I, Morgana (19 page)

There are always rumors flying around Camelot, but this one I haven’t heard before. Has the love between Launcelot and Guenevere grown so irresistible they are now trying to get Arthur out of their way? An unexpected gust of fury shakes me at the thought. I had almost convinced myself that I was indifferent to their love, but this is a step beyond my expectation. My plan was to make them suffer the pangs of unrequited love, not lead them to murder—with ecstacy as a reward for their wrongdoing.

“Perhaps you’ve mistaken what you’ve heard, sire?” I ask hopefully.

“I think not, for the story has come to me from more than one source: that she longs to have a child and she blames me for her failure to conceive an heir for Camelot. I have seen how men look at her, and it may be she is tempted to consider another …”

Arthur looks so miserable I am moved to take him into my arms and give him a comforting hug, just as I used to do when he was small. And yet I cannot gainsay his imaginings for the evidence is right there in front of him, if only he is prepared to face it.

“The problem I have now,” Arthur continues, “is that any attempt on my life is treason, punishable by death. So unless I can prove the queen’s innocence, Guenevere will burn.” He squeezes his eyes shut, perhaps imagining the horror of such a death.

Trying to put my own feelings aside, I consider the matter. “Gawain claimed that the queen arranged the feast. Is that true?”

Arthur hesitates, opens his eyes. “Yes, it is.”

“And Gawain was seated at the Round Table—whereas Agravaine and I were not.” There is a sting in the last words; my demotion still rankles. “So perhaps the queen wanted Gawain under her eye, in which case he may be right in claiming that he was indeed the intended victim and not you, Arthur.”

A succession of emotions flit across Arthur’s face: relief, followed by regret, anger, suspicion. “Does this mean that you believe in her intention, and her hand in the matter, Morgana?”

I give a reluctant nod.

“But why would she want Gawain dead?”

I have no answer, for I am almost convinced that Guenevere is responsible for poisoning the apple, but that Gawain was not the intended victim. I believe the rumors may well be true: Guenevere and Launcelot are so infatuated with each other they will let nothing and no one stand in their way.

Arthur turns away and lightly drums his fingers on the table as he ponders the problem. “I have proclaimed that Guenevere’s guilt—or innocence—is to be decided by battle. I cannot take any part in it, but unless I can find a knight to fight for her honor, she will die. I have asked for a volunteer, but no one is prepared to come forward on her behalf.”

It is a mark of how far the queen’s fortunes have fallen within the court that no one, now, is prepared to defend her. The knights have seen what Arthur will not admit: the infatuation between Guenevere and Launcelot that strikes at the heart of their love and loyalty toward husband, friend and king.

“What about her champion, Sir Launcelot?” It almost kills me to suggest it.

Arthur shakes his head. “He is away from court, seeking to find the enchantress who fashioned a magical cloak that was almost certainly meant for my destruction.” He presses his lips together. It seems his suspicions now rest on Guenevere for that as well.

“Is there no one else who will fight for her?” None of the Orkney brothers will, not after Gawain’s accusation. “What about Sir Kay? Or Sir Bors?” I can’t think why I’m making these suggestions. Guenevere can burn for all I care. Perhaps it’s because Arthur looks so wretched. In spite of my thwarted intentions, my heart is wrung to see him so.

“One of the other knights might agree, if I ask it as a special favor.” Arthur brightens slightly. “I could even offer a reward. Viviane?” He turns to the Lady of Avalon. “Will you petition the knights on my behalf? I cannot be seen to involve myself in proving the queen’s innocence, but I will do all in my power to save her if I can.”

With a sour glance in my direction, Viviane agrees.

“Search high and low, if you will,” Arthur tells her. “I shall wait a week, and I shall pray for your success.”

“I shall make all haste to find a willing knight to bring to your court, sire.” Viviane does not look happy as she takes her leave. I wonder if she, too, is convinced of the queen’s guilt.

Arthur gazes at me, looking thoughtful. “I mourn our sister’s death, as I’m sure you do too, Morgana. I have sent an armed guard to Lothian to make further enquiries regarding her death, and the death of Lamorak, for word has now come to me that he has also been slain. I have ordered the guards to return with your son. Be assured I have not forgotten him, nor have I forgotten what once transpired between us.”

