by Sarah Zettel
Queen Guinevere herself sat at a writing table, somewhat apart from the industrious monks. A beautifully drawn map of the Isle of the Britons was spread out in front of her. Each of its kingdoms had been picked out in a separate hue. The Dumonii lands, Laurel noted, were tinted blue and decorated with swans, the queen’s own sigil. Yellow coloured the broad lowlands that were Arthur’s native country, and a scarlet dragon wound through them. The valleys and broad firth overseen by Gododdin were all in green. Falcons dived there, wings folded, stooping to strike.
The queen turned her head towards Laurel, and belatedly Laurel moved to kneel. Guinevere, though, stopped her with a gesture.
“I am sorry this came upon you when it did.”
“It is not for us to order such things, Your Majesty,” replied Laurel. She had readied this polite piety while Meg braided her hair, anticipating she would need it as soon as she left her room. “We must trust in God’s time.”
“Sometimes, however, one could wish the Almighty showed a little more delicacy.” Queen Guinevere’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “There. Now I will have to make confession to the bishop for blasphemy. Again. Sit, Laurel. Tell me what I can do to help you.”
A chair had already been brought, and Laurel sat down. She faced the queen, folding her hands in her lap. So decorous, so polite. So different from the matters she needed to discuss.
“I have only one question, Your Majesty,” she said. “Why is my husband so haunted by the sorceress Morgaine?”
Queen Guinevere stared at Laurel for a long moment. Then, the queen drew in a long breath through her pursed lips, letting it out again slowly.
“I should have known.” Guinevere’s wry smile returned, but this time it did not reach her eyes, nor smooth the worried creases in her brow. “You were ever one to strike straight for the heart of the matter.” The queen eyed the library door, as if to satisfy herself that it was indeed closed, and was the only entrance to the place. The monks paid not the slighted attention to their queen. They bent to their work, their pens squeaking and scratching, accompanied by the soft click and clink of the nibs touching the ink pots.
“You should know this. It is right you know,” Queen Guinevere muttered, clearly attempting to convince herself. Her She twisted her fingers restlessly together. The queen’s hands were long-fingered and strong. Some old, dark stain marred her soft palm, and had as long as Laurel had known her. Laurel had never been able ask what made the mark. It was not a question one addressed to the High Queen.
When at last Guinevere spoke, it was not in the language of the court. The words she chose were in the Dumonii tongue that she and Laurel shared. “You must bear with me, Laurel. What I say now I have never told another, saving Arthur and Agravain.
“You know that the daughters of Ygraine and Goloris of Tintagel were brought in secret to foster at Cambryn? I was seven years old when they came. They were a strange sight to me: two girls of my own age with features so exactly matched, one might have been a reflection of the other. The only difference between them was that Morgause had blue eyes while Morgaine’s were black.
“But I soon came to see that their natures differed as entirely as their eyes, and those differences broadened as they grew older. Oh, they remain fiercely devoted to each other for many years, but when womanhood came, the breech broke open so wide there was no crossing it.”
Queen Guinevere watched her own hands as she spoke, rubbing her thumb back and forth across the darkened patch of skin. It was strange to listen to her halting words. Laurel had never known the queen to be less than confident in her ways. Harried yes, but never unsure.
“The wedge that had been planted between the girls was the death of their father, Goloris. My father said he was a hard man, a jealous man. He turned against the whole nation of the Britons because he believed his wife Ygraine had been disloyal with Uther Pendragon.
“Morgause grieved for her father, but found room in her heart to forgive, and to live with the scars. Morgaine could not do that. She nursed her hate. She would have vengeance.”
Laurel found herself once more in memory’s grip. She stood beside the dais in her home hall. Her father lay sprawled on the stones, her brother’s knife in his guts and the red blood pouring from him. She remembered looking into her brother’s eyes and feeling the inferno of rage. She would have killed him, could have killed him easily, if law and imagination had not found a worse punishment.
