The Once and Future Camelot

by Felicity Pulman

  “You’d be perfect for the job. And you obviously have no ties to keep you here.”

  Risking a glance upwards, Morgan gave him an apologetic smile. “Thanks, Jeff. I really appreciate you looking out for me.”

  “I just thought, after your experience today, that you might also be glad to get out of London for a while.” Jeff drained his coffee and rose to go. “Keep the paper. And have a think about it.”

  Morgan stared at the article for some time. It was the sort of work she’d absolutely love to do, she knew that. But to go back to Glastonbury?

  No, she thought, and shivered. There were too many bad memories there. But thoughts of Elspeth and Merlin intruded. And Dru. They’d all been very kind to her; they’d taken her in and given her a chance. Best of all, they hadn’t judged her.

  But Dru won’t listen to what I have to say, she argued against herself, while trying to ignore the little flutter of excitement in her belly.

  It might be different when you go back? That vision-thing might just have been because you were …

  “What?” Morgan said aloud, knowing that if she went back, the vision-thing would probably be waiting for her.

  So what if it is?

  She thought about it. She was older now, and a lot less vulnerable. Maybe being pregnant had opened up some sort of channel while she was there, for she hadn’t experienced anything like those visions since leaving Glastonbury, nor before she went there, for that matter. I’ll never know if I don’t go back and face it, whatever it is, she thought.

  Pushing the question to one side for the moment, she began to leaf through the rest of the paper while she sipped her coffee. And stopped, shocked, as another headline and photograph caught her attention. HEIRESS WEDS ELECTRONICS WHIZ. Below it was a photograph of Lance – she would have known him anywhere. He had his arm around a slim, blonde woman and they were gazing into each other’s eyes.

  Morgan took one look, and threw down the paper. Then she folded her arms on the table, and burst into tears.

  “Is everything all right, Morgan? Can I do anything to help?” Morgan looked up to see a waitress peering anxiously at her. For a moment she was swept back to Glastonbury, and Elspeth asking if she was okay. She gulped and shook her head, then fished a tissue out of her pocket to mop her eyes and blow her nose.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she said, and stood up quickly. “Just some … unexpected news, that’s all.”

  What a day, she thought as, clutching the newspaper, she strode off to seek the privacy of her office. Once there, she unfolded the paper and, with a thundering in her ears, forced herself to read through the article. She already knew about Lance, the “electronics whiz.” From time to time she’d googled him, although not too often for it always upset her to read about him. Lately she’d found more and more about him on the net as his fortune increased along with the growth of his company that now looked set to overtake Apple in the near future. Her heart ached every time she saw his photograph, her misery not assuaged even when she congratulated herself on doing the right thing in not telling him about the baby, and leaving him free to find fame and fortune overseas. And a wife, it seemed. Gwen.

  Bimbo! Morgan thought, looking at the photograph of the slim, gorgeous blonde through tear-blurred eyes. She gave her face an angry scrub and peered more closely. Lance was standing behind Gwen, with his arms around her and her arms clasped around his. You couldn’t miss the huge rock and wedding ring on her finger; indeed her hand was placed so that it was central to the picture.

  Bitch! Morgan rolled her eyes, then gave herself a mental shake. What was she thinking, that Lance would live a celibate life until he realized one day that he couldn’t live without her and jetted back to find her?

  Yeah, right! Morgan scrunched up the newspaper and aimed it at the waste basket. She turned back to her report, but the newspaper sat there like a malevolent toad; she couldn’t ignore it. On impulse she jumped up to retrieve it. After tearing out the news about the garden, she scrunched it up once more, marched outside and deposited it in the public trashcan. As a final act she dusted off her hands, trying to wipe out the image of Lance and his new wife as she did so. It was the impetus she needed to make up her mind. She hurried back to her office, studied the article on Belle Meadow once more, then reached for the phone.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Marie

