“Perhaps you will forget,” I offered, knowing it was a useless suggestion.
Kay reached out, and laid a hand against my arm – Lancelot’s arm – and fixed me with a look that he had never given me as myself before.
“I did not forget you,” he said. I opened my mouth to speak, but I had nothing to say.
I felt oddly embarrassed by Kay, embarrassed on his behalf, by how weak he was. Unable to let go of Lancelot, but teetering on the brink of something worse. A new obsession. I was angry with him, too, for forgetting me entirely. But, it did give me an idea. An idea of how I might begin to punish Arthur for the suffering he had caused me. He had made me a miserable marriage, and I could take his happy marriage from him. There was clearly no child involved, and so I did not see how I would be harming innocents. The only problem was, how would I convince the Queen that she should take a lover? I hoped that she was still angry with Arthur for sending her back to Britain. I hoped that would be enough.
There was a great feast held, and I did not go. I did not want to hear more men’s talk of women and fighting and glory. I lay alone in my bedroom and tried to sleep, but more and more and more I thought of Lancelot, and the dream I had dreamed of him long ago. It had to come true. It had to.
The next day, I thought I would go disguised as the English maid to see the Queen. I wanted to see how easy it would be to push her from Arthur. I caught the girl, as I had before, on the way down the stairs, and sent her off on some fool’s task. She went willingly. She was afraid of my woad as anyone else, and obeyed without question.
I found the other maids waiting outside, and when I approached, the older woman, whom I remembered my dislike of, but who seemed kind enough when she was among her own, put her finger to her lips. It was the middle of the morning, past prime already, so the only reason I could imagine for Guinevere’s women waiting outside her door was that Arthur was in there. Supporting my assumption was the fact that the little maid, Marie, looked as though she was holding back giggles. I was glad that I did not stand so close to the door as her.
After a while, the door opened and Arthur stepped through in his shirt and breeches, with a friendly nod to the women, and disappeared down the stairs.
The older woman, whose name I had learned only after she had left the camp as Christine, led the way into the room. Guinevere was sat in the bed, which was spread with a rich fur over the covers for the winter, with her knees drawn up and her chin resting on them, and her arms around her legs. Her hair spread loose all around her, and she pushed out her bottom lip to blow it off her face, as I had seen her do before.
Marie was chattering to her in Breton and she was replying, shrugging her shoulders. She looked a little angry, a little petulant still.
Christine clicked her tongue. “English, Marie.”
I noticed that she only scolded the maid, never Guinevere, though it was the pair of them talking in Breton.
“There will be a tournament tomorrow,” Marie said, brightly. “A great great tournament, and all the brave knights from King Arthur’s war will show their strength. I am very excited.” She chirruped as she pulled out an undershift from the bundle of clothes in her arms and handed it to Guinevere.
“I am not,” Guinevere replied, slipping it over her head from under the warmth of the covers.
Christine clicked her tongue again. Guinevere slipped from the bed in her underdress. I saw her shiver against the cold as she stretched up, wriggling her wakefulness into her fingers.
“Men need their games,” Christine said, authoritatively. “We may not like it, but they need it.”
The Bretons did not joust like the French. The whole tedious pageantry of it must have seemed very strange to Guinevere.
“Arthur has been away for almost a year fighting his war, and now he wants to come back and see more fighting?” Guinevere shook her head and made a little noise of frustration as Marie pulled a dress of thick plum-coloured wool over her head. It was simple and plain. I had seen her with fine dresses before. Alone here, she must have sold them to keep Camelot in meat and grain. Guinevere held her hair up and away so that Marie could lace her into the dress, and continued, her voice sharper than I had heard it before. “He has been away at war, and I have been here on my own, not knowing if he is dead or alive, when he was coming home.” Then, after a pause, and a short sigh of annoyance that seemed to pass through her whole body, she muttered, “I am sure Arthur was not alone all year long.”
I felt the spark of victory light within me. So, she was a jealous woman, and a jealous woman that was right to know her husband well. I, too, knew Arthur as a man with a lust for women, and I had heard his own men say the same.
