They journeyed several days. Morgan chatted and flirted with her escort as they rode. She told them about her childhood and the excitements of the old days. At first they took the main roads and stopped at inns or country houses where, as ruler of Cornwall, she was honored. She began to wake up a little and smile as if her face had not been stretched.
One night she overheard the guards playing dice.
“Loser sleeps with her hagship!” one laughed. They all joined in.
The next morning she left the road. There was no trail at all that any of them could see as they floundered after her. She heard them cry out as branches whipped across their faces. She wished she could remember how to turn foliage into snakes.
About noon they stopped on the shore of a wide, still lake. The forest around was entirely silent as they ate their cold goose and bread and uneasily stretched out for a nap.
Morgan was not tired. She watched the snoring men with contempt. Idiots! She never should have bothered to bring them with her. Nothing would have happened to her if she had gone alone. But it was unthinkable for a woman of her station to travel without proper escort. And she had tried very hard to preserve the outward status. Morgause had never understood that. But perhaps she was right in relying on sorcery alone. Attempts at conformity had not helped Morgan at all.
She picked up her bag and started walking around the lake. About fifty yards from the camp, Morgan noticed a large outcropping of rock jutting into the lake. It started out only a few feet from the ground and sloped upward so that from the edge of it one could look into the water.
Morgan slipped off her shoes and stepped onto the stone. The sun radiating off it warmed her chilled skin. She opened her bag and rummaged in it for a comb. Leaning over the edge of the rock, she saw only her reflection in the water. She smiled in sudden delight. That was the face she had been searching for these past few years, still fresh and unlined. That was what she really looked like. She leaned farther over, clutching the bag to her. Yes, her arms and body were young again, too. It was as if her old self were waiting for her in the lake. She reached out to it and the bag dropped. It barely created a ripple as it slipped into the water. Morgan’s young self smiled again and seemed to beckon her. Yes, of course. I’m coming! Happily, Morgan stepped off the rock.
Her guards wakened at the splash and came running. But, by the time they arrived, they could see only the disturbed water and, floating on the surface, an empty leather bag.
They fished it out with a branch. No one had the courage to dive into that strange water, which only reflected images, never showing anything beneath its surface. After much debate, it was decided that two of them would take the bag and Morgan’s horse to King Arthur and hope he would believe the story of his sister’s death. The others would return to Tintagel and break the welcome news that Lot’s son Agravaine was now Lord of Cornwall.
• • •
Deep within the Lake, in a palace of diamonds and orchids, the Lady lounged on her couch. She was only moderately bored. Lillith had composed a new piece for lute and pipes and it was quite tolerable. There was a report that a griffin had been seen in the woods. That might provide some diversion. She had managed to keep Damion from reciting all seventy-four verses of his latest saga. But it was hours yet until dinner and she wished fiercely that
something
would happen. Again, she regretted letting Lancelot leave her. Kidnapping him as a baby has been the most interesting part of her eternally long life. Raising him had kept her amused for years. If only he hadn’t gotten those strange ideas from that nurse and insisted on charging out to help King Arthur save the world.
“Lady! Come quickly!”
“What is it, Torres?” She wasn’t unduly stirred. Torres was human and young enough to get excited about almost anything. He ran into her rooms and grabbed her by the arms.
“Come see what we fished out of the lake! She even brought her own clothes!”
The Lady decided that this sounded different enough to be of interest. She followed Torres out to the side garden, where several of her people were gathered around a rather plump, bedraggled, middle-aged woman who was trying to talk and cough up lake water at the same time.
“Bring her in to me!” the Lady ordered and two of the men scooped her up between them and carried her in to the main hall where they set her gently on a low divan.
She stared about the room in wonder, her mouth slightly open. Then she turned to the Lady.
“If this is the afterlife, someone’s been giving it a bad name," she said.
Torres laughed. The Lady hushed him.
“If you meant to die, we must disappoint you. This Lake is my realm and, now that you are here, you will never be allowed to age or die.”
Morgan’s eyes lit up. Why had she never known about this place?
