I, Morgana (20 page)

Gareth’s words are enough to make up my mind. I shall not teach Mordred any of my magical arts, for to do so would put power into the hands of a bully with no conscience, and give him the means to harm us all.

The week draws to a close with no sign of Viviane or any knight to act as Guenevere’s champion. Arthur can delay her trial no longer. The knights and their consorts adjourn to the meadow where the tourney for the lady’s honor is to be held—or alternatively, where Guenevere’s death will be decided upon. I accompany Arthur, who looks pale and sick with misery.

Guenevere is led out into the throng. She has been held in custody until now, but is released to watch her champion fight for her honor. She holds up her hands in entreaty to Arthur, but he ignores her. I can see the strain she is under as she tugs and tears at her kerchief, while her lips move constantly in a silent prayer.

Sir Mador takes the field, clad in black armor and with his shield at the ready, to the encouraging hoots and applause from the crowd. Everyone twists and turns then, trying to catch sight of who the queen’s champion might be. I suspect their wait will be in vain, but then I spy Bors. He, too, is clad in armor and presumably is ready to fight. Beside me, Arthur exhales a deep breath of relief. Sir Mador is already mounted, but Bors lingers beside his mount until the hoots turned to loud jeers and whistles. Finally, and with apparent reluctance, he calls for a mounting block and steps upon it.

Before he can mount, Launcelot gallops onto the field to take his place. Arthur whispers to me that it was Viviane who persuaded him to abandon his search for the mysterious matron at Glastonbury and return to court, but that Bors agreed to stand in for him if he did not come in time. And so we watch as Launcelot fights for the life of his love, ferociously and with honor.

I am filled with bitterness that he can so openly champion the queen, despite her guilt, and the guilt of their illicit love, when he would not do the same for me even after the life we shared, and the love that has resulted in the child growing in my womb. I place a comforting hand on my stomach and mourn silently.

The knights ride hard at each other, lances at the ready. I hear the thunder of the horses’ hooves, the clash as lance deflects lance as they wheel and strike, and strike again. Dust rises, thick and choking. There are groans and grunts as weapons find their mark, but still both knights manage to stay on their mounts. The courtiers cheer on their favorites. I realize that the cheers are not evenly matched in volume. The queen and her knight are no longer the favorites of the court.

A final clash together; this time Launcelot manages to unhorse Sir Mador, who tumbles to the ground and lies prone, begging mercy. He is carried from the field, and Gawain takes his place. Once again Launcelot charges, and the two knights buffet each other until it is Gawain’s turn to be unhorsed and fall to the ground. He declines to fight on, and holds up his hands in surrender. Thus the queen’s innocence is supposedly proven in the matter of the poisoned apple, but still there are mutters among some in the crowd.

Launcelot dismounts, and hands his steed over to his squire. Rather than coming straight to Arthur, he approaches Guenevere, who flings her arms around him and embraces him in gratitude. I marvel at my brother’s seeming indifference to their brazen behavior. Looking around at the discomforted members of his court, I see they share my sentiments. I begin to wonder if perhaps the poisoned apple was a ruse to end the scandal of this illicit love affair, and if it was, in fact, intended for Guenevere herself. And it occurs to me that, with Guenevere out of the way, the love spell would be broken and Launcelot might then remember he loved me first.

I remind myself of his faithless abandonment of me at the time of my greatest need, but already my heartbeat has quickened at the thought of being with him once more. My body aches with wanting him. I stumble, and Arthur takes my hand. He holds it fast, and we cling to each other, both of us needing support.

The Lady of Avalon, interfering witch that she is, tells Arthur that she intends to walk around the assembled multitude, for she has the power, she says, to look into men’s hearts and find the truth of who really poisoned the apple. I am sure Viviane is lying, otherwise she could have done this right at the start. It would have saved us all a lot of trouble and heartache—unless she truly believed that Guenevere was indeed behind the plot. I stifle a smile, thinking this must be a pretense, for she certainly hasn’t succeeded in looking into
my
heart!

But I no longer feel like smiling when she pauses beside me and whispers softly, “I know you for what you are, Lady Morgana, and I would stop your mischief if I could. But I have not the power, and so I give you fair warning instead: take care that in your desire for revenge, your schemes do not lead us all to doom.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I stare over her head toward Launcelot, willing him to look my way. Viviane’s eyes follow my gaze.

“Your desire for revenge will also break your heart.”

