Gawain nods sadly. “He is distraught. But the queen will comfort him, no doubt.” There is a touch of acid on his tongue. “Perceval has not returned either. He decided to enter holy orders at Sarras, the place where they left the ship, but it seems that he, too, has died. Only Bors has returned to tell us what transpired.”
Merlin’s words, from so long ago and long forgotten, come into my mind. He was talking of alchemy, I recall: the search that continues even now in Camelot for the lodestone that will turn base metal into gold.
To some, those who value riches above all else, this knowledge is the Grail. I wanted you to try, Morgana, so that you would know it cannot be done. Nor is it possible to find the elixir of everlasting life, which is another Grail that others may seek. Some people search all their lives for this Grail, the Sangreal they call it. But none has ever found it, and they still die when their time has been spent. No one has ever managed to turn base metal into gold, or create such an elixir.
The quest for the Sangreal! Did Merlin foresee this search that, apparently, has healed the Maimed King but has caused the death of so many knights, Galahad and Perceval among them? Did he know about the cup even before it appeared to the knights; did he understand its significance from the wooden tablets, the ones I stole from him? I stop unwinding the bandage and instead drum my fingers in frustration as I try to fathom the mystery of what it all means.
“Casting a spell, Morgana?” Gawain asks, with a smile.
“Praying for your continued good health, Gawain,” I say, and continue to unwrap the filthy linen. Mercifully, he stays quiet, for my mind is now wholly taken up with a new thought.
Galahad is dead. That leaves Marie as the sole descendant of a bloodline that traces through the fairest and best knight in the realm right back in time to Joseph of Arimathea, uncle of the Lord Jesus Christ Himself! Truly, Marie should be proud of her Christian heritage. More important, to my way of thinking, she is also the daughter of the rightful heir to this realm. With Owain at her side, I am sure she would have both the wisdom and the courage to rule Camelot after Arthur; sure, too, that if she will allow it I can teach her all the magic she will need to keep the kingdom united and safeguard it from the enemies beyond our shores. I recall what the tablets seemed to be telling me, and shiver. If I am correct, there is much to be achieved—and much to be averted—before the kingdom can be kept safe for my son and daughter.
“I was sorry to hear of the death of Urien,” Gawain says. “I know it was not a love match for you, Morgana, but he was a good man. The king will miss him; we all will.”
“As will I.” My words are true enough. Since hearing Owain’s news I’ve been conscious that the security inherent in my marriage to Urien has now been removed. I can no longer rely on his name and reputation to protect me. A shiver blows through me like a chill wind.
“Is Owain safe? Did he accompany the king on his return to Camelot?” I ask Gawain in sudden concern.
His lips twitch into a smile. “Your son is well, but he did not come back with us, to Sir Kay’s great relief, so I am told.” I cannot tell Gawain I already know the story of Kay’s discomfiture, and so I listen as Gawain retells it, with praise for my son as he does so. But Gawain has other news that also brings comfort to me.
“The king asked Owain to return to Camelot with him, but I’m told he declined. Instead, he has taken his new wife, and his lion, to Rheged, to fulfill his role as his father’s heir, for Urien’s death has left his kingdom without a ruler and his people without a shepherd.” He gives me a long, measuring glance, and I know he is thinking that I should have been there all along, fulfilling my duty as Urien’s wife. And so I should, but I believe I am more needed here and so I merely nod my thanks, and move on. I rejoice to know that Owain is safely out of reach of Mordred’s influence and malice.
The young man next in line seems to bear some resemblance to Gawain. I look between them to check the likeness.
“Guinglain. He is my son.” I hear the pride in Gawain’s voice. Indeed, it is not misplaced, for the youth is built like his warrior father but he has the dark beauty of his mother, Dame Ragnell. “He is a voice of reason among the younger knights. Would that there were more of them to temper Mordred’s mischief.”
I nod as I tend the gash along Guinglain’s arm. It is a surface wound only; nothing of great concern and I soothe it with a healing lotion, and tell him it must be kept clean.
