“What makes you think she will return?” It seems highly unlikely to me that she would give up life at Joyous Garde with the father of her child to return to the sneers and jeers of Camelot.
Arthur shrugs. “She knows her duty,” he says, reaffirming my suspicion that in all things, Arthur puts statecraft ahead of emotion.
Meanwhile my time is taken with trying to comfort Marie, who is inconsolable. She has lost her father, and at the same time lost all respect for him. Worse, she now considers herself unworthy of Guinglan, and has told him as much. The pair of them mope about so disconsolately that I feel like giving them both a good kick. Nevertheless, I too mourn the loss of Launcelot, but by myself, in private. I put on a brave face in public, and wish that my daughter would do the same.
To his credit, Gawain is also doing his best to reconcile the young couple, but nothing seems to be working. The court itself is like a hornet’s nest, buzzing with unrest. Even though Mordred has gone, there are enough of his followers left behind to continue spreading his poison. The court is now more deeply divided than ever, and it seems to me only a matter of time before what I have foreseen will come to pass.
I worry most particularly about Marie and what will become of her once the last conflagration heralds the end of Camelot. I am desperate to save her from that, for I can’t help thinking that in her survival lies the future foretold in the tablets, if I have read them aright. She is the one and only flicker of hope that I have seen: the child who may yet play a vital role in the story of Camelot.
And all the while I try to come up with some sort of plan for the future. When it finally comes to me, I realize I will need Gawain’s help for my scheme to succeed. To my relief, he gives it willingly, although he expresses himself mystified regarding my request. I cannot take him into my confidence, I can only hope, and pray to Marie’s God and to the old gods I have honored in the past, that what I plan to do will meet the demands of the mysterious voice I heard, and that Camelot’s doom may yet be averted.
“Let us go back to Glastonbury for a short while,” I suggest to Marie. “I think it will do us both good to leave Camelot until things settle down a little.”
She hesitates, tears already glinting at the corner of her eyes. I know only too well what she is thinking.
“It may be a good idea to leave Guinglan alone for a few days—just to give him a taste of what life would be like without you,” I urge.
“I am not worthy of him,” Marie mutters.
“Your father’s sin is not your own,” I say wearily. It is not the first time I’ve pointed this out to Marie, but as always she is blinded by grief and deaf to logic. Indeed, it is my belief that it is Guinglan who is not worthy of Marie, for he seems prepared to let her go without a fight. “Come away with me, my darling. It’s obvious that seeing Guinglan every day only serves to reinforce the pain you feel at losing him.”
Eventually my daughter agrees to my request. Arthur is too heartsore to question my decision, but instead provides us with mounts and bids us God’s speed on our journey. We set out, but Marie keeps turning to look back until Camelot, at last, slips from our view. I am concerned that she might yet change her mind about accompanying me but, once Camelot is behind us, she cheers up slightly and tells me that she is looking forward to seeing her friends at the priory again. I feel a prickle of fear as I consider a new threat: that the sorrow of losing Guinglan will persuade her to make a hasty vow to join the sisterhood of the priory.
More than anything, I long to take her to the sacred pool in the hope that we are blessed with a vision. If we are, I pray that it will contradict the doom foretold in the decorated tablets. But I don’t want to scare her off by any talk of magic, at least not yet. Besides, there is still a small hope that I may have regained my powers and shall be able to scry without Marie’s help. And so, once we arrive at the priory, I leave her to renew her acquaintance with the good sisters while I hasten to the garden and make my way to the sacred pool by the secret passage.
Once there, I sit silently for a time with my eyes closed. And I pray, I know not to whom, but I ask for a blessing and a return to grace. Merlin had once admonished me to use magic only when it was most necessary. I, in my desire for mastery, and in my childish ignorance, had ignored his advice. As I sit beside the sacred pool I whisper a litany of the harm I have caused, the death and destruction I have wrought through my practice of magic. The weight of it presses so hard on my soul that I find it difficult to breathe. I am truly contrite, and I beg for forgiveness. I hardly dare to hope for anything when at last I open my eyes and gaze into the dark, still pool.