The lady moves on. I look after her, for she is correct in one thing at least: my heart is broken. But that was not of my doing. Merlin, Arthur, Launcelot—and yes, even Mordred, my beloved son—all of them have played their part in causing the desolation I feel now. Everything I have tried in order to follow my destiny has turned to ashes.

Viviane has continued her progress through the crowd, scrutinizing each face as she goes, and now she stops abruptly in front of Sir Pinel. “This is the man responsible for poisoning the apple,” she says, and places her hand upon his chest.

His cry of rage is lost in the scuffle that follows Viviane’s words. But once Sir Pinel is seized and held fast, Arthur strides down to confront him and finally the truth emerges. The apple was indeed intended for Gawain—or any other of the Orkney brothers for that matter—for Sir Pinel blames them all together for the killing of his cousin Lamorak.

I am greatly relieved to hear that my meddling between Launcelot and Guenevere has not been behind this affair. But I have also noticed the growing rift among the knights that has its origins in the flaunting of the queen’s desire for Launcelot and his for her. It seems that while most remain loyal to Arthur there are others who mutter that he must surely realize the strength of the affection between the two, so why is he not man—and king—enough to put a stop to it?

Now that the danger to Guenevere has passed, it seems that Arthur is able to turn his mind to other problems that beset him. Most notably, my son and me.

The first intimation I have of danger is when Arthur summons me to attend him in his private solar. To my horror, Mordred is already there when I arrive. He and Arthur are not talking. They stand at opposite ends of the room, utterly ill at ease. Looking at them, I can see how closely my son resembles his father. I wonder if Arthur has noticed it for himself or if the interfering Viviane has pointed it out. She is standing behind him in her usual position. I am quite sure she has either intuited or guessed the truth. Guenevere is nowhere to be seen. I move to Mordred’s side, understanding that whatever happens next, he will need my protection.

“I have discovered that Mordred is your son, Morgana,” Arthur states with cold precision. He looks pale; his mouth turns down as if he’s tasted sour wine.

“Yes, sire.” I shall not venture any information until I find out how much he knows. Or guesses.

“How old is he?”

“Nine summers.”

“Eleven summers,” Mordred corrects me. “You’ve been absent for many years of my life, Morgana, but you should still remember the time of my birth.”

I cannot explain to him that my lie was a feeble effort to protect him. Now, in despair, I wait for Arthur to work out the truth.

“His father, I have been told, was a shepherd boy with whom you tumbled under a bush. What is his name, Morgana? Who is the father of your child?” Arthur watches me like a snake preparing to strike.

My mouth is dry. I swallow hard to bring saliva into my mouth, but still I cannot speak. Viviane steps forward and rests her palm on Mordred’s chest. She bends, listening intently as if his heartbeat will confirm what I’m sure she’s already guessed. She straightens, and resumes her place behind Arthur.

“He is your son, sire.”

Briefly, fiercely, I wish I had the art to strike her dead with a bolt of lightning, for I would have done so when first we met. So much trouble could have been avoided had I been able to remove her from the court. All I can do now is try to talk my way out of the situation. I turn on her.

“You weren’t there when Mordred was conceived, lady. Do not presume to answer for my actions.”

“Stop lying to me, Morgana.” Arthur sounds weary to death. “You tricked me into lying with you after our win on the battlefield, and you’ve been lying to me ever since.”

I glance at Viviane. Her expression is somber. It seems she’s taking as little joy in the proceedings as I am. And then I notice something else. Beyond her, Guenevere stands in the doorway, paused as if turned into stone. Judging from her stricken face, I suspect she’s heard everything. Despite the perilous situation I’m in, I feel a twinge of remorse on her behalf.

It seems the only person gladdened by the news is Mordred. Joy has transformed his face. “Are you really my father?” he whispers.

Arthur turns on him. “It would seem so. But I take no pleasure from the knowledge, for you are ill bred and bastard born.”

I watch the joy leach out of Mordred’s face, and wonder at Arthur’s cruelty. And his stupidity. Because I notice, even if Arthur does not, the calculating gleam that now begins to shine in Mordred’s eyes. I know what it means. His claim to the throne is secure now. Furthermore, his father’s rejection has severed all ties and any lingering notion of love or loyalty to his king.

“Mordred!” I put my hand on his arm. In warning? To protect him? To show affection? None of it matters because he shrugs me off, straightens his shoulders and faces his father.

“Ill bred I may be, but I am your son and you
will
acknowledge me.”

A pitiful moaning from the doorway draws our eyes to Guenevere. Her fists are crammed to her mouth as if to silence her distress, but tears stream down her face and her body sways as though in a high wind.

