“Dissuade him, if you can.”
I went to him, in my own shape. He was not surprised to see me. The hunt had been called, but he had declined it, as Mordred had predicted that he would, in the hope of seeing Guinevere alone. The other knights had already ridden out, with the exception of Mordred, Aggravain and Arthur, and those men that Aggravain had gathered to him in case he had to fight with Lancelot. He was in his shirt and breeches as though getting ready for bed, but he was pacing his room uneasily when he called me in.
“Morgan,” he sighed. “I was expecting someone else.”
Marie, I thought, calling you to your Lady.
“Do you not want to join the hunt?” I suggested.
Lancelot shook his head. “I have to speak with Guinevere. I need to go from here.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “I think Arthur suspects something, and Aggravain and Mordred are watching. I only want to say goodbye, and I will go to Joyous Guard for a while. Until things die down.”
I nodded. As long as he could say his goodbye before Aggravain and Mordred came. As long as he could be content with only saying goodbye.
“Just, Lancelot, be careful. Do not linger too long. There are still others in this castle watching you.” He nodded, and there was a knock at the door. Marie was there, and she gave a little bobbing curtsey to see him. Lancelot only half-opened the door, so she did not see me there. I thought that was uncharacteristically sensible of him, since I knew the Breton women did not trust my woaded face.
“Sir, my Lady wants to speak with you. Tonight,” she told him. I could not tell from the tone of her voice how much she knew, or suspected. Lancelot nodded and shut the door. He drew in a deep breath, and when he looked at me, his eyes were wide with sorrow.
“This will be hard,” he said.
“Could you not write from Joyous Guard?” I asked, hoping he would relent.
He shook his head. “I have learned too well how she would feel about that. It must be now.”
He turned to go, and I caught him by the arm, holding him back.
“Be careful, Lancelot. Don’t linger there. Don’t – there are still some in the castle tonight that would wish to catch you in some guilty act.” I sighed, seeing he was not really listening to me. “Just – be careful,” I insisted. He nodded, putting a comforting hand on top of mine. I felt no comfort at all.
“I will,” he promised, and he left.
Chapter Sixty Nine
Kay came soon after that to Lancelot’s room, and when he saw me there, where I had decided I would wait until he returned, he groaned with resignation, running his hands through his hair.
“He has gone?” he asked me, his face wild with apprehension. I nodded and he covered his face with his hands, leaning back against the door frame. Through his hands he groaned again. “I thought it was over, a long time ago. She told me it was. When he left for the Grail. But it’s not true, is it?” I shook my head. He sighed, hard, then stood up, taken with a sudden thought. “I will go and stop him.”
He made to stride away and I jumped up to catch him by the arm.
“Kay, don’t,” I said gently. “If you try, Mordred will kill you.”
He turned back to me, and I could see the distress in his usually laughing brown eyes, and I could see the way the years of lying and hiding for Lancelot had made him tired, and hopeless.
He was filled with an idea again and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Take his shape, Morgan, and we will go to Arthur, and he will –”
I shook my head, and Kay fell quiet. “Mordred will know, and he will try again.”
“What can be done, then?” Kay asked.
In a small voice, I answered, “I don’t know.”
We sat together, side by side on Lancelot’s bed, waiting for a while, but the tense silence was worse than being alone. I wondered where Nimue was, what she was doing. I thought perhaps she was with Arthur, trying to talk him out of it. I strained to hear in the darkness, any sounds of shouting, or fighting, or the sound of Lancelot’s boots walking up the stairs, coming safely back to his room.
In the end, I left. Kay could stay there and wait for Lancelot. I wanted to be alone with my anxious thoughts in my own room. I listened, but all I heard was empty darkness.
It was deep into the night when Mordred burst through my bedroom door. His chest was heaving, and blood was smeared across his face, his armour. I stood from my window seat to face him, forcing myself to have an air of steely calm. Without speaking, he unbuckled and pulled off his breastplate. Underneath, he had a wound to his stomach, gaping open with his movements, and oozing dark blood. When he pulled the greaves from his legs, I could see that he was wounded deep into his left thigh, as well. What I wanted to know was if Lancelot had escaped alive, but I dared not ask.