The water ripples gently into life and I see the young woman once more. She bears some resemblance to the illustration on Merlin’s wooden tablet. I utter a prayer of thanks for this blessing.
“Morgan?” I ask. Her features resemble mine, but I now suspect that she is someone from a future Camelot—or Glastonbury. She stands among ruined towers of stone, but I recognize the Tor that looms behind her.
She looks at me. I know she sees me as I can see her. She appears afraid, but it is not me who frightens her. “Help me,” she says. I hear the terror in her voice. “For God’s sake, save us! Save us all!”
“How? Please, talk to me. Tell me what you want me to do!”
The young woman begins to cry. Helpless, I watch her, holding on to her image as it wavers and fades into darkness.
Disappointed, I am about to leave when I hear the same wailing chant that puzzled me so long ago. I listen carefully, trying to discern the words above the cacophony, but I cannot hear them clearly enough to understand their meaning.
A wide river ripples into view. A tower stands beside it, a tower I think I recognize from the time I went to London with my family to pledge our allegiance to the High King, Uther. It seems the same yet it is different, for it is flanked by glittering buildings that line the curves of the river. They are so tall they look as if they might almost touch the sky. Their brilliance is reflected in the water, just as the river is mirrored in their costly facades. I am almost sure that this is the River Thames of London, for I walked along its path with my father when I was just a child, although there were only a few buildings then, and all of them much, much smaller. Now the river is criss-crossed with many bridges, and cluttered with craft of assorted shapes and sizes. I hear great bangs, and shouting, and I see struggling knots of people fighting along the river bank and through the streets nearby. They come together, and clash and part, and come together again. Their dress is unfamiliar, as are the words they scream at one another. Judging from their tone and the actions that accompany them, these are words of war, of hatred and fury, of a lust for destruction.
Some warriors wear only ragged undershirts with short sleeves, and frayed trousers, revealing bare limbs decorated with patterns and words. Jeweled studs puncture eyebrows and lips. There are young women among them, and even children. Their faces are distorted with anger. They hold frames with parchment stretched across them, painted with words I do not understand. They chant as they rush toward their opponents.
These others have a darker skin. Some are bearded and have cloth wound around their heads; their tunics reach down to their ankles. Beside them are smaller, slighter figures; women I think, but it is hard to tell for their faces and bodies are completely shrouded. There are some children present in this group too, boys and girls together. I hear another long wailing cry: “Allah-u-Akbar.” Their voices are also full of hate. They, too, carry placards, but the writing looks different. The letters are curled and ornate, something like the ancient scripts of the Arabs that I’ve seen in the abbey. But I know their message is not of mathematics or astronomy or medicine and healing, for these people are full of anger as they brandish their weapons.
I watch with dread in my heart, for I sense that the sides are evenly matched in their rage and determination to annihilate and silence each other.
The opponents collide and fragment into smaller gro
ups, all of them armed with clubs and knives, or holding unfamiliar weapons that, although small, seem to bring instant death with each reverberating bang. It greatly distresses me to see women and children taking part in a vicious melee; I have never seen such a thing before.
My hope that the women might try to prevent this death and destruction is unfounded, for all wield their weapons with great force. Men, women and even children are dying. Some people are running around throwing small metal objects into the crowds and aiming them toward large metal containers on wheels, causing death and destruction with each explosion. The streets turn into blazing infernos and people scream and scurry like ants in a vain effort to escape.
Horrified, I peer through the flames and smoke, searching for armed knights, for soldiers, for a king—anyone capable of restoring order, and bringing the culprits to justice. But there is no one in control, and the battle rages on. These troublemakers are now joined by several other groups, each tribe different in appearance and dress, so that the streets become jammed with warriors seemingly determined to kill any who stand in their path. I see children cry out in fear and pain. Some are alone and abandoned, desperately trying to escape. Others are being dragged through the throng by their mothers in a bid to flee the danger. But the hatred is so strong that even they are being cut down.