Gawain introduces me. “This is your great aunt, Morgana.” Great aunt! How ancient that makes me feel! The youth is staring at me with much curiosity, and I wonder what he has been told about me, and whether he believes it all. But his smile is sweet and he tells me how glad he is to meet me at last, seemingly without irony.
From Guinglain I move on to Lionel, brother of Bors, and thence on to the other wounded knights. They are all wary at first—I can just imagine the stories that have circulated about the court in my absence—but as they relax under my healing touch, they begin to regale me with stories of their own quest for the Sangreal, most of which strike me as foolhardy in the extreme, although I do not say so. Instead, I give praise where it’s due (“such courage, such honor”) and commiserate when it seems appropriate (“I give thanks that you managed to survive such a deadly ambush/so fearful a creature/so perilous an undertaking, my lord”). I know I shall need their good will in the future, and I am glad to have this opportunity to soften their opinion of me. They are grateful for my ministrations and for the relief I bring them. At the same time, I become conscious of how many knights have not returned to Camelot. They will be greatly missed.
Once I have done what I can for the men, my thoughts turn to Guenevere. And Launcelot. An anxious consultation of Merlin’s book before leaving the priory had given me no hints as to how I might undo the spell I cast to make them fall in love. Now, I have resolved to use the same potion but with a different purpose in mind. And so I go walking in the water meadows on the pretext of taking the air. There I pick the herbs and flowers I need, and I brew them in secret.
My chance comes when I am seated beside Arthur at dinner. In gratitude for my healing of the knights, it seems I have risen in honor and am thus restored to a high position. As we dine, a page comes to the table, advising Arthur a party of travelers has arrived at court. He in turn bids Guenevere accompany him to welcome them. Launcelot and I are left with empty spaces between us for, as usual, he is seated on Guenevere’s other side. It is the first time I have had a chance to study him closely since my return to Camelot, and I am shocked by what I see. He is gaunt, haggard with misery. I long to take him in my arms, to comfort him for the loss of his son, but I dare not. He gives me a baleful glare and turns pointedly to the dame beside him. I cannot help but smile as I note that she is large and somewhat plain, with an unsightly wart on the side of her nose. In spite of Launcelot’s obvious devotion to the queen, it seems that Guenevere is still taking no chances with his fidelity.
I cast a quick glance around the table to see if anyone is watching me. Viviane is not present, and I am grateful for that. With Launcelot’s attention elsewhere, and both Guenevere and Arthur absent, it is the work of a moment to uncork my flask and tip its contents into the cup shared by Guenevere and Arthur. With the deed done, I cast another quick glance around the table.
Mordred is gazing at me; there is an unpleasant twist to his smile. I recall that I have not sought him out since my return to Camelot. I try to make up for it with a wave and a false smile, but he narrows his eyes and turns pointedly away.
I am not sure how the potion will work, and I wait and watch as Guenevere returns to the table while Arthur directs his steward to find seats for the travelers and ensure their comfort. Guenevere picks up the goblet and takes a heady draught. I’m expecting her to wait and offer the cup to Arthur, but she does not. Instead, she turns to Launcelot with sparkling eyes and moistly parted lips, and hands it to him. My cry dies in my throat; I cannot sound a warning. Nor can I dash the cup from L
auncelot’s hand, for he has already taken a sip. Blind to all those around them, they gaze at each other in rapture.
I despair all over again, for my plan has failed. Worse, it would appear that I have managed instead to reinforce the deadly love that binds them, and that only death will part.
The thought sickens me. Is this the path I must take? I have enough blood on my hands and on my conscience; I cannot think of shedding more.
I turn to Arthur as he resumes his seat beside me. “May I have a private word with you after dinner, my lord?”
He looks instantly suspicious. “Guenevere tells me you have done good work among the knights since your return, Morgana, and I am grateful to you. But do not for one moment believe that I am ready to trust you again, or love you as a brother should. Guenevere may have a more forgiving heart than I, but I have learned that trust is not a luxury that kings may enjoy.”