“Heal me,” Mordred demanded. I gestured to the chair, and he sat heavily in it. I thought about killing him then.
But I gave him some of the potion to strengthen his blood, and bound the wounds he had with strips of linen. I did not put my hands against them. I would not give him the benefit of my healing touch, and he did not ask for it.
“What happened?” I asked him.
He reached down and put his hand over my eyes. I could see, as if through a dream, or underwater, Mordred at the head of a line of men, twelve or more of them, and Aggravain just behind him standing in the corridor outside Guinevere’s bedroom. He was shouting, and banging against the door with his fist, but I could not hear what he was saying. Lancelot burst out then, dressed in armour that was not his own, and already smeared with blood. He had another man’s sword, too, in his hand. The fighting was wild, and desperate, and I could not see who was striking whom, but I saw Aggravain fall, a wave of dark red spreading down across his breastplate where Lancelot’s sword had sliced across his throat. Mordred was already covered in blood, but when Lancelot struck him the second time, his sword cutting through Mordred’s thigh, Mordred fell back and lay still. From where we stood in his memory, I could see him lying back as the sounds of fighting continued further and further away, his eyes so wide open that I could see white all the way around his dark irises. When they died down, he slowly stood back up, wincing against the pain, and glanced around. All the other men lay dead, but nowhere did I see Lancelot’s body. He had escaped alive. I thought Mordred was about to leave, and hobble here with his wounds, but he turned back towards the bedroom door. I went with him as he walked back up towards it, and pressed his ear against the door. Suddenly, awfully, I could hear what he heard the other side – the sound of Guinevere’s terrified breathing, and her hands fumbling at the bolt. No, I thought, do not open the door.
But she did. A small crack at first, as if to peer out, but Mordred saw it open and slammed himself against it, throwing it open. She jumped back. Her hair was loose; she was dressed in her nightgown.
She and Mordred stood for a second, staring at one another; then she made to run past him, and he seized hold of a handful of her hair, and her arm, and began dragging her down the stairs while she struggled against him.
The vision before me shifted, and I was watching him drag her before Arthur, who sat at the Round Table, with Ector and Gawain either side of him. He was just in his shirt and breeches, as though he had been dragged from his bed. So was Ector. I could not hear their words, but Mordred was grinning as Arthur spoke, pulling Guinevere’s head back by her hair. I could see Gawain shouting, too, and Arthur shook his head in resignation, and waved to Mordred to take her away. He had both expected and not expected it to be true. He had hoped that everything he heard had been wrong.
What had Arthur said? What had been decided? I supposed I already knew. I had seen her being led away to be burned.
Mordred dragged her up to Arthur’s bedroom and pushed her inside. He stared at her for a moment, then hit her hard across the face with the back of his hand. I flinched as she fell hard against the floor from it. He was already on top of her, ho
lding her down. I realised with a chill that I had seen this before. She was trying to push him off her, to kick him away, but he was too strong. All of a sudden, he stopped still, drawing his hand out from where he had shoved it up her nightdress, and holding it in front of her face. I could see that she was shaking, her eyes wide with terror. In the low firelight, I could see what he was showing her; his fingers glistened, and I was disgusted. I heard his voice coming sharp through his memory, as he leaned close to her and hissed, Liar. I saw him shove her hard against the floor again, and stand to leave, wiping his hand against her nightdress. It faded around me then, and I stepped back from him.
“Proof, beyond doubt,” said Mordred. “Though Arthur did not need it. Did you see his face?”
I could feel myself trembling, too. Mordred stepped forward and grabbed me by the shoulders, trying to steady me, but I did not want his help, I wanted to get away from him.
“Morgan,” he asked, gently, “what’s wrong?”
I shook my head, unable to speak. I hated him, I was disgusted by him. He pulled me against him into an embrace, thinking I needed his comfort. I could smell his blood. It smelled like the blood of a normal man, of iron and mortality, but it was not.