  Once I’d left the court and was safely ensconced back at the priory at Glastonbury I was amazed at how quickly I settled there. Even though it was not the priory I was used to, it was similar in many ways, as was the rhythm of our days, so there were long periods when I almost forgot that I was in another time and place altogether. I couldn’t forget Guinglan, however; his absence was a constant ache, alleviated only when I was with my child or out in the garden. As the seasons turned, and turned again, I was consumed with a restlessness that was hard to assuage. In the morning, when Aline was at her lessons, I scribed my stories, and invented new ones, thoughts and ideas running so swiftly through my mind that sometimes my hand could not keep up, and ached with trying. In the afternoons I took Aline out for walks, or we went riding together. But it was not enough. I had the feeling that time was passing and that I was wasting it. I spent long hours on my knees, praying for guidance, but it seemed to me that God had no answers for my malady either.

  One afternoon, while we were out riding, Aline tumbled from her pony and lay motionless on the ground. The groom and I both leapt from our mounts and ran to her. I was already sobbing with fear as I held her wrist and listened for her breath, trying to determine whether or not she still lived. My relief was indescribable when her eyes fluttered open, and she struggled to sit up.

  “Ssh.” I held her down while I checked her body to see if anything had been broken. Her arm lay at an awkward angle. I knew it would have to be straightened and a splint put on it. She howled with pain as I touched her, and I resolved to give her a small sip of poppy syrup before anyone touched her arm again. My careful fingers also discerned a huge lump rising on the back of her head where she had bumped it. The groom picked her up and, once I’d remounted, he placed her carefully in my arms before securing his own mount and Aline’s pony. In his company I carried my distraught child back to the priory at a sedate walk, all the while giving thanks that Aline had not been killed in the accident. I truly do not think I could have borne to go on living if that had happened.

  As I rode, I searched my memory for the names of the healing herbs taught to me by my mother, making a mental note of those likely to be helpful. A soothing balm for Aline’s scratches and bruises as well as her head would certainly be necessary. I would also need a cleansing agent to make sure no infection resulted. And so, as soon as I had put Aline to bed, I went in search of pain relief and medicaments for her. It was then that I realized how sparse and inadequate were the plants and herbs at my disposal. At the same time, I recalled my plan to teach my daughter the healing arts once taught to me by my own mother.

  The infirmarian had come running as soon as she heard of the calamity, and she made several suggestions, most of which I dismissed out of hand. But when I asked her for what I wanted she admitted that, in an emergency, she usually called on the monks at Glastonbury for medicaments, and also for help. “For they are so much more skilled than I,” she said humbly.

  The abbey’s infirmarian was called, and I watched carefully as he gave my daughter a strong dose of poppy syrup before calling for splints and bandages. Aline’s eyes fluttered, and she moaned slightly as the monk straightened her arm and bound it, but to my relief she did not wake. Later, in thanking the infirmarian for his ministrations, I also asked if he would teach me his healing skills for I realized that I still had much to learn if I was to be of any use to the priory.

  It was then, prompted by Aline’s need and my own wish to be useful, that I decided to take over the priory garden, and recreate it to my mother’s own design. It wasn’t just nostalgia that prompted my decision. I knew from
my own observation that the garden my mother had designed was practical and functional, as well as being beautiful. And so, in between nursing Aline back to health and keeping her amused, and regular visits to the abbey for tuition, my first task was to make a drawing of the huge circle within a square that I remembered, rather like a pie divided into slices. That was the easy part. I then had to scratch my brains to come up with lists of all the plants I could remember that had featured in the various sections, and provide notes for their purpose, for part of my plan was also to impart what knowledge I gleaned from the monk to the infirmarian in the hope that she, in turn, would tell me what she knew of women’s ailments and other matters beyond the monk’s ken.