Christine sighed, and clicked her tongue once more. “The wise woman does not ask her husband what he has done while at war. On the battlefield or otherwise.”
Guinevere did not reply. She was proud, as she had a right to be. But her pride would be an easy weapon for me to use against Arthur. Would it be so easy? And were Breton customs so different? I had heard Morgawse joke about the other women Lot had had, but then she had not loved him. Why was Guinevere even surprised enough to be angry? But I was glad of it. If she was angry with Arthur, and Kay was besotted with her, my revenge on Arthur was ready-made.
On my way down from Guinevere’s bedroom, intending to go back to my own room and slip back into my own form, a familiar voice caught my attention – Lancelot’s voice – and another I was sure I recognised. When I stepped out of the door of the tower, there Lancelot was, standing at the edge of the courtyard leaning against the wall, and Gareth beside him. He looked much, much older than when I had seen him last. On the cusp of manhood. But he still had the open, trusting face of a child. He had not known war.
I crept closer to try to overhear what they were saying. I was sure that they would not notice one lowly, plain maid.
“Do you have a lady?” Gareth was asking Lancelot, his voice bright with innocence, with simplicity. How little he knew, I thought. To my surprise, Lancelot gave a soft laugh in response.
“Every knight needs a lady,” he told him. I saw a knowing smile play about his lips, just a little. I had never seen him like that before.
Gareth nodded. He paused a moment, cast a shy look at Lancelot, and asked again, “Is she your paramour – I mean, your lady, do you... sleep in her bedroom?”
Lancelot looked a little shocked. “Gareth, who taught you to ask that kind of question?”
Gareth blushed, deep red. But Lancelot had a lady. I felt my heart quickening within me, but I pushed down the hope. It was silly. He had not wanted me. Besides, he had not said anything definite. It would be in his interest to pretend he had a lady. It would stop people gossiping about him and Kay.
Gareth shuffled his feet on the spot, and a little sulkily tried once again to find out what a knight ought to do with his lady.
“Does she let you kiss her?”
Lancelot gave Gareth a gentle, forgiving smile. “I have kissed her.”
It’s me, I thought, and I pushed the thought away as soon as it came. It could not be true. It could not be me. Surely, not.
Gareth made a thoughtful noise of approval. “She must be a very beautiful lady, for a knight like you to love her.”
“I think she is beautiful, but every knight thinks his own lady the most beautiful,” Lancelot replied. Gareth nodded, studiously, as though he was trying to remember everything Lancelot said.
“Does she love you?” Gareth asked.
Lancelot gave a strange sigh. “I am sure she does. I can feel it, when I am near her, like the heat coming off a fire.” He sounded sad, and Gareth was as confused as I was. I, also, was embarrassed. Was it so obvious? I was not sure I knew it myself. I knew I wanted Lancelot, but he felt love coming from me, whenever we were close?
“Is that bad?” Gareth asked, confused. “Do you not love her the same?”
Lancelot turned to Gareth, and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. �
�I love her the same. I never stop thinking about her, and when I feel her eyes on me, it feels like the touch of the sunshine. But there are some things that cannot be. That should not be. When a boy becomes a man, he has to learn the difference between what he wants to do and what he should do. There are others who would suffer if my lady and I were to give in to the fullness of our love, and it is a man’s duty to do what is right.”
I saw Gareth’s face fall under such seriousness, and felt my own heart sink in my chest. It was me, and Lancelot was keeping himself away for – for what? For Kay’s sake? For Arthur’s? Why were these brave men always so wary of offending one another? What about me? He ought to have cared what I wanted.
One kiss, and a love that we both felt, that loyalty to others held us back from. It was both joy and pain to hear him say it. But I had suffered waiting before; I had suffered holding back with Kay, because Kay was wary of Arthur. I would not again. I would be brave.
“Oh,” Gareth said, and he sounded a little disappointed. “Well, I have a lady, too. But she will not kiss me, and I do not think she loves me. Not like a lady loves a knight, anyway.”
“Who is she?” Lancelot asked.