“But you trust Guenevere. And Launcelot?”
“Who else should I trust other than my wife and my dearest friend?”
“You should trust them least of all.”
Arthur’s expression hardens into bitterness. “You always resented me, didn’t you, Morgana? My kingdom, my happy marriage, my friends—all denied to you because of your ambition, your jealousy, your spite and your determination to manipulate events to give you what you cannot have, using the magic that you learned from Merlin and which has brought you nothing but unhappiness.”
Arthur’s words flay me to the bone. I open my mouth to deny them, to say that he, too, played his part in my downfall, as did Merlin. But in essence he speaks the truth, and it is a truth too dreadful to bear. I sit beside him, speechless, praying only that no one else has heard his accusation. I am mortified that he has had the wit to see what I have been so blind to all these years; a truth that even my own daughter seems to understand: every unhappiness I have known has been caused by my own hand. I berate myself once again as I imagine how different my life could have been if I had accepted Merlin’s words of caution, and learned from them. Camelot would have prospered if I hadn’t interfered—with or without my rule. I could have been happily wed to Launcelot. Marie would be legitimate, and there would be no Mordred to threaten the crown. Perhaps even Guenevere and Arthur might have found comfort and ease together, especially if Guenevere had borne him a child.
I close my eyes in anguish, wanting to hide from the knowledge of how I have ruined my life along with the lives of so many others. But I cannot. It takes all my courage to open my eyes and look at Arthur.
He is regarding me as a king might regard a lowly and unfavored subject. There is no mercy in his eyes, only coldness.
“I am … so sorry for the harm I have caused you, Arthur,” I whisper. “If I could, I would turn back time and live my life differently. Unfortunately, Merlin didn’t show me how to master that particular trick.” I attempt a smile, but Arthur’s expression remains stony.
It seems obvious he won’t hear anything against Launcelot and the queen, but I can still warn him against his son. “It is true that I thought to use Mordred against you, Arthur.” No one will ever know how much it costs me to admit it. “You should know that I abandoned that plan when he was but a child, for I loved him and could never have used him as a means to usurp your throne. But I’ve come to realize that there is a darkness in him; a wild ambition that burns like a raging fire and that is out of control. By not acknowledging him as your heir, or showing him any regard as your son, you have given him permission to act against you without conscience or thought for the consequences. I regret his birth more than I can say, but he is here in your court and it is you who must deal with him now. You must fear him as I have learned to fear him, for I know that he is encouraging the knights to believe that it is time for a younger king, and that you, Arthur, are no longer worthy of the crown.”
Fire kindles in Arthur’s eyes; I am pleased that he has been provoked to anger by my words and that he has taken my warning seriously.
“I have already taken Mordred’s measure, Morgana. I know him for what he is: ambitious, dangerous and utterly ruthless—just like you. He is, after all, your son. What else should I expect?”
I open my mouth to protest. And close it again. How can I defend myself against the truth? But I must still say what needs to be said. “Please, Arthur, heed my warning. Send him away from here before it’s too late, before he undoes all that you have achieved. Put an end to the court’s uncertainty by naming your successor—my son Owain, if Guenevere proves unable to give you a child. And I beg you also to consider sending Launcelot into exile at Joyous Garde, out of reach of the queen.” My heart is breaking. But I will not give Arthur the satisfaction of seeing how his words have wounded me, and so I hastily excuse myself and flee the table.
Utterly cast down, I fling myself onto my bed. I am shaking with grief and remorse for the past, for the present and for the future, but no tears will come. I have gone beyond weeping. My shattered heart is dry, as arid as a desert; there are no tears left to shed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I wait and I watch, but Arthur shows no signs of heeding my advice. It seems only action is left if I am to undo the harm I have caused and so save the kingdom. My chance comes one morning when Guenevere appears at table to break her fast. She is attired entirely in green, as are all her ladies, while the knights who escort them have green kerchiefs tucked into their helmets. Kay and Agravaine are among the crowd, and also Pelleas, who had once thought to woo me when I was at court in the guise of Nimue. I am pleased that, recognizing me as Morgana, he will keep his distance now. I look about for Launcelot, but he is not among the group. It is just as well, for his grief would have cast a pall on the proceedings. As it is, the ladies are buzzing around like a swarm of bees, their voices high with excitement and their laughter shrill. I wonder what is afoot.
