I transform myself into an eagle. I wait and watch, hoping to catch Mordred on his own, and defenseless. With him dead, or horribly injured, I know that the men will desert him and his plans will fail. He has gathered his men together and is talking to them. My confidence wavers as I hear their cheers and whistles of support. These are not men to be bought. Mordred must have promised more than payment, should his bid for the throne succeed.
The men disperse, and Mordred wanders off alone, perhaps to think, to plot and plan, to savor his coming victory.
He looks up as I approach. There is something in his gaze that alerts me to danger, but even so I swoop down with talons outstretched, readying myself to claw at his eyes and render him blind. Within a heartbeat his sword is drawn. He awaits me, smiling, as he anticipates my death.
Panicking, I beat my mighty wings in a desperate effort to avoid that shining blade. I swoop over his head with only a hair’s breadth to save me from slaughter. His mocking laughter follows me as I fly higher, away from my shame and from danger. He might not have mastered the trick of transformation, but I know now that any form I take will find him armed and prepared to defend himself. I am impotent against the implacable ambition of my son.
It seems clear to me now that Marie is wise to say I should leave matters to God to either save or destroy Camelot. Weary and fearful, I stay on at Camlann to witness the outcome of this meeting between Arthur and Mordred. Knowing that, as a woman, I would not be allowed near the field, I transform myself from eagle to harmless sparrow once more, and take shelter in a copse of trees. I am close enough to the field to see what transpires, but far enough away and so insignificant that Mordred will not notice me—or so I hope. And there I wait until I hear the sound of a horn ring out, and the clinking of armor and the tread of horses’ hooves as Arthur’s men approach Camlann. They are far fewer in number than Mordred’s men, and my heart sinks in my feathered breast as I see my son’s eyes narrow in swift calculation. He smiles.
I fly as close as I dare, and watch as Mordred brings his men into formation behind him. Both sides stop while still some distance from each other. There is a tense silence as Mordred and Arthur step forward, ready to parley. Arthur holds out his arms, palms upraised in a gesture of friendship, wanting a truce. But Mordred takes a step back and folds his arms across his chest.
A flicker of movement catches my eye. A small brown snake has emerged from a patch of dry grass and is weaving its way toward one of Arthur’s men. Instantly I understand the danger, but I am unable to call out a warning. The adder strikes the soldier. He feels the sting and at once draws his sword to kill the serpent.
A great roar arises from Mordred’s men. They have seen the action, and misinterpreted it. Taking the drawn sword as a sign of Arthur’s treachery toward their leader, they rush upon Arthur’s men who, almost before they have time to draw their own swords, find themselves fighting for their lives.
Sick at heart, I watch them from my perch. Watch as men wield swords and battleaxes, cutting down opponents as lightly as reapers scythe hay. The ground darkens with the blood of the wounded, the dying and the dead. Shouts, curses and the prayers of the dying fill the air, along with the clash of metal on metal, and the wild squeals of destriers that lash out with their hooves at the enemy, but are inevitably cut down. It is a bloody scene, a field of carnage, a careless destruction and waste of life.
Through it all, I keep an anxious eye on Arthur and Mordred. They, too, are intent on massacring as many of each other’s soldiers as humanly possible. It seems that Arthur’s men, trained fighters as they are and with so much more to lose, are winning the battle, for Mordred’s men, those who have not been killed, are now in retreat. I suppose, having been promised an early and easy victory, they now realize that their lives might well be forfeit if they tarry longer.
Mordred looks about him, surveying his dead. His shoulders sag in acknowledged defeat. Arthur too, is looking around, assessing the damage. So many men have died, including Gawain and other knights of the Round Table. But loyal Bedivere is still standing, and it is he who shouts a warning to Arthur as Mordred rushes toward him.
With a roar, Arthur snatches up a spear and throws himself at Mordred, slicing the sharp spear through his armor and deep into his son’s body. It is a death blow, and I feel an overwhelming sense of relief.