I gently pushed him back from me, as though I were gathering myself. In truth, it was all I could do to be in the room with him without retching. He stank of blood, and death.
As though suddenly satisfied that I was well, Mordred sighed in annoyance.
“Arthur puts her to the fire tomorrow, at midday. I did not get what your magic visions promised me, Morgan.” It took me a moment to remember what he was talking about, and when I realised I could not believe that he was still lusting for Guinevere after all of this.
I shrugged. “A man can change his fate.”
I was relieved when he left. I went to Nimue and was unsurprised to find her awake, though it was not yet dawn, and I told her everything I knew, putting my hand over her eyes to show her everything that Mordred had shown me. She looked worried, more worried than I had ever seen her. And where was Lancelot? Long gone, it seemed. When I walked past his room, it was empty, and Kay, too, was nowhere to be found.
When dawn came, Nimue and I went to wait for Arthur in his council room. I felt dirty and clammy from being awake all night and in my dress, but there was no time to wash or to change. Or to sleep. I heard men moving up and down the stairs in the corridor outside, but it was already past prime when Arthur came into the room. He closed the door gently behind himself and stepped into the room.
“I suppose you know,” he said to us, evenly.
Nimue nodded.
“You will put her to the fire?” Nimue asked him, sharply. He nodded, pacing past her.
“Arthur, you will come to regret this,” she told him, fiercely. He did not turn around, but stared out of the window, down at the courtyard. Someone down there was building the pyre.
“It is done, Nimue. I cannot turn back from the truth, nor from my own laws,” he answered, after a long silence.
“You do not know for sure,” I pointed out.
“It was you, who showed me with your black magic –” he began, wheeling back around and stepping towards me.
“That was not true, Arthur,” I snapped. It was a lie, but perhaps it would be enough to save her. “That was fabricated from rumours. And all the rest you know is only Mordred’s words. Consider, Arthur,” I dropped my voice, still wary of Mordred, “consider what he stands to gain from this.”
Arthur paced away from me, grasping hold of the back of one of the chairs, as though he needed to steady himself.
“No, no. He is the only one of them who told me the truth. I have trusted all of the wrong men. My son, he has been the only one brave enough to protect me from this.”
“Arthur.” I tried again, feeling more and more desperate. “Reconsider.”
I glanced at Nimue, and the look she gave to me in return was one of resignation.
“No,” Arthur shouted. I saw his knuckles go white where he gripped the back of the chair, and he leaned down against it, closing his eyes.
“Arthur.” Nimue stepped towards him, placing one of her hands gently over his. “A king shows his honour in the giving of mercy. You can put her away, send her to an abbey, to Avalon, wherever you prefer, but show mercy. Men will remember your grace, your kindness, not this. You will come to regret this.”
Arthur shook his head, standing up straight suddenly. “No, Nimue. No. There will be no mercy. Not for her, not for him.” Nimue opened her mouth to speak again, and I could see that she too was angry, now, but Arthur continued, stepping towards her, gesturing in violent appeal towards us for understanding of the rage that consumed him. I had felt it. The poison of betrayal. It would only harm him the worse if he could not give it up. “You don’t understand. I keep playing over and over again in my head, everything she ever said to me about him, trying to work out when did it begin? Five years ago? Ten? Trying not to picture them together. Trying not to ask myself over and over again, was she with him the way she was with me? Did she kiss him the same? Did she say the same things to him when they were alone? Did she –” He choked on whatever he had to say, sinking back for a moment, before he began again. “And I can’t stop thinking, how many times when we – how many of those times was she thinking of him instead?” He looked between us in desperation. “So, no,” he continued, and the air seemed to rush out of him, and the anger with it, and instead he was awfully, hollowly sad. “No, there can be no mercy.” He shook his head, staring down at the floor again.
“Arthur –” I stepped forward and put a hand against his shoulder; to my surprise he put a hand on top of mine, and rested his head against mine.
