About The Once and Future Camelot
They would do anything to be reunited with those they love, even if it means traveling beyond the boundaries of the world as we know it.
Two women, living almost a thousand years apart, are experiencing the same catastrophic visions of the future. But these are not two ordinary women. They are descended from Morgana le Fay, and they have access to a magic that can stop this future from coming to pass – if they can trust it, and trust themselves.
Marie, troubadour at the court of Eleanor of Aquitaine, and Morgan, a twenty-first century botanist, are two very different women. When their lives collide in a garden in Glastonbury, they must overcome the secrets that surround them and work together to save not only the world, but each other.
Both of these women have known true love but lost it – and both must overcome their prejudice as well as their fear of the harmful power of magic in order to be healed.
An astounding historical fantasy turning the King Arthur legend on its head, in the tradition of Mary Stewart and T.H. White.
Contents
About The Once and Future Camelot
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgments
About Felicity Pulman
Also by Felicity Pulman
Copyright
PROLOGUE
Exhausted after climbing up the Tor, Morgan sprawled out on the grass and tried to catch her breath. She wasn’t sure what had prompted her to abandon her search for a bed for the night and rush out but, following her instinct and with only the light from a small torch to guide her, she had climbed right up to the top of the Tor. Now, she stared in awe at the vast darkness that surrounded her. The sky was an astral canopy above her head. The radiance of the rising moon outshone the fainter pinpricks of stars within its halo, but further away they showed bright as drops of crystal.
For a while she amused herself trying to identify the star cluster marking her birth sign, but soon gave up and just enjoyed the beauty of the night instead. For the first time since forever, she felt at peace. There were no voices in her head to disturb the quiet, only a faint thrumming, a heart-throb that seemed to come from within the Tor itself and which vibrated quietly through her body, bringing with it a sense of hope, and even joy.
The moon climbed higher on its arc through the sky. What had the ancients thought so long ago? Had they felt fear every time they watched the sun disappear, thinking it might never come again? Had they observed nightly rituals to placate the gods, or the sun, or even the moon? And had they welcomed the light with prayers and thanksgiving at the dawn of every day?
So much is known about our world now, and about what lies beyond, Morgan thought. Yet space is infinite, beyond the reach of human understanding. What if other galaxies are more random, more chaotic – more destructive?
At the thought, Morgan shifted uncomfortably, aware of just how small and insignificant she felt; how little she knew of the world around her, and the galaxies beyond. It seemed now that the earth was speaking to her, and she listened intently. The quiet thrumming was growing in intensity. It sounded like a warning – but of what?
She cupped her belly in an unconscious gesture of protection. Now was not the time for wild fancies and doomsaying, not when she was so far from home, without shelter or any means to support herself. The new life growing inside her was what mattered now; she needed to stay focused on her future and on protecting her baby. Her unplanned pregnancy had brought fear and heartbreak, yet it was the manifestation of her love for Lance and, as such, the child within was more precious than anything she had ever known.
She picked up her heavy backpack and sighed. She’d packed in a hurry, and now she wished she’d been more selective. As well as putting in clothes and other necessities, she’d added the bag of strange objects that she’d had since childhood, containing an ancient book, a large lump of amethyst and a bunch of small wooden tiles with strange pictures on them. None of them was any use to her, and they were weighing her down.
Shall I leave them here for someone else to find? she wondered. Someone who might understand their purpose?
No! The word sounded loud as a shout, startling Morgan. She peered around for the source, but could see no one. It’s the wind soughing through the ruins of the tower, she thought.
“No!” She heard the word again, and this time it was unmistakable.
CHAPTER ONE
Marie
Guinglan and I followed my mother along the flagstone path that would take us to her secret garden. We were hardly paying any attention to our surroundings, so sated were we after a night of loving in our marriage bed, and so joyous that we were united at last. Our gaze was only for each other, each sweet glance igniting a heat in our loins, so that although our hands were linked, we longed for so much more. Our frequent stops for kisses served only to heat us further. I could sense my mother’s impatience but she said nothing in reproof, only beckoning us to make haste whenever she managed to catch our attention.
As we moved upward I became aware that tendrils of mist were reaching out to us, enveloping us in their chill embrace. I thought it strange for the day had been all sunshine and warmth when we’d set out, and yet the mist seemed to grow thicker moment by moment.
I nudged Guinglan and pointed ahead with some urgency, for my mother seemed to have disappeared. We increased our pace to catch up with her, but now the mist obscured my vision and I could hardly see where I was going. The path was narrow and straight, bound by a dense hedge of bushy hawthorns that hemmed us in. I plucked a spray of white flowers in passing, and inhaled their sweet fragrance. From my mother’s teaching, I recalled that they were a symbol of fertility.
I glanced at Guinglan, who had walked ahead of me, and clutched the flowers to my breast, praying that our union would prove fruitful. But then I remembered that the hawthorn could also mark a door to the Otherworld. A frisson of dread shivered up my spine even while I dismissed the thought. Nevertheless I hastened to catch up with Guinglan, and caught hold of his arm, feeling it warm and solid in this dreamlike landscape.