“But it was more than that.” The queen’s gaze was distant, looking out of the arched window down to the orchard beyond. Laurel saw blood, blood on her hands, blood on her sister’s dress, on her father’s corpse. What did the queen see? “Morgaine would have power. The workings of the world would never again sweep away what she wished to keep hold of.”
Laurel’s hands closed in sympathy. She knew this too. Only power could meet power, only strength could stand against strength. After all, what did she fear now but her own weakness?
“I remember when word came that Uther was dead,” the queen whispered. Her voice was harsh and Laurel felt her own throat tighten. “Morgaine wept bitterly. Not because of the death, but because it was not her hand that struck him down. I think that was when I first truly became afraid of her.” Guinevere’s hands stilled for just a moment. Are you relieved or startled by this understanding? wondered Laurel.
“After that, everything dissolved into chaos,” Guinevere went on, and the restless motion in her hands returned. “The Saxons were everywhere, burning, raiding, slaughtering. We withstood one siege, then another. We starved and we held, and there was talk that the Dal Riata and the Eire-landers would join the Saxons, and it seemed like the world must end. Then, the rumours began. There was a war leader, a young man, a true dux bellorum in the old Roman style. Some said he was the bastard son of Lord Ector. Others said he was the son of Lady Ygraine, raised in secret to protect him from the traitors and poisoners who had murdered his father, Uther.
“Morgaine listened to all of these rumours hungrily. She sought them out, collected them, stored them as another young woman might store up tales of the man she was to marry. It was horrible to see the light burning in her eyes whenever she heard word of this warrior.
“I spoke of this to Morgause. We were close friends, she and I, true sisters though we shared no blood. I was lonely. My brothers and sisters had all died so young … Morgaine accused me more than once of stealing her sister’s love. Perhaps I did. I don’t know.” The queen shook her head. Her eyes were bright. Will you cry? Laurel had to keep herself from cringing, selfishly not wishing to be near any tale that would cause the queen to cry.
“Then Arthur came to Cambryn, to seek my father’s allegiance. In that moment, I saw my heart’s love.
“Morgaine saw her enemy made flesh and brought within reach of her hand.
“It was then that Morgause had to make her choice. Would she choose to aid her sister or me? I don’t know what road she walked to reach her decision … I never had the strength to ask, but in the end Morgause chose to side with me, and with Arthur.” Queen Guinevere slumped back in her chair, passing her fingertips over her brow. “What followed was a long and dark war between the sisters. I only knew some of it. Much of it was waged far outside my ken. I do know that it only ended when Arthur and Merlin worked with Morgause to deceive Morgaine, and trap her. Merlin and Morgause together bound her in the earth, for all time, so we thought.”
“Why did you not kill her?”
Guinevere’s face tightened. “Merlin would not permit it,” she spat the words. “He claimed it would bring about a worse evil. I hope he was right, because what evil has been brought is fully bad enough.
“It was not until some years later that we found out Morgaine did escape her confinement. Morgause, her sister, my sister, left her husband and four sons and went to face her. Alone, this time. I do not know what happened to her.” The queen spoke these words so softly Laurel had to strain to hear them over the rustling and scratching
of the work going on around them. “I do know she did not return. Since then, Morgaine has taken out her revenge upon Morgause’s husband and children, upon myself, and upon Arthur. Her revenge is pitiless and brutal and will not be slaked.
“We believe she is responsible for King Lot’s madness. He was broken when Morgause did not return, and we knew he would never fully heal, but he began a descent into darkness so rapid, it seemed as if he were driven, or pushed.” She twisted her hands together once more. “We did not know it was her for a long time. None of us knew. All we knew was that he travelled so deeply into despair that he murdered his unwed daughter when he found she was with child.”
