Chapter Fifty Six
By the time winter came, Mordred was once more restless. He came often to my room at night, demanding to know when the time would be to act. He told me that he was tormented by the dreams of victory I had showed him, and he would not be content until he had his father’s throne. When I told him to wait, to be patient, he became increasingly angry. He was no longer sure, almost five years after his departure, that Lancelot would return alive, and he wanted to make some other plan.
One night Mordred came to me, and I thought he was drunk, though I had never seen him drink the wine or the ale that was offered to him. His eyes were bright and wild, and he took my hand with a manic insistence and led me through the castle in the depths of night and up the stairs of Guinevere’s tower, and into Guinevere’s bedroom.
I followed Mordred in to the room, though I was still not sure why he wanted me there. I was afraid that someone would wake and see us. It was a clear winter’s night, freezing cold, and through the window the pale moonlight shone bright, lighting against his profile, against the gold of his hair, the white of his shirt. In the half-light, he could have been Arthur. I could hear my heart thudding in my ears, and I was afraid that it was loud enough for others to hear.
Mordred moved soundlessly across the wooden floor, and I followed carefully. It seemed dangerous, reckless to be sneaking in to people’s bedrooms like this at night. For what?
I followed Mordred around the bed, his face disappearing into the darkness as he turned away from the window. He paused when I was by his side, staring at the thick bed curtains before him, black in the night-time, though the threads of gold through the fabric caught in the moonlight, bright. He appeared to be bracing himself for a moment, flexing his hands, and then he leaned forward slowly, slowly, and drew back the curtain. The metal rings holding the curtain up scraped along its pole. What was he going to do, stab Arthur in his sleep? Would it be that simple?
But Arthur was not in the bed. Lying before Mordred, her chest rising and falling slowly in the rhythm of sleep, was the Queen. Beside her, the heavy winter covers were thrown back as if Arthur had left in the night. Mordred did not seem to be surprised. So, he had not come looking for his father. Mordred’s hand still rested on the curtain where he had pushed it back, and he stared down at her. The cold light of the moon fell across her white face, and against it, trailing in to the darkness, her thick red hair looked black in the night, everywhere except around her face where it shone, dark and glossy as blood.
I glanced at Mordred, and saw him step forward, and, grasping the edge of the heavy winter covers of furs and thick brocade sheets, pull them slowly back, and throw them aside on to the empty half of the bed.
“What are you doing?” I hissed. “She is going to wake up.”
Mordred flashed me an angry look, and pressed his finger to his lips, turning back to the Queen. In her sleep she gave another murmur, her red lips parting slightly in her sleep, reaching for the covers that had been pulled away, but she soon seemed to forget when her hand did not find them, and to fall back in to a deep sleep. Though it was winter, she had only a thin nightdress on. In the brightness of the moonlight, through the thin white silk, the shape of her body was half-visible, and when I turned back to Mordred, he was just staring at her. He reached out, slowly, his hand hovering over her body for a moment. When I saw him brush his fingertips across her stomach, I grabbed him by the wrist and pulled his hand away. Guinevere, in her sleep, sighed and turned over, reaching out for Arthur beside her, and when she felt nothing, she sighed again, more deeply, and seemed to settle back to sleep.
“Mordred, what are you doing? What did you bring me here for?” I whispered angrily. He seemed to have gone mad. I did not want that. I did not want to have lost control of a madman.
Mordred shook his head.
“Morgan, this was your idea. You told me that Arthur’s weakness was his wife, that she has had one of his knights as her lover. She refused me. Now she’s going to learn that I am not a man to be refused, and you are here to go and fetch Arthur so that he can see. I will have my victory, and he will see it done.”
I stood back, appalled.
“Mordred, that’s not what I meant. I meant if we can get Arthur to see the truth, he and Lancelot will have to fight for their honour, and while they’re fighting we can take back what belongs to us. I didn’t come here to help you rape an innocent woman. She is nothing to do with our quarrel with Arthur.”
Mordred turned fully to me then, his dark eyes cold. I stepped back again.
“What do you care what happens to her?” I felt my blood run cold. I thought of the Breton queen I had failed to save a long, long time ago. I wondered what she would say if she could see me now, failing to protect another woman again. Mordred took a threatening step towards me, and I stepped back again. “Our deal was for the sword, nothing more. Everything else is mine for the taking, including the Queen, if I desire it.”
I was going to speak again, but I was mercifully spared from having to decide if I had the strength in me to stop Mordred, by the sound of boots on the stairs, and the door scraping open, making Guinevere stir. I pulled Mordred back with me in to the shadows, and let the image of us becoming like the stones in the wall fill through me. I prayed that it had worked. “You left,” she said softly, slightly sad.
Arthur sighed and rubbed his face with his hands, moving into my field of vision as he climbed back into bed naked beside her.
“I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk. I keep dreaming that Lancelot has come back, and then I wake up and realise it’s not true.”