But it is not over. Mordred’s eyes widen in anticipation of one last act of revenge. As Arthur turns, he lunges forward over the spear and, with sword upraised, strikes Arthur such a blow on the back of the head that he cleaves through his helmet. Arthur drops instantly. It takes Mordred a little longer to die, but die he does, and painfully.
A great silence falls over the battlefield. I am filled with shame, and remorse. If I had not thrown away the magical scabbard that protected Excalibur—and Arthur’s life—he would have survived this day. Truly I have caused more harm than ever I could have imagined when first I embarked on my quest to reclaim my realm. I have destroyed everything.
I fly down to the ground, ready to transform myself and go to my brother’s aid. But before I can do so, I am aware that Arthur has not died after all. Bedivere kneels beside him; they are talking together. I fly over to them and hover above, hoping with all my heart that all may yet be well.
“Take my sword and throw it into the lake,” Arthur tells Bedivere. I am intrigued. This was once a ritual observed by all warriors in our land in a time long ago. Upon their death, and sometimes even before it, perhaps in hope of a boon, warriors would throw their swords into a lake or the sea, or a spring perhaps, to appease the gods and guarantee a safe passage to the afterlife. This practice is still observed in the Otherworld of the Druids, but I have not seen it at Camelot since the court turned to the way of Christ. It seems now that my brother is not quite so devout a Christian as I had once thought.
Nor, it seems, is he so badly wounded as I had feared. And so I leave him and follow Bedivere to a lake some little distance from the battlefield, for I am curious about Arthur’s request. It seems so out of character for him to revert to the old ways. But then I remember that the sword was a gift from Viviane, and she might well have instructed Arthur regarding its use.
Bedivere comes to the lake and raises the sword, ready to throw it in. He hesitates, and then lowers it and thrusts it into a thicket of bushes to hide it. He returns to Arthur. I fly after him.
“Have you done as I asked?” The king’s voice is weaker, but still steely with purpose.
“My lord, I have,” Bedivere answers.
“And what saw you when you threw the sword into the lake?”
“Nothing, my lord. It fell with a mighty splash and sank straight away, leaving only ripples to mark its passing.”
Arthur rears up, terrible in his wrath. “You have not obeyed me,” he thunders. “I command you to do as I ask.”
“But my lord, the sword has served you for so long, and may well serve you again in time to come.”
“I am dying, Bedivere; I shall not have need of it again. I bid you, grant my last request or your soul will be forever forfeit, in this world and the next.”
Exhausted, Arthur sinks back onto the ground. I am torn between wanting to follow Bedivere and staying to tend Arthur’s wounds, for I am sure that he has suffered a mortal blow. But I have no herbs with me, no potions to heal him or even to ease his pain. I can do nothing for him here. Reluctantly, I leave him and fly after Bedivere.
The knight casts a quick look around. Fancying himself alone, he retrieves the sword from its hiding place and once more raises it above his head. He stops, perhaps reconsidering his actions. And then he throws it right into the middle of the lake.
I watch, fascinated, as a hand rises up out of the water to catch the sword. The fingers lock onto it in a firm grasp and then, slowly and gently, the sword is lowered until it disappears under the water, leaving barely a ripple in its wake to mark its passing.
Viviane? Or someone else from a different Otherwor
ld? Cold shivers run through me at the thought that even I, with all my magical powers, have not yet fathomed all there is to know about our world and the magic of the worlds beyond. It is as well Bedivere has obeyed Arthur’s command, I think, as I change into my real guise and hurry back to the battlefield behind the knight.
“Is it done?” Arthur’s voice is very weak now.
“Yes, my liege.”
“And what saw you?”
Bedivere recounts what we both witnessed. And Arthur is satisfied, knowing that his last wish has been obeyed.
I kneel at his side. He manages to smile when he sees me. It is the smile of the little boy he once was; the child going into the dark and fearing what he might encounter there, but trying, so bravely, to hide that fear.
