It has been a long journey from the daughter of a king to a humble daughter of Christ here at the priory—for I, too, have dedicated my life to God, the sisters would not have let me stay here otherwise. There is no other refuge open to me. Throughout Britain I am blamed for the fall of Camelot, my name linked with that of my son, Mordred. I am called witch and sorceress, whore and succubus. The name Morgana is associated with all that is evil. And so I shall be judged by all who follow, even until the end of time. The voices of those I have harmed, and those who are dead at my hand, haunt my days and disturb my nights. Despite confession, and multiple penances for my sins, I have found no relief. I am riven with remorse. And I ask myself: Why did I not have the wisdom or the sight to see that in taking that first small step, I would bring such misery and devastation to our land?
If the prioress knows of the part I have played in Camelot’s downfall, she is kind enough to say nothing about it. Everyone else knows me only as Anna, and if there are any doubts, or rumors, they are muttered quietly and in secret. Our days are spent toiling in the fields and doing what we may to keep our bodies together and our souls alive.
We are no longer able to house guests in comfort here, for there was only money enough for the smallest part of the priory to be rebuilt. But travelers still come and, if we have room and pottage to spare, we take them in.
On a day in early spring, a jongleur arrives at the abbey from across the water in France. In return for a meal and a bed, he entertains us with a lai that tells of the deeds of a knight from King Arthur’s court, called Lanval. I listen in amazement as the story unfurls, for it seems to me that it bears a strong resemblance to the love affair between Launcelot and me, as it might have turned out if I had not spoiled everything with my meddling. I question the jongleur afterwards.
“‘Lanval’ was composed by a woman known only as Marie of France,” he tells me.
Marie? I hardly dare to hope, yet my ancient heart dances a jig inside my breast. “Who is she? And how does she know this story of Arthur of Britain?”
The jongleur shrugs. “No one knows much about her, other than that she once resided at the court of a king named Arthur, and that she was wed to a man named Guinglan.”
“Guinglan!” This must be my own Marie he is talking about! I am so filled with gratitude to have news of her I can scarcely speak. “Are they not still wed? What became of Guinglan?”
“I believe he died of a fever. Marie travelled to France after his death, along with their child. I heard she’d gone in search of her father, who is said to reside somewhere in Brittany. I know not if she ever found him, but her stories and songs have found favor everywhere in our land.”
Marie has a child! The blessings pile one on the other; I am suffused with happiness.
“Do you know aught of her child? Is it a boy or a girl?”
The jongleur looks somewhat confused by my interest.
“The child is a girl, I believe. She and her mother live within the royal court, for Eleanor of Aquitaine takes a great interest in Marie’s poetry. Indeed, the queen is renowned for the encouragement she gives to artists, scribes, musicians and poets such as Marie. To my great regret I have not yet been invited to perform at her court, so all I can repeat is gossip and hearsay from the common folk.”
“And I am truly grateful for your charity in passing it on.” I wish I had a coin to give the fellow. Instead, I make sure he has an extra helping of pottage for, by the look of him, he is in need of a good meal.
As I serve him, my joy gives way to questions. How is it that this man has been able to cross from Marie’s world to our own? By his account, that Otherworld is stable and prosperous, whereas our world has become so poor, so riven with strife, that I wonder if it is coming to an end. I resolve to question the jongleur further, but carefully, for I must not give any hint of magic or witchcraft. It is no longer safe to do so.
It seems that the sisters of the priory have so enjoyed the jongleur’s performance that they have begged him to stay on for another night to give another recital. I am pleased, for it gives me a little longer to formulate my questions so that they do not arouse suspicion.
This time he recites another lai, “Le Fresne”, about a young woman who is raised in an abbey and is unaware of her true birthright. Is this Marie’s own story, but woven anew into what she most desires? I listen, enthralled, as the jongleur recites her love and dependence on the king who takes her in, and her joy when, at last, she is reconciled with her contrite mother and sister.
Does Marie long to come back to Camelot, where she is known and recognized for who she truly is? The thought that she wishes to be reconciled with her mother stabs me through the heart.
