“If I find him, I shall kill him.”
The silence that follows Mordred’s pronouncement is absolute and profound.
“Why would you want to do that?” Gawain asks cautiously.
“Because I mean to inherit Camelot, of course, and I will let no one stand in my way.” Mordred’s tone reflects his scorn for their dullness in missing the obvious. “The king has no heir by Guenevere. And I am his only son.”
“Begotten on his sister,” Agravaine points out.
“What of it? To my way of thinking, that makes me twice the legitimate heir. But my mother may well disagree with me. She has long schemed against Arthur to reclaim what she believes was hers by right. If Owain is truly her son, then he stands in line as her legitimate heir—but only while he lives.” Again, there is a silence as the brothers ponder his words.
“You have a far lesser claim than I do,” Mordred points out, adding, “and even though the king will not anoint me as his heir, he’ll never forgive Gaheris for slaying your mother, his sister, either. You are all tainted in his eyes.”
“But we are as much in line to succeed Arthur as Owain is,” Gawain says quietly. “Are you planning to kill us too?”
Mordred grunts, but does not reply.
“If you are searching for the Sangreal with murder in your heart, you may as well give up the quest right now,” Gawain continues, perhaps hoping to change the subject and keep the peace.
“I have as much chance as any of finding it,” Mordred boasts. “Besides, who among any of us has a pure heart?”
“Galahad,” says Gawain.
“Who is Galahad?” Gaheris asks.
“He is the son of Launcelot and Elaine of Carbonek.”
The shock is so great I loosen my hold on the branch, and almost fall. I cannot believe I have heard aright.
“Galahad considers himself so worthy of respect that he has occupied the Siege Perilous at the Round Table. But he comes from tainted stock,” Mordred sneers. “You only have to look at how devoted his father is to the queen. Launcelot loves Guenevere beyond anything, and everyone knows it. Only my father, the king, seems blind to their betrayal. But that’s not the worst of it. He has betrayed other young women too. Elaine of Astolat died of love for Launcelot after he wore her favor in combat and led her to believe that they would wed. And Galahad’s own mother, Elaine of Carbonek, suffered at Launcelot’s hands. He says that Elaine seduced him into her bed with the use of a love potion, and he swears that he left her as soon as he found out the truth. He will not accept that he was at fault, nor will he offer the lady his support and protection. It seems she is estranged from her own family, and she kept Galahad hidden away and both her family and Launcelot ignorant of the boy’s existence. When Elaine of Carbonek finally brought her son to court to meet Launcelot, I thought the queen would die of rage. In fact, she banished Launcelot from her sight for quite some time.”
“I heard that Elaine managed to get him to lie with her and give her a child by assuming the guise of the queen herself,” says Agravaine.
I am torn between laughter and fury. Galahad is Launcelot’s son! No wonder that, when I met him, I thought of his father. And when I looked on Launcelot, Galahad came into my mind. I, who thought I could read men’s hearts and minds; how could I have been so blind! And yet I cannot help but feel a grim amusement over the situation. It seems that I am not the only one to have tricked Launcelot into making love to someone other than the queen! Not that another child is likely to result from our recent coupling; I have gone too far in age to bear any more children.
“Twice the shame for Launcelot then, that he would believe that he was lying with the queen. But however it came about, Galahad is bastard born and therefore unfit to find the Sangreal.”
“Should the son be judged by the father?” Gawain’s clear, cold sense silences Mordred, particularly when he continues, “For if that is so, you should look to your own heritage, Mordred.”
It is a fair comment, and it bites my conscience with the venom of an adder’s strike. Mordred’s birth, his very existence, was by my hand and through trickery—and that one fatal decision has led me on to all that has happened throughout my life. Would that I could change the present by changing the past, for there is so much that I now regret and would undo if it was possible! I try to seek comfort from the notion that perhaps, one day, I shall learn how to traverse time and, even better, how to reverse it. Until then, however, I must live with the consequences.