“The Queen,” Gareth said proudly, and he flushed deeply again when Lancelot laughed. “Everyone laughs at me. I’m serious. I told Kay the Seneschal and now all he does is make fun of me. But I think she is the most beautiful lady in all of Britain.”
Lancelot’s smile became softer, more thoughtful, but he turned to Gareth in comfort. “Don’t worry about Kay the Seneschal. If he makes fun of you, that means he is fond of you.”
Gareth nodded, but did not seem comforted. I had stopped listening, though, and bright with hope I rushed up to my bedroom. Lancelot did want me. Well, if he dared not act on it that did not matter, for I did. If he wanted something honourable, something that would not betray the trust that Arthur and Kay had in him, then that could be done. After all, I was a young widow, and he a single man. I was Queen of my lands, and he my equal – or thereabouts – in lands and wealth. I let myself slip back into my own shape, and pulled on my dress of black gems, and rushed down to the courtyard, hoping he was still there. Now was the moment, I was sure of it.
When I saw him, standing on his own now, watching Gareth play-fighting with Kay, with his words still fresh in my mind, and quickening in my heart, I walked over towards him. He turned when he saw me, and our eyes met. I felt the flutter of nervousness pass through me, but he gave me a gentle smile when he saw me.
“Are you well, Morgan?” he asked. I nodded, smiling tentatively back at him. He looked as though he was waiting to fight, dressed in the light armour that the men trained in. He looked good, with a light flush from the winter chill on his cheeks, and his hair blown through by the wind. He pulled off one of his gloves to take my hand in his. It was gentle, intimate.
“You look well,” he told me. It was awful and wonderful to feel his bare skin against mine. I let my eyes blink shut for a long moment, and I could almost feel his lips against me. When I opened my eyes, he was leaning down towards me, and my heart jumped within me, for I thought he was going to kiss me, but it was only on the cheek, sweet and brotherly. But of course it was. We were in public, and I his King’s sister. He wanted a wife, not a lover, and I was more than happy to give him what he wanted to get what I wanted.
“Come with me,” I said, feeling excited already. He would not say no. He would be pleased, that what he had wished for, that he had thought he could not have would be suddenly his. He would be grateful that it was I of the two of us who had dared to be brave. We would be happy together. I would not be lonely in Rheged. We could have a child of our own. I had seen us together in love. Lancelot would not have wanted to betray Arthur by dishonouring his sister; he did not have to. I did not know why I had not thought of it before.
I found Arthur in his council chamber. The old table had been replaced by a big, round table that I thought must have been the Round Table that Kay had mentioned; Leodegrance’s witches’ table that had been part of Guinevere’s dowry. I could feel its ancientness and its power. I could not believe that Arthur would be foolish enough to simply sit around it to see to the affairs of his lands. I expected that that, too, made Guinevere angry.
Arthur looked up in surprise to see us, me eager with excitement, Lancelot trailing behind me, confused but pliant. I thought he would be truly well pleased when he realised that I knew what he wanted.
“Arthur,” I said, trying to keep the girlish excitement from my voice, “I have had a wonderful idea. Lancelot and I should be married.”
I saw Arthur struggle to keep a smile from his face. Of course he thought it was funny. Lancelot was handsome, and I was thin and plain. I glanced to Lancelot. He was shocked.
“Think about it, Arthur,” I continued. “Then your greatest knight would also be your brother.”
Arthur was only pretending to think about it. I felt foolish already; I felt myself burn with humiliation. Arthur was trying not to laugh. Plain Morgan, thinking Lancelot, the great knight, the handsome hero of the wars would want her. He thought I was ridiculous for thinking a man might want me. But even if Lancelot did not love me as he had said he had, there was no reason for us not to be married. There was nothing wrong with me. I had produced a son. Together, we might have had as many sons as my sister. I felt myself blush. Why were they acting as though it were so ridiculous?
Arthur turned to Lancelot, and I could hear he was holding back laughter.
“Lancelot, what do you think about this?”
I saw Lancelot wince. He was not going to accept me. Why not? There was nothing wrong with me. He had said he loved me to Gareth. I had been brave.