It is a beautiful day, but my heart is heavy. I plan to go out to the water meadows to search for deadly hemlock or some other such herb that will bring swift death when swallowed. I have a flask of honey mead handy to disguise the taste, and I pray I have the courage to see my plan through.
But my intention is foiled when Guenevere catches my arm and tells me, “My ladies and I are going a-maying today, Morgana, to raise our spirits and forget, just for a while, the unhappy toll that the quest for the Sangreal has taken on us all. Would you like to come with us?”
I suspect it is duty that prompts her invitation rather than a readiness to forgive me and forget my misdeeds; nevertheless her generosity of spirit is a stinging reproach to my conscience and my heart, and I stammer my agreement while quickly revising my plans.
And so we set forth into the forest. The trees are lush with late spring growth, the leaves already turning a dark green so that the forest glades are cast into deep shade. I ride on ahead, on the lookout for a shadowy spot where I may catch Guenevere alone; I have some thought to become a snake, to make her horse rear in fright and throw her. It sickens me to admit it, but I am hoping she will break her pretty neck, with no blame attached to me. It helps my cause that the queen has forbidden our guard to ride with us, but has told them to stay some distance behind, “so that we may enjoy our silliness with no one to witness and disapprove of us.”
There are many possibilities for ambush in the dark glades and I find more than one likely spot. But Guenevere stays always amid her ladies, enjoying the ride, the fun and the freedom. I am almost resigned to giving up my quest, on this day at least, when I hear a shriek of alarm. I wheel my horse around and canter back to find armed knights fighting for their lives. I recognize the green kerchiefs and shield symbols of the men from our own guard, but there is also a group in unmarked armor. Steel clashes against steel, there are shouts and oaths, and it is difficult to know who is besting whom. I look about for the queen and her ladies, but cannot see them. Frightened, I try to find a hiding place but I am too late; my arm is seized and I am dragged away by one of the unknown warriors. It would seem that h
e enjoys his position of power over me, for his grip is too tight and his expression overfamiliar as he hauls me along. Anger takes the place of fear.
“Who are you?” I demand.
He leers at me. His teeth are blackened and filthy, and his breath stinks. “Sir Meliagrance’s man at your service, my lady.”
“Unhand me at once!”
He grins. His grip tightens on my arm.
“What do you want?”
“I’m taking you to my lord’s castle. Netting the queen was his intention, but netting the king’s sister along with the queen will no doubt earn me a bonus.”
I struggle and try to kick him as he drags me along, but he is so tall and strong I feel like a gnat attempting to bring down a donkey. And so I cease and instead think how else I might outwit him. I could become a bird, a beetle, maybe a rat and bite his hand? A snake would be more deadly. But if these ruffians plan on holding the queen captive, then I would do well to go with my captor and find out where we are to be held, for I’m not sure if anyone knows where Meliagrance’s castle is, as he is something of an outcast from Camelot. There will be time enough for magic later, if magic becomes necessary.
We quickly catch up to Guenevere and her ladies, and we are all marched through the forest to a castle I have never seen before. We are taken into the Great Hall where a tall knight soon joins us. His dark hair and beard are threaded with silver, but he is manly in his bearing for all that. He wears a costly embroidered tunic of gold and green with flowing sleeves. Tight-fitting hose and pointed shoes complete the ensemble, all of which speak of wealth and prestige. He walks forward and takes firm hold of Guenevere’s hand. She tries to snatch it away, but cannot. He raises her hand to his lips for a lingering kiss.
“Meliagrance!” Guenevere’s voice drips with disgust. “I might have known you were behind this.”
“My queen, I have longed to welcome you to my castle. You and your ladies will stay with me as my guests.”
I, Morgana Page 26