“I don’t suppose you could make me look just a little younger first?”
“Well, of course! We could also do something with your hair. What color was it when you started out? But you must understand that, now that you are here, you can’t change your mind and go back. I tried letting someone do that once and it worked out very badly.”
Morgan fingered the wet folds of her gown. She hadn’t really wanted to die when she leaped into the lake. But she was sick of the machinations and the hurt in her life, disgusted with what the years had done to her body. She looked at the men out of the corner of her eye. This, yes, this would do very well, almost too well.
“What would I have to do, to earn my keep, I mean?” she asked.
The Lady looked blank.
“What kind of service would you expect from me?” Morgan clarified.
“Service? I really don’t need anything from you. I’m served quite well.” She smiled at the ladies and gentlemen around her. “However, if you happen to know any good gossip, that would be fine. I haven’t heard any since Torres here came back from Arthur’s court. Is Arthur still King? Does he still have the sword that Master Merlin won from me? Did he ever discover the secret of it? And my stepson, Lancelot, I haven’t heard anything about him for a long time. Do you know him? Is he still trying to suffer for everyone’s sins? Oh, I’m sorry, my dear, you’re still wet. Never mind all that now. Go make yourself presentable and then come join us at dinner. You have years and years and years to tell me about it all.”
Chapter Five
“So, old Leodegrance is finally dying.” Modred’s striking profile was outlined in the window as he watched the rain through the glass at his aunt Morgause’s home. “He was the last one, wasn’t he? Now no one can stop us. There’s no one left who saw Uther.”
“No one who matters,” his aunt Morgause agreed. “Cador might remember, but he can barely see anymore. He’s no threat. This will still take time, you know. You mustn’t let anyone suspect us. Anything blatant will only get you thrown out of Camelot, even killed.”
“My dear, when have I ever been blatant about anything?” He ran his knife idly under his fingernails.
“Don’t be so smug, Modred. Leodegrance would have seen right through you. He was the only man who ever got his wife out of Uther’s clutches without a war. I wish my father had been half what he was.”
“Why, Morgause, such sentiment! It sounds as though he never came into your clutches, either.”
“Never mind that. Have you told Agravaine to expect you at Camelot? Perhaps you can win your way into Arthur’s heart on your own. Blood calls to blood, they say.”
“In this family it certainly does.” And Modred laughed as he left the window and rejoined Morgause in bed.
• • •
At Camelot, Modred’s brothers were upset enough to call a family meeting, something only done in dire circumstances. None of the sons of Morgan le Fay resembled her in the slightest, so, of course, they were nothing like each other. Agravaine was tall and brawny, like his father, Lot. The responsibility of being the oldest of the brood weighed on him, and he was balding rapidly. Gawain had always been almost unbearably handsome, with his golden hair and lithe, effortless strength. He would have taken more advantage of his looks if he could have stayed awake past sundown. Gaheris was the mystic of the clan; he spoke rarely, but his deep blue eyes saw everything. His intensity rather awed his older brothers, who did not speak much to him of worldly matters. Gareth was slight and beige. He blended so unobtrusively with the background that many people never noticed him at all. It was a trial to him, but Arthur took advantage of it, sending him places where it would not have been politic for a knight to be. His main characteristic was his steadfast devotion to Lancelot.
Agravaine stood facing the other three, who were seated on the bed in his tiny room. He folded his arms and cleared his throat. Gareth’s eyes were red. He hadn’t believed the guard’s story about an accident at the Lake any more than the others had. He was awash in guilt. Agravaine’s pomposity was grating on him to the point of screaming.
“You all know that under Cornish law, Tintagel passes to me. I don’t suppose Mother would have liked that, but there it is. I’ll do my best to take care of things there and, of course, you should all consider it your home.”
“You’ll have to get married now, Agravaine,” Gawain chuckled. “The Duke of Cornwall must have an heir.”
“How can you make jokes with our mother newly dead?” Gareth cried.
Gawain was unapologetic. “She never cared for me. We all know that. She sent me away as soon as it was decent. All she ever cared about was Tintagel and, maybe, Modred. The rest of us were merely unavoidable miscalculations.”
