I, Morgana (31 page)

I am thoughtful as I ready myself for bed and bid Marie goodnight. The questions echo in my mind, along with another. I cannot abandon Marie to the doom I have foreseen, but how can I persuade her to come to the priory with me? She will never agree to leave Guinglan, not even after what has just happened. So can I persuade them instead to marry and make their home somewhere far away from Camelot? Yes, I think. That is indeed a notion worthy of consideration.

I have not practiced my magical arts of late, dismayed by the harm I have already caused but also, I must confess, discouraged by my lack of success at the scrying pool when I most needed guidance. Perhaps I should return to the priory to retrieve my wands and the magical objects stolen from Merlin, and try once more to determine how I may influence the fate of Camelot.

I lie awake as the moon sails high across the heaven and begins to sink to the earth. I try to summon the voice of the young woman to tell me more, to show me the way, but nothing happens and nobody comes. I turn, and shift, and turn again, trying to find ease from the thoughts that torment me. And then I hear shouts, and screams, and the clash of metal striking metal, and I am instantly awake and running toward its source.

The sounds come from Guenevere’s bedchamber, and I instantly fear the worst. I push forward in order that I may see for myself whatever trouble has befallen the queen.

What I see terrifies me. Launcelot and the queen are in such undress that there can be no doubting their close and loving relationship. The thought flashes through my mind that not even Arthur can turn a blind eye now. Launcelot has caught up a sword, and is fighting for his life.

“Traitor knight!”

I recognize Mordred, in company with Agravaine and several others. And I understand now the plot they have hatched, the need for secrecy, and the need to wait until “the time is right.” No doubt, caught in the joy of Guenevere’s news, the lovers have thrown caution out of the window in order to come together to celebrate the fruit of their union.

I watch in fear and horror as Launcelot, greatly outnumbered and at a disadvantage without armor, nevertheless fights with great dexterity, felling first Agravaine and then Gareth and several others. Gawain arrives. Appalled, he takes a moment to assess the situation and then shouts at the knights to sheath their swords. They stand back and, in that instant, Launcelot snatches hold of the queen and whirls her out of the bedchamber and down the stairs. Within the blink of an eye, they have vanished, while Gawain’s strong arm prevents any of the knights from following after them.

“Enough,” he growls. “Let them go, let them flee the court, and good riddance.” And then his gaze falls on his dead brothers, and he opens his mouth in a howl of grief.

I know that the court has lost the last voice that will speak up for unity and moderation when, after he has mastered his emotion, he says, “I shall never forgive him. Never! I shall hunt him down. To my dying days I shall pursue him and wreak vengeance on him for his deeds this night.”

Arthur appears in the bedchamber, rubbing his eyes in sleepy bewilderment. Through his tears, Gawain wastes no time in telling him what has transpired; telling him also that the queen and Launcelot have fled. But still Arthur will not condemn them.

“He is the queen’s champion. Their friendship was forged right from the start when Launcelot escorted her to Camelot to be my bride. You have greatly mistaken their friendship for something else—and see what damage has been done as a result.”

He catches sight of Mordred, and beckons him forward. “Is this your doing? Did you and your fellow conspirators set a trap for the queen, hoping to find her in a compromising position with Sir Launcelot?”

“Yes, we did.” Mordred faces Arthur, calm against his father’s rage. “And we found them half naked in bed together. There can be no misunderstanding their intention.”

Arthur swipes Mordred across the face, a slap that reverberates around the room, and causes several of the knights to draw their swords in readiness. Mordred stays them with a quick movement of his hand.

 “You will regret trying to chastise me in this manner, Father.”

“Your suspicions are unfounded and unworthy, for our prayers have been answered. Guenevere has told me that she is with child at last, although of course it is early days as yet.” He crosses himself quickly, perhaps as a precaution against anything going wrong then glares at Mordred. “Take your friends and leave my court. Begone! I no longer want you here, causing trouble and dissent. I care not where you go, or what you do, just get out of my sight.”