The conversation drifts into a drowsy murmur, and thence into sleep. I stay on a little longer, mulling over what I have heard. It grieves me that my son has not seen the danger into which his anger and hurt pride might lead him. But, unwittingly, he has warned his cousins of his vaulting ambition. I could not mistake their shock, their horror, as they heard of Mordred’s intention, and I hope that Gawain, at least, will now try to steer him along a wiser path.
For myself, I am more determined than ever to keep Marie’s birth a secret from Mordred. And for love of my son Owain, I know that I must go in search of him, in order to warn him and so protect him from his older brother’s jealousy and lust for power.
But what has most upset me is the startling revelation of Galahad’s birth. I try to calculate when Launcelot lay with Elaine of Carbonek. It must have been after our time together at Joyous Garde if the girl needed to assume the guise of the queen. This leads me to wonder if their bedding marked the start of a new relationship between Launcelot and the queen, but then I remember his haste with me and I think not. Nevertheless I am haunted by the fear that our coupling might prompt him to steal into Guenevere’s bedchamber for another taste of forbidden love, and come to an understanding of how he has been tricked once more. Worse: it would lead to their deaths if they were found out. Not only would I lose the man I love, I would also lose my chance of the crown, for the court would unite in support of Arthur while my kingdom would slip even further from my grasp. Now I most bitterly regret giving way to desire, and can only hope and pray that Launcelot will honor my warning to keep our meeting in the forest a closely guarded secret.
I must have dozed off on the branch, for I wake to the dawn chorus as birds open sleepy eyes, fluff up feathers and warble their greetings to the new day. A quick check reveals the Orkney brothers and my son are also astir and I am gripped with alarm by the thought that I have no idea where Owain might be if he is not at Rheged, and that Mordred could well come across him before I have a chance to warn him. I stretch out my wings, hoping that the sun’s early rays will warm my feathers and ease my aching joints. I am not as young as I was, and I am used to sleeping in a bed rather than on a branch.
From my perch high in the treetops I scan the countryside to determine the direction in which I should fly, already dreading the long journey to Rheged. If only I could transform myself into a winged beast, something big and powerful, something that could effortlessly cruise on the currents of the wind without the expense of so much energy!
Unbidden, the image of a silvery white unicorn comes into my mind. “Aleph,” I breathe, remembering how I’d once asked him if unicorns could fly. I’ve never tried to transform into a unicorn before, nor have I visited that Otherworld since Merlin withdrew his patronage from me. Can I do it without revealing my true self?
I close my eyes and feel my way back into that Otherworld and the creatures that inhabited it. I think of Aleph, imagining myself within a smooth silvery coat, with a flowing tail and a silver horn on my brow. I go into myself and breathe deeply, sinking into the soul of a unicorn.
My whole body is falling; I hear the crack of breaking branches, feel the crunch of impact as I hit the ground. My eyes fly open and I realize I have succeeded in my transformation, but that I should have given more thought to the commencement of it. Too late, I understand the danger I have brought upon myself. The Orkney brothers stand frozen mid-gesture, transfixed by my unexpected appearance. But Mordred has already snatched up his bow and is busy n
ocking an arrow into the string.
“The creature is mine!” he shouts.
Panic-stricken I spin around and race for my life. An arrow flies past my shoulder, and I pick up speed, dodging the trees and brambles that block my path. I feel the pinprick of another shaft, and wonder if it has drawn blood. I hear the thud of running footsteps behind me, and know that Mordred has given chase, probably joined by his cousins. I dare not look back to see how many are in pursuit. The forest is thicker here; it closes us in under a green canopy. Tightly knit branches bar my way and snag my mane so I am forced to duck and weave, tactics that possibly save my life, for arrows are flying everywhere now, shot from more than one bow. If ever there was a time for a unicorn to be able to fly, it is now!