“Have courage, Arthur.” I take his hand. “All will be well.” He knows he is dying, and so do I now. All I can do is hope to ease his passing.
“Hurry to the castle and fetch my medicaments,” I tell Bedivere, and I give him detailed instructions as to the things I need and where they might be located. “Bring also a litter and men to carry the king.” An image comes into my mind; it is an image once seen in my scrying pool but not understood until now. “Send someone to the river to find a sturdy and comfortable boat for hire,” I add, and the knight hurries off to do my bidding.
Once he is safely out of hearing, I sit down beside my dying brother and confess all my sins, and earnestly beg his pardon. I have greatly feared his wrath, but now, when it is too late, I need his forgiveness. But he does not give it to me. He stays silent and withdrawn, ignoring my pleas. It is no comfort to me to think that perhaps he has gone beyond earthly emotion and instead is composing himself to meet his God.
But then he sighs, rousing himself a little. “I truly loved Guenevere,” he mutters. “But no matter what I did and however hard I tried, I could not satisfy her, neither as a lover nor as a husband. I think, from the very first, she was enchanted by Launcelot. In truth, I should never have married her. But I always hoped, loving her as I did, that she would come to look beyond him and see me, especially if we could make a child together. And so I stayed quiet, both for the love I bore Guenevere but also for the sake of keeping unity in my kingdom.”
Arthur’s confession is a scourge on my heart for it was I who, by enchantment, ensured that Launcelot reciprocated Guenevere’s love, with all that followed on from that. Too late now for regrets. Too late to try to change the doom of Camelot. Nor can I cheat what the tablets have foretold.
I shake my head, trying to clear the thick fog of misery that shrouds my brain. What can I do to ease my brother’s pain other than try to reassure him? “I shall take you across the water to the magical Isle of Avalon,” I tell him, hoping that I can trust the image that I saw, and that I shall be able to find the means to bring it about. “The island is a center of sacred healing, and Viviane is there. If anyone can save you, she can. Have courage, Arthur. Don’t give up hope. You may yet come again to Camelot and unite the kingdom to create an even mightier empire.”
He makes no response. I don’t know if he has heard me, or if he believes me. I’m not sure if I believe it myself. But he is still alive when the men sent by Bedivere gently place him on the litter and carry him, with the greatest care, to the river side. There, we find a barge awaiting us, with a bed hastily fashioned out of cushions and covered with a silky black curtain on which to place the dying king. This is the barge I saw in my scrying pool, before I went to Arthur in disguise to make a child, the instrument of his undoing. It was a warning, and I did not heed it, for I had not understood that if I went ahead with my plan to seduce Arthur, I would destroy everything and break my heart. A surging tide of regret leaves me feeling sick and shaken.
Once Arthur is settled, I am at a loss as to which direction to take. The barge in my scrying pool had been sailing upriver. I remember also Arthur’s comment that Viviane had come downriver to see him at court. While I had devised my own way of visiting Otherworlds, I know that Merlin found another, and perhaps Viviane has too. I can only hope that I have read the signs aright as I give the boatmen their instructions and point them upriver.
A great wailing lament of loss and grief accompanies our passage as people hastily gather along the banks to mark our passing. The boatmen ply their oars and the river winds on, but thick tendrils of mist are reaching out to us now, enveloping us in their damp, clammy arms. The boatmen stop rowing. I see the fear in their eyes, but I command them to keep on. And so they do as the mist grows thicker, until we have no way of knowing the direction in which we are heading or even if we are turning in circles. Once again the boatmen stop rowing, but this time I leave them be for there is magic here, I am sure of it. The boat continues to move of its own accord, slipping swiftly and silently over the water. Arthur’s eyes are closed. I take his hand, squeeze it, and feel a slight answering pressure. I bend over him, and kiss his cheek.
The mist clears, and I realize that it is night. The black velvet sky is brilliant with stars, the same stars that shine over Camelot. I wonder if we are in Avalon, or merely further upriver at some new settlement. I discern the faint outlines of buildings, pricked with lamplight at their windows. A procession is wending its way to the wooden pier where we have berthed. At sight of it, the boatmen cross themselves in terror. I wait, holding Arthur in my arms, to see who comes.
