I, Morgana (22 page)

I make these vows in good faith, while I wait for Urien to send for me. I am determined not to go, nor can anyone make me. But no one comes from Rheged. Instead, just when I’m starting to feel safe and secure, armed men appear at the priory. They tell me that King Arthur was enraged to discover that I have not gone to Rheged as I’d promised, and they have come to escort me there so that I may be married to Urien without delay.

My immediate reaction is a feeling of relief that Marie is asleep in her cradle and out of their sight. I open my mouth to protest, to refuse to go, but the soldier at their head produces a letter for me from Urien, and a written message also from Arthur. I quickly scan the message from Urien; it professes his undying love for me and his hope that I will hasten to be with him. I cast the message aside and unscroll the parchment from Arthur.

There is no salutation, just his signature:
Arthur, High King of Britain
.

I am trapped, and I know it. My thoughts scurry around like moths flittering at a lantern. I am about to fetch Marie when I stop. If I take Marie to Rheged, it could so upset Urien that he might well make trouble for me with Arthur. The whole court could find out about her existence, including Launcelot. And Mordred.

I come to the inescapable conclusion that I shall have to leave her here, in safety and in seclusion, while I journey to Rheged. I feel the painful tug of separation; milk leaks from my breasts and I hastily fold my arms over my chest. I try to comfort myself with the thought that, once I am married to Urien, once he is sure of me, he will not want to hold me captive against my wishes. Surely I shall be able to find excuses to visit Marie, although the thought of leaving her now is almost enough to undo me altogether.

Knowing I have no choice, I agree to go with the guard. But he comes with me to oversee the packing of my belongings, and so I am unable to say farewell to my beloved child or hold her in my arms one last time. It takes all my courage and self-control to hold my tears in check as I say goodbye to the prioress and at the same time, in a low whisper, bid her take care of Marie in my absence.

She is kind, this prioress. Although disapproving of my actions, I have seen her with Marie, seen how her face softens as she gazes on my small frog, how she lapses into the sort of baby talk entirely unfitting for a woman in her high position. She loves Marie, they all do, and I know my baby will be safe here. Nevertheless I am in deep sorrow and despair as we ride away, and I cast longing glances over my shoulder as the priory dwindles and finally disappears altogether.

What to say of my life with Urien? Seasons turn, and turn again, and my mouse-brown hair becomes sprinkled with the snowy signs of age. I am a dutiful wife and a competent chatelaine at Rheged, but I also need to spend time at Castle Perilous, that was given to me by Arthur, for his gift was not so generous as I had first supposed. On my first visit, I found the castle in disrepair and its tenants too poor and too dispirited to do the work necessary for the estate to thrive. I accepted the challenge and, using the experience I’d gained at Joyous Garde to educate and train the castle servants and my tenants, we have turned Castle Perilous into a prosperous demesne. I am now proud of my dowry; nevertheless, I maintain a close watch, knowing that my presence keeps my subjects diligent and in good cheer.

But none of this feels like my real life at all. My real life is at the priory with Marie. Each time I visit her, I marvel at the changes, and mourn that I am not there to watch her as she grows from toddler into a young girl. The nuns are loving and kind to her, and I am grateful. To my surprise she calls me “Mamm,” the same word Launcelot used when referring to his own mother.

When I question her, she seems confused. “Is that not what I should call you?”

“You may call me whatever you wish, my darling,” I tell her, thinking that perhaps she has somehow intuited her father’s origins in Brittany across the water. And so I teach her something of the Breton language, but without saying why. It becomes a game between us, but it also helps to keep Launcelot close to my heart, for this was how we sometimes conversed together in our time at Joyous Garde.

But there is another reason to keep me in Rheged at Urien’s side. To my great surprise, we make a child together, a son: Owain. He is a strange child. As he grows older, he ventures further and further afield, always bringing back with him some injured bird or baby animal in want of care. I watch him tend these creatures, and I could swear he communicates with them. I ask him about it, and he frowns at me in puzzlement.

“Of course I can communicate with them. Can’t you?”

I shake my head. “How do you do it? Do you talk to them? Do they talk to you?”

“No. I know what they’re thinking and they know what I’m thinking. There’s no need for words between us.” He shakes his head and his frown deepens. “Isn’t this what always happens between man and beast?”

“No!” I laugh at him, yet I am touched by his earnest care of the creatures he takes in. “You have a gift, Owain. A special gift all of your own.”

