I fly on and, as I suspected, the tournament is taking place in the field near Camelot where it is always held. The day is fine, the meadow is a rainbow of wildflowers: pink ragged robin and purple selfheal, scarlet poppies and blue forget-me-nots, yellow buttercups and starry white daisies, their colors matched by the gaiety of the pavilions that have been set around the tourney field.
The competitors come out in order, one pair after the other, all going through the same motions. I find it a tedious business, watching knights ride hard at their opponents, slamming into each other with lances at the ready in the hope of unhorsing each other, and fighting in close combat if they do not manage to stay mounted. Some are wounded quite grievously, while others cry mercy as soon as they hit the ground. Launcelot fights like a lion, as always, and I am proud of him although ever fearful when he takes a blow, for I see how he favors his left arm and I fear the old wound will open if he does not protect it sufficiently.
I perch on the rigging of the queen’s pavilion to watch her. She appears agitated, jumping up to pace about and scan the crowd before sitting down to fiddle with her tasseled sash, or her hair. I know she is looking for Launcelot but does not recognize him with his helm in place, although the scarlet sleeve is like a beacon. I notice that the queen’s eyes are drawn more than once to the mysterious knight; each time she blinks and looks away, and I know she is telling herself that it cannot be Launcelot for he would not wear anyone’s favors but her own—and that, of course, he is unable to do. I smile to myself with malicious satisfaction.
Launcelot wins, and keeps on winning. The queen continues to watch him; I read the confusion on her face, and see in the way she shakes her head that she is still not willing to accept him for who he really is. But I see also her desolation as she seeks him among the crowd.
Arthur meanwhile stands with his knights, laughing and joking with them, and urging them on to victory. Launcelot, I notice, keeps his distance when he is not on the tourney field, and does not remove his visor.
Recognizing his duty as a husband at last, Arthur comes to sit beside Guenevere for a short time. “Where is your champion today, my lady?”
“I know not. I cannot see him anywhere,” Guenevere replies in a low voice.
“He must surely come to claim the ninth crystal for you, wife! I know you will not be satisfied unless you have it.”
Guenevere gives a small moan. Arthur smiles at her, apparently indifferent to her distress. “Well, it’s time someone else has the chance of winning!” he says cheerfully. “That knight with the red favor stands out among all the others who have fought so far. I wonder where he hails from?” He jumps up. “I’ll see if I can find out.”
Guenevere stares after Arthur as he hastens away, her expression unreadable. I suspect that if things were bad between them before, they have now become worse. I wonder if she recalls my advice about the need for a passionate relationship in order to have a child. And I wonder when she gave up trying.
As expected, the ninth crystal is awarded to Launcelot at the ceremony following the day’s activities. By then, I’ve transformed myself into a fieldmouse in order to enter the pavilion and run up one of the supporting wooden poles to observe Guenevere’s reaction when it becomes clear that the coveted crystal will not fall into her hands.
I wonder if I have mistaken the situation for, to my surprise, Launcelot removes his helm as Arthur calls out for the knight with the red favor to claim his reward. A gasp ricochets around the room. Guenevere puts her hand to her mouth; she is so pale I wonder if she is going to collapse.
Launcelot comes forward, bows to the king and then to the queen. He takes the crystal from Arthur, and the queen smiles at him. He seems ready to break his promise to Elaine of Astolat and hand his prize to Guenevere after all—but he does not. He thanks them both courteously, and takes his leave. There is complete silence as he walks out of the pavilion and whistles for his mount. The silence isn’t broken until the sound of galloping hooves retreats into the distance.
By then I have scurried down the pole and out of the tent. In the concealing darkness I transform myself into a raven once more. I think to follow Launcelot, but my heart fails me. He will give the crystal to Elaine, I know that now. And then he will probably speak to her father, for having worn her favor he is nigh betrothed to her already. He may even bed her—and that I cannot bear to witness. So I fly back to the priory, and to my Marie who, I am told, has been fretful without me even though the lay sister had the good sense to send for a wet nurse when I did not return in time to feed her.