Finally the mist cleared into brilliant sunlight, and I looked around the garden expecting to see my mother. But she was not there; she was not anywhere.
This new garden was not circular; it was unlike the garden at Glastonbury priory with which I was familiar, and it seemed more sparsely planted, the flowers wilting in the heat while rank weeds choked some of the herbs used for medicaments. Here was not the same healthy profusion of herbs and flowers, trees and grasses which grew so abundantly in the priory’s garden. I was puzzled that my mother would have fashioned a separate and secret place that was in some way inferior to the garden she’d made for the use of the nuns.
“Where is the Lady Morgana? I thought she was going to show us around her special garden?” Guinglan let go of my hand and shielded his eyes against the sun, searching for a sight of her.
I shrugged, as baffled as he was. “I’d thought this would be an … an amazement, something particularly wonderful, yet I think it is not nearly so fine as the garden we’ve just left.” I stopped short of using the word “magical” although I was sure that Guinglan would have heard tattle in Camelot about my mother’s ability to practice magic. T
his was something she had tried to teach me but, after spending so much time with the nuns during her frequent absences, I had finally refused to learn from her, creating a rift between us that I regretted, although I had no intention of changing my mind. I looked past the hawthorn hedge to the flowery bower beyond, and took Guinglan’s arm. “But we may as well explore it while we’re here.”
I couldn’t help making comparisons as we started our slow progress past the lines of assorted beds of flowers and herbs. The healing properties of plants was one of the few things I had willingly learned from my mother. I believed, along with the nuns who had raised me, that all of life was in balance and that for every human affliction there was a cure to be found somewhere in the natural world. And so I looked about me with interest as we walked, for this was not in the same form as the great wheel of the priory garden.
At the sight of a nun crouched over a garden bed in the distance, I quickened my footsteps, nudging Guinglan to walk faster. I couldn’t see her face – she had her back to me – but I fancied it might be Sister Brigid, who was forever pottering around the garden at the priory, and who seemed to care for her plants more than she cared for observing the offices of the day; she was often in trouble because of it. I didn’t stop to question what she might be doing in my mother’s secret place, but instead watched as she pricked holes into the dark rich earth. Her hands were already stained from her toil as she began placing within each hole a small seedling, after which she scooped back the loose soil and carefully pressed the plants safe into their new home.
“Sister Brigid,” I called, once I was sure she would hear me, for she had become a little deaf over the years. “Have you seen my mother anywhere?”
Still crouched over, she turned to face me and I realized my mistake. This nun was much younger than Sister Brigid, no more than twenty summers perhaps, the same age as me. Bewildered, I stopped abruptly, and stared at her. I had never seen her before in my life.
She rose and came towards me, hiding her dirty hands behind her back. “Welcome to our priory,” she said sweetly. “How may I be of assistance to you?”
Surprise had stolen my breath away, and my speech with it. But Guinglan answered for me. “We are looking for the Lady Morgana. Have you seen her anywhere?”
The nun shook her head. “I know of no such person, I’m afraid.”
“Are you new to the abbey?” Guinglan looked as bewildered as I felt.
“No, not at all. I have lived here at the priory in Glastonbury for most of my life.”
“And so has my wife, Marie. You must surely know her?”
The nun examined me closely. “I’m afraid I do not, sire. I have never seen either of you before.”
I was speechless with shock – and a dawning fear that held me fast in its icy grip. My mother had promised to show us her “special garden”, and had taken us on a path hedged by hawthorn. I turned in a circle, searching for the entrance to the leafy tunnel through which we’d passed, but there was no sign of it now, nor of my mother.
A secret way to a secret garden. Stories I’d heard in the past began to echo in my mind; stories I’d dismissed as lies, as calumny, but which now began to resonate with a strange reasoning. Whispers of how my mother had sometimes gone missing from the abbey, yet no one ever saw her pass through the great gate on her way out – nor on her way in, when she’d reappear some time later as if from nowhere. Worse; it had been whispered that she was able to change her human form into something other, a notion so unspeakable that I used to stop my ears if I heard even the merest hint of it. No one dared to speak openly about magic in the abbey; indeed, we all hated and feared it. But my mother was a woman who knew about magic, and practiced it. This was something I’d taken for granted as a child, on those few occasions when she was able to spend time with me. It was only later that I came to understand that it was wrong, against God’s law, and I had told her so, causing the first argument we had ever had. And now it seemed that my mother had used her knowledge against us, as a warning or perhaps as a punishment for my intransigence. She had left with no embrace, no fond words of farewell; she had abandoned me yet again, but this time in a place unknown to me. I remembered then the bag containing her jewels that she’d tried to give me. I had refused to take it, so she’d given it to Guinglan instead. “A wedding gift,” she’d called it. Had she intended from the start to abandon us?