I spy a gap in the trees and aim straight for it, wondering how I might outwit my pursuers. I notice the sparkling drops of dew that ornament the delicate filaments of a spider web, and I crouch low to avoid it as I flash past. In the next instant I know what I must do. A quick chant and I check my speed slightly, praying to the gods that my trap will work.
Shouts and curses tell me that my spell has been successful, and I pause in my headlong flight and turn to watch from behind a sheltering leafy screen. The web has grown into a net of tough, sticky strings that stretches from one side of the gap to the other. The Orkney brothers and Mordred have run straight into it. Their swords flash silver as they try to hack their way through, but the more they flail about trying to extricate themselves, the tighter they become bound within its coils.
I am able to continue my search for Owain in safety, although what has happened has served as a warning that I must change my guise in a hurry rather than risk encountering another hunting party. I say the spell of transformation and after a moment as a mortal, during which I check myself for wounds, I once again fly free, but with reluctance and a great deal of regret. Brief as it was, I enjoyed my time as a unicorn.
*
Before I reach Rheged—and to my relief—I come across Owain traveling toward a secret glade within a dense forest. I circle several times, marveling how, in the time I have been away, my son seems to have come into his own and is now becoming a fine young man. He is wearing full armor, and is accompanied by a sturdy steed. A moving patch of dun yellow close by catches my eye. Curious, I fly closer to identify the creature. It is a lion! Fear slows my wings and I almost drop from the sky, until I remember Owain has tamed this fiercesome creature. It is his pet—and his protector. It comforts me to realize that Owain does not travel alone. I am about to reveal myself as his mother, so that I may give him both the warning about Mordred and also my blessing, when I hear the blast of a horn. A party of knights approaches. They are mounted, and in full armor, just like my son, and I wonder what trouble they are expecting. Concerned for my son’s safety, I fly toward them to find out.
One of the knights dismounts. “Show yourself, Esclados!” he shouts. “Be prepared to defend your sacred spring!” There is a stone slab underneath the pine tree in which I’ve settled. The knight pours water upon it, and at once a wild wind shrieks through the forest, shaking the trees so hard that it takes all my strength to cling onto my branch. A heavy rain begins, teeming straight down like a waterfall so that we are all soaked and shivering. Thunderclaps echo through the forest, loud as the trumpets of doom, while vivid stripes of lightning blast through the air and strike the ground. The knights cry out in fear, while I hang on to my branch and wait for the storm to pass. This is no ordinary storm, and I wonder what trickery has brought it about.
At last weak threads of sunlight filter through the black cover of cloud, the wind dies, and the trees drip with moisture.
“Where is that coward, Owain?” cries one of the knights. “He vowed to defeat the keeper of the sacred spring, having said that he would be first in line to challenge Esclados when he came. More, he promised that he would kill the tyrant and free his subjects.”
“Hold your tongue and let Owain speak for himself when he gets here,” says their leader. “And if Owain does not come, then it will be to your glory to mount the first challenge.”
“Who calls me a coward?” Owain has caught up to the party, and now he bursts through the screen of bushes. His helm is on and his lance is at the ready. The waiting knight reaches for his own lance and readies himself to meet the attack.
Owain charges at him and they clash with such force that both lances split and shatter into pieces. Owain has dealt such a mighty blow that the knight loses his balance and falls from his horse. There, on the ground, he cries mercy. And my son takes off his helm to reveal his true identity. In turn, the vanquished knight takes off his own helm, revealing himself as a somewhat chastened Sir Kay. I am proud of my son, who has proved himself a true warrior, and pleased to see Sir Kay taken down after his sneering words. The other knights also reveal themselves, and led by their leader, the king, they applaud and congratulate him. Even a grudging tribute is paid by Kay. But they clamor with questions about Esclados, and won’t be quietened until Owain tells them that he has already defeated Escalados in battle, and that the much-feared tyrant is dead.
“I came on ahead, and managed to defeat Esclados on my own,” Owain tells them, with no hint of boastfulness. “In return, I have won the gratitude of all his subjects, along with a lady’s hand in marriage. Her name is Laudine, who was once the wife of Esclados.”