There is dread in my heart as I take leave of Arthur. I must persuade Mordred to come away with me at once, for I fear Arthur’s revenge once the truth of our son’s birth is known. An even greater fear is that Launcelot’s investigation may uncover the truth behind the poisoned cloak, for then I shall suffer the same judgment as Guenevere. And while she may yet find a champion to defend her honor, I know that I will not.

In the days that follow, while Viviane tries to bribe a knight to fight for the queen, I do my best to re-establish the love that once existed between me and Mordred. It works in my favor that Urien is still absent from court; that is one less worry on my mind. I know Mordred will refuse to accompany me to Rheged, but a solution to my predicament is becoming more urgent as my stomach swells to accommodate the child growing within. I must find somewhere that Mordred will agree to go, and soon.

I take to waiting around the kitchen so that I can see him and talk to him, earning suspicious glances from the kitchen staff although they do not say anything to my face. But our snatched conversations are never satisfactory. While I try to coddle him as the child I knew, Mordred resists any signs of affection, taking great care to prove at every opportunity that he has grown beyond me in more ways than one. And always when we talk, I am conscious that there are people about and that anything we say might be overheard by others.

“We don’t have to go back to the priory,” I tell him eagerly, on the one occasion when I persuade him to walk out in the meadows with me. We are walking side by side, with Mordred using the stick he’s brought with him to decapitate the plants and flowers that we pass along the way. I am surprised at the ferocity of his blows, but tell myself it is to compensate for the loss of his foster mother. I do not remonstrate with him about the destruction of plants that might well have provided food or healing treatments for the poor. To get my own way, I need to keep my son on side, and I hasten to put my new proposal before him.

“I have another suggestion, one I think you’ll like.”

“I know that you are promised to Urien of Rheged.” Mordred’s tone is savage. “Do not try to pretend you wish to make a home with me. And do not, for one moment, expect me to come to Rheged with you either.”

Of course he would have heard the news of our betrothal. I should have anticipated it so that I could prepare an answer.

“The king, your uncle, is anxious to make an alliance with Urien,” I say quickly. “In a moment of weakness, I agreed to it. But what is not yet done can be easily put aside. No, Mordred, I was thinking instead of taking you to Castle Perilous, the castle given to me by the king for my very own. There, I shall make you king of your own demesne, and you will have your own subjects at your command. We can leave at once, if you wish, for there is nothing to keep us here.”

I wait, hoping and praying that he will agree to my request. If he does, I make a private vow that I shall have no more to do with Urien, not even to let him claim this baby as his own. It will be enough for me to live in seclusion at the castle with Mordred. There I can have Launcelot’s child, after inventing yet another story of a tumble in the bushes with an ignorant churl. There we shall be safe from Arthur and every other threat, for I shall make sure a watch is kept and that the castle is guarded at all times.

“You must be out of your wits to think I’d live in a priory, or a castle, or anywhere else with you!” Mordred snaps. “My place is here, at Camelot. If the queen stays barren there’ll be no child to follow Arthur. As I am one of the king’s nephews, I intend to make sure that when he names his heir, he will realize I am far more worthy than my Orkney cousins, who are already off-side with him in the matter of my mother.”

He pauses, perhaps arrested by my expression. I cannot conceal my shock, my desolation to hear him call Morgause “mother.” But there is no vestige of remorse in his tone as he continues. “I am determined that Camelot must come to me, for I am a worthy and just heir to the throne. And I intend to stay here to claim the kingdom as soon as the opportunity presents itself.”

He raises his stick and, before I can say anything, he smashes it down on a tiny rabbit that has strayed a little too far from its mother. Blood and brains spill from the broken skull, spraying Mordred with droplets of gore. He strides on, whistling softly under his breath.

Horror struck, I gaze after my son, this boy who is fast growing into a man and who has become a stranger to me. Where has he learned such cruelty? From witnessing the attack on Morgause? I long to comfort him but dare not touch him, for it is clear as water that he will never forgive me for deserting him.