  As memory returned and my plan for the garden became more complicated, I began to realize just how clever the design was, for it appeared that my mother had thought of everything. Many of the plants had multiple functions and so were found in more than one section of the wheel, yet each section was complete with every plant that fit so that there was no need to go gleaning from one section to another to find the various plants that might be needed, be it for eating, or flavoring, or cleaning and other household purposes, or for medicaments.

  I included too the trellised walkways that would provide shade in the heat and protection from wind and rain, along with the private bowers in the corners that I knew the nuns had valued for offering some much valued peace and privacy for meditation in a life that was lived always in the company of others. As I perfected the design I began to wonder about the “secret way” that my mother had used as a lure to encourage Guinglan and me to walk in the garden with her so many years ago. We had started off in her garden, but had come through a tunnel of hawthorn trees into another world, the world in which I now found myself. For the first time it occurred to me that perhaps I, too, could design a secret way through this new garden, and so find my way back to Camelot.

  No! I pushed the thought out of my mind. Even if I knew how to do it, it would mean resorting to magic, using the magical tools that I still carried around with me but would not use for I feared their power, and the possibility of causing harm.

  But your mother did not use her knowledge wisely. Viviane of Avalon, had said that, and said also that I had the power to do something good, something with ramifications for the future. But I didn’t want to concern myself with the future; just getting through the present seemed difficult enough for me.

  “What are you doing, Mamm?” Aline’s arm was out of its splint at last, and she relished her new freedom of movement while at the same time complaining over the exercises I had given her so that she could regain full movement and use of it once more. Now she bounced over to me, jogging my arm as I added the finishing touches to the plan, so that the ink smudged slightly, spoiling my beautiful drawing.

  “Careful!” But I could not be cross with my daughter, who reminded me so much of her father. I put my quill down, and moved the plan out of harm’s way before reaching out to draw Aline into my arms for a hug.

  “Come with me to see the prioress,” I told her. “We’re going to ask her if we can make a garden.” Aline gave a little jump of excitement and, together and arm-in-arm, we went in search of the prioress. Our passage along the stone arcade that fringed the cloister garth was interrupted by a nun bearing a message: a visitor was waiting to speak to me in the parlor.

  I wondered if it was an emissary from the king, or queen, and hurried there instead, leaving Aline to wait for me in the enclosed garden. Inside the parlor I found the emissary sitting in comfort on the cushioned bench, studying an icon of the Virgin Mary with the infant Christ on her lap and the jewel-studded crucifix that hung below it. The man seemed vaguely familiar and I screwed up my eyes as I surveyed him, trying to recall where I had seen him before.

  “I come with a message from your mother,” he began.

  I dropped to my knees in front of him, too agitated to remember that I had vowed never to forgive my mother and had cut her out of my life. “You have been to Camelot?” I asked, almost too choked with emotion to speak. “Is my father there? And … and Guinglan?”

  “Alas, lady, that I cannot tell you, for I saw only a land laid to waste, and a struggling community of nuns in a priory similar to this, but in a poor state altogether.”

  I stared at the man, as memory returned in a flash. I had seen him before, at our snowbound Christmas court at Berkhamsted, sitting with an older man and the interfering high priestess that had so irritated my mother. Viviane. She had tried once to meddle in my life; it seemed now that she hadn’t given up.

  “Did Lady Viviane send you to me?” I asked coldly, as I rose once more.

  The young man hesitated. “The Lady Viviane sent me downriver, telling me to ask for the Lady Morgana once I reached my destination. I own I was somewhat dismayed to see where the boat pulled in to land, for I’d hoped I might be able to earn my living there as a jongleur. Indeed, I have been schooled by the great bard Taliessen himself.”

  Taliessen! That, too, was a name I recognized from the first moment that Guinglan and I were abandoned at the priory by my mother. I remembered that Sister Grace had told us of the bard’s stories of Arthur and Camelot that she’d managed to overhear.