Fear, and a growing sense of urgency lent speed to my feet as I gathered up my skirts and raced towards the hedge that surrounded the garden, praying that I was not too late to follow her. “Guinglan!” I paused momentarily in my headlong flight, remembering that I was not alone. “Make haste!” A quick glance over my shoulder reassured me that he was already hard on my heels.
I stopped, breathless, beside the hedge and began a close inspection, hoping to find signs of the shaded tunnel of trees through which we had passed. With increasing urgency I paced around the entire boundary of the garden. But there was no sign of any special entrance; it was just a hedge. Frustrated, I looked about, wondering if I’d misunderstood the place of our entry. The garden spread out before us. Bright butterflies flittered and skittered around a stand of white poppies, the kind used to combat pain and anxiety and induce sound sleep. A fat bumblebee buried its nose in a sweet-smelling rose before lumbering off to sup nectar elsewhere. All seemed peaceful and quiet. And innocent.
Once more I traversed the hedge, praying that I might discover some sort of secret opening. Guinglan paced beside me. Stealing a glance at him, I realized he was as concerned as I was, although he could not know what it was that I feared. And my fear grew ever stronger as our search revealed nothing untoward, and our fate became clearer.
Finally I walked back to the nun, who’d given up on her labors and was watching us with growing concern. “Sister, have you ever heard of a place called Camelot?” I asked. “It’s not far from here and it is ruled by a king called Arthur?” I was afraid my hopes were in vain, but I was determined to find a way for us to go home if I could. To my great surprise, the nun smiled with something like relief that she was finally able to answer my questions in the affirmative.
“Yes, I have heard of King Arthur of Camelot.” She blushed slightly, and gave a chirrup of laughter, quickly suppressed as she looked around to check if there was anyone from the priory near enough to hear her. “We’re not supposed to listen to the chatter of those who seek shelter with us, but it’s hard to ignore them altogether,” she confided. “I once heard a minstrel, Taliessen was his name, tell some of our guests a story about a mighty king and his kingdom of Camelot. I wasn’t supposed to be in the guest quarters, you understand. But I’d gone to deliver a basket of vegetables to the cook in the guest house kitchen, and I had to pass by the room where our guests take their meals. I confess I was so caught up with what I heard that I lingered outside the door to listen rather than hurrying back to my duties.”
Taliessen? I’d not heard of him before. “And did Taliessen say where he’d come from?” I asked eagerly.
“No. Someone asked if he was from those parts himself, but he laughed and said that none of what he’d told them was true, that he’d just been telling them a story.”
“A story?” I could barely hide my disappointment.
“So he said. He told the guests that he has no home but travels the land telling stories to earn his keep. And I’m sure he lives well on his stories, for the guests all put coins in his hat at the end of his recital, and begged him to tell another.”
A story. And yet it was real to me; it was true. But not here, not in this time and perhaps not in this world either. As the realization came to me that Camelot was lost to me forever, and my mother too, I began to weep with the same furious abandonment and desolation that I’d known as a child while watching my mother ride away after saying goodbye, always with the fear that I might never see her again. I turned to Guinglan, taking comfort from his sturdy strength as he held me tight and soothed me with gentle words.
“If you come with me, lady, I can give you a potion that will help to ease your distress.”
The nun’s words brought me back to the reality of our situation. I drew away from Guinglan and managed a shaky smile for the good sister’s benefit. “I thank you, but no.” My heart was breaking; I was desolate with loss and grief. But it seemed that Guinglan, not knowing or understanding all that I knew of my mother’s art, was not yet ready to give up the search.
“You say this is the priory at Glastonbury. Perhaps we have been mistaken in where we are, and there is a similar priory elsewhere?”
The nun thought for a moment, then said, “There are many abbeys and priories scattered throughout England, and I do not know them all.”
Guinglan’s question had put new hope into my heart. “Can you answer me another question, if you will, Sister …?”
“Sister Grace. And if I can help you with anything, anything at all, I shall do so with a glad heart.” Looking expectant, the nun smoothed her hands down her habit, leaving a brown trail of mud. Remembering how little of interest ever happened while I lived in the priory, I could understand her curiosity.
“Did this minstrel talk about any other knights at Camelot?” I asked carefully. “Did he speak of Sir Launcelot, perchance?”
“Yes, indeed. He said that the knight was known as the bravest in all Camelot, and that he had come from across the sea, from Brittany. It was said that he owned a castle called Joyous Garde, which was cut off by the sea whenever the tide came in. In truth, it made me wonder if it really was just a story he was telling, for I have heard other guests talk of Brittany and a castle that is surrounded by the sea at high tide. And when the tide is low, the sands are treacherous. It seems many a traveler has perished while trying to reach the castle – or escape from it.”
“So there really is a castle called Joyous Garde?” I waited impatiently for Sister Grace to answer, but she took some time thinking on it before she spoke.
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