I check my anger with difficulty, and hasten Marie away before anyone can question us further. But I am conscious of the whispers behind hands as we pass. My anger returns anew as I realize it’s only a matter of time before someone feels it their duty to enlighten Marie regarding the reason for the celebration and the rumors behind it.
“Which one is Launcelot?” Marie whispers, once we are seated.
I point him out. He is seated beside Guenevere and Marie watches him in silence for a time. Then she turns to me.
“My father is now besotted with the queen, is he not? And she loves him. Is that why she was so lacking in courtesy toward you?”
What can I say? I shrug.
“You say you still love him, Mamm. But he no longer loves you?”
“No. Not any more.” How it pains me to say that.
Marie lapses into silence, still keeping the pair under observation. I notice, however, that this does not impede her appetite. My little sparrow is eating like a bull. I can hardly blame her, after the austerity of the fare at the priory. Now she is stuffing her mouth with snatches of this and bites of that, tasting everything and coming back for more. The pages are kept busy with her demands, but I notice that although her cup is kept full of wine, she takes only a frugal sip every so often.
Musicians have been playing softly to entertain us as we eat. Now, as trenchers are cleared to make way for fruit and pastries, a group of tumblers and jugglers appear. Quick of wit and sleight of hand, they keep us entertained—and Marie in fits of laughter—with their antics. I realize, with a slight shock, that I have never seen my daughter in such transports of delight.
Next, a young man with a lute appears. I recognize him from one of Guenevere’s entourage, a rather tiresome young lad and an inferior poet, although his voice is pleasant enough as he serenades his queen and all in attendance. Guenevere favors him with a smile, but most of her attention is reserved for Launcelot.
I sense my daughter’s growing disapproval, although she doesn’t voice it. She settles back and gazes around the company. I hear a stifled gasp and feel her stiffen beside me. Alarmed, I turn to her. She is staring across the room. Following her gaze, I discover that she is being stared at in return. Indeed, the young man’s eyes are almost starting out of his head, his expression is so intent.
Guinglain. His father has also become aware of the intensity of this first sighting between our offspring, and we exchange smiles. I am overcome with relief. All I can think of at this moment is that Marie may yet be saved from a life in the priory!
“Who is that handsome young man, Mamm?” she whispers, tearing her gaze away from Guinglain for a few moments.
“He is Guinglain, son of Gawain and grandson of my sister, Morgause.”
“We are related?” There is such great disappointment in her tone that I rejoice anew.
“Not too close that a marriage would be prevented.” I hope I am right in saying this, but I also know that there are ways and means around it, if necessary.
She laughs in protest. “I haven’t yet met him, and already you are thinking marriage? For shame, Mamm!” But there is a slight smile on her face as she feasts her eyes on the young man once more.
Her preoccupation frees me to wrestle with the problems she presents by appearing so unexpectedly at court. I cannot see any way out of this coil that won’t put her in danger, while further blackening my name. But I console myself with the thought that Marie already knows the worst: that Launcelot and I were not wed when she was conceived. Her opinion is the only one I truly care about.
I steal a glance at Mordred. He, too, is looking our way, and with a face as forbidding as thunder. He must not have any chance to be alone with Marie. I make a silent vow that if he tries to harm her, he will have to kill me first.
The meal finally comes to an end; it is time for judgment. I am wondering how best to approach Launcelot when, to my surprise, he hurries toward us.
“Marie.” He takes her hand and raises it to his lips, all the while subjecting her to a close inspection. I wonder if she will say anything to him but she is blushing, and seems too shy to speak.
“How many years are you, Marie?” he asks, still keeping hold of her hand. Now that they are standing together like this, side by side, I am conscious of the similarities in their features rather than the differences I’d thought were there before. It seems to me, from Launcelot’s question, that he too has understood their significance.
“Twenty summers, sire.”
There is a slight frown on Launcelot’s face as he does a swift calculation. Then he looks at me, and I know that he knows, and that I can dissemble no longer.
“Meet your daughter, Launcelot,” I say softly.
Shock keeps him motionless as he grapples with the truth. Although he must have expected it, I can see that he is overcome. He keeps holding Marie’s hand as if it were a lifeline.
“Why did you not tell me?” he asks at last.
I shrug. The misery of our parting cut so deep that the wound is still festering, kept toxic by all that has passed between us since that time. All, that is, except for when he lay with me thinking I was Guenevere. But I shall never, ever, confess to that!
“I owe you an apology,” he says.
“You owe me more than one!”
“Yes.” He inclines his head. He seems about to say something else but, perhaps because of Marie, he hesitates, then says, “You have been much maligned in court, Morgana, and I greatly regret it, especially as I know there is no truth in the accusation.” He turns to his daughter. “Please remember my words, Marie, no matter what anyone else might tell you.”
“I know that you were not wed when I was conceived, if that is what is worrying you. But I am so glad to meet you at last,” she says, her face radiant with wonder.
“As I am delighted to meet you.” Launcelot swallows hard, and makes a visible effort to collect himself. “I had a son, Galahad, who died shortly after finding the Sangreal. When I heard the news, I thought I might die too.” He presses her hand. “You have given me good reason to live, child, and I thank you for it.”
