He was lost in himself now, lost in his thoughts, talking to himself. I was sure he had forgotten that we were there. Ywain had finally stopped eating, and was staring at his uncle. He had expected a great king, and before him all he saw was a miserable man approaching middle age crippled by sorrow for his stolen wife. The wife that he himself had sent to her death.
Chapter Seventy Two
When I got back to my pavilion, which Ywain’s men and mine had set up for me while we ate with Arthur – or Ywain ate and Gawain, Arthur and I stood around too tense to eat – Mordred was waiting for me, lounging in my chair, an apple in his hand. He had taken a bite, and when he gave me his smug grin as I came in, I could see he had a lump of it in his cheek. When he relaxed his grin, he bit down on it hard, and it crunched. Casually, he took another bite.
“What do you want, Mordred?” I asked, annoyed. I had wanted to be alone.
“I thought you were a virgin,” he said, flatly, fixing me with his hollow stare.
“Why would you think that?” I snapped, pulling off my cloak and turning away from him to fold it and set it on the little table set up for me. Unlike Arthur’s table of food, mine was set with candles, and writing material. I hoped that if I ignored him he would get bored and go away.
I had not heard him stand, but suddenly he grabbed me from behind, pulling me against him, his hands against my hips, gripping hard.
“You were always so uptight,” he whispered by my ear.
“Let go of me, Mordred,” I hissed. I did not want to be grabbed. I hated the way it felt, the weakness of my body in a man’s hands when I knew the power of my magical strength. I hated the way they always tried to make me afraid. Mordred did not let go.
“And besides that, your life with the nuns. And you blushed when you saw me in the bath. But you have a son. Perhaps you were not blushing because you had never seen a naked man before.” Mordred slid one of his hands around my waist, to press against my stomach and pulled me back more firmly against him. I turned around and slapped him hard across the face.
“What is wrong with you?” I demanded, forcing myself to keep my voice below a shout. I did not want Ywain to come in. I did not want there to be any chance that Mordred might get his hands on my son. Not now we were just beginning, tentatively, to find one another. Mordred did not move away from me. He leant over me. I had changed to his own shape before, to Arthur’s, and both had briefly dissuaded him, but I was as yet holding back, until I needed to frighten him away.
“I did not get what you promised me, Morgan, with your little visions of the future.” He leaned further towards me, and I found myself leaning back against the table, in a position of weakness that made the anger thrum harder in my veins. “I am beginning to suspect that you made it up, to use me as your puppet. I don’t like that, Morgan. I expect you to provide me with some kind of suitable... substitute.”
Just as I was prepared to take his shape and push him off me, he darted out his hand and laid it against my face, and I felt my own body twist under his will. I heard my heart thud in my ears for an awful moment, and I was pushed back, under, somewhere dark. I was afraid for a moment that I had become someone lost or dead, and that this was the oblivion that Macrobius had warned of, but it was not. Mordred had pushed me under the power of the dark Otherworld powers I had given him in the womb, and when I came back to myself, blinking against the light, dark spots before my eyes, I could see that he had changed me. I could see thick wild curls of red hair falling before my face, and I knew what he had made me become – who he had made me become. I tried to take my own shape again, but with his hand on my face, I could not. Where had he learned this?
He pressed up against me, grabbing my wrist with his other hand as I raised it to slap him across the face again. “I need a son, Morgan. But no ordinary woman can sustain it, the magic in my blood. I need her, Morgan. Or,” he leaned closer, pressing his forehead against mine, “you.”
I felt the bile rise up in my throat. I tried to take my own form again, his, but I was locked in. He was wrong, too. There were many children of only one parent with Otherworld blood. It had been the father Morgawse and I shared who had had it, and who had given it only to me. Kay’s father had had not a drop of it in him. It was Mordred’s own particular blackness that left him without a child, but I doubted he would believe me if I protested.
Mordred pushed his lips against mine, hard and unkind and forceful. My mind flashed back through Lot, holding me down against the table, and Uriens. He had a handful of my hair in his hand, tight and painful.