I waylay the man after he has finished his meal. “How did you come to travel our way?” I ask innocently. “Is it chance, or did you choose to come here?”
The jongleur smiles. “Not chance, my lady, but a happy circumstance for me, nevertheless. I have been reciting the lais of Marie of France for some time now, for they are extremely popular with the common folk at fairs and in the marketplaces; even barons occasionally invite me to perform for them and their friends after they have dined. On one such occasion I was told that a woman named Viviane wished to speak with me. It was she who promised me a purse of silver if I would come here to your priory. She asked me to recite these lais to the community here, although I’m not quite sure why.” His gaze is inquisitive as he continues, “I was also told to ask for the Lady Morgana, but it seems she is not here.”
“Yes, she is.” Interfering Viviane! My lips twitch in a smile as I tell the man, “I am known only as Anna in the priory, but before I came here Morgana was my name.” I am suddenly anxious. “But you must tell no one, for my life might be forfeit if my true name becomes known.”
He nods. I wonder what, if anything, he has been told about me. His expression is unreadable, although he bows courteously enough. “I am pleased to meet you, my lady. I have a message from Dame Viviane. She says to tell you that she sends you both a lesson and a blessing. She says also that your daughter thrives, and that she is content.”
For a moment I am speechless with joy. “And I beg you, give her a message in return,” I say, when I am able once more to put my thoughts into words. “Please tell her that I am grateful to have news of my daughter. Will you also ask Dame Viviane to pass on to her my love, and tell her that I wished only to keep her safe?”
“I am pleased to be of service to you, my lady. But I confess, I am not sure why the dame suggested I come here to ply my trade for ours is a prosperous and settled kingdom, whereas it seems to me that your land is dying, and that people here live in fear and despair. I do wonder how I shall eke out a living while I am here.”
“How came you to Glastonbury?”
“Dame Viviane sent me downstream in her barge, and I was left on the riverbank.” The jongleur brightens somewhat. “She did say that if I was unable to find a patron, I should wait there and the barge would come for me, and that I would find the promised payment on board.”
He has said all I need to know. I wish him well, and apologize for not being able to reward him for his pains. He looks around our poor priory. “I realize how things are here,” he says. “So I shall ask you instead to please pray for me, pray for my soul.”
I assure him that I will do so, and that I will also pray for his safe return to the world that he knows. His gaze sharpens with interest, but he does not question me—which is fortunate, perhaps.
The jongleur has set my mind at rest about Marie, but it has also prompted me to think anew about our own fate. And so I convince him there is nothing more for him here and I personally escort him to the river. He accompanies me willingly enough, having seen for himself his lack of future prospects, while I ensure that he speaks to no one who may tell him of the events that have brought us into such a parlous state. I am reassured that the story of Camelot lives on with Marie, but I am determined now that my part in its downfa
ll must be hidden and forgotten. And so, once we catch sight of the barge, I bid him farewell and hurry back to the priory.
I pray that my waning powers will be equal to the task as I weave the spell that I once used to seal Merlin into his cave. In so doing, I hope to ensure that our world will be lost forever, and my shame will die with me.
The spell is successful, but it has taken its toll both on my body and on my ability to practice any magic at all. Over my years in exile at the priory, I have attempted to rebuild my once beautiful garden, although I was unable to restore the secret ways without the magical tools at my disposal. But I still take comfort in nature, and in my resurrected garden, poor imitation though it may be. The flowers that bloom are still magnificent. Trees still cast their shade in summer, lose their leaves in winter, and promise new life in spring. Everywhere I look I see an affirmation that no matter what has happened in the past, plants keep on growing, babies are born, and the great cycle of life continues. There is a comfort in that thought.
The news that Marie is safe and well, and has a royal patron, was balm to my soul, but the hunger to see her again, awakened by the jongleur’s words, is a constant ache. I long to see her one last time, just once before I die, for I suspect that my end is near. I resolve to go out into the garden to say farewell while I still have breath in my body.
It is a fine day. The sun shines warm on my shriveled limbs as the good sisters carry me outside and into the garden. At my wish, they seat me on a turf bench close to its center, where I have fashioned a small enclosed pool that is fed by the ancient spring with its rusty water the color of blood, the same spring that used to run into the sacred scrying pool in my secret garden.