Lancelot sighed, and I could tell that he was trying to be kind. “I never thought to be a wedded man. Marriage is well enough for kings, Arthur, but if I had a wife I would have to leave off tournaments and battles, and journeying, and that is not the life I want.”
This is about Kay, I thought.
I rounded on Lancelot, and in the face of my burning anger, burning from the humiliation that went with it, I saw him reel back a little.
“You are refusing me, then?” I demanded. How could he be doing this, now? After everything that he had said?
I did not wait for the answer. I could see it in his eyes. Why was Lancelot such a coward? Of whom was he so afraid? It was just an excuse, his desire to continue fighting and journeying. No man wanted that when they could be with a woman they loved.
Well, I had ways of making him brave. I would have the truth from him. He would not refuse me again, just because he was afraid. Was he afraid that the others would laugh at him? Morgan le Fay – Lancelot was weak enough to fear the other knights making fun of him. Enamoured of his own wonderful reputation. A knight of great repute could not marry a plain, widowed witch. So it was not just about right and wrong, but about honour in the nastiest, meanest way.
I went to my book of medicines, and there it was. The drink that would make Lancelot give in to his heart, which would free the truth from him. I would have it. I was brave, even if he was not.
Chapter Forty Two
The morning of the tournament, I went to catch the dull girl again, to try to find out as much as I could of Guinevere’s secrets, but when I met her on the stairs, she had a black lacquered box in her hands. I noticed her shy back from me. Perhaps she was less dull-witted than I had thought.
“Margery,” I said sharply, “what is in that box?”
“It is a gift for the Queen, from the King, my Lady.”
“Show it to me,” I said, softly.
With blind obedience, Margery opened the box, and I recognised the crown instantly. Arthur had robbed it from the treasures of Rome. It was the crown of Queen Cleopatra. It was shaped like two snakes coiled together, with eyes of bright emerald. I reached out and laid a hand gently against the cool gold.
“I’ll follow you up, Margery,” I told her. “I want to see the Queen
put it on.”
“Let me give it to her first,” Margery begged softly, and I agreed. I waited outside until she came back outside to bring me in with her. I supposed she didn’t want the Queen to think that she was more my woman than hers. Little did either of them know.
She pushed the door open, and the first thing I saw was Guinevere standing framed in her window against the bright winter morning. She was dressed in a dress of rich green brocade embroidered in gold thread with crosses. It was tight enough to hide how thin she had grown while Arthur had been at war. Arthur must have brought the dress back with him, too, or at least bought it with gold taken from Rome, for Camelot’s fine things had dwindled while we were gone. Her hair was plaited and twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck, held in place by a gold and emerald net, and she was leaning her head forward for Marie to clip a chain of gold that had hanging off it hundreds of little emeralds around her neck. It seemed that the treasures had returned all at once, with the victory.
“Morgan said she had to see it,” Margery said, as I stepped into the room.
Guinevere turned to me, and a thoughtful look passed over her face, as though she were seeing me properly for the first time. She did not look surprised or afraid at my woaded face, but she did not look friendly either.
In her hands was Cleopatra’s crown. I stepped forward and took it from her. She did not shy away from me as I took it, so our hands brushed. Hers were soft, and warm. I set Cleopatra’s crown on her head, among the thick curls of her hair. It fitted perfectly.
“That crown,” I said softly, fixing her with a serious look, “was taken by Arthur from the treasures of Rome. It belonged to the Queen Cleopatra, who was the lover of two Emperors, or... one and a half.” I paused. Her gaze on me was steady, unreadable. I could not stop thinking of her mother, and her on the battlefield in her armour. Perhaps Arthur knew her better than I thought. This was not a gift for a queen who stayed in her castle looking pretty. This was the gift for a powerful warrior queen. Then I remembered Merlin’s words again, halfwits make good wives. A clever, brave, jealous wife seemed to me not so likely to also be an obedient and faithful wife. “She was a fearsome queen, who rode with her people into war. He must have thought it an appropriate gift for you, my Lady.”
MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy Page 34