“More reason than the love of our queen?”
Launcelot gasps at Marie’s presumption. Even I am taken aback.
“Our daughter has been raised in a priory,” I say quickly. “She knows little of court etiquette. You must forgive her naivety, Launcelot.”
Marie frowns as she looks from her father to me. “You lay with Launcelot when you were not wed; you told me that yourself. You also said that you loved him, and that you love him still. But it is clear that my father dotes on the queen.”
“Marie!” I grab her arm, ready to drag her away.
Unexpectedly, Launcelot gives a gruff laugh. “The queen has my loyalty and allegiance, and yes, I am fond of her, Marie. But it would be high treason to love her or lie with her, so you must not ever say such things again.” I read the appeal in his eyes as he glances at me, and I give a slight nod. For his sake, I shall say no more.
“I hope you will stay here at Camelot for some time, Marie, and give me a chance to come to know you?” I detect a slight nervousness in Launcelot’s tone. I suspect he has already taken Marie’s measure and understands that her keen scrutiny and quick mind will not leave much room for hiding and deception. Nevertheless, it seems he truly cares for her and is grateful to have a daughter, for he bends to kiss her on the forehead.
I hear a low moan from behind us, and turn just in time to see Guenevere vanishing through the door. I feel a moment of fierce triumph and joy. Launcelot has also marked the queen’s retreat. He looks devastated, and is about to hurry after her when Gawain arrives, with Guinglain in tow.
“I will be given no peace until I present my son to Marie, Morgana.” He frowns at Launcelot, no doubt curious about his presence by my side.
“Marie, this is Guinglain, and his father, Gawain.” I put my hand on Launcelot’s arm, thinking I might as well get it over with, for it will be
all around the court soon enough. “And this is Marie’s father.”
I read the shock on their faces, and smile grimly to myself. Their shock is as nothing compared to Guenevere’s. I wonder if she’ll ever forgive Launcelot.
Marie and Guinglan retreat a little way. Their heads come together in deep conversation, while Gawain and Launcelot stand a little apart, not looking at each other. I cannot speak my heart to Launcelot with Gawain present, nor can I find the words to smooth over an awkward situation. Finally, Gawain gives me a shame-faced smile, and makes a poor excuse about having something to attend to before hurrying away.
“Gawain will see this as yet more proof of my loose morals,” I say bitterly, and gesture toward Marie and Guinglan. They appear rapt in each other and oblivious to all else. “You had better pray that he doesn’t interfere with this relationship on the grounds that Marie’s mother spreads her favors too freely and that Marie is not worthy of his son. I will not see her happiness jeopardized by a lie.”
“I will not allow Gawain to think so!”
“You’ll tell the truth about your night with Guenevere?”
Launcelot is silent. I know that he cannot, will not, put the queen in danger, nor will he sacrifice his own safety. There is nothing for me here, and I turn to go.
He catches my hand. “Marie said that you love me, and that you love me still,” he says softly, in a tone that I recognize from our time together at Joyous Garde when I was so happy; when I thought our love would last forever. It is enough to utterly undo me. I feel tears spring hot and heavy in my eyes, and I cannot speak. He wipes away my tears before they can fall.
“I have been cruel and unkind to you, and very unfair. I was also far too quick to judge you, and I am more sorry than I can say,” he tells me.
I gulp and nod.
“But you understand why I need to keep silent now?”
I will not say yes. I will not grant him absolution. I stay mute.
He sighs. “I loved you too, more than you will ever know. After you left I searched for you everywhere, thinking I had been wrong to insist on coming to Camelot alone so that I could give the appearance of being impartial. Because I was not impartial, I was determined to prove you innocent of all charges. After you left, I realized that I should have brought you with me so that we could face your accusers together. That was my first big mistake with you.”
I stay silent, consumed with guilt and regret. I can find no words of comfort to say.
“But my biggest mistake was to fall in love with Guenevere. And yet I know not how that came about, because I loved you still.” Launcelot’s brow creases into a worried frown. “One moment she was just a rather silly young woman, albeit the consort of a king. The next …” He shakes his head. “It’s like an enchantment that I cannot escape. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
Launcelot has explained it perfectly. I am engulfed in misery. I, in turn, should not have been so quick to judge him. I should have listened more carefully to what he was saying; I should not have acted so hastily. I have no one to blame but myself for what followed. Yet I can no more confess the part I have played in our downfall than he can confess his night with the queen.
“I spoke the truth to Marie,” I tell him. “Yes, I was angry when I fled Joyous Garde, and yes, I misunderstood your motives for acting as you did. But I have always loved you, Launcelot. And I always will.”
“Your beautiful tapestries still hang in my hall, a constant reminder of the love we once shared.” He leans down to kiss my cheek. I long to put my arms around him, to draw him closer and show him my need. But I know that to do so will achieve nothing. Nevertheless, for those fleeting moments I relish the smell and feel of him, so familiar and that I have missed for so long.
As he straightens, we become aware of a furious shouting in the distance: screams and wild cries and heartfelt sobbing. “The queen,” I say, and he nods. We both know the source of her wrath and her grief.