He pushed me up onto the table, and he grasped the skirts of my dress – which had changed with me into the thin nightdress I had worn in Guinevere’s shape before – and began pushing it up. I pushed him back hard, but he did not seem to feel it. Nor even did he when I bit down hard on his lip. In fact, he seemed, to my disgust, to like it. I could feel my throat closing in panic, the nausea sweeping through me. I beat my fists against him, but I could feel his hands running up my thighs, pushing the skirts of the nightdress back. I could feel my skin, cold and sickeningly clammy all over, prickling with resistance.
Suddenly, rushing with panic, I felt my magical strength return to me. It had not fled me, then, at the moment of my most need. I thought for a moment about taking his own shape, but that had not been enough to frighten him off me before. I remembered his face when Kay had threatened to prove his rumours true, and before I realised what I was doing, I was becoming Kay in his hands. He did not realise for a moment, lost, I supposed, in his lust, as the woman’s body before him changed to a man’s, and beneath his hands it was men’s breeches rather than the smooth, pale thighs of the stolen Queen, but when he did, he leapt back from me.
He stared at me in Kay’s form with open disgust. I had been stronger than him in the end, had wrenched the power back from him. I was sure he was disgusted with that too.
“You’re a pervert,” he said, accusingly. If I had not still been so shaken, so angry, I would have laughed. All I could manage then was a derisive shrug. He left.
My immediate panic carried me from my tent to Arthur’s. I think I was half-filled with the idea that I would tell him that Mordred was mad, and out of control. I was not sure what I expected him to do. Arthur’s tent was lit from within by a low, orange light from a fading brazier. As I stepped in, I could see him sat beside it, his forearms resting on his knees, his head hung down low. Excalibur lay at his feet, in the scabbard that did not belong to it.
Arthur looked up when I came in. He looked haggard and weary, but he made the effort to smile when he saw me. I felt the twinge of guilt within me. He had continued to think of me as a dear sister all the while I had hated him.
“Morgan,” he said, gently, “is everything well?”
I did not know what to say.
When I did not speak, he sat up in the chair. He looked as though he was about to speak again, but I could not take my eyes from Excalibur, and I stepped forward towards it unconsciously. It was as though the sword was calling me home, but perhaps its destiny was lost, since I did not know how I would see myself side by side with Guinevere on the banks of Avalon’s lake anymore.
Arthur followed my gaze.
“Oh, you want my sword?” he said, casually, leaning back against the chair, shrugging. “I suppose the camp doesn’t seem too safe to a woman alone. Take it. It won’t do me any good.”
I froze where I stood. So easy? Did Arthur care so little for it? It won’t do me any good. Did some part of him know that the sword was not made for his blood? I could hear nothing but my own breathing, see nothing but the glinting pommel of the sword. I leaned down, slowly, and wrapped my hand around the hilt. I felt it then, the rush and surge of the Otherworld, a presence that reminded me distinctly of Nimue, and Avalon, and then of Merlin, standing behind me, pressing his lips against my neck, telling me how much I had to learn. I pushed the thought away, drawing Excalibur from the scabbard slowly, listening to it whist
le against it, soft and low. I could feel my body filled with a bright Otherworld strength that came neither from me nor the sword alone, but from our being together. This sword was made for me. I ran my hand down the flat of it. As I did, I saw before me as though I were back there, me standing with Accolon, the sword drawn and raised between us, and then him stepping through my bed curtains and throwing down the duplicate he had made to take me in his arms, hard and rough with victory. I had sacrificed him to my desire for revenge. I pulled my hand away, suddenly sick with guilt, and the vision faded away.
“No, Arthur,” I said softly, laying the sword gently back down against the grass at our feet, between us, the blade still naked and shining in the firelight. As I released my grip around it, I felt its wonderful power ebb away. I could not bear it. “Excalibur should stay with you.”
He nodded.
“Arthur,” I began again, and he looked up, hearing my voice catch, as I felt the strength of the remorse clutch hard at me. “I’m sorry.”
“Morgan –” He stood to his feet, his face a picture of surprise and disbelief. “For what?”