Guinevere shushed him gently, taking his face in her hands and kissing him softly. He responded at first slowly, but with an increasing passion, rolling on to her and pulling her around under him. I was surprised to see her respond with an equal passion, pressing her body against his with a low moan of anticipation. When Arthur ripped off her nightdress and threw it out of the bed where it landed in a crumpling heap at our feet, I was ready to leave. I turned to Mordred, who was transfixed. Tough. I was not staying. I grasped his hand and pictured the garden beneath us in the moonlight, the winding vines of the roses, the low, soft grass gathering frost as the dawn approached. I opened my eyes and we were there. Mordred looked annoyed with me, but I didn’t care.
I couldn’t believe it. That was not the married life I had expected to see. I had never felt passion like that, and yet she had Lancelot as well. It hardly seemed fair. No, I had felt passion like that. And Arthur had killed that man, and Nimue had helped him.
Resentfully, beside me, Mordred growled, “You see; she would have had me. In the dark, I don’t need your black magic to take my father’s shape. It would have been easy. You’ve wasted our chance.” He turned as though he was about to leave, and then had another thought, turning back to me so fast and violently that I jumped back. “Besides, she’s not an innocent woman, is she, Morgan? She has been offering herself to Lancelot, don’t forget that. As far as I’m concerned, that makes her any man’s who can win her.”
And he stormed off into the night.
Chapter Fifty Seven
Mordred was angry with me for days after that, but this gave me some respite from him. I could not decide whether to write to Morgawse to say he was in danger. I was not sure if I was in danger.
Christmas came again, and at least this year it was less tense than the last. Even if Arthur had not recognised Mordred as his son, but still called him his “dear nephew”, he was more used to him being there. With Bors’ return, there was a little more merriment than the last year. Bors himself was not much fun, gruff and sensible, but Ector was glad to have his brother back, and the men were pleased to hear his tales of the Grail. Kay, too, was in good spirits and had arranged his usual Christmas games. Even Guinevere laughed a little. I saw her dance with Kay, and where she had been tense and unhappy with Mordred, I noticed that she danced with becomingly neat and bouncing steps. Arthur watched his wife dance
with Kay with a deep smile on his face, fuelled, I suspected, by desire and wine. Mordred was watching her, too, his expression dark. I was afraid that he was waiting for a moment like this, when everyone was drunk and distracted.
Enflamed, it seemed, by the sight of her dancing, Arthur took his wife by the hand and excused them both from the Christmas feast, as soon as she was returned to the high table. It was late in the night by then, and most of the wine drunk, and all of the food that anyone could manage gone. The dancing was still going, though, and Gareth was still trying to catch a chicken than was running away from him as part of one of Kay’s games. His wife was watching, her little girl on her lap, and laughing.
As Kay walked past Mordred, Mordred put out a hand to stop him. Kay turned to face him, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. It had been a long time since I had seen Kay go about unarmed. In my borrowed, plain shape, a jug of wine in my hands, I shrank back into the shadows to watch.
“Do you, Kay, await the return of Sir Lancelot as eagerly as my father does? And my father’s wife does?” I saw Dinadan a few places away at the table, unable to keep his eyes from flickering towards Kay.
Kay shrugged. “Every man awaits his friend’s return eagerly.” Kay’s reply was even, and calm, but he did not move his hand from his sword.
“What manner of man are you, Kay?” Mordred asked, leaning back in his chair, pushing the sole of his boot against the table to tilt it back on its back two legs. “For I have heard strange things.”
Kay gave an odd smile. I wondered, suddenly, if he were not looking forward to a fight.
“Well, Mordred.” Kay leaned down close, teasing, putting one hand on the arm of Mordred’s chair so that he was leaning over him. “Would you like to find out?”
Mordred pushed him back, and I was surprised to see that he looked suddenly embarrassed, and a little afraid. Kay laughed, and his laugh was harsh and unkind.
“No, I thought you were a coward. As it turns out, more men are afraid of fucking a man than fighting one.” Kay slammed his hand against the back of Mordred’s chair, and it fell back onto all four legs, pitching Mordred forward. Mordred’s face grew dark with anger, but he was caught on the back foot and embarrassed. “Well, Mordred, I suggest you substantiate your rumours a little better before you try to embarrass anyone, because,” he leaned down again, and Mordred leaned away from him, and he whispered, “I am far braver than you for this, Mordred.”
Kay laughed again, and skipped off. Gawain looked annoyed, but Aggravain – to my surprise – looked amused. Kay had been drunk enough not to bother denying it, and I had thought that it would go badly for him, but it seemed that Mordred was more cowed by that than any threat of violence. Still, I wished that he had not done it. I could not imagine Mordred letting an embarrassment like that go, and while Kay had won for now, it could not last, for Kay would forget, and Mordred would remember.
Mordred was distant with me still after that, but when spring came, he knew he had to return to me, and submit himself to obedience to me again, if he was going to have any success. He had failed without me, and he knew it.
News came to me that Lancelot was back after almost everyone else knew. It was Mordred who brought it, and I wished that he had not, for I knew that in front of him I had to hide everything I felt. I still thought of Lancelot, still treasured the strange memories of our love. I wanted him still, though I knew that he would never have me. I was not sure that I wanted to see him, but the time had come suddenly upon me, and I knew that I could not shy back now.
