MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy

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MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy Page 45

by Lavinia Collins


  “We’re alone now,” he said, softly, and she leaned up towards him, as though she could not help herself. Their lips brushed, their mouths opening slightly in anticipation.

  “Someone might come looking for me,” she protested, weakly. She was lost to it now. Her eyes closed, as his hands wound into the hair at the nape of her neck, pulling it loose, letting it fall around her shoulders.

  “Let them,” he whispered back, kissing her, soft and teasing so that she leaned towards him for more. “It will not be Arthur, and this is no one else’s concern.” And he kissed her again, and she sighed in surrender.

  I glanced at Arthur beside me, but he had forgotten that I was there. He had the look of a man having a bad dream. I was not enjoying myself all that much either, watching Lancelot slipping Guinevere out of her clothes, and her melting under his touch, the pair of them falling together into Guinevere’s great bed. Not when I saw the dizzying rapture I had known under Lancelot’s touch pass over Guinevere’s face, and saw him be as passionate, as tender with her as I had known him to be when I wore her shape. Only when I was sure that Arthur had seen his wife’s sigh of ecstasy with another’s man’s name on her lips, in the same bed where he himself had been with her time and again, did I draw my hand away. Surely, this was enough.

  Back in the room with the Round Table, Arthur pushed me roughly away from him, his grey eyes flashing with anger. In that moment, his resemblance to his son was all the more striking.

  “What evil magic was that, Morgan?” he shouted. His voice was loud and powerful enough that I felt it shake through me, but I was not afraid. I regarded him calmly.

  “That was the truth, Arthur. I am only trying to help you.”

  “That was lies, Morgan,” he raged. “Don't think Lancelot didn’t warn me about your wicked tricks.” So, with uncharacteristic shrewdness Lancelot had told Arthur what I was capable of, just to be sure that Arthur would never believe me. “And don’t think I don’t know what your interest in all of this is. I will not force Lancelot into marrying you, and I will not let you cause disharmony in my court because of your selfish jealousies. Just because you have not trusted anyone since you were fifteen years old –” His voice cracked with anger, and I felt the half-truth of it strike me.

  “I have trusted no one since you betrayed me! You sold me to Uriens –”

  “I saved both of our lives with that marriage. You should be grateful –”

  “You will regret, Arthur,” I snarled, “that you did not believe me.”

  And I faded from the room.

  Chapter Fifty Eight

  I watched Arthur and Guinevere for the next few days, hidden away as the servant girl, but I saw nothing changed. He was kind and affectionate towards her as always, and she was reserved and aloof as she always was. She was near Lancelot often, but tense and cold to him. I would have to force it all out into the open.

  There was a tournament being prepared for Lancelot’s return, and the final end of the quest for the Grail. I knew that Guinevere could be jealous, and the thought struck me that the best thing to force their love-affair out into the open would be if I could make Guinevere angry enough with Lancelot that it would be so obvious that even Arthur could not ignore it. I was surprised, too, that though he had been away for more than five years, they had not rushed together in secret yet. Truly, though Mordred and I had watched them carefully, they had never been alone. What I had shown Arthur had been from long ago, before the men had left looking for the Grail. I needed something he could see now, without my magic, and perhaps a raging argument would be just as good.

  I waited until I saw Kay go into his bedroom one night, and took his shape, slipping into Lancelot’s room beside his. Lancelot, when he heard me come through the door, looked up. He sighed when he saw me.

  “Kay, what is it?” He sounded weary and annoyed, but I knew he would listen to me. But his sad look made me curious, and I knew he would tell Kay the truth.

  “What is wrong, Lancelot?” I asked, hearing Kay’s bright voice.

  Lancelot sighed and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.

  “Kay,” he said, “you don’t want to know. You’ve already told me you don’t want to hear.”

  “I’ll listen,” I said. So, it was about Guinevere.