As I tend the bruises inflicted on my body by Elaine’s stone, I listen for news of Launcelot’s nuptials to the fair maid of Astolat. I hear instead of her death. Sir Ector has called in to the priory seeking shelter for the night. I cannot show myself to him but, when I hear him talking to the guest mistress at the gate, I creep closer to listen. It is a sad tale and I cannot help feeling sorry for the young woman whom I’d envied so fiercely.
“Elaine was in love with Launcelot and he played her false,” Sir Ector says sternly. “His heart was ever unto the queen, but we all hoped that he had seen his error and was preparing to make a new life with a beautiful young woman who loved him. It is said that she told him she would die if she could not have him as a husband.”
“And he refused her?” Sister Ursula’s tone is incredulous.
“Indeed he did. And she fell into such sadness that she called for a boat and asked her brother Lavaine to sail downriver with her to Camelot. I don’t know if she hoped to see Launcelot and change his mind, but she died of grief along the journey. The boat floated beneath the castle walls and Lavaine brought it in to the jetty, where they were greeted with lamentations and prayers for her soul. The queen was furious with Launcelot over the affair of the ninth crystal and other things besides, but there seemed to be some reconciliation between them until this happened. Now she reproaches Launcelot for being an unfeeling cur, although we do wonder if he only took up with Elaine because he was banished from the court by Guenevere.”
“The poor lady. She shall have our prayers here, at the priory.”
Elaine has my prayers too—I know exactly how she felt. The wound of losing Launcelot sliced so deep that even now it has not healed; I think it never will. I did not die for love, at least not openly. But inside, my heart has shriveled into something hard and small. I am riven with despair and longing, with love and with hate. At least I have Marie; without her I think I would have lost the will to live. I leave my hiding place and hurry to find her, to hold her in my arms and kiss her; to promise her that I shall never leave her and that we shall be together always.
I make these vows in good faith, while I wait for Urien to send for me. I am determined not to go, nor can anyone make me. But no one comes from Rheged. Instead, just when I’m starting to feel safe and secure, armed men appear at the priory. They tell me that King Arthur was enraged to discover that I have not gone to Rheged as I’d promised, and they have come to escort me there so that I may be married to Urien without delay.
My immediate reaction is a feeling of relief that Marie is asleep in her cradle and out of their sight. I open my mouth to protest, to refuse to go, but the soldier at their head produces a letter for me from Urien, and a written message also from Arthur. I quickly scan the message from Urien; it professes his undying love for me and his hope that I will hasten to be with him. I cast the message aside and unscroll the parchment from Arthur.
You have agreed to this marriage, Morgana, and I hold you now to your promise, both for the sake of the realm, for we need Urien’s allegiance now more than ever, and also for your own future. After the trouble you have caused, and the trouble now being stirred up by our son, you will never be welcome at Camelot again. Be warned also that should you fail me in this, you will be sent into exile across the sea, under escort but without a retinue or any means with which to support yourself. I urge you therefore to consider your future carefully, and cho
ose wisely.
There is no salutation, just his signature: Arthur, High King of Britain.
I am trapped, and I know it. My thoughts scurry around like moths flittering at a lantern. I am about to fetch Marie when I stop. If I take Marie to Rheged, it could so upset Urien that he might well make trouble for me with Arthur. The whole court could find out about her existence, including Launcelot. And Mordred.
I come to the inescapable conclusion that I shall have to leave her here, in safety and in seclusion, while I journey to Rheged. I feel the painful tug of separation; milk leaks from my breasts and I hastily fold my arms over my chest. I try to comfort myself with the thought that, once I am married to Urien, once he is sure of me, he will not want to hold me captive against my wishes. Surely I shall be able to find excuses to visit Marie, although the thought of leaving her now is almost enough to undo me altogether.