I think of the young woman’s plea, but I have tried and I know that I cannot reach across the centuries, I cannot traverse time to make a difference. In the face of this mindless anger, this need to destroy, I am impotent. Is this what I have set in train with my magical arts; this violence, this hatred, this thirst for destruction?
The leaping flames continue unabated. I hear their hungry roar as they consume everything in their path. Is this the end of our world in the future that I am seeing—or is this some other world unknown to me? I become aware of a low droning: objects fall from silver birds and crash into the buildings that line the streets, smashing them into pieces. I duck to avoid the flying, glittering shards, even though I know I am safe and that they can’t hurt me. But those who are still standing are flayed like beasts in the butchers’ stalls at the markets. There is blood everywhere, dark red rivers of it. And the screaming goes on.
Small silver specks appear in the sky. They look like stars, but it is not night. They seem to hang in an infinity of space. As I pray that they herald deliverance, they begin to float silently down toward the river. A blinding flash of golden yellow leaps across my pool. Even the water is on fire! Fascinated but fearful, I reach out. The water feels reassuringly cold to my touch. I wipe my wet fingertips across my face, and wonder if I am awake or dreaming. I peer through the golden miasma, and try to understand.
When the mist clears there is only a long river that winds and coils through an empty wasteland. Buildings, people—all are gone. But I can still hear the screams of all those who are no longer there. It is a chilling sound that goes on and on and on. I put my hands over my ears in a vain effort to shut out their cries, but I cannot bear to close my eyes in case I miss some hint of how I can make things right again.
The horror fades into silence, the emptiness dissolves into darkness. I stare into the depths of the pool, willing the young woman to reappear, to talk to me, to tell me what’s happening and what she wants me to do. She seems to know all about me, she apparently has great faith in me, and yet she is a complete mystery to me. If the prophecy of Merlin’s tablets is to be believed, she is vital to our future and the wellbeing of our land—and yet I do not understand how I can help her. I try prayers, and wishes, and even threats, but she has disappeared and I see and hear nothing further.
Finally I leave the sacred, secret place, concerned about what Marie might be doing in my absence, and go in search of her. I find her sitting in the parlor, with two nuns keeping her company. To my surprise Guinglan is also present, sitting at a decorous distance from my daughter. I can tell, from the sly peeks they’re exchanging, that only the presence of the good sisters is preventing them from rushing into each other’s arms. A weight falls from my shoulders, a weight I was not aware that I was carrying.
“What brings you here, Guinglan?” I ask, thinking this was not part of my plan. I’d asked Gawain to wait a few days, so that the pair could have time to properly miss each other, before divulging Marie’s location.
“I beg your pardon if I have acted precipitately and against your wishes, Lady Morgana.”
Guinglan has leaped to his feet at my arrival. He smooths down his hair in nervous fashion, and bobs a hasty bow. I smother a smile. No matter how tarnished my reputation at court, it seems that this suitor still recognizes that he must win over the mother of the object of his desire. I warn myself not to appear too keen, and so I take a seat, and indicate the chair so suddenly vacated by Guinglan.
“Pray, seat yourself and let me hear your explanation.”
Guinglan gives the sisters an appalled glance before turning to me once more. I recognize his difficulty, and so tell our chaperones that they may leave us.
“Oh, but can’t we—” I can tell young Sister Agnes is agog with curiosity, but the older Sister Martha fastens an iron grip on her arm. “Come, Sister Agnes. I am sure you have work to do,” she says, and drags her companion away.
Guinglan visibly relaxes once they are gone. In fact, he is so bold, he strides over to Marie, sits down and takes her hand. I note that she does not pull her hand away but instead leans close to him.
“I know all the reasons Marie has given for not wanting to continue our relationship,” Guinglan begins, “but no matter how I countered her arguments, she would not listen to me.”
Marie nods, and now tries to draw her hand out of his grasp, but his grip tightens and she snuggles into him once more.