He looks pleased by my praise, while I wonder if perhaps this special gift of his might manifest itself in other ways, magical ways, the ways of the Otherworlds. Until now I have shared my gifts and talents with the only person whom I deem worthy enough to succeed me. Mordred has disappointed me in this, and it is Marie who carries my hopes and dreams for the future. She is, after all, the daughter of the true born ruler of the kingdom and also of the bravest knight in all the land. But she is illegitimate, whereas Owain is not. I make a note to watch him more closely in the future for this is something I must consider more carefully. My wands and the objects I stole from Merlin are all safely hidden at the priory. On that first occasion I had to leave them hidden there, closely watched by Arthur’s guard as I was. Thereafter, I deemed it safer to store them where they are at hand when I need them. But the next time I leave the priory I take them back to Rheged with me, thinking to initiate Owain and test his aptitude for the practice of magic. He listens to what I say, but frowns in disapproval when I demonstrate the spell of transformation. I become a raven, imitating his voice, stealing his kerchief, flying in loops and rolls and perching on his head to entertain him.

“I already know about birds,” he tells me. “And I don’t want to play tricks on people.”

Although I am disappointed by Owain’s lack of interest, Marie’s enthusiasm for all I can teach her more than makes up for it. She is an apt pupil. Merlin would have been as proud of her as he was once proud of me. I remember his wisdom, and his patience, and I acknowledge that he was right to call me wild and headstrong. It is an uncomfortable realization; nevertheless I know that I learn a valuable lesson by remembering it.

As she grows older, Marie proves she is as quick and clever as ever I was. She follows me through the secret way of the garden to the scrying pool. I show her my wands. I instruct her in the ancient alphabet of the Druids and make sure she understands how to read the runes so that I may send her secret messages when I am away from the priory. We have not yet visited any of the Otherworlds together, but gradually she is coming to learn what I know. Everything, except for an understanding of the decorated wooden tablets, for they are still a mystery to me. Sometimes I look into the scrying pool, but it stays as dark and mysterious as always.

“Why do you look into the water so intently, Mamm?” Marie asks one day, coming to stand close behind me. I see her face shimmering in the pool, and something twists in my belly, some intuition perhaps that I may once more be blessed with a vision.

“Shh.” I draw her down beside me, and together we sit in silence while I pray to the gods for guidance.

The water ripples. Marie gasps, and quickly puts her hand over her mouth. I know she has seen what I have seen.

A hand holding a golden cup. It looks somehow familiar, and I wonder where I have seen such a thing. And then I remember. It is one of the symbols on Merlin’s tablets. I have identified the other three. The sword—Excalibur. The pentacle—Merlin’s crystal that enables me to cross into Otherworlds. The wand—Merlin’s or mine, symbol of power and magic. And now here is the cup—but I still don’t know what it represents.

“What is it?” Marie voices my question.

“I do not know. Let us be quiet in the hope that the answer may come to us.”

When the answer comes, we do not find it in the scrying pool. A few days later, there is a commotion at the gate; a small party of knights pushes in, asking for food and shelter for the night. At their head is a young man who seems somehow familiar, although I cannot put a name to him. He is in company with some others whom I do not know. I assume they have all come to Camelot during my absence.

I am drawn, for some reason, to the young man, and so I undertake to bring them their bread and wine in the hope of finding out more about them.

His name is Galahad, he tells me, and introduces me to his companions.

“Galahad has come to court only recently, and he now occupies the Siege Perilous,” one of them, Sir Perceval, says proudly.

The Siege Perilous! I am impressed. It is the one seat at the Round Table left unoccupied for as long as the table has been there. None would dare sit on it for it was believed that it was reserved for the truest and most worthy knight of all, and that anyone trespassing there would instantly die. Yet Galahad is very much alive.

“We were all seated at dinner,” Perceval says, “when a fair damsel, clad all in white samite, appeared before us. Clasped in her hands was a large golden chalice.

“She called it the Sangreal. Everyone believes this was the chalice used to capture drops of Christ’s blood while He hung on the cross, although it was lost—or hidden from view—thereafter. She begged us to bring the Sangreal to King Pelles’ court in order to heal him of the grievous wounds that have nigh on killed him, for she says that in healing the king we shall also heal his kingdom, which now lies ruined and laid to waste. We have all taken a vow to follow her bidding, although she warned us only the pure of heart would succeed in this quest.”

I have never heard of King Pelles, but I remember Merlin telling me the story of the Sangreal: how a few drops of this elixir are enough to bring even the dying back to life. But he said nothing of its connection to the Christ, only that it was some magical potion that has never existed except in men’s imaginations. I wonder if these young men have mistaken dreams and illusions for reality.

“Is that where you travel to now?” I ask.

“Yes, madame, although we know not where King Pelles dwells, nor do we know where the Sangreal is, for having appeared before us, the damsel then vanished, taking the Sangreal with her.” Galahad looks somewhat shamefaced as he makes the admission, while I stifle a desire to laugh.

“Are you sure you did not dream this wonder?”

“No, not at all!” It is another of Galahad’s companions who answers. “We all saw the Sangreal, even the queen. And the court is in uproar because of it. All the knights are determined to quest after it, but as we do not know where King Pelles resides, we have split up and gone our separate ways in search of his ruined kingdom.”