Laurel was cold. It was as if her bones had become stone, lest she bow down under the weight of what she had heard. All this and more for the death of a father, for the blood spilled on the stones. It was abomination. It was unforgivable, and yet she could understand it so well. She remembered looking into her brother’s eyes while pronouncing his banishment, remembered the calm place beyond anger where her spirit had gone when she realized he was not sorry, and never would be.
When she knew he had sided with the one who would bring their whole family down.
She could not sit here any longer. She looked left and right, seeking escape, only belatedly remembering who sat in front of her.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I …”
“There is no need,” said the queen. To Laurel she seemed relieved not to have to go on. “You are excused. You have much to consider now. I only ask that when you are calmer, you return to me so we can talk further. You are part of this war now, and there is much you have yet to understand.”
Laurel knelt swiftly, and swiftly departed. She had to get out. Now. She could not be smothered by stone anymore. A doorway loomed in front of her, someone opened it, and the wind, sweet and fresh and heavy with rain’s promise, rushed over her, wrapping her like a cloak. She breathed it in, letting it run through her veins, cooling her, calming her.
So, this was what it was. So simple. Revenge. The coldest, darkest canker ever born in human heart. A single word. A single thing, a lightning stroke, a knife, a stone. Revenge.
She had not thought to understand Morgaine. She knew to hate her, to beware her, but she had not thought herself capable of feeling as the sorceress felt. Father, dead on the stones, the murderer there, in reach, yet out of reach. Her own failure to stop him. Her own shame. That was what birthed it. That shame at having not seen. Shame and blood begat revenge and revenge begat madness.
Oh, yes. She understood this all very well.
Laurel wrapped her arms around herself and stared across the courtyard, seeing nothing. Her new understanding blinded her. But for fate’s glance, the flicker of the hand of God, she could have been just as Morgaine was.
Why didn’t they kill her? Why in God’s name didn’t Merlin want her killed?
“My lady, my lady, come in. You have no cloak. You cannot stand here like this.”
Meg. Eternal, vigilant Meg. The present world came slowly into focus. The yard was filled with busy life, with men and women, animals, passing by, and pausing to stare at Sir Agravain’s new wife standing in the arched doorway, alone and purposeless.
Pride came to her rescue. Laurel drew herself up and turned to brush past Meg. She would return to her chamber. She had no purpose there, but at least it gave her a path to take. She could walk decorously down the broad corridor, fix her aim upon the stairs. There were others passing, men and women both, of the several ranks that dwelt at Camelot.
Do not think of them. You should be used to being looked at by now.
She would return to her chamber. She would calm herself. She would think reasonably over all she had heard. Even so light a purpose could mask the turmoil inside her. Nothing had changed, she told herself sternly. Not truly. She had only learned a very little.
Only a very little. I will calm myself. I will return to the queen. She is right. There is much yet …
Then, in front of her, a door slammed open. Agravain marched out into the hall. Laurel had to pull back in mid-stride to keep from running headlong into him.
“Stop!” thundered Arthur.
Agravain did stop, from the king’s command, and from seeing her there so suddenly. His face was cold as winter’s soul, and his eyes shuttered tight as he turned to face the High King.
Every person in the hall knelt, heads bowed. She could hear them all breathing hard, feel them all straining not to look up in improper curiosity.
She should kneel too, but she could not make herself move.
“Be very sure of what you do, Agravain,” said Arthur, his voice stern and clear.
“It is you who should be sure.” Agravain’s words rang smooth and cold as steel. “Forsake one of your kings, you forsake them all. I will not permit my people to be used as your catspaws.”
“Agravain, don’t be a fool!” Gawain strode past the king, his hands trembling at his side. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to seize his brother by the shoulders. Desperation choked his voice, and drew deep lines into his handsome face. “You’ll cut yourself off. You will be absolutely alone.”