“Well, I loved her anyway!” Gareth couldn’t deny Gawain’s statement. “And you should at least have some respect!”
Gawain shrugged. “Did you want to get us together just to tell us you’re in charge now?” he asked Agravaine. “Because you can have every rock in Cornwall for all I care. Just don’t try to lord it over me here.”
Agravaine glared at him, then subsided. “When did I ever try to do that? No, how you act away from Cornwall is your own business. It’s Modred I’m worried about. He’s coming here now. With Mother gone, there’s no one to stop him.”
They forgot their bickering at once. Against Modred they had to be united.
“Do you think Aunt Morgause is sending him to kill Arthur?” Gaheris asked.
“Nothing so clean, I’m sure.” Agravaine chewed his tongue. “If only he weren’t so damn oily! You think you have him and he’s slipped across the room. He’s going to make friends here, you know.”
They all nodded. Modred had a knack for making friends.
“We ought to warn Lancelot and Guinevere,” Gawain said. Gareth rose up. “You ought to warn
Guinevere
! It’s all her fault; it always was. Lancelot is just too good to refuse her.”
“Not again, Gareth,” Gaheris sighed. “It’s none of our business, anyway. I don’t think it would be worth it, Gawain. If they can’t stay apart for love of Arthur, they won’t for fear of Modred.”
“Modred might convince her to forget about Lancelot,” Gareth suggested with a leer. “He’s got more of a following among the women than you do, Gawain. And a woman who would betray Arthur ought to be easy for him.”
The shot went home and the next minute, Gawain was picking his brother up and shaking him until his teeth rattled.
“Stop it!” Agravaine yelled, pulling at Gareth from behind as Gaheris tugged at Gawain. “Gawain, you’ll kill him!”
“I c-can t-take c-care of m-myself!” Gareth glared defiantly at Gawain, who dropped him with a look of shame.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “But you shouldn’t talk about the Queen that way. You know very well she’s not like that.”
In the ruckus, none of them had heard the door open.
“All of us together again! How jolly!” Modred gazed at them in mock delight. “And beating up on Gareth still? It will be like old times. Well, brothers, aren’t you going to welcome me to Camelot?”
They all gaped at him. Gareth wiped his chin. Gaheris sighed and began to recite
Pater Nosters
in his head. Gawain wondered if fratricide were sometimes justifiable, and Agravaine forced a smile and held out his hand to Modred, wishing again that he had been an only child.
• • •
They had hardly stopped at all in their race against death. The horses were almost spent when they pulled themselves up the last hill to the villa. But it was too late. Guinevere knew it as soon as the gate opened. The stillness told her. Even the air was muffled with grief.
Pincerna, their ancient butler, met her in the courtyard. His gnarled arms eased her to the ground. Tears slid easily down the furrows of his face.
“He went yesterday,” the old man whispered. “My Lady Guenlian was the only one with him.”
“My brother?”
“Perhaps the message never reached him.”
Guinevere nodded. She wanted to believe that. Whatever angry words had been shouted when Mark ran away with the daughter of his Saxon enemy, she did not believe that he would abandon their father on his deathbed.
Inside, they were greeted by Rhianna, widow of Guinevere’s eldest brother, and her daughter, Letitia. Caet hung behind, mindful that his place had always been in the stables. But Constantine was hugged and welcomed as one of the family.
“Guenlian is sleeping, finally,” Rhianna told them. “We moved your father to the chapel for now, but she won’t let us remove the bedding. She just lies there, clutching the blankets as if he were still there. Perhaps, when she sees you, it will be better.”
“Take me to her, please.” Guinevere’s nails caught in her riding cloak as she twitched it nervously. She had no idea how she could comfort her mother. She had no comfort even for herself.
Pincerna took the men to their rooms. Constantine was lost in grief, or so the butler thought, but as they parted, the younger man took the older aside.
“Pincerna,” he asked. “That girl with Rhianna, that wasn’t Letitia, was it? I thought she was a scrawny little thing with tangled hair.”