It is mid-morning before I catch sight of the young lovers. Arm in arm, they are walking in the direction of my garden, and I know I shall never have a more perfect opportunity. I pick up the bag and hurry toward them to give them my morning blessing.
They are heavy eyed, and drunk with desire. They can hardly keep their hands off each other, and I know that I’ll not succeed in keeping them with me unless I act quickly to distract them.
“I designed that garden when first I arrived at the priory,” I tell Guinglan.
“It’s very beautiful,” Marie adds. “I’d like to show it to Guinglan.”
“But first let me show you a part of it that no one but me has ever seen. Not even you, Marie.”
She regards me thoughtfully. “How has it stayed secret all these years, Mamm?”
She is sharp as a needle, my daughter! I pat her cheek, and notice that my hand is shaking. “It is set apart in a private place. It’s where I come to meditate—and to pray. And now I want to share it with both of you. But before I do, I want to give you a gift to honor your marriage and your new life together. Not knowing what was about to happen and its happy outcome, I came to the priory empty-handed, so I have nothing to give you now but my jewels. However, they are your heritage, Marie, and I want you to have them. A beautiful young woman deserves beautiful adornments.” As I speak I am stripping off all the rings, bracelets and brooches I’ve brought with me, every costly thing I possess, and piling them on top of the bag’s secret contents.
Finally only Launcelot’s gold band is left. I hesitate. The ring came from Marie’s father, after all. But I cannot bear to part with it and so I keep it, the only adornment I have left, but the most prized.
“No, Mamm!” Marie throws up her hands in protest. Even after her time in court, she still follows the sober and devout ways of the priory nuns.
“I want you to have them, Marie,” I say, and fold the bag into Guinglan’s careful grasp. “They are costly, so guard them well.” I can only hope that the couple will remember my words in the days to come. I wish I could also give them the small purse of silver coins that I brought along for our traveling expenses, but to do so would excite their suspicion, and so I keep it for my own use. As for what else is in the bag: will my daughter be angry with me when the contents are revealed, or will she understand that what I have given her is also part of her heritage? I can only trust that she will accept the gift, and value it accordingly.
Unsuspecting, they follow me through the portal in the bramble hedge. I already carry an oak leaf while, unknowing, Marie carries Merlin’s crystal. The youngsters do not hear my silent chant that I pray will set us on the secret way toward that Otherworld where, so many years ago, I ran away from Merlin and heard the jongleur tell his stories in the marketplace. I have chosen this world because it so closely resembles our own. I do not want to excite their suspicion until it is too late for them to retreat. At all costs, I intend to keep them safe from the doom of Camelot that I fear I may not be able to prevent.
The narrow path is hedged with tall trees; their foliage interlaces over our heads so it is as if we are walking through a leafy green tunnel. But once we emerge, Marie turns to me, puzzled as she surveys her new surroundings.
“But where is your special garden, Mamm? Where is your secret place?”
I give a nonchalant shrug and look about me. “It must have been destroyed during my long absence from the priory. But see, the priory garden lies before you. Why don’t you and Guinglan explore it on your own? I am quite sure you don’t need my company. Besides, I must return to the priory; there is much to do before I return to Camelot.” I long to take my daughter in my arms, to bid her one last farewell, but I dare not.
They move away, arm in arm. With a heavy heart, I watch them go. They are so rapt in each other that they pay little attention to their surroundings, which is a blessing, for sooner or later Marie will realize that this garden is not the same as the one at the priory, nor is the abbey the same, and she will come looking for me.
As soon as they vanish behind the high hedges that mark the garden’s boundary, I retreat down the secret path and close the portal. Silently, I send my blessing after them and hope that they will be able to live comfortably in their new surroundings, with my jewels to pay for food and shelter and whatever else they might need while they are there. I have done what I may to keep them safe from the doom of our world, and have also given them the means to protect themselves should protection become necessary. I try to comfort myself with the thought that this separation is not forever, and that in time, I shall be able to explain everything. Even so, I tremble as I imagine Marie’s reaction when she understands my betrayal, and can only pray that I shall have my daughter’s understanding when next we meet.
Once back at the priory, I tell the good sisters that Marie and Guinglan have asked me to pass on their gratitude and good wishes, and that they have now gone to Castle Perilous to start their new life. I sweeten my own farewell with the small bag of silver coins, for I am anxious to return to Camelot to do whatever I may to avert what is about to befall us all.
*
On my return I sense an air of tension, for it seems that the knights are more divided than ever now. Small knots huddle in corners, casting furtive glances over their shoulders to make sure no one can overhear what they are saying. As I approach there is always a too-obvious attempt to change the subject. The weather, in particular, seems to be a constant source of wonder and amazement. I go in search of Gawain, and tell him the same story I told the nuns at Glastonbury: that Guinglan and Marie have gone off to Castle Perilous to start their new life together.