“You killed the husband and then married his wife?” Arthur’s tone is incredulous.
Owain gives a small smile. “Not yet, for she calls me still too young. But I fell in love with the lady, and would not depart from her. With the aid of her serving maid, Lunete, I persuaded her that I was the only knight capable of protecting her sacred spring from intruders, while those others in her court who might have taken my place had they the courage to do so, joined in urging her to accept me as her husband and protector. Once we are wed, I mean to do all in my power to live up to the honor she has bestowed on me.”
“In the absence of anyone else from King Arthur’s court,” Kay sneers.
“That’s enough, Kay!” Arthur’s tone leaves no room for argument. “You were bested by a man you called a ‘coward’, and don’t you forget it.”
After the knights have congratulated Owain on his coming nuptials, he invites them to ride to his castle for a feast. Intrigued, I fly some little way behind them, for it is news to me that my son now possesses a castle, and I long to know more. But I am tired of my feathery appearance now, and I need to resume a mortal’s shape so that I may issue my warning and depart. I dare not reveal myself while Arthur and his men keep company with Owain, and so I wait outside in the courtyard, fuming impatiently, hoping to catch him on his own.
Finally, tiring of the pretense, I retreat into a barn and once more become myself. As Morgana, I beg parchment and sharpened quill from the porter and write a message to my son, requesting he come out to meet me in a place where we shall be safe from prying eyes.
“Why are you here, Mother?” he greets me when at last he comes. His tone is cool, distant, and I hear the echoes of a child abandoned and ignored. I am full of remorse, and take him in my arms in an effort to reassure him that he is loved.
I hear a low growl. It is Owain’s lion, there to protect him from his enemies—and seemingly even from his mother! Owain stands still within my embrace, making no effort to return it. I release him and he steps back and, with arms folded, surveys me gravely.
“I am here to see you. I have missed you.” How can I explain to Owain that I do love him, but that I love Marie more; that I have found it increasingly difficult to spend time away from that child of my heart, living proof of the love between her father and me? I read the disbelief on Owain’s face as he listens to my words, and understand that he has grown beyond the soft words, the sweetmeats and treats that have won him over in the past. He is a young man now, able to make up his own mind and judge me accordingly. The lion has come to his side; he fondles its ears in a gesture that spea
ks poignantly of his capacity for affection, while marking how wide and deep the chasm between us has become.
“I have not been a good mother to you,” I say quietly. “I know that, and I regret it. But you are still my son, Owain. And I love you dearly.”
“That may be. But you did not love my father, nor have you been a good wife to him.”
Unable to deny it, I bow my head. What he says next bites at my conscience, and saddens me.
“Urien is dead.” His face twists in misery, but his gaze is flint hard as it rests on me. “I sent word to Camelot begging you to come, for he was asking for you toward the end, but no one knew where to find you.”
I can see that Owain is grief-stricken, and I try to find words to excuse my absence. And my negligence. I cannot tell him about Marie, so instead tell him that I’ve been at my Castle Perilous, and that no one has known of my whereabouts.
“You should have been at Rheged, with us.”
“I know that now, and I am more sorry than I can say that I was not there at your father’s passing. It is true I did not love him, but he was a good man and a good husband.” My words are heartfelt, and the tears of remorse I shed are genuine. After some hesitation, Owain puts his arms around me to comfort me. I am surprised that he is touched by my distress, and determine that I shall do all in my power to win back his love and respect.
“I was on my way to Rheged to find you because I have reason to believe that your life is in danger,” I tell him.
“Who threatens me? And why?”
“The threat comes from Sir Mordred, one of the knights at King Arthur’s court.” I wonder if Owain has heard about Mordred’s parentage. He already holds me in contempt and I am reluctant to earn his further scorn by spelling out all the details. No doubt he will make enquiries, and will find out soon enough without my having to tell him about it now.
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