I shook my head, feeling the tears prick at the back of my eyes.
“I did this,” I choked out. “All of this.”
“Morgan,” Arthur sighed, pulling me into a brotherly embrace. I let my head rest against his chest, and closed my eyes. He smelled like the days of my youth. Like fresh straw, like Ector’s farm. I could not believe how familiar, how homely, the smell still was to me. “None of this is your fault.” I could not speak to protest. My words choked me in my throat.
“You are not to blame for... Guinevere,” he said distantly, softly. “You know, Morgan, I dream over and over again that I am running through Camelot throwing open the door to every room, shouting her name, and every room is empty. I can hear her, in the distance, laughing. I don’t suppose you have ever heard her laugh. It is like the sound of spring rain falling, or like a little bell singing. Well, she is laughing, and I can’t find her anywhere. Then, I open the door to my bedroom, and when I open the door, I see myself just standing there, staring back.”
I did not know what to say to him. That sounded to me like the dream of a man who was going slowly, quietly mad.
Chapter Seventy Three
The days passed and nothing happened. Ywain was quiet and troubled. I wondered if he was anxious that he had picked the wrong side. Winter set in around us, and our men gathered. Mordred stayed away from me, but I did not yet feel safe.
The siege went on without any respite. Every so often a party of knights, led by Ector’s brother Bors, made a sally out, but never for long. On one of those days, Gawain at the head of the armies of Lothian met them, and Gawain killed Lamerocke. I saw him carrying Lamerocke’s head through the camp, his rough hand tangled in its matted hair. Gawain did not look as though he got any satisfaction from it.
Christmas came, and Arthur and Gawain made an attempt at festivity. Arthur called all of the leaders of his men into his pavilion where there was a feast of sorts laid out. There was plenty of food – I was sure that Christmas in Joyous Guard could not have been so plentiful – but it was all cured meats and cheeses, dried fruits and anything that could be scavenged. The men had left their ploughs to come and plant their tents around Joyous Guard, so there were precious little fresh vegetables, or fresh meat, and no fresh bread.
Still, there was wine. I sat beside Ywain, and he drank too much, and talked too loud, and laughed too hard at Gawain’s jokes, which had changed in quality from the last Christmas that I had shared with him from bawdy to grim. Still, I did not mind. I liked to have him by my side. Mordred sat the other side of Arthur, in the place that had for a long time been occupied by Lancelot. Arthur did not show him any more kindness than before, but he talked about his son, not his nephew, and he had honoured Mordred with the office of Seneschal. I thought of Kay, in Joyous Guard. He would be playing no games this Christmas.
Arthur was quiet and serious all evening, but he did drink. He drained cup after cup until he slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Nimue had not come. I had hoped that she would. Perhaps she had withdrawn her favour from Arthur because he had not listened to her. Or perhaps she was in Avalon biding her time. Perhaps it was not even that complex. It was just that she was there with Pelleas, her husband, living a simple life of happiness, and she was forgetting the rest of the world. If it were so, I would be jealous.
We left early, Ywain and I. Many of the men went with the women who followed the camp. They had wives somewhere at home, but they were drunk, and had been long at siege alone. As we left, I saw one slide into Arthur’s lap, and he pushed her roughly away. He might have felt better if he had not, I thought. It might have made him less angry to think that he, too, could be weak.
It was the next day that the gates of Joyous Guard opened and the armies within poured out, with Lancelot and Kay in his black Otherworld armour at their head. Arthur was ready to meet them. I stood back at the camp, and watched from far away. I knew what would happen. I had seen it. Arthur thrown from his horse, Lancelot standing over him with his sword drawn.
I waited for the news to come, of the end. I hoped that Lancelot would have killed Mordred, too.
But back they came, Arthur, Mordred and Gawain, riding at the head of the men who were left. When I asked Arthur what had happened, he shook his head and strode into his pavilion without a word. I did not linger to ask Mordred. I sought out Ywain, who told me that Lancelot had had his chance to kill Arthur, and had spared him.