“Guenevere!” For once Arthur does the right thing. He hurries to her side and takes her hand. “You have nothing to fear from Mordred—or his mother,” he reassures her. “We shall make a fine son of our own, Guenevere, a legitimate heir to rule over Camelot after I am gone. This I swear to you.”

He pats her shoulder while I reflect that Launcelot would have encircled Guenevere within his arms and kissed her tears away. As it is, she shrugs away from Arthur while her high, wild keening continues. Mordred stares on with a stony face and the glint of triumph in his eyes.

And I am more fearful than ever: for Arthur, for Mordred, and most of all, for my unborn child and the future I have in mind for him. Or her.

It is clear that my presence is no longer welcome in Camelot. Arthur tells me that he has sent a message to Urien advising him that I am about to leave for Rheged so that our marriage may be celebrated there instead of at Camelot. “I will send an escort with you,” he adds.

I open my mouth to protest. We both know that by “escort” he means “guard.” But he silences me with an upraised hand.

“It is for the best that you leave here as soon as possible,” he tells me sternly.

I am forced to agree, although I beg a few days’ grace in which to pack my belongings and make myself ready. Once more I plead with Mordred to accompany me, but he laughs in my face.

“My father may not want me here,” he says, “but I am his heir and I will stay to remind him—and the court—that I have a claim to his crown.”

I have to admit, albeit grudgingly, that in his place I would have done the same thing. It’s already becoming apparent, as news of his parentage spreads through the court, that Arthur’s reputation has also been tarnished. Indeed, some of the younger knights have already promised their future allegiance to Mordred, who ignores his father’s displeasure and instead crows his right to the throne at every opportunity and with all the enthusiasm of a rooster welcoming the dawn.

To my sorrow, Mordred will have nothing further to do with me, nor will anyone else at court, for I am now shunned by everyone. It is no comfort to me that as I watch my plans come to fruition, I am more afraid of the future than I have ever been. Instead of following Arthur’s instructions to join Urien at Rheged, I decide instead to escape, if I can, to the priory.

Before I leave, and against my better judgment, I seek out a last meeting with Launcelot. I know I cannot count on comfort or support from him—I have seen in his eyes the contempt he holds for me—but I am desperate to put a gloss on my behavior so that he will think more kindly of me, and of our time together. But he will not listen, nor will he make any effort to understand.

“I wish to God we had never met, Morgana.” I try to tell myself that his regret is because he’s so deep in love with Guenevere, but he’s quick to disabuse me. “What the queen has said about you is true. You are an enchantress who will snare any man with your wiles if it suits you to do so, be he low-born shepherd or High King, or any man in between. My deepest regret is that I could not see your wickedness but instead fell under your spell.”

“It was no spell, Launcelot! I loved you, and I love you still!” The words erupt from my heart and burst from my lips before my mind has time to urge caution. Yet every word is true. I look into his eyes, and mutely beg him to understand how deeply I care about him. But he flinches and looks away.

“And I loved you too, Morgana, more than you will ever know. After you left Joyous Garde I scoured the kingdom, seeking to find out the truth of the matter, any evidence to counteract the accusation and to bring down those who would witness against you. For your own sake, I needed to appear impartial, and for your sake I did all in my power to clear your good name before I came to court. I even questioned the king, who confirmed your knowledge of magic and your ill use of it in the past, although I could not find the mage who schooled you in these dangerous arts. I could find no one who would speak for you, Morgana, no one at all.

“Now, at last, I know your true worth, and I wish you gone from my sight. My only desire is that I never see you again.”

Launcelot’s words stab sharp as a dagger. I am speechless, unable to defend myself against his fury and his loathing. I hasten away from him before my tears can spill. I shall not give him the satisfaction of witnessing my absolute desolation. How badly I misjudged him and how misguided I was in seeking revenge! Now, more than ever, I wish I’d heeded Merlin’s warnings to use my magical powers wisely, and not to be so thoughtless of the consequences of my actions.

Arthur is becoming impatient with my delay, but I stall while I search for a way to evade him and avoid my fate. I’m unwilling to change my form in order to escape, for the babe is six months developed now, and I cannot risk any harm coming to it. I’m almost resigned to having to go to Rheged under guard when I receive a message from Urien to say that he has been taken ill and is unable to travel to Camelot for our marriage. I’m about to dismiss the messenger before Arthur comes to hear of the news and sends me back to Rheged with him, when he tells me further that Urien does not wish me to see him so indisposed, and has asked if I’ll wait for him at Camelot until he is well enough to travel.