  “I just can’t make her understand.” He sighed again, shaking his head. “We are in danger. I can’t – I thought I could be near her, and we could just – without – but all I think about is her, I remember what it was like to –” He sighed again. He was shy, and the words to describe what he meant escaped him. “I came back resolved to live as a good man, but I do not know how much longer I can stand it, to be close to her, to touch her hand, to smell the scent of her hair, to hear her voice, without being able to –” He groaned low in frustration. “And we are in danger. Mordred is watching everything I do. And Aggravain. Aggravain knows. So these two problems, one cannot be solved without ruining everything for the other. She thinks – I don’t know what she thinks. It is killing me to be near her, and not with her, but it would be worse to be apart. Kay,” he turned to me in desperation, “what should I do?”

  This was a gift. I gave him a sympathetic smile. “If you want my advice, Lancelot, I would suggest that you create a public distraction. New gossip wipes out old gossip.”

  Lancelot looked confused, and surprised that Kay for once seemed to be on his side about this, but he was too relieved to question it.

  “How?” he asked.

  “Wear another woman’s token in the tournament tomorrow,” I told him. “Someone young, marriageable. Someone men could believe you were serious about taking as a wife.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  I shrugged. “Then live like this forever.”

  “Kay, she would not understand,” he said, but I could see the thought was going to work in his mind.

  “Surely, she would be pleased that you had thought of something to protect you both so that you might... enjoy your love in secrecy,” I suggested. I knew that I did not sound like Kay, but Lancelot was too relieved to notice, or too distracted to care.

  The day of the tournament, I sat with the common folk, in my plain serving woman’s shape, to watch the jousting. It was smelly, and cramped and uncomfortable down there. From where I sat, I could see the high platform above us, with its chairs and cushions, Arthur and Guinevere sat side by side at the front, dressed in their fine clothes, the light canopy of silk over them. Here, everyone crushed onto the thin wooden benches, straining to see. The gossip was better here, though, than on the platform. If I twisted around in my seat, I could see Arthur talking to Guinevere, and she was nodding, smiling very slightly. I expected he was boring her talking about the men and who had won before, and who had not. Gawain was with them, not down among the jousting, and Marie, and a few others. Kay was not up there, which meant that he must have been taking part. Down on the benches, everyone was talking about Lancelot. Looking out for Guinevere’s cloth-of-gold token on a knight’s helmet and seeing none, people were whispering that he was dead, or that Arthur had found out about his affair with the Queen and sent him from court. I heard someone say that he had become a monk.

  Mordred rode out onto the field, deliberately without his helm. He wanted everyone to see his face, his golden hair, his striking resemblance to Arthur, before he slid his helm onto his head and squared up for the first bout of jousting. No one sitting on the low benches bothered to call him Arthur’s nephew. The advantage of being far from the political centre of Camelot was the ability to speak the truth.

  I recognised Kay from his black armour, riding against Mordred first. I was a little disappointed to see him knocked down so easily, but while Mordred was a strong fighter on foot, he was even better in the joust. His natural brutal recklessness served him well, and he threw all his weight behind every blow. He knocked down Aggravain, too, who must have weighed half what he did again in vast, muscular bulk. He was doing well. There were more kn
ights, whom I did not recognise, but I knew that none of them could be Lancelot, for Mordred knocked them down easily. I glanced up at Guinevere. She was peering across the field as though looking intently for something that she could not find. She was looking for her token. She turned and said something to Arthur, who shrugged.

  Then, far at the edge of the field, came the last knight to ride against Mordred. This knight, too, had knocked down all those that Mordred had. The sleeve tied on his helmet was red and white. The colours of the castle town Astolat. It was not far from here, and every report said that the lord of the castle’s virginal daughter was the greatest of beauties. A fine choice, I thought, to distract attention from the rumours of him and Guinevere.

  At last Mordred’s violent strength had met its match, for where he threw himself against Lancelot, Lancelot was quick and deft enough to lean out of the way, and Mordred’s own weight and power unbalanced him in his seat, making him pitch forwards. Lancelot struck him from the side, knocking him down from his horse with a soft, swift blow. Lancelot would have been capable of a blow as strong as Mordred’s, but his skill allowed him to be almost gentle as he pushed Mordred from his saddle. Mordred hit the floor with a heavy thump, and his helmet rolled away.