“I must go to her,” Launcelot says, and hurries out of the hall.
Curious, I wait a few moments, and then venture after him. I am just in time to watch him disappear into Guenevere’s private solar and the door slam shut behind him. It opens again almost immediately and her retinue of women emerge. They close the door but do not disperse. Instead, they huddle close and listen intently. I join them.
“How could you lie with that whore?” Guenevere screams.
“You will not refer to Morgana in those terms. It is unjust, and I forbid it.”
“I’ll call her what I will!”
“Do so, and I shall refute your words with the truth of what happened at Meliagrance’s castle.” There is a moment’s silence, broken by a howl of fury.
“I mean it, Guenevere.”
“Get out! Get out of my sight! I hate you!”
We hastily disperse, moving away just in time to hear the door open and quietly close, after which a wild sobbing breaks out once more. Guenevere’s ladies look at each other, sigh, shrug, and go to do what they may to comfort their mistress. I peep into the hall, where servants are busily clearing up the remains of our feast.
Marie and Guinglan still stand to one side, talking softly. I hope they are making the most of this time together. I suspect Marie has now given up all thoughts of taking her vows—if her threat was ever real in the first place. Smiling to myself, I approach them and give a slight cough to attract their attention.
“May I leave you safely in the hands of Guinglan, Marie? I do not want you wandering around the court on your own.” Perhaps Guinglan hears the concern in my voice for he assures me that he will take good care of my daughter until my return.
I venture out into the garden, needing the peace and quiet of nature to ponder all I have seen and heard and felt these past few hours, for in truth I feel as though I have been swept up in a whirlwind, and my spirits are battered and bruised because of it. More than anything, I need to find my calm center once more. And I need to come up with a way to keep my daughter safe.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
There is much to bring me joy, and also to cause me worry, in the weeks following Marie’s unexpected appearance at court. She has resisted all my attempts to send her back to the safety of the priory and so I have emphasized the unrest and danger here at court, without being too specific as to its nature. I have also instructed her to make sure that she is always in company with others when she is not with me. Although she expressed her surprise, she has given me her word, easing somewhat my fears for her safety. To my joy, she and Guinglan have become inseparable, to the extent that Gawain approaches me with both an apology and some words of the future.
“I have spoken to Agravaine,” he tells me. “I have heard what really happened on that night in Meliagrance’s castle, and I ask your forgiveness for misjudging you, Morgana.”
I nod, knowing it could only have been a matter of time before Agravaine confided in his brothers. He ever loves to garner information, and delights in spreading it.
“The problem is that most of the knights also know the truth now. Probably all of them, in fact, with the exception of Arthur.” Gawain’s voice is grave as he continues. “Mordred, of course, is using it to his advantage among the younger knights to sow more trouble against the king.”
“You must stop him, Gawain. He is a danger to us all.”
“I know. And I say what I can, although I suspect that even while the knights listen to me, they reject what I am telling them.” Gawain gives an unhappy sigh. “I am sure there is a plot afoot, but I don’t know what it is. I suspect Agravaine knows of it, but even he won’t tell me.”
I remember Agravaine’s promise to me. I had almost forgotten it, but now I feel cold tentacles of fear wrap around my body, and I shiver. “I hope they will do nothing rash.” The doom of Camelot, foretold by the tablets, comes to the forefront of my mind once more. I vow to increase my efforts to alert Arthur to the danger of his queen’s love for Launcelot, and his son’s hatred
and ambition.
Gawain shakes his head. “It is ever in a young knight’s nature to be rash,” he says somberly. “They need wise heads to guide them—not that any young person will ever believe it until they themselves have the gray hairs that denote some getting of wisdom.” He shrugs, as if mentally freeing himself of a burden. “However, there is one young couple who has my blessing. I believe Guinglan is in love with Marie and serious about making a life with her. Do you have any objections to that, Morgana?”
“None at all!” My heart lifts with joy. “I haven’t dared speak to Marie of this, for fear of endangering their romance, but I shall speak to her if you wish?”
“No.” Gawain’s smile broadens. “Let’s not interfere. Let them believe they are the first to ever experience the joy of love and the ends to which that might lead.”
“Marie is slightly older than Guinglan, but she is chaste and unworldly, having known only her life in the priory. I trust that he will treat her well, and with honor?” I can’t help feeling anxious about my beloved daughter.
“I shall make sure of it,” Gawain promises, “and so will his mother.”
“And no doubt Marie’s father will also watch over her.” It is my greatest pleasure to see father and daughter together. I had thought, in view of Guenevere’s ongoing fury with Launcelot, that he might spurn his daughter in order to win back her regard, but he has not. I have seen Marie and Launcelot walking in the garden on more than one occasion, heads bent close together and in deep conversation, and I watch them with love and with pride.
It makes my vow to change the future by changing the present even more difficult; more heartbreaking. Nevertheless, I know that I must try. And so, once again, I seek out Arthur. I find him in the garden and I hurry to him, taking his arm. He frowns at me. He has not forgiven me for my disgraceful behavior, as he believes it, at Meliagrance’s castle.
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