“Guests? Captives, you mean!”
“As you will.” He smiles. “But you will find me a good host, I assure you. Every comfort will be at your disposal.”
“Except the comfort of going home to my husband!”
“You do not need him, Guenevere. Not here. I shall provide comfort enough, I assure you.”
His meaning is clear. To her credit, Guenevere stares him down. “Is this the only way you can get a woman into your bed, Meliagrance? By capturing her and holding her here by force?”
“Not any woman, Guenevere; only you. And not by force, either, I assure you. I am a skilled and considerate lover, as you will soon find out, to your great enjoyment.”
Guenevere closes her eyes for a moment. I wonder if, after years of enduring Arthur’s fumbling, she might be tempted by Meliagrance’s proposition. But her eyes flash fire when she opens them again.
“You’ve long wanted me in your bed, Meliagrance. Before God, you’ve been trying for years to woo and bed me. But I am not interested in being your paramour, and I demand that you let me go!”
“Demand, Guenevere?” he says softly. His grip tightens momentarily before he releases her. “I shall show you to your room. You and your ladies may rest until it is time for us to dine. I shall send for you after that.” He leads the way out and up the stone stairs, while the rest of us are herded in his wake by his attendants.
The chamber into which we are shown is large and airy but there are bars across the windows. I walk over to one of them, and look out. The scent of roses assails my senses. A sturdy briar, heavy with blossom, crawls across the wall, sending its sweetness into the air. It is a long way to the ground.
The heavy door closes with a thud as Meliagrance and his men depart; there is the sound of a key turning in the lock.
Guenevere’s bravery collapses once we are alone. She is almost swooning with fear. Her attendants help her toward the bed that stands close to the window, shrouded from view by heavy curtains. They sweep the hangings aside and she lies down while they all fuss around her. Unexpectedly, I feel pity, for I know the fate that awaits her once Meliagrance sends for her. And yet, I know that if he ravishes her, it will change how she is perceived at court—that is, if she is allowed to return to Camelot. And isn’t this exactly what I want, to drive a wedge between her and Arthur—and Launcelot? To drive her away? It seems that all my prayers have been answered without my having to do anything.
I walk across and look down at her lying on the bed. She grasps my hand, and holds it tight. “Help me, Morgana,” she whispers. “For the love of our Lord, please help me!”
I shake my head. Her grip tightens. “I have heard from Arthur that you were schooled in the magical arts by Merlin. If you can think of any way out of this coil, I beg you to bring it about.” Her eyes are wide with terror; her face pale as curd. In spite of myself, my pity for her intensifies. I suspect that she will not go quietly to Meliagrance’s bed, and that it will be to her cost if she does not make his ravishing easy.
I am reluctant to practice magic in front of them all, for I know that Camelot is a Christian court and that the magical arts are frowned on; my own daughter has made me well aware of that. And yet it seems that I have no choice if I am to prevent her defilement by Meliagrance and her subsequent disgrace. I tell myself I should be cheering on these events but to my surprise, I find that I am not, perhaps because I know how I would feel if I were in Guenevere’s place. I release her hand and walk over to the window. There is no escape down there; not by earthly means. I look behind, into the room. The ladies are all fussing around Guenevere and only she is watching me, her desperation plain upon her face. I nod and, in the blink of an eye, I am gone; a kestrel flying swift and true toward Camelot for help.
As I fly, I see below the remains of our guard, beaten and bloody, walking slowly toward the castle under the watchful eyes of Meliagrance’s men. I realize there’s no chance of anyone else taking word to Camelot of our capture; it is as well that I have chosen this way out. As I pass over their heads, Agravaine glances up at me with a thoughtful expression. I feel uneasy, even as I reassure myself that he can have no way of knowing that I am anything other than a bird.