It is Viviane who leads the procession. Several women hurry forward, bearing a litter. They carefully lift Arthur onto it and begin to make their way back to the settlement. I stand up, ready to follow them, but Viviane will not allow it.
“You are not welcome here, Morgana.”
I have not bid Arthur farewell. I cannot bear to let him go without a final word. I need to sing to him the lullaby that comforted him in his childhood. I need to sing my brother into the dark. I try to push past her, but Viviane is stronger than me, and she bars my way.
“Go back to Camelot,” she orders. “You may tell those few who are left behind that Arthur has gone to the sacred Isle of Avalon for his wounds to be healed.”
“When shall I say he’ll return?” I ask, accepting defeat.
Viviane scrutinizes me carefully for some moments, then looks off into the distance. I realize she is seeing things that I cannot see when she continues, “The day will come when Britain is divided and is once more under siege from within. There will be a great need for a wise and courageous leader, someone able to bring the tribes together and unite them in the quest for common ground.”
“That time is now,” I tell her. “Few have survived the battle between Mordred and Arthur. Now, more than ever, are we in need of a strong ruler.”
“And that would surely be you, would it not, Morgana?” Viviane’s voice is cool, tinged with dislike. “Have you not worked your magic for this outcome all along?”
I blush with shame that she has read my heart and my mind so clearly.
“So many knights dead, and Camelot in ruins. But surely you, with all your magical powers, can save Camelot and make it great once more?”
Defeated, I shake my head. I can find no words to defend myself against Viviane’s scorn, for everything she knows about me is true.
“Go away, Morgana. It is too late for Camelot. You must look to your own salvation now.” And she turns on her heel and strides away.
After a few moments of shocked silence, the boatmen set up a furious rowing, desperate to leave this haunted place. They say nothing of what they have overheard, and I am grateful. I have no way to defend myself, and no idea of what to do next.
Once more we are enveloped in mist, but the boat travels quickly now, caught in the current that takes us down to Camelot and will ultimately flow on to meet the sea.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
This is a true account of the part I played in the doom of Camelot. This must serve also as my confession for I am weary beyond bearing, and know that the sand in my glass must soon run out.
After the battle of Camlan
n I returned to Camelot to find Guenevere fled to the abbey at Amesbury and the rest of the court dispersed. I heard later, from a traveler visiting the abbey here at Glastonbury, that Launcelot had heeded Arthur’s call, but had come to Camelot too late to fight at his side. Would that he had arrived in time! How different the outcome might have been—for all of us. The traveler, who had come from Amesbury and who had seen Guenevere there, said that she and Launcelot had bid one another a tender farewell, for it seems he plans to take holy orders in an abbey across the water in Brittany, place of his birth. For me, this news marked the end of a dream. I had long hoped that one day my potion would lose its power and Launcelot would come for me. I had to accept then that I would never see him again.
Of Marie, stranded in another world and in another time, I have had no news at all. I pray that she and Guinglan are safe, but suspect I shall never be forgiven by them for they will not understand the danger from which I saved them, or hear of the long, slow death of Britain that has followed the battle at Camlann.
After the fall of Camelot no one traveled very far at all. With Arthur gone, and so many of his knights either dead or dispersed, marauders from across the ocean flocked to our shores, fighting those few of our people who dared to show themselves, and stripping them of their land and possessions. It was a great grief to me to learn that Owain, too, had been killed while trying to protect his father’s estate from the usurpers. By then, I had taken refuge at the priory once more, all of us living in fear of our lives through those dark days. The invaders, while killing any who stood in their way or who did not bend to their will, left alone those who served God although they stripped the abbeys of all their wealth and most of their land. And so we live in poverty, tilling the fields and feeding ourselves as best we may. Our land is crumbling into decay, dying from within.
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