“Even Sir Launcelot?”

Galahad exchanges glances with his companions. “Yes, my lady, even Sir Launcelot. The queen begged him not to go; in fact, she begged all of us to stay and wait on the king. The king himself asked us not to venture forth, for I think he is afraid that our absence from court will leave Camelot open to invasion.”

“As it will!” I say, suddenly aware of the dangers of the situation.

“Nevertheless, it is our sworn duty to find the Sangreal and fulfill the maiden’s request.”

I read the determination on Galahad’s face, and suppress a sigh. I understand the futility of further argument or attempts at persuasion. “Then I wish you God’s speed in your endeavors,” I say quietly, and take my leave.

It is time for me to return to Rheged, but my sleep is haunted by dreams of Launcelot. I think of him setting out on his quest to find the Sangreal, and for some reason Galahad’s face comes into my mind. He seems so serious, so thoughtful, it’s hard to imagine him being persuaded to go off on a wild chase such as this one. I’d caught a glimpse of his goodness, the pure heart beneath his boyish exuberance, and I suspect that as yet, women are unknown to him. He seems determined to give the quest his all and, if honor and chastity are the key to finding the Sangreal, if such a thing exists, then I believe he’ll succeed.

I wonder what chance Launcelot has, going off on such a fool’s errand. By no stretch of the imagination can one call him pure of heart, not after how he has treated me, and certainly not when one considers his long infatuation with the queen. Has he risked everything to bed her yet? I shiver at the thought, and put it aside. Surely not even Launcelot would consider himself worthy of questing after the Sangreal if he is familiar with the queen’s bedchamber.

I long to see him again. It is an ache that spreads and spreads until I am consumed by it. And so I bid Marie farewell but, instead of going back to Rheged, I go in search of Launcelot, wanting to see him, to look upon his face for a few moments just to ease my aching heart. To hasten my journey, I assume the guise of a raven. But I am unsure where to start looking. Galahad had said that the knights had split up and gone their separate ways, and so they had. I encounter a number along my journey, some in groups and some venturing alone, but all with a grim determination on their faces. I suspect that what may have started with a holy purpose has become a race between men who, while they may profess that the only prize is the healing of King Pelles and his kingdom, yet strive to be first for the honor and glory that success in their quest will bring them.

I fly above a wild forest, the sort where men might lose themselves; where they would be ever at the mercy of wild beasts and the elements; and where they might seek adventure and even a Grail. And there, in its heart, I find Launcelot, on his knees and quite alone. I am almost afraid to fly close, to look into his eyes. I swoop down to him and perch upon a branch above his head. I suspect he has been praying, but he looks up at me, and my heart twists as I note the defeated slump of his shoulders and read the weariness on his face. We are deep within a thick tangle of trees and bushes, and I wonder if he is lost. My suspicion is confirmed when he addresses me directly.

“Can you lead me out of here, bird?” He pushes his long dark hair out of his eyes. He is unshaven, and somewhat grubby from living rough, yet I love him for all that. He sighs deeply. “Shame on me for talking to a raven, but the sound of my voice is a comfort, for I have not spoken to anyone in days. I have walked and walked, but have encountered nobody on my travels. Indeed, I fear I may die here.” He smiles at me then, or rather smiles at his folly, and shakes his head before falling into prayer once more.

I wait, and wait, but he continues to pray without looking up. I become impatient with him. Small wonder he can’t find his way out of the forest if this is how he spends his time! Finally, I fly away, out of his sight. At the flapping of my wings he raises his head to watch me go. His expression is one of utter desolation. But I am not leaving him alone for long; I have every intention of guiding him through the forest—but not yet. I have other plans for him right now, hatched in a hurry but no less important for that.

I assume my natural mien to go to him but my courage fails me. His harsh, hateful words sound in my ear:
I wish you gone from my sight. My only desire is that I never see you again
.
I cannot go to him like this, no matter how loving my heart. Nor, as I remember the fate of Elaine of Astolat, does it seem that I can go to him in any other guise, for he will not take me and love me as I wish to be loved, not while the queen is foremost in his mind and in his heart.

I know what I need to do, but my mind rejects it utterly. Yet I am wild with longing, I ache with the need to be close to him one more time, to lie with him and hear his loving words. And so, hating myself for what I am about to do, I transform myself into a younger woman with golden hair and eyes the color of blue gentians, and I walk toward him.

He is still at prayer. I lay my hand lightly on his shoulder and he jerks upright and swings around.

“Guenevere!”

I see the shock on his face giving way to a slow delight, and I know that my trick is successful. I silently pray that he will not say that name again as I walk into his arms and feel them close around me. I breathe in his dear, familiar smell, overlaid by woodsmoke and sweat it is true, but dear to me nevertheless. And I burrow into his shoulder as I was always wont to do when we were alone together at Joyous Garde.