As soon as I am close to Camelot, I alight on the ground and become myself once more. I hurry into the castle and ask for an urgent audience with the king. I am told that he is in conference with Launcelot and Viviane, and cannot be disturbed, but I burst in on them anyway, believing the situation too dangerous to brook any delay whatsoever. It seems they have been discussing the quest for the Sangreal and Galahad’s death, for Launcelot is visibly distressed and turns aside at my entrance. He knuckles his fingers to his eyes, and it is only when he has mastered himself that he faces me once more.
I begin to spill out my story. Arthur and Launcelot both listen in silence, as does Viviane, but as soon as I’ve finished my account, Launcelot offers to lead a party of warriors to release the queen.
“No!” The possible consequences of such an expedition horrify me.
Launcelot ignores my protest. “I passed that villain’s castle while questing for the Sangreal,” he says. “In fact, he offered his hospitality, and questioned me regarding the queen. I thought at the time he seemed overly anxious to have news of her. Now I know why!” His expression hardens as he rises to his feet and reaches for his sword.
I look at Arthur, willing him to remember my warning and recognize the danger. But he does not. Instead he gladly accepts Launcelot’s offer.
“Should you not go with Launcelot, Arthur?” In my desperation I forget to honor him with the respectful title I usually employ in public. My brother frowns in displeasure.
“I am needed here, at Camelot, to deal with affairs of state,” he says. “I trust Launcelot in all things, Morgana, and I can think of no one better able to rescue the queen than her own champion.”
It is clear that he will brook no interference from me; I can say no more. To my surprise, Viviane takes up the argument.
“Surely there is no more important task in your kingdom than the rescue of your queen, my liege?”
Arthur flushes with temper. “And that is why I have entrusted the task to my best and bravest knight,” he snaps.
“But Sir Meliagrance may—”
“There is no time for argument, Viviane.” Arthur has risen and now he pushes Launcelot toward the door. “Pray, find a party of good men and ride to Meliagrance’s castle at all speed,” he instructs. “Make sure you bring him to Camelot in chains, for I shall ensure he suffers sorely for his deeds this day. We await your return with every expectation of your success.” He raises his hand in a gesture of farewell.
Viviane and I exchange a glance; for the first time it appears we are in agreement. My suspicion is confirmed as she walks out of the hall with me, and guides me toward Guenevere’s private garden.
“The king will regret his actions this day. He should have sent anyone but Launcelot to rescue the queen,” she says quietly.
“I agree.” In fact, I am filled with fear. “Being away from Camelot will give them an opportunity they will not be able to resist, and I dread the consequences,” I say. “There is already far too much affection between them. Even if Arthur isn’t aware of it, the situation is causing division among the knights. I’m afraid Mordred is behind much of their disquiet; he is stirring up trouble by saying that it is a weak king who cannot control his own wife, and that Arthur has grown too old to rule Camelot. Mordred’s aim is to gain their allegiance as the son and only heir of the king.”
Viviane shoots a quick glance at me. “But isn’t that your intention, Morgana? Or should I call you Nimue?”
I blink as she utters the name of my disguise. I had often wondered just how much she could see and how much she knew, but had reassured myself with the thought that most of what she said seemed to be merely guesswork. But perhaps I was the one who was deluded? I can’t think of anything to say now, so I keep silent.
&nbs
p; “And what happens next will help to bring about the doom of Camelot,” Viviane mutters, as if to herself.
I am instantly alarmed, both on my own behalf and for the sake of my children. “Not if Arthur names someone else as his heir, as I have already asked him to do.” I cannot accept, as Viviane seems to, that our fate cannot be changed and consequences avoided. I would not be here if I thought that.
Viviane shakes her head and does not reply. Instead, she asks a question of her own. “How do you know of this, Morgana? Were you with the queen when she was abducted?” Her clear gray eyes seem to see right through me and I realize that she probably already knows the answer.
“Yes, I was there.”
“How did you manage to get away and come back to Camelot so quickly?”
I think of several answers, but suspect that she will believe none of them. I sigh. “Through magic.” I will not tell her what I have done, or how I managed to achieve it. Fortunately, she does not ask.
