the king has sent Sir Launcelot to make enquiries.”
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Agravaine sits back in his chair, and his lips quirk in amusement. “I don’t suppose you’d know anything about all this, would you, Aunt? You’ve just come from there, haven’t you?”
“Of course I know nothing about it!” I snap. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.” I stare him down, determined to establish my innocence in the whole affair. Yet I feel a lump of dread in my chest; sorrow and regret over the death of an innocent young girl, overlaid with anger at being thwarted by the Lady Viviane. I steal a glance in her direction. She is gazing at me, looking thoughtful. The lump of dread grows so large, it threatens to choke me. I would like to drink myself into oblivion; to put an end to this dreadful day with all its shocks and surprises, but I am afraid that I might betray myself if I loosen my wits.
The meal drags on. I long for it to be over—until something happens that sweeps everything else from my mind.
A platter of fruit is brought out and placed on the Round Table. I look at it with envy; my mouth waters as I survey the colorful cornucopia of assorted fruits. I lick my lips, wishing I could choose a sweet, juicy orange from far-off climes to wash the taste of defeat from my mouth. I watch as the platter is offered to Sir Patrise, hoping that any fruit left may be brought to our table, for the meals are plentiful and for the most part platters of fruit are usually ignored. Sir Patrise takes an apple, the largest of them all. Gawain, sitting close by, also chooses an apple, that fruit being ever his favorite. He bites into its crisp, sweet flesh.
Platters of fruit are now being placed on other tables, including our own. I select an orange, and am handed a small silver knife with which to peel it. The talk and laughter continue until the sound of a choking rattle draws everyone’s gaze to Sir Patrise. The knight’s face is red and swollen, and he clutches his throat as he staggers to his feet.
“I … I …” He pitches forward onto the floor; his body jerks in the death agony while a white froth spews from his mouth.
A deep silence falls as the court looks on, stricken with horror at this unexpected disaster. I am the first to move. I have knowledge of healing—and of poisons, for I am convinced that this is no ordinary choking. I kneel beside the knight and check his mouth for any obstruction. There is none. Thereafter I do all in my power to revive him, knowing all the while that my efforts are in vain—he is already dead and gone beyond us all.
I, Morgana Page 17