Knowing I have no choice, I agree to go with the guard. But he comes with me to oversee the packing of my belongings, and so I am unable to say farewell to my beloved child or hold her in my arms one last time. It takes all my courage and self-control to hold my tears in check as I say goodbye to the prioress and at the same time, in a low whisper, bid her take care of Marie in my absence.
She is kind, this prioress. Although disapproving of my actions, I have seen her with Marie, seen how her face softens as she gazes on my small frog, how she lapses into the sort of baby talk entirely unfitting for a woman in her high position. She loves Marie, they all do, and I know my baby will be safe here. Nevertheless I am in deep sorrow and despair as we ride away, and I cast longing glances over my shoulder as the priory dwindles and finally disappears altogether.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
What to say of my life with Urien? Seasons turn, and turn again, and my mouse-brown hair becomes sprinkled with the snowy signs of age. I am a dutiful wife and a competent chatelaine at Rheged, but I also need to spend time at Castle Perilous, that was given to me by Arthur, for his gift was not so generous as I had first supposed. On my first visit, I found the castle in disrepair and its tenants too poor and too dispirited to do the work necessary for the estate to thrive. I accepted the challenge and, using the experience I’d gained at Joyous Garde to educate and train the castle servants and my tenants, we have turned Castle Perilous into a prosperous demesne. I am now proud of my dowry; nevertheless, I maintain a close watch, knowing that my presence keeps my subjects diligent and in good cheer.
But none of this feels like my real life at all. My real life is at the priory with Marie. Each time I visit her, I marvel at the changes, and mourn that I am not there to watch her as she grows from toddler into a young girl. The nuns are loving and kind to her, and I am grateful. To my surprise she calls me “Mamm,” the same word Launcelot used when referring to his own mother.
When I question her, she seems confused. “Is that not what I should call you?”
“You may call me whatever you wish, my darling,” I tell her, thinking that perhaps she has somehow intuited her father’s origins in Brittany across the water. And so I teach her something of the Breton language, but without saying why. It becomes a game between us, but it also helps to keep Launcelot close to my heart, for this was how we sometimes conversed together in our time at Joyous Garde.
But there is another reason to keep me in Rheged at Urien’s side. To my great surprise, we make a child together, a son: Owain. He is a strange child. As he grows older, he ventures further and further afield, always bringing back with him some injured bird or baby animal in want of care. I watch him tend these creatures, and I could swear he communicates with them. I ask him about it, and he frowns at me in puzzlement.
“Of course I can communicate with them. Can’t you?”
I shake my head. “How do you do it? Do you talk to them? Do they talk to you?”
“No. I know what they’re thinking and they know what I’m thinking. There’s no need for words between us.” He shakes his head and his frown deepens. “Isn’t this what always happens between man and beast?”
“No!” I laugh at him, yet I am touched by his earnest care of the creatures he takes in. “You have a gift, Owain. A special gift all of your own.”
He looks pleased by my praise, while I wonder if perhaps this special gift of his might manifest itself in other ways, magical ways, the ways of the Otherworlds. Until now I have shared my gifts and talents with the only person whom I deem worthy enough to succeed me. Mordred has disappointed me in this, and it is Marie who carries my hopes and dreams for the future. She is, after all, the daughter of the true born ruler of the kingdom and also of the bravest knight in all the land. But she is illegitimate, whereas Owain is not. I make a note to watch him more closely in the future for this is something I must consider more carefully. My wands and the objects I stole from Merlin are all safely hidden at the priory. On that first occasion I had to leave them hidden there, closely watched by Arthur’s guard as I was. Thereafter, I deemed it safer to store them where they are at hand when I need them. But the next time I leave the priory I take them back to Rheged with me, thinking to initiate Owain and test his aptitude for the practice of magic. He listens to what I say, but frowns in disapproval when I demonstrate the spell of transformation. I become a raven, imitating his voice, stealing his kerchief, flying in loops and rolls and perching on his head to entertain him.