A new plan begins to unfold in my mind; a way to avoid Arthur’s grasp and, at the same time, give me what I most want.

“Please tell King Urien that I am greatly distressed by his news, but rather than stay on at Camelot I prefer to return to the priory close to the great abbey at Glastonbury,” I say. “You will find me there when King Urien is ready to send for me. In fact, I was preparing to leave within the hour, so you would be doing me a great service if you would escort me there before returning to Rheged.”

The messenger agrees to my request. I bid him wait for me at the gatehouse with my palfrey, after which I quickly throw my belongings into a bag. I then take leave of Arthur.

“Urien has sent for me so there is no need for you to provide an escort,” I tell him. “I know you are anxious for me to be gone, and so I bid you farewell.”

“I shall come with you to the gatehouse.”

“That is not necessary, Arthur.”

He doesn’t bother to reply, but stalks after me. The messenger is waiting for me, as I requested, and bows low when he sees Arthur.

“You come from Rheged? You are Urien’s man?” Arthur asks.

“Yes, sire.” The messenger bows again.

“It’s getting late. We must go,” I intervene, not wanting to risk any further conversation between the two men.

Arthur nods, and turns away. He does not bother to say farewell, or wish me God’s speed on my journey. And so I say nothing either, but I am conscious that the rift between us has now widened to an insurmountable chasm. If the messenger is surprised by the lack of fond farewells, he does not comment. I am grateful for his reticence although I suspect my chilly relationship with the king will be duly reported to Urien. But the man is pleasant and courteous, and our journey to the priory passes without incident.

“I hope to see you before too long, mistress,” he tells me as he bids me farewell.

In return, I send with him a fond message to Urien and I bid him a safe journey. But I cannot echo his sentiments for I’m hoping he’ll stay away for quite some time—at least long enough for my baby to be born. By then I will have thought of some way to thwart Arthur’s wishes and avoid this marriage altogether.

Once I am settled back at the priory among my own possessions, I recall Merlin’s words and take from their hiding place what I have stolen from him. I am determined this time to understand and harness the powers I had not even guessed at before I confronted him. I cannot think of going back to Camelot until the scandal of Mordred’s birth is forgotten and the court has found some new wonder or disaster as a diversion. And I certainly can’t show myself outside the priory gates until after the birth of my babe. The prioress has already guessed at it, and tut-tutted over my explanation of another ill-judged liaison. Whether I go to Urien or not, I have decided that my child shall stay here among these good women, safe from the devious machinations of the court.

Of more concern is the need to keep the child safe also from Mordred. I try to calm my fears with the thought that, as firstborn and son of the High King, albeit illegitimate, he is the obvious successor to the throne. This baby poses no threat to him at all. Unbidden, a vision of the shattered skull of the baby rabbit comes into my mind. I shudder and push it into the deepest recesses of my memory.

To take my mind off the dark imaginings that come in the blackest hours of the night, I spend my time refining and perfecting my magical arts while attempting also to uncover the secrets of the mysterious wooden tablets with their elaborately etched pictures. In the privacy of my room, I fan them out and study them closely.

Try as I might, I can see no apparent order or meaning to them. There are symbols in common: a cup, a wand, a sword and a pentacle that looks rather like the rock crystal I stole from Merlin’s cave. Some tablets bear the representation of one or other of the symbols and depict various scenes. There are representations of death and destruction, of trial and terror, but also of joy and celebration. Other tablets depict only one figure or some sort of object. Two lovers stand close together: Launcelot and Guenevere? I scrutinize them more closely, and think that perhaps there’s more of a resemblance to Launcelot and to me. But there is also a tablet showing a heart pierced by three swords—my heart pierced by the love between Launcelot and Guenevere, a love that I helped to create? Or do the swords represent the triangle between Arthur, Launcelot and Guenevere? There is a man with a gray beard carrying a wand. The other symbols are spread on a table before him. Merlin with his magical objects? An overlapping tablet, showing a sly-looking man creeping away with a sword puts me in mind of Merlin’s trickery with Excalibur.

I shudder as I note some of the other tablets: a devil, a burning tower, a skeleton upon a horse trampling over dead people—and dead people rising from their tombs as an angel sounds a trumpet. I don’t need the nuns to tell me that I’m looking here at the Day of Judgment. Yet death comes to us all, so what is this card’s significance other than to serve perhaps as a reminder—or a warning?