News came, too, that Percival and Galahad were dead. Mordred did not know that Galahad was my son, and I did not offer him the truth, I just let it sink through me. I had known it before, and I endured it.
Some great feast was hastily arranged for Lancelot’s return, but it was not in Camelot’s great hall, but in Arthur’s council chamber, the room with the Round Table. Everyone was merry and happy when I arrived, carrying some of the food, unnoticed in my servant’s shape, and let myself hide at the back of the room, sliding into the shape of the stone wall. Guinevere came late, when the food was already there, and the men already laughing. This was the moment, when I would know what was to be, if success would be easy. Lancelot glanced up towards her as she came in, but she did not look at him. He sat at Arthur’s right, his return earning him the place of honour, where he would usually have been beside her. She sat between Arthur and Kay, who watched her tentatively. I felt a rush of victory. I did not know how Arthur, sat between them, did not see it. It was unbearable, the way Guinevere ignored Lancelot. She would not even turn her face towards him. Five years had changed nothing between them. No woman would ever ignore a man that intensely if she did not truly love him.
The feast was uneventful, and Lancelot told his story of the Grail. I was sure it was all lies, for it was all dragons and glory and the transcendence of God, when I knew that all quests were blood and wounds, and pain and loss.
When the food was finished the men began to mill about, and Kay went to Lancelot. Arthur had gone to Gawain, and they were laughing and talking. He did not seem to notice how his wife was. She did not notice, too, Mordred creeping round to sit beside her. She did not notice at all, until he put his arm around the back of her chair, and leaned down towards her. I could not hear what he was saying, but when he spoke, she startled a little, suddenly sitting up straight in her chair. But he was not speaking to her, he was speaking to Lancelot, two seats away. Kay, who was sitting on the table talking to Lancelot, was half-turned towards him, and Lancelot’s eyes were fixed on Mordred and the Queen. As he spoke, I saw him brush his hand down across Guinevere’s neck, and I saw her hand close around her metal cup. But he was not there for long, and once he had made his point to Lancelot he moved away. I did not need to know what it was, for I knew what he was trying to do. Trying to provoke Lancelot into giving himself away. It had been quiet, and brief, and no one else seemed to have seen. Mordred was finally learning the patience to wait for the right moment.
Mordred came to me after that, and I could see he was excited.
“The time is now,” he told me.
“The time for what?” I asked.
“Go to Arthur,” he demanded. “Show him. I know you have your ways.”
Now was the time. Lancelot was here, new-returned. If he was not with Guinevere now, he would be soon, and that did not matter, for they had been, and I would have Arthur see it. I closed my eyes where I stood, and pictured myself in the room with the Round Table. Its power, which I had felt through its ancient wood, would give what I was about to show him all the more strength. Luck was with me, and Arthur was there alone. Mordred seemed to be right indeed. All the time was coming together in this moment, for us.
Arthur smiled when he saw me, unsurprised that I had appeared before him out of thin air. He was pleased to see me. He did not even seem worried when I slid the bolt of the door shut behind me. He jumped forward to wrap his arms around me in a brotherly embrace.
“Morgan, dear sister, it has been too long since I have seen you. Are you well? What brings you here?”
“I’m sorry Arthur,” I said, my voice cold. “The truth brings me here.”
I wrapped my hand over his eyes, and the room melted away around us. I was not sure what encounter we would see, but I trusted my strength enough, and the magic all through my blood and all around me, that it would be enough.
The scene that emerged around us was of Guinevere’s bedroom, in the night time. She sat at the window, the moonlight streaming over her face as she looked down at the garden below. Arthur beside me sighed gently at the sight of her. The door opened behind us, and Lancelot stepped through.
Guinevere stood to her feet when Lancelot came in, her face full of hopeful surprise. Lancelot drew the bolt on the door behind him, and rushed across the room to take her in his arms and kiss her. His lips against hers were soft and sensual, and I could see she was trying to draw away from him but could not force hers
elf, for a moment, to give the feel of them up; but she did, gently pushing him back.
“Arthur might come,” she warned, softly. I glanced at Arthur. I could not read his look, if he believed yet what he saw.
“He won’t,” Lancelot replied, moving his lips to her neck. She closed her eyes, and her lips parted slightly in a silent sigh of longing. He gathered her closer against him, and I could see her losing herself already.
“How do you know?” she whispered. Lancelot did not take his lips from her neck, and I saw his hands slide around her back, wrapping her tight against him. She was fighting against her whole body’s urge to give in, to forget the danger.
“Nimue has just arrived,” Lancelot said, absently, his mind already taken up by other things. He looked up at her for a moment, and their eyes met and both of them were still for a moment. He brushed his thumb lightly across her lips, and they parted gently under his touch, and she closed her eyes.
“I don’t think it’s safe with so many people around. We shouldn’t,” she breathed.
MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy Page 44