“It was only when I learned that you had left Camelot that I realized I could not let Marie go. I badgered my father for information and, as soon as I knew your likely destination, I followed after you on the fastest horse I could find. And here I am.”
“Here you are indeed,” I murmur. “And what do you propose to do about it, young man?”
“I will marry Marie tomorrow, if she will have me. Even today, if it can be arranged. That is, if I have your permission,” he adds hastily.
“Please, Mamm,” Marie adds softly. It is a wrench, I confess it, to hear my daughter so determined to pledge her life and her love to another, and I hesitate for long moments.
Their faces grow anxious. Guinglan pats Marie’s hand as if gentling a nervous horse. He is a fine young man, and with the best of bloodlines. Now that he has shown courage and determination, I cannot fault him. And so, finally, I say, “Yes, of course you have my blessing.”
The next few hours see a whirl of preparation as Marie plunders the gowns I have left in storage at the priory, seeking something fit to wear for her wedding ceremony, while the nuns splutter and squawk like hens at feeding time as they plan a feast in celebration.
As evening falls and candles and lanterns are lit, my Marie comes to the side entrance of the small chapel where her love awaits her. In front of witnesses, the couple make their vows.
It is done. My child has grown and flown away, I realize, as we sit down to celebrate their nuptials after the ceremony. I watch them watching each other while everyone else feasts and drinks their health, and I am happy for them. I have done what I can to secure the future, but already I feel my daughter’s loss, for I intend to send them both to my Castle Perilous, and keep them safely away from Camelot and Mordred’s plots.
As soon as it is polite to do so, the couple bid us all a good night and, with glowing faces and hand in hand, they hurry away to consummate their love.
How I envy them their first night together! Memories of Launcelot torment me and keep me awake through the long dark hours. To take my mind off my heated imaginings, I think instead of the woman in my scrying pool, and try to fathom what she wants. At once, all my doubts and fears come rushing back, along with a deepening sense of doom that I c
annot shake. I relive the terror of the burning citadel that in the end vanishes as if it has never been, and I hear again the screams of the dying and the damned.
I am filled with the sense that I need to do something more if I am to answer the unknown woman’s plea for my help. But what is it she wants from me? The night seems endless as I think of first one plan and then another, only to discard them all. Finally, I sense the glimmering of an idea—but I reject it utterly. And yet it sits like a burr in my brain, fretting me until I can no longer ignore it but must examine it more carefully. I don’t like it; I’m not sure I’ll have the courage to see it through. But I cannot think of anything else that might suit the purpose.
*
The twittering and warbles of birds as they practice their morning songs heralds the pale light of early dawn. It is time for me to act, but I am conscious that it will take Marie even further away from me, and that it may earn me her enmity forever. Nevertheless, it is the only way I can keep her safe while at the same time I try to fulfill the young woman’s request and bring about the destiny foretold in Merlin’s tablets.
Before I go to Marie, I venture into my secret garden once more to gaze into the sacred pool. I wish that Marie was with me. I am so afraid. My one desire is to receive a blessing, some confirmation that what I propose is the right course of action. I am almost sure of it—but not entirely. But although I linger, the waters stay dark and still, portending death and destruction.
Finally, hunger drives me back to the priory to break my fast. There is no sign as yet of Marie and Guinglan. Once more I am stabbed with envy as I imagine their bed games, their pleasure in the discovery of each other’s bodies. I am sure they will be late rising and I resign myself to a long wait. While the hours pass, I conjure up a pretty woven bag and place into it my most prized possessions: the ancient book I stole from Merlin so long ago, and the wooden tablets that have spelled our doom. After some hesitation, I also add the amethyst crystal. I know that I am taking a risk with this and can only pray that I’ll be able to find a replacement once I have need of it. All these I seal into the bag with an incantation that will keep them secret and invisible to all but Marie, and I finish my task with a prayer of love, and of hope that my daughter will come to understand the true purpose of my gift. With the decision made, and now irrevocable, I feel easier in my mind for it seems to me that I have done what is right.
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