Agravain ignored him. At first she thought his attention was all on the king, who stood there, straight and tall, but with a deep pallor beneath his sun-bronzed skin. But no, he truly watched Sir Kai. The crooked seneschal had come to stand at the king’s shoulder. Agravain’s face was a mask, but the seneschal’s showed a thousand things; cold anger, bitter humour, hard promise, and admiration as steel-sharp as all the rest.
“If there is no other way,” said Agravain slowly, to brother, seneschal, and king. “Then so be it.”
Arthur’s mouth moved, but Laurel could hear no sound. It came to her that he was praying. For guidance? For strength. She could not discern fear in him, not truly. But there was sadness, and there was a profound concern, and the weight of years grown suddenly heavy indeed.
“Go, then, Agravain,” King Arthur said. “And unless it be that your heart changes, do not return.”
Dismissed, Agravain should have knelt, but he did not. Neither did he bow. He turned his back to Arthur without any sign of acknowledgement before his king. Laurel heard the rustlings at her back, horrified murmurs and whispers as Agravain strode past.
“It is begun,” he murmured.
Alone amidst this disbelieving crowd, Laurel looked to King Arthur, his eyes filled with sadness, and to Gawain, his chest heaving and his face gone pale, and last of all to Sir Kai. Sir Kai met her eyes. There beneath all the show of strength and anger, she at last saw the fear she had been looking for, and it ran deep into the seneschal’s heart. Kai’s fear chilled her worse than the king’s would have, for it was Kai who understood Agravain best.
But she also saw determination, and calculation. He was already deciding how he would help this plan succeed, how he would spread the word of what had come to the shocked ladies, to the stunned lords and outraged knights. They in turn would spread word of this thing through the world beyond Camelot faster than bird could fly or wind could blow.
Slowly, it seemed Arthur realized she was there, the only one before him still on her feet. He regarded her with lidded eyes, as if trying to decide what to do with such an object.
But it was Sir Kai who spoke. “And you, my lady?” he inquired. “What will you do?”
“What I must, my lord seneschal.” Laurel curtsied deeply to the king. Then she straightened, turned, and followed her husband.
• • •
Agravain did not look back to see Laurel behind him, but marched forward steadily, his shoulders hunched against some invisible blow. All those they passed stopped to stare, to wonder, Laurel was sure, what trouble plagued Sir Agravain now.
They’ll know soon enough. Far too soon.
When Agravain reached his chamber, he moved to shove the door shut, hard. Laurel caught it with her hand. Only then did he look back and see her. His face creased, trying to hold back the floo
d of feeling within him. He let go of the door, stepping back, turning away, not giving her permission to enter, but not denying it either.
Laurel stepped softly into the spare chamber, closing the door behind her and securing the latch. Agravain drifted to his worktable, and stood beside it, staring down at the smooth, dark wood. Laurel waited where she was, uncertain what to do next.
“That was … more difficult than I expected,” he said at last. He ran his hand through his hair. His face was pale, pinched and drawn, as if he had just come out of a violent storm. “Gawain doesn’t know.”
“What?”
He let out brisk sigh and scrubbed his face hard with his palm, as if he thought he could wipe away all trace of the emotions that now filled him. It was strange to see him making so much purposeless motion. “He is a poor liar, my brother. There was some question as to whether he could maintain the ruse … He will be told later, but … but for now my brother believes me a cold-blooded traitor who has turned against the great and blessed king who has been a second father to us all.” She would have expected those words to be spoken in anger, but there was only wearied bewilderment in them. He leaned both hands on the tabletop, pressing down, trying to regain his hold on himself, trying to believe somehow that Gawain could not possibly come to believe this much of him.
“I had wondered how it would be.” The words were harsh, breathy, and he looked up. He tried to give her his ironic smile, but his mouth would not shape it. “For you, so far away from all you knew, without family. I felt some pang about taking you so far away … and that was right. I know now. We are both alone.”
“No.” She crossed the space between them swiftly, without pause for thought. “No, Agravain.” She laid her hand on his. “We are not alone. Not now.”