Gawain frowns. “It is as well they are away out of danger, Morgana. Arthur is still looking for someone to fetch Launcelot and Guenevere home, while Mordred’s poison grows and festers. I cannot—I will not—go to Launcelot, for he has become my sworn enemy. I cannot forgive him for killing my brothers. And yet Arthur needs the strength of the knights who are still loyal and true behind him for I fear there will be a confrontation sooner or later. While none of us wishes to support Mordred, it will be impossible to support Arthur if those two return. The king has lost the respect of the court because of his refusal to condemn them. I wish you would talk to him, Morgana.”
“I have tried, but he will not listen to me. But he might pay attention to the Lady Viviane. Is she here?”
Gawain shakes his head. “That is a good suggestion, Morgana, but where she dwells is something of a mystery. Perhaps you might try to seek her out?”
I agree. I just wish I’d thought of it while I was still at Glastonbury, and before I’d given my gift to Marie. But Viviane has come to Camelot before, when she felt there was a need—perhaps she might come again, even without my summoning? Nevertheless, I make preparations to return. But before I leave, something happens that puts the whole castle into an even greater uproar: Guenevere returns to Camelot of her own accord.
She is alone and looks disheveled, as if she has been sleeping in ditches on her journey. Her face is drawn, her eyes red and swollen from crying. I wonder what can possibly have gone wrong but I say nothing, only make myself unobtrusive as Arthur welcomes her tenderly, sits her down beside him, and calls for food and wine to be brought.
“My love,” he says. “I am overjoyed to see you, yet you look so sad. Pray, tell me what is wrong. And why have you traveled alone? Where is Launcelot?”
At once Guenevere breaks down in a storm of tears and stammers out the somewhat incoherent explanation that Joyous Garde was not to her liking and that she became fearful for her virtue once she was alone with Launcelot. I hear the words “God’s curse” before she doubles over and gives herself up to such bitter sobbing that she is rendered speechless.
But I can fill in the gaps well enough, beginning at the moment she stepped into the hall at Joyous Garde and saw the tapestries, proof of Launcelot’s love for me. What rage, what sulks must have followed. Launcelot must rue the day h
e brought her to his home, or alternatively, cursed the love he bore me that left such a tangible mark on Joyous Garde. He would have done his best to appease her fury, and I suspect he would have prevailed if, in the end, she had not lost the tie that would have bound them together forever. “God’s curse,” she called it, and that’s how it must have seemed to Guenevere: her longed-for baby lost because of her betrayal of her husband and king.
I feel sorry for her, and I take great care to stay well out of her path. I have no doubt that she will blame me for her loss if she catches sight of me. And indeed, I am to blame, and for so much more than she knows. But I already feel guilt and sorrow enough without having to listen to her venting her wrath and pain on me.
Arthur appears to swallow the story whole and treats her tenderly while vowing to seek revenge on Launcelot. The only good thing to come out of this tangle is that he and Gawain are reconciled once more, along with many of the other older and wiser knights. The time of reckoning is near. We all sense it. And I know that we all fear that this will mark the end of everything, including Camelot.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The first inkling of danger comes when I am confronted by Mordred. I have been walking alone in the garden, lost in thought, when he steps out seemingly from nowhere and stands in my path.
“Where is she, Morgana?” he says pleasantly. His cold gaze belies the affability of his words.
“Where is who?” I ask, giving myself time to think.
“Don’t play games with me. My half-sister, who else? I know she is not at Glastonbury, and neither is Guinglan.”
“You’ve been to Glastonbury?”
Mordred’s smile chills me to the bone. “I have indeed. The good sisters were delighted to see me after all these years. ‘So grown up and so handsome,’ they said. They made me very welcome—at least at first.”
Fear turns my bowels to water. “What have you done?” I whisper.
Mordred’s smile grows broader. “You will never again use your dark arts against me or anyone else, Morgana,” he taunts. “I have taken steps to ensure it.”
“What have you done?” In my fear, I shout the words. I grab hold of his arms and shake him, until he effortlessly twists out of my grasp.
“Where is she?” It is his turn to grip my shoulders. His hands tighten, hurting me. I am unable to free myself, but I muster all my courage and glare at him.
“She is safe where you cannot reach her,” I say, while silently I thank the gods for giving me the wisdom to follow my instinct.
“I shall hunt her down,” he says. “Owain, too. The kingdom will be mine and mine alone, Morgana. My time will come.” He lets go of me, gives me a contemptuous shove, and walks off, whistling nonchalantly. I stare after him, wishing I had the powers to strike down this child whom once I loved so dearly.
I send a message to Owain, bidding him stay up north and out of reach, and to be on his guard at all times, and then I ride back to Glastonbury at speed in the hope of reaching Viviane. I am aghast at what I find there. The priory has been burned to the ground, and my garden along with it. The ashes have grown cold, but there is still the acrid stench of burning in the air. Fearing what I may find, I walk through the charred debris. There are no bodies among the ruins. It seems that the nuns have escaped with their lives, and I give heartfelt thanks for it, and for the fact that, unknowingly, Mordred has also destroyed the one means he had of finding Marie and Guinglan.