“I already know about birds,” he tells me. “And I don’t want to play tricks on people.”
Although I am disappointed by Owain’s lack of interest, Marie’s enthusiasm for all I can teach her more than makes up for it. She is an apt pupil. Merlin would have been as proud of her as he was once proud of me. I remember his wisdom, and his patience, and I acknowledge that he was right to call me wild and headstrong. It is an uncomfortable realization; nevertheless I know that I learn a valuable lesson by remembering it.
As she grows older, Marie proves she is as quick and clever as ever I was. She follows me through the secret way of the garden to the scrying pool. I show her my wands. I instruct her in the ancient alphabet of the Druids and make sure she understands how to read the runes so that I may send her secret messages when I am away from the priory. We have not yet visited any of the Otherworlds together, but gradually she is coming to learn what I know. Everything, except for an understanding of the decorated wooden tablets, for they are still a mystery to me. Sometimes I look into the scrying pool, but it stays as dark and mysterious as always.
“Why do you look into the water so intently, Mamm?” Marie asks one day, coming to stand close behind me. I see her face shimmering in the pool, and something twists in my belly, some intuition perhaps that I may once more be blessed with a vision.
“Shh.” I draw her down beside me, and together we sit in silence while I pray to the gods for guidance.
The water ripples. Marie gasps, and quickly puts her hand over her mouth. I know she has seen what I have seen.
A hand holding a golden cup. It looks somehow familiar, and I wonder where I have seen such a thing. And then I remember. It is one of the symbols on Merlin’s tablets. I have identified the other three. The sword—Excalibur. The pentacle—Merlin’s crystal that enables me to cross into Otherworlds. The wand—Merlin’s or mine, symbol of power and magic. And now here is the cup—but I still don’t know what it represents.
“What is it?” Marie voices my question.
“I do not know. Let us be quiet in the hope that the answer may come to us.”
When the answer comes, we do not find it in the scrying pool. A few days later, there is a commotion at the gate; a small party of knights pushes in, asking for food and shelter for the night. At their head is a young man who seems somehow familiar, although I cannot put a name to him. He is in company with some others whom I do not know. I assume they have all come to Camelot during my absence.
I am drawn, for some reason, to the young man, and so I undertake to bring them their bread and wine in the hope of finding out more about th
em.
His name is Galahad, he tells me, and introduces me to his companions.
“Galahad has come to court only recently, and he now occupies the Siege Perilous,” one of them, Sir Perceval, says proudly.
The Siege Perilous! I am impressed. It is the one seat at the Round Table left unoccupied for as long as the table has been there. None would dare sit on it for it was believed that it was reserved for the truest and most worthy knight of all, and that anyone trespassing there would instantly die. Yet Galahad is very much alive.
“We were all seated at dinner,” Perceval says, “when a fair damsel, clad all in white samite, appeared before us. Clasped in her hands was a large golden chalice.
“She called it the Sangreal. Everyone believes this was the chalice used to capture drops of Christ’s blood while He hung on the cross, although it was lost—or hidden from view—thereafter. She begged us to bring the Sangreal to King Pelles’ court in order to heal him of the grievous wounds that have nigh on killed him, for she says that in healing the king we shall also heal his kingdom, which now lies ruined and laid to waste. We have all taken a vow to follow her bidding, although she warned us only the pure of heart would succeed in this quest.”
I have never heard of King Pelles, but I remember Merlin telling me the story of the Sangreal: how a few drops of this elixir are enough to bring even the dying back to life. But he said nothing of its connection to the Christ, only that it was some magical potion that has never existed except in men’s imaginations. I wonder if these young men have mistaken dreams and illusions for reality.
“Is that where you travel to now?” I ask.
“Yes, madame, although we know not where King Pelles dwells, nor do we know where the Sangreal is, for having appeared before us, the damsel then vanished, taking the Sangreal with her.” Galahad looks somewhat shamefaced as he makes the admission, while I stifle a desire to laugh.
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