“Perhaps you’d better get back there and keep an eye on proceedings,” she says instead, adding as an afterthought, “And if you can keep Launcelot away from the queen, so much the better.”
She is speaking my mind. I retreat behind a high hedge, for I don’t wish to be observed, particularly by Viviane. But she watches me as I soar above her head in the direction of Meliagrance’s castle. The thought of Launcelot spurring forward to rescue the queen adds speed to my wings, so I am quite breathless by the time I alight on the windowsill of Guenevere’s prison.
I am relieved to see that nothing of great event seems to have happened in my absence. The queen is still prostrate upon the bed; her ladies are still fluttering about her. The wounded knights of her party are also present; those who are less badly hurt are trying to take care of the more grievously wounded among them. I hop down and quietly transform myself. My sudden presence among the company merits no more than a half-glance.
Guenevere sees me, and waves her ladies away. “Do you have news?” she asks urgently.
I hesitate. I have flown in advance of Launcelot and his companions, but have no doubt they are flogging their steeds to get here as fast as possible. I decide to keep the details of Guenevere’s rescue attempt as vague as I can.
“The king has sent a large party of knights,” I reassure her. “It is up to you, my lady, to stall Meliagrance for as long as possible.”
“Is the king among them?”
“No, my lady.”
Guenevere sighs. I suspect she shares my opinion of Arthur’s apparent reluctance to involve himself in affairs of the heart.
“What about Launcelot? Is he among them?”
Reluctantly, I nod.
“I warrant Meliagrance only dared lay his filthy hands on me because Launcelot was absent from our riding party,” the queen says angrily. “He will soon change his mind about keeping us when he knows who comes to my rescue.” Her face is all sunshine now that she knows her beloved is on his way.
“It would be best not to threaten Meliagrance, my lady. For now, he thinks he has you secure, and that no one knows where you are. Do not warn him; do not give him time to prepare a counter-attack.”
The queen tips her head to one side as she considers my words. “You are right, Morgana. And I thank you for undertaking this task on my behalf.”
It occurs to me that perhaps my actions this day will take me some way further toward my rehabilitation at court, and for this I am grateful. I leave her then, and go to tend the wounded knights as best I may, given the lack of medicaments at my disposal. But a bath has been brought and filled with water and rose petals, presumably for the queen to bathe in before giving herself to Meliagrance, although she has obviously not yet availed herself of this convenience. So there is clean water to bathe the wounds of the knights, while the hems of the ladies’ undergarments may be torn into bandages. Although they protest somewhat, Guenevere orders them to do as I ask, and my ministrations bring some relief to the men.
We are summoned to dinner in the Great Hall. A feast is laid out on a snowy white cloth, but none of us has the appetite to do it justice. Meliagrance and his men set about gorging themselves, working their way through salmon and duck, wild boar and a baron of beef, all accompanied by huge quantities of wine and ale. I am hoping they will drink themselves into a state of insensibility, but Meliagrance is too canny for that. He is seated between the queen and me, and as the honey wafers and fruits preserved in syrup are passed around, I am well able to hear when he leans over to Guenevere and tells her that she is to come to his chamber at the conclusion of the meal.
“No,” she says, in a voice that quavers slightly. “My lord, I cannot.”
“My queen, you will.” The menace is apparent in his eyes, and in the way he takes hold of her arm in an iron grip.
I struggle to find something to say to put off the evil moment, for Launcelot and his men, riding as hard as their horses will bear them, must surely come soon.
“The queen has been quite overcome with the shock of what has happened to her and her knights,” I say. “She has been too faint and unwell to bathe as yet, but would like to do so before ever she comes to your bedchamber, lord.”
Meliagrance scowls, but I can see gratitude in Guenevere’s eyes.
“Very well,” he says curtly. “But do not tarry. I have waited long enough for you, and my patience is growing very thin indeed.”
“Shall I bathe?” Guenevere asks me, when once we are back in our chamber.