  I realized that the man was still speaking, and with a sense of grievance. “Unlike you, I have no patron, lady. I hoped to find there a palace with a king and many wealthy knights, one or other of whom might be glad to take me on in their employ. But although I spent quite some time searching for a town, a castle, or even a baronial hall, I could find nothing other than a few humble villages and a poor priory, and no one had knowledge of the Lady Morgana. It was only by chance that I learned her true name, for she is known there as Sister Anne.”

  I knew then that the man was telling the truth, however hard it was to believe. My mother had always been known as Sister Anne at the priory. I think she wanted to hide her connection to Arthur and Camelot, although I’d later come to suspect that the prioress might have been well aware of her true identity.

  “You found no King Arthur? No Camelot?” I asked cautiously.

  The man shook his head. “Only the priory,” he reiterated. “And I did as the Lady Viviane asked, although without your permission, my lady. I recited your lai of Lanval and, on the second day, your lai of Le Fresne to the nuns, but in the presence also of the Lady Morgana.”

  At the thought of my mother listening to my stories of the past, stories which she might well have interpreted and understood, I closed my eyes, suddenly overcome with grief.

  “I was also told by Lady Viviane to tell Lady Morgana that she sends her both a lesson and a blessing,” the man continued.

  I nodded, understanding that message too. But he wasn’t finished yet. “The Lady Morgana asked after you. I told her that you were well and that you had a child, but that I thought your husband, Guinglan, was dead, for that is what we were told when I first saw you at the Christmas court of King Henry and Queen Eleanor. I hope I did right, my lady?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, for my throat was so clogged with tears I could barely speak.

  “And the Lady Morgana said to give you her love, and to say that she wished only to keep you safe. I’m not sure what she meant by that, but I can tell you that she looked grief-stricken when she said it. And I know that she meant every word of it. In truth, and as I have already said, I could find no other signs of habitation other than that poor priory.”

  “She must have foreseen what the future held for Camelot.” By now I was weeping openly, grieving for the past and the happiness that had been denied me, yet understanding at last the sacrifice that my mother had made. And, despite what the man had told me, I was filled with a new resolve. I would recreate my mother’s garden in every respect and, once it was done, I would look for a way to return to my own world one last time, to seek news of Guinglan, and also to forgive my mother, and to ask her pardon for my unkind thoughts.

  After interrogating the messenger for any o
ther crumbs of information he might be able to impart, I gave him several coins for his trouble, and a message for Viviane. She was well-described by my mother, I thought with a flash of amusement, as I instructed him to tell the Lady that I understood not only what she had done, but also what she wanted me to do. And I added my thanks both to her and to the messenger for finding a way to bring me news of Camelot.

  And let Viviane make of that what she would, I thought.

  Clutching my design for the new garden, and now with a sense of urgency, I went out to find Aline and we continued on our way to beg an audience with the prioress.

  She was dubious at first, but I could argue my case based on my own experience of a similar garden, although I pretended that the priory was in this world rather than somewhere unknown. The prioress promised to think it over, and the matter was subsequently discussed at Chapter, and around the cloister garth when speaking was permitted. I had taken the infirmarian into my confidence and found in her a staunch ally, as was my first acquaintance at the priory, Sister Grace, who still labored mightily in the priory garden whenever she was given leave to do so. The three of us took every opportunity to point out the benefits of the new design. I even offered to pay for outside workmen to come in and help alongside the lay brothers from the abbey nearby, who usually did any rough work needed by the priory. For once I would spend the money raised from the sale of my mother’s jewels with a clear conscience, knowing it was for a true purpose and a good cause.

  Finally a compromise was reached. The existing garden would remain, although it would be smaller, and would be reserved only for growing those vegetables needed for the priory’s use. The new and much larger garden would be separate and set in a nearby meadow. The surplus vegetables would be sent to the abbey, or to the marketplace if the monks already had sufficient for their needs. And the produce from the other sections of the garden would also be shared, or sold. “It will produce a good source of funds for the priory,” said the prioress, who was now wholly in support of the project.