“I saw him kiss her,” Arthur said, very quietly. “I saw the way they smiled at one another. But it all seemed so innocent. I was glad to see it. I only thought that... I don’t know what I thought. I was glad that she had a companion, and that she kept him at court. What a fool this makes me. And still, still, I know that if she does not die, I will take her back, and I will have to spend the rest of my life with Lancelot at the back of my mind every time we are alone together. Besides,” he added very softly, and absently, as though he were repeating someone else’s words, “that is the law of this land, and even a queen must live and die by the law. It cannot be changed.”
I did not say anything, but I did not move. I leaned against him and closed my eyes. I heard Nimue move beside him as well, and we stood there in silence until I felt Arthur stop shaking. It was getting towards midday, and they were taking Guinevere out to the pyre.
Chapter Seventy
I stood with Nimue in the crowd gathered to watch the Queen burn. Someone had set up a small platform of wood at Camelot’s gates, and out in the field a pile of tarred logs stood, waiting for the men beside them to touch them with their torches. It was an overcast day, the clouds low in the sky, and a very fine drizzle falling.
There was a loud shout from the crowd, and I saw Guinevere step up onto the platform. There was a man behind her pushing her forward, and when I saw the glint of golden hair, I thought it was Arthur, but when he stepped around, though he wore Arthur’s coat of red and gold, it was clear to me from the way he moved that it was Mordred. Arthur has not come, I thought, and everyone will think Mordred is him. In the end, Arthur had not been brave enough to carry out the sentence himself. Gareth and Gaheris stood either side of them on the platform, neither of them armed. With a sudden flash of panic, I realised that this was the moment I had seen. I should have thought. I should have realised this was coming. I did not warn Gareth. I had been distracted. I should have warned him. It was too late now. Much too late.
Guinevere stood up tall and straight, staring out expressionless over the crowd. Her face was proud, and set. She was dressed in a fine dress of dark green silk embroidered in gold with the sign of the cross, and on her head she wore the circlet of gold I had seen her wear many times before. If her hands were not
bound behind her, no one would have thought her a prisoner. She had come to her death as a queen, cold and defiant.
Mordred was shouting over the roar of the crowd, “People of Camelot, we have before you a traitor queen, brought to the fire for her crimes.”
The crowd responded with shouts and jeers. A few people threw things, little stones, whatever they had in their hands. Guinevere closed her eyes, lifting her face as though to feel the breeze. I glanced at Nimue beside me. She was watching the platform intently.
Mordred began to shout again, gesturing with his hands for the crowd to move apart. Instantly obedient, they parted, making a way between the platform and the fire. The men holding the torches gripped them harder in readiness to set them against the tarred logs. Guinevere stared across the space that led to her death. I wondered then if she thought Lancelot was dead. I wondered, too, if Arthur had said goodbye to her with any last vestige of tenderness.
Just as Gareth and Gaheris took one of her arms each and made to step down from the platform, Mordred stepped down before them, his back to the crowd. A murmur of unease went through it. The crowd had come for blood, and they would be unhappy if they were denied. But then we watched as Mordred grasped hold of the front of her dress with both hands and violently tugged it apart. With a loud ripping sound, it tore from the neck to the hem. He tore through the rest, throwing the dress to the crowd, bit by bit. They screamed with delight.
Then Mordred grabbed hold of the front of her underdress in his fist, hard enough that he pulled her up towards him. Her face was blank still, and she stared past him, towards the pyre. I saw Gareth lean over to say something softly to Mordred, and he let her go. I felt another stab of guilt for forgetting to warn Gareth. She hardly seemed to notice any of it at all. I had expected a little fight from her, a little screaming, a little protest.
Mordred pulled her hair loose, and it fell around her shoulders. It was lighter now than it once had been, not quite the deep red of the years gone by. It was growing more coppery. More like how I had seen her when I stood with her on the shores of Avalon. I was catching up with my destiny, but those things would not come to pass for sure. What if I had blackened what I had seen, warped it out of shape by bringing Mordred into it?
MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy Page 51