It was after that, when spring was beginning to waken in the air, the grass beginning its shoots, the camp beginning to smell of new flowers and new life, that Arthur called his council. I was sorry to see that Mordred was there, but I was pleased that Arthur had taken my son as well as me into his confidence. Ywain had proved himself a natural warrior, accomplished and level-headed on the battlefield. I supposed I had his father to grudgingly thank for that.
Arthur had another letter in his hand. When we were all gathered, he slammed it down on the table flat. I could not read the words from where I stood, but I could see that it was Nimue’s hand.
“The Lady of Avalon writes once more, instructing me to take my wife again,” Arthur declared tersely. Gawain and Mordred exchanged a glance.
“Have you sent for her before?” Ywain asked. I was surprised to hear him speak, but in his time at Arthur’s side, he had grown bolder.
Arthur shook his head.
“So,” Ywain continued, “we do not yet know if Sir Lancelot is keeping her against what he imagines to be your wishes, or her own.”
“He knows it is against my wishes,” Arthur growled.
“Arthur, you put her to the fire for the sake of accusations against him. If they are untrue, then he is acting in your interests protecting her until he can prove his innocence. You charged here to besiege him, without a trial. It would be a disservice to you to let your wife be burned for his sake, on a false charge,” I interjected. Gawain glared at me resentfully, but I was not suggesting reconciliation with Lancelot. I only wanted Arthur to draw away from this war.
“What do you suggest I do, then?” he asked, hopelessly.
“Send to Joyous Guard, requesting that he return the Queen,” I answered.
“There will be no peace with Lancelot,” Gawain protested. He had in him the burning need for vengeance. Perhaps we had it both of us in our blood.
Arthur sighed under Gawain’s powerful rage, nodding, sinking into it. He did not want this. I could see that.
“No,” he said wearily, staring down at the table. “But I will have her back.”
“Are you sure?” Mordred interjected coldly.
Arthur nodded. Mordred left with Gawain, but they seemed to accept it. When they had gone, Ywain and I discussed the terms that Arthur would send. I wrote the letter.
Ywain went back to his tent, but I stayed with Arthur. He lay down on his bed, and I sat at the foo
t of it, waiting with him.
I did not realise that I had fallen asleep until Ywain came back with the reply, and I woke to find that I had slept side by side with Arthur on top of his bed. It reminded me painfully of Morgawse and all of the nights I had spent with her, us comforting one another.
Ywain stepped through the pavilion door, and Arthur and I sat up.
“He will bring her back,” was all he said.
That night, I saw them in my dreams. It was not really a dream of the future, but it was clear like one, and sharp, and strangely cold. They were together – of course they were, not even Arthur was fooled anymore – and alone. It must have been in his chambers at Joyous Guard. There was a fire, and the room was filled with its warm light, but the sense I got from looking in there was one of foreboding. She stepped towards him, and I heard her say his name, soft, sad and desperate, already a goodbye.
Then I saw them, deep late into that same night, lying side by side, neither of them sleeping, she on her front with her hair spilling down her bare back, her arms stretched out before her, as though reaching for something, but there was nothing there. He lay beside her on his back, staring up at the ceiling above them in the dark. His eyes were blank and empty. It was over for them, this little escape they must have dreamed of so many times before. But the reality was harsh, and cruel and destructive, and everything that they had dreamed had turned the real world around them to darkness, and ash.
Then I saw them in the morning, the morning coming for all of us, when she would go back to Arthur, and he would go far away to France, and Gawain’s war – which I knew he would not leave – would begin in earnest. She held her hair up out of the way while Lancelot pulled tight the laces of a dress that could not have belonged to her. She looked thin, and it gaped at the neck. It was, too, a summer dress, made of light, pale silk. She would feel the new spring chill through it, though I was not sure, as things were now, that she would notice, or care. He left her, with a soft kiss against her neck, and she stared out, into nothing, into me, though she did not know I was there before her in my dreams, and into her future where she would be returned to Arthur, like something borrowed. I was not sure that when my morning came, I could bear to watch.
MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy Page 53