I ask the sisters to leave me alone by the pool. There is some concern but when I insist, they agree on the understanding that it will be only for a short while, and that they will return soon to make sure that I am comfortable.
I wait until they have gone. Slowly, I pull myself up from the bench and stumble toward the pool. I fall to my knees beside it, and look into the water. This is my last, desperate attempt to see my daughter.
The water stays dark. I close my eyes, and pray to the gods that I may be granted a last vision. When I open my eyes once more, I find I am looking directly into the face of a woman I am almost sure I have seen before.
“Morgan?” I ask. She looks some years older now. It comes to me that in fact there is a striking similarity between her and the illustration of the woman holding the crystal on Merlin’s tablet. A man sits beside her; he bears such a strong family resemblance that they might even be twins. They are seated at a round table, surrounded by a sober group of men and women who are nothing at all like the wild rabble I witnessed in the streets of London. Yet there is some similarity to those warring tribes in the differing styles of their dress and skin colors.
Great windows of glass set along the walls give a view of the Tor standing like a sentinel beyond, with the ruins of stone towers and walls scattered among the grass at its feet. Is this the Glastonbury of our world, or is this the Otherworld I chose for Marie? And why has the abbey been destroyed? This must surely be a vision of the future.
Morgan and her brother, if that is who they are, appear to be in deep discussion with their companions. It is a serious debate, but I sense there is no anger among them. There is tension, but not the overwhelming fear I felt before, when I witnessed the streets of London erupting into fire and vanishing as if they had never been. These people seem to have come together for a common purpose, a purpose I can only guess at: how to overcome the threat to their kingdom, the threat that has already caused so much devastation.
The woman looks at me. “Thank you, Morgana,” she says.
With her words, I come to understand that by saving my child from the dying days of Camelot I have done what she asked. I remember Viviane’s words: 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.
I remember the fiery scenes from my scrying pool: the rampaging tribes, the rage and hatred of warriors who seemed intent on the mindless destruction of everything and everyone. I remember also that final, awful, screaming.
Not our world but a future time in the Otherworld that resembles our own so closely. And Morgan? I’d wondered at first if perhaps she was my counterpart in that Otherworld, a reflection of me as I could have been if only things had turned out differently.
Now I know the answer. We have come full circle, and I pray to the gods that Marie’s descendant—and her brother—will have the courage and the wisdom to unite this other Britain, and save it from those bent on destroying it from within; save it from total annihilation.
It is time for me lay down my quill, and I pray to the gods for peace—and forgiveness. I gaze into the pool, but there is nothing now to see, only a gathering darkness that spreads out and folds around me like a soft night blanket, and wraps me safe into its cold, clear silence.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to the Waratahs for their interest and feedback while I was writing I, Morgana. Thanks also to Dr. Gillian Polack, Isolde Martyn and Laurine Croasdale – your input was invaluable. Special thanks to Molly Talbot for sharing with me her knowledge of the Tarot, and for helping me devise the “reading” for Morgana. Finally, my thanks to the team at Momentum for all their expertise and care.
About Felicity Pulman
Felicity Pulman is the award-winning author of numerous novels for children and teenagers, including Ghost Boy, the Shalott trilogy, The Janna Mysteries and A Ring Through Time. I, Morgana is her first novel for adults, inspired by her early research into Arthurian legend and her journey to the UK and France to ‘walk in the footsteps of Arthur’ before writing the Shalott trilogy. Her interest in crime, fantasy and history (both Australian and European) inspires most of her novels – and often necessitates travelling for research purposes, which is something she loves to do. She has many years’ experience talking about researching and writing her novels both in schools and to adults, as well as conducting creative writing workshops in a wide variety of genres. Felicity is married, with two children and five grandchildren, all of whom help to keep her young and techno-savvy – sort of! You can find out more about Felicity on her website and blog: www.felicitypulman.com.au or on Facebook.
First published by Momentum in 2014
This edition published in 2014 by Momentum
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I, Morgana
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