And with that realization comes another, far worse: I shall never see my daughter again, never be able to explain to her why I abandoned her in an unfamiliar world, with no chance of ever finding her way home. I crumple and clutch my arms tight around my body in a vain effort to hold myself together. I am too shocked, too distraught to cry. I can hardly believe the full extent of my loss, but I know that I am punished now for all the harm that I have done. The pain is excruciating; I can scarcely breathe. Only my hatred for Mordred stops me from losing my mind altogether. The need for revenge is visceral; a furious rage brings a rush of heat through my body, enabling me to stand upright once more, and give some thought to the future.
I am still able to utilize the magical arts of the mind, those that do not depend on what I have given to Marie, and I pray that they will be enough for my needs. It is reassuring to recall how I defeated Merlin, and how I also evaded Gawain and his brothers. An eagle with talons to disembowel my son? A fire-breathing dragon? That would scratch the smile off Mordred’s face!
Before I have time to try out my skill, for it’s been so long I am not sure if I still possess the ability to shape-shift, I am hailed. I turn and see the Prioress walking toward me.
I wait, wondering how much she knows, or guesses, of what has transpired. “I am so grateful to see you alive and well, Prioress,” I tell her. “I was fearful you and your companions might have perished in the fire.”
“No, Dame Anna, we all managed to escape, thanks be to God, but some have severe burns while others are coughing and in great distress after inhaling so much smoke.” She frowns at me. “I should tell you that we believe the fire was set by your son Mordred.”
How can I deny it? Sadly, I tell her that I believe her, and that I deeply and humbly apologize on his behalf should it prove to be so.
“The sins of the child can often be blamed on those who influence his upbringing,” she says tartly.
I press my lips tight to refrain from pointing out that the sisters, too, had an influence on Mordred’s early years. But while I deplore my son’s actions, I know that the blame rests largely on my shoulders, and I accept responsibility for it.
“He said at first that he was looking for your daughter, so we told him she and Guinglan had gone to make their home at Castle Perilous—that is correct, is it not?”
I nod. “When was he here?”
“He arrived some days ago, but left almost at once. I presume he did not find your daughter, for he was very angry on his return. I must confess that I was pleased he was unable to locate our sweet Marie, for I was sure, then, that he meant her harm. Unfortunately I made the mistake of telling him as much. He accused me of hiding her and scoured every inch of the priory in search of her. I did not like his attitude, Dame Anna. Indeed we were all fearful and very relieved when he finally left—or so we thought. The priory, and your beautiful garden, went up in flames that same night.”
Her words confirm my suspicions. As well as trying to locate his half-sister, Mordred must also have hoped to discover my books and the magical possessions that help me practice my craft. He, more than anyone, would know that a knowledge of the magical arts would give him powers that no one in our kingdom, save me, would be able to match. Not finding what he desired during his search of the priory, he had resorted to their utter destruction—or so he thought. No wonder he’d threatened me with such confidence. It frightens me to think of the havoc he would have wrought if I had not removed both my daughter and my most prized possessions out of his reach. I can only thank the gods that circumstances prevented me from showing him any of my magical practices before I became aware of his true nature.
“I am so very sorry for the trouble my son has caused you,” I tell her. Fortunately I still have Launcelot’s gold ring, although it takes all my courage and will to pull it off my finger and hold it out to the prioress. Profit from its sale will be some recompense for the destruction wrought by Mordred, although losing it feels worse than would losing the hand it came from. “Please put this to use when rebuilding your priory.”
The prioress brightens and wastes no time in snatching it from my grasp. “I thank you in the Lord’s name.” She hesitates a moment. “The brothers have given us shelter in the abbey until such time as our priory is rebuilt,” she continues. “I am sure their Guest-Master will find a room for you, should you wish to rest and refresh yourself after your journey?”
It is late and I am exhausted. I am tempted by her offer, but it seems more urgent that I should return to Camelot. The destructi
on of my garden and its secret paths means the way to Viviane is barred to me now. There is no more I can do here. And so I bid her farewell, and turn my tired mount in the direction of Camelot.
*
Upon my return, I discover Mordred has sent a challenge to Arthur to meet him at the field of Camlann. He has asked Arthur to name him king in his place, and is prepared to wage war to achieve his ambition. Arthur has replied that he would like to meet in peace in order to discuss Mordred’s proposition. The date has been set for a few days’ hence. Despite the so-called truce, the castle is abuzz as squires prepare the knights’ armor and all make themselves ready for battle.
I hurry to Camlann to find Mordred, hoping I may be able to avert the doom I have foreseen. Once there I am aghast at the huge army he has managed to gather to his cause. His soldiers far outnumber Arthur’s army, although I know my brother has sent out scouts to scour the countryside for men willing to come to his aid. Owain was not among Arthur’s soldiers and, to my infinite relief, he is not at Camlann either. I can only pray that he stays safe in the north.
I transform myself into a tiny sparrow, and hop about among Mordred’s men, hoping to hear something—anything—that Arthur might use to his advantage. I hear a cacophony of different languages, and realize that these are mercenaries, men hired by Mordred to fight on his side. Might they be turned to Arthur with the promise of more silver? It is a thought worth considering, if I fail in what I am attempting to do. But I cannot fail. There is far too much at stake here for failure.
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