  All around me the crowd rose to its feet, cheering, and I with it. Lancelot, still hidden under his helm, with the colours of Astolat disguising him, rode once around the field to the sound of cheers, and then stopped before the high platform. Suddenly, all the cheering around me turned to silence in my ears, and I could hear my heart beating over it, loud and hard. This was the moment. Lancelot pulled his helm off, and when the crowd saw who it was, their cheers became wilder. I turned to look over my shoulder. Arthur was laughing and cheering with the crowd. Beside him, Guinevere’s hands had stopped as though half way to coming together to clap with the rest of the crowd, and fell down by her side. When I looked back at Lancelot, he was looking at her, his expression one of desperate disbelief. In his longing for things to come right, he had put all his trust in what I had said to him in Kay’s shape. He had truly believed that she would not be angry with him, fool that he was.

  Now it would begin.

  Chapter Fifty Nine

  I was woken very early by Mordred hammering on the door of the little servants’ room I had taken as my own as though he was trying to break it down. When I opened it, he seized hold of me by the shoulders, lifting me almost off my feet.

  “She sent him away.”

  “What?”

  “Guinevere. She has banished Lancelot from court.”

  I went to her, in the shape of her Breton maid, Marie, but I did not get much from her. “It’s a coward who fights in disguise, Marie,” she shouted, and then there was a string of Breton words which I guessed, from their resemblance to some of the French and Latin I knew, were obscenities. “I hear, Marie, that the girl is fourteen years old. Fourteen years old.”

  It seemed that my sister Morgawse was the only woman in Britain that did not feel the threat of younger women.

  Arthur was angry when he realised that Lancelot had gone without taking leave of him. Some weak excuse had been made about business to attend to at Joyous Guard. Mordred was quiet and frustrated. I grew increasingly afraid that he would act suddenly, violently and alone.

  Spring turned to autumn and autumn to winter. Tired of waiting and watching, tired of Mordred watching for me, and always watching Guinevere, I went to Lothian to spend Christmas with Morgawse. I was glad of the distraction. Camelot was stifling. The whole city was pressed over with Guinevere’s frustrated longing for Lancelot, for her anger had changed quickly to wistfulness. I had thought she would be angry for longer.

  All the news that came to Lothian was of Lancelot fighting in some tournament or other, and in all the news that came the messenger made sure to mention that he had fought under Guinevere’s cloth-of-gold token. I was surprised that she did not call him back herself, but perhaps she was too proud.

  I enjoyed the respite from Camelot deeply, but it was strange; when I was not thinking of bringing Arthur down, I did not know what to do with myself. I left when the snows thawed. I needed Camelot, I needed my revenge.

  It was early spring when I got back to Camelot. It did not seem, at least, that Mordred had done anything ill-advised. I saw him take notice of me when I first appeared again in my disguise. I did not want to wait again for him to come to me. I came to him early on a morning at the beginning of spring. It was quiet enough around that I came in my own shape. I did not want him to forget what power and secret knowledge I had. I knocked, hard and sharp on his door.

  Mordred obviously knew it was me, and called me in by name. So, he had been expecting me. Hoping for me, probably. I stepped through the door. He stood before me in his breeches, his chest bare, looking disgustingly pleased with himself. I saw that there was a woman in his bed. It took me a moment to recognise her, naked with the sheet held against her, and with her golden hair loose around her shoulders, but then I realised from her resemblance to Lynesse, Gareth’s wife, that she must have been the sister, whom Gaheris had married. Mordred grinned at me when he noticed that I had recognised her.

  “Good morning, Morgan,” Mordred greeted me cheerily.

  “I can come back when you are finished with your brother’s wife,” I said, sharply.

  Mordred shrugged. “Gaheris does not miss her.”