But I wonder who has stirred such vaulting ambition. Not Morgause; she was ignorant of his true siring and would certainly have put her ambition for her own brood far above any claim coming from Mordred. In truth I am quite proud that Mordred has seen for himself the possibilities of his inheritance. But I also wonder when he started plotting to inherit the throne from Arthur. That he will not hesitate to seize it I have no doubt; the determination on his face, so like his father’s, shows me that he means every word he said. But how far is he prepared to go to secure his future? I think of the baby rabbit. I look at my son, and feel a frisson of fear.

Once upon a time I determined to teach Mordred all the magical arts that I know. Now, I am no longer so sure. Mordred has the capacity to be ruthless, he has just proved that. With my magical arts at his disposal, what damage might he wreak, what ruin might he bring on us all, including himself? There is disappointment in the thought, for I’d been looking forward to sharing my skill and knowledge with him. I’d even hoped it might bring us close together again. Now, it seems too great a risk. Instead of thinking about my own future, I need to consider what to do with him.

Before making a decision about it, I corner Gareth on his own and question him about Gaheris’s attack on his mother, and whether he and Mordred were witness to it.

“It was early morning, and Gaheris was into the castle and up the stairs shouting out greetings before anyone could warn my mother that he’d arrived.” Gareth has grown pale; his eyes are haunted. “Mordred and I came out of our room to welcome him just as he reached our mother’s bedchamber. Knowing what he would find, we tried to stop him from going in. But he pushed past us. Both of us were witness to the killing. It was …” His voice starts to shake. “It was beyond anything you can imagine. My mother, stricken and helpless as Gaheris drew his sword and shouted his accusation. Lamorak, naked in my mother’s bed and unable to reach his sword in time to defend her. The blood … the horror of it all …” He buries his face in his hands.

“But Lamorak managed to escape on that occasion?”

Gareth nods. “He was out of my mother’s bed and through the window in the blink of an eye. Stark naked but that didn’t stop him. He knew his fate should he linger to clothe himself.”

“And Mordred saw it all?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Morgana, but yes, he did. There was no time to shield his eyes or send him away. No time for anything. It all happened so fast and … and I couldn’t move, not even to defend my mother. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I am so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Gareth,” I say. “At least you were there to comfort Mordred after the event.” There is still something I must ask, something I need to know in order to see my way forward. “Mordred seems very troubled, and now I can understand why. But I’ve also witnessed that he can be cruel, sometimes even quite vicious.” It pains me to say such things about my son, but I must find out the truth. “You’ve spent more time with him than anyone else, so I need to ask you this. Have you noticed this trait in his behavior at all, even before the slaughter of your mother?”

Gareth winces and I’m sorry that I haven’t phrased my question a little more delicately. He looks at me as if deliberating what to say.

“Please, tell me the truth. I’m trying to find a way to reach Mordred, to understand him. We have grown so far apart in the time I’ve been away that I feel I hardly know him any more.”

“I once saw him tormenting some newborn kittens in a barn,” Gareth admits. “He held the first one high and dropped it, I think to see if it would land on its feet as we had been told cats were wont to do. But one of the hounds jumped on it and ate it, and thereafter he fed the rest of the kittens to the hounds. He was quite young at the time, maybe seven or eight, but he wouldn’t listen when I begged him to stop. He knew what he was doing all right.”

I listen, sickened by the story, and also by what Gareth isn’t telling me: that he is afraid of Mordred. He was too afraid to fight him and make him stop then, and he is probably still afraid of him now.

But Gareth hasn’t finished yet. “That wasn’t the only thing I witnessed,” he tells me. “I have seen Mordred ride a horse almost to death, flogging it until blood ran down its sides and for no apparent reason. I think he likes to see how far he can push a situation—and how much he can get away with when he does.”

“With no father to check him, you mean?”

“Certainly my mother made no effort to curb his wildest excesses. Mordred could do nothing wrong in her eyes.” The bitterness in Gareth’s voice reveals much about the relationship between the cousins, and their relationship with Morgause. How I regret my long absence, now more than ever. Morgause and I have damaged my son, by overindulgence and by neglect, so that it seems he has now become a danger both to himself and to others.