“No. You must keep yourself ready to leave, for help must come soon.” I wonder if she is always so helpless in times of trial. But I hide my irritation and go to stand beside the window, watching for signs of Launcelot and his men.
The afternoon wears on; the rays of the setting sun slant across the courtyard bathing it in a rosy glow that belies the chill of desperation permeating the room in which we are incarcerated. Meliagrance’s patience will not last forever. The chatter has died away; everyone sits silently. Guenevere’s face is gray, haunted. I feel sorry for her, and wonder now that I could ever have wished her dead.
Perhaps it is Launcelot who will die instead, cut down in battle by Meliagrance or one of his men? I put my hand to my heart at the shock of the idea, although I know it would solve a good many problems if it came about. But the very thought of it so grieves me that I cannot prevent despairing tears flooding into my eyes. I try to force my mind on to more cheerful thoughts, but the possibility of Launcelot’s death lurks like a black shadow.
I feel excitement mingled with dread when, finally, I hear a warning cry from below. I look down from my seat at the window. The courtyard is swarming with armed knights. Launcelot has come at last and he and his party are wasting no time in hacking their way toward their queen.
“Help has arrived! The king has sent a party to free us,” I call out.
At once there is a pushing and jostling as everyone tries to get to the windows to see what’s happening. I am shoved aside by the queen herself. With flashing eyes and gasping breaths, she gazes down at her beloved, and I remember all over again why I hate her. But there is no time to reflect on this for there is the sound of cheering, followed by the thunder of feet coming toward us.
The door swings open and hits the wall with a thud. Launcelot is already halfway across the room, his arms held out. The queen rushes into his embrace and, in front of all assembled, they kiss.
Excited cheering has given way to a deep hush as we all witness the intensity of their devotion and the passion of their kiss. Becoming conscious of his surroundings, Launcelot thrusts the queen away from him and sinks onto his knees.
“I am at your service, my lady.”
But the damage is done. No one present can doubt that the rumors swirling around the pair must be true. Guenevere knows it too, for a deep blush stains her fair complexion as she gives Launcelot her hand and bids him rise.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” he stammers. “I was overcome by my fear for your safety.�
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“And I thank you for your concern, Sir Launcelot.” Is there a tinge of self-satisfaction in her voice? “Fortunately, I shall be able to reassure the king that no one has had knowledge of me to which he is not entitled.”
Perhaps this is meant as a reproof to all present for what they must now be thinking, but I am fearful. Having impersonated the queen when I lay with Launcelot, I know that he now believes that he does, in fact, have intimate knowledge of Guenevere. I cross my fingers behind my back, and pray that he will not betray the secret.
“It is a great relief to me to hear you say that you are unharmed, my lady,” Launcelot assures her gravely.
The queen is still flushed; her breath has slowed, but her eyes are bright as fire. It seems that all her fear has flown now that Launcelot is present. More, his embrace has kindled a desire that burns across her face for all to see.
“Where is Meliagrance?” she asks.
“In chains and locked up.” Launcelot surveys her with a smile. “You have no more to fear.” The queen exhales, visibly relieved. Their eyes lock, and hold; the connection between them is plain.
I am becoming increasingly anxious. “It is growing dark, my lady. We really should set out for Camelot without delay.” The courtyard is already in deep shadow, but even if it means riding at night I would rather take that risk than stay here.
“Nonsense. We are quite safe now; we have Sir Launcelot’s assurance on that.” The queen flashes a quick smile in his direction. “I am completely worn out and undone by the travails of the day, as I am sure are all of you. We shall abide here for the night, and take our rest. Tomorrow will be soon enough to return to Camelot.”
I can see the queen’s suggestion is welcome to all; indeed, I am also weary beyond measure. It is only my concern that drives me to make one last protest.
“The king will be worried about you, my lady. I am sure he will fear the worst if you do not return this evening.”
Guenevere does not deign to reply. Launcelot gives me a quizzical look, and I realize that he now has proof, if proof were needed, that I do indeed possess magical powers.
I, Morgana Page 27