  “No,” the woman, Lynet, added irritably from the bed, pulling up her knees and wrapping her arms around them. “No he does not. He is probably with his Breton whore.”

  She was mean-faced where her sister was kind. She was beautiful, yes, but her features were pinched with sulking.

  Mordred laughed and climbed back on the bed with her, but he was not fond, or kind. He leaned over and grasped her face by the chin, turning her roughly to look at him. “You think I will take your side in this because I have fucked you? No, no, sweet Lynet.” He laughed again, and I saw her try to pull back from him, wincing at his harsh language. He grabbed her by the hair, and she gave a murmur of pain, but it hardly had the strength of a protest. He had done this before, then. “Gaheris’ little Breton peasant is no whore. She does no more than is right for her to do. My brother is a prince of Lothian, and he may have any woman he wishes. It is only what he deserves. You, sweet lady,” he shook her by the hair a little, and she raised one hand to try to pull his away, but he did not move, “you are the whore, coming to offer yourself to your husband’s brother – and why? Because you are jealous, or bored, or full of lust, or whatever it is that was your excuse this time.” He pulled her face right up close to his. I could see he was enjoying himself, enjoying humiliating her. “Gaheris tells me his Breton girl takes him in her mouth. You fine ladies don't do that, do you? And how much better than her are you, really? All you have of your own is a small castle in the middle of a forest. You’re practically a peasant yourself. You ought to be grateful that I or my brother would ever deign to fuck you.”

  She looked as though she was holding back her tears, and though my shock and disgust had held me back before, I could not let him continue.

  “Mordred,” I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest. “If you are going to continue like this I am going to leave. Don’t talk to her like that.”

  “I’ll talk to her however I please,” Mordred retorted, but he let go of her hair and got off the bed, picking up some crumpled item of clothing from the floor and throwing it at her.

  “Put your clothes on,” he ordered her. She picked up the underdress from where it had fallen on the bed before her and pulled it over her head, casting him, and me, a dark, unfriendly look. He picked up her dress from the floor and threw that at her as well. She was prepared this time and caught it. She pulled that on, too, but the lacing was at the back. She would have to find someone to lace her up, and I was not going to offer.

  Angry and sulky, she went to push past Mordred to leave, but he caught her as she went, wrapping an arm around her waist and p
ulling her against him. To my surprise, she relaxed willingly into his arms, and when he kissed her, took his face tenderly in her hands. She should have slapped him. He pushed her round roughly and yanked the laces tight on her dress. When he was finished, he pulled her back against him, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

  “Come back tonight,” he told her. She didn’t say anything, but I was sure that she would obey him. It was disgusting. He pushed her roughly out of the door, and slammed it behind her. He was still grinning.

  “What was that repulsive little display in aid of, Mordred?”

  He shrugged, picking up his shirt and pulling it over his head.

  “I got bored of waiting for your return. It has been to my annoyance to find my father’s wife so unfriendly. Far less friendly than almost every other wife in Camelot.”

  I supposed it was some sort of game to him.

  “What have you come for, Morgan?” he demanded, turning to me. I gave no ground. I had regained my strength a little with my sister in Lothian and I did not intend to be caught off guard by Mordred. He took a step towards me, and I met his gaze evenly. I was glad of my height around Mordred. “Just to scold me? My bitter old aunt. I am not sure I need you here.”

  I let my shape slip into Guinevere’s and I saw the vulnerability that Mordred’s greed gave him flicker across his face.

  “Only I can give you what you want,” I said, softly, my borrowed voice rich with Breton. He put a hand around my throat, and I felt him squeeze. I could feel my pulse against his hand, but I was not afraid. I knew what made him feel weak.

  “No more of your tricks, Morgan,” he hissed. I could see that I had made my point, and I took my own shape again.

  “You need my tricks, Mordred.”

  He drew his hand away, turning away from me to pace around his room. The room was small and plain. Hardly the room befitting a king’s son, even a bastard child. It was less than his brothers, I was sure. More like Kay’s room, and Kay’s was, I was sure, plain by his own choice.

 

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