Hands on hips, he waits until Mordred and the young knights depart, carrying the slain knights between them. If Arthur is grieving over their deaths, he does not show it. He turns to Gawain.

“I want the queen and Launcelot found and brought back to court.”

“No.”

Amazed, Arthur steps back, the better to survey his old friend.

“I am afraid, my liege, that you will have to find someone else to carry out your order.” It is the first time I have ever heard Gawain refuse the king anything, but Arthur is left in no doubt as to Gawain’s resolve when he continues, “Launcelot has killed two of my brothers, and is now my sworn enemy. I will not follow after him and beg him to return.”

Arthur is silent for long moments. Then he reaches out and clasps Gawain’s arm. “I deeply regret their deaths,” he says softly. “And I understand your decision, but I beg you to reconsider. Now, more than ever, I need good knights and true at my side.”

I see the anguish on Gawain’s face, but also the determination. “My lord,” he says, “I cannot. I will not.”

There is a long silence. Arthur heaves another despairing sigh. “It is late,” he says at last. “Let me sleep on the matter. Perhaps even now the queen and Launcelot are regretting their hasty flight and are on their way home to salvage their reputation. By morning I suspect the situation will seem much clearer.”

Personally, I doubt it. If Arthur won’t acknowledge the truth now, he never will. But with Mordred banished, and the queen and Launcelot fled, perhaps the doom of Camelot will be lifted and things will come to rights after all. It is on this thought that I once more return to my room and try to sleep. Marie has not wakened, and I am glad of it. She would have understood exactly what her father and Guenevere were doing in the bed. No doubt she will hear about it soon enough, but at least she was spared the sight of their indiscretion. I suspect she will be unable to forgive Launcelot. And with Launcelot gone away with the queen, probably never to return, I feel as though I have lost part of myself. I yearn to be heart-whole once more, but I know that the emptiness caused by his departure will never be filled.

Only one small thought momentarily lifts my despair: they will make all speed to Joyous Garde. I can’t help wondering what Guenevere’s reaction will be when she enters the hall, and sees my likeness on every wall.

In the days that follow, Arthur asks everyone at court, even me, to go after the pair and bring them back, repeating his reassurance that he understands the true nature of the scene witnessed by Mordred, Agravaine and the other knights. When Arthur talks about the “true nature” of the scene, I suspect he really does know the truth about Launcelot and Guenevere’s love for each other but is not willing to split the court further by acknowledging what has been going on. I wish he would rather win the court’s respect by denouncing the pair and banishing them from Camelot, but he continues to ask for help in seeking the errant couple.

“Why don’t you go yourself?” I ask finally, in exasperation.

“I cannot. I’ve had word that Mordred is traveling through the countryside, drawing ever-increasing numbers to him. He denounces me now, and I am waiting for an open challenge from him, for he is already promising land and wealth to all who follow him once the kingdom becomes his. I must stay and defend Camelot, Morgana. I must keep our home safe and the throne secure for Guenevere and our coming child.”

“What makes you think she will return?” It seems highly unlikely to me that she would give up life at Joyous Garde with the father of her child to return to the sneers and jeers of Camelot.

Arthur shrugs. “She knows her duty,” he says, reaffirming my suspicion that in all things, Arthur puts statecraft ahead of emotion.

Meanwhile my time is taken with trying to comfort Marie, who is inconsolable. She has lost her father, and at the same time lost all respect for him. Worse, she now considers herself unworthy of Guinglan, and has told him as much. The pair of them mope about so disconsolately that I feel like giving them both a good kick. Nevertheless, I too mourn the loss of Launcelot, but by myself, in private. I put on a brave face in public, and wish that my daughter would do the same.

To his credit, Gawain is also doing his best to reconcile the young couple, but nothing seems to be working. The court itself is like a hornet’s nest, buzzing with unrest. Even though Mordred has gone, there are enough of his followers left behind to continue spreading his poison. The court is now more deeply divided than ever, and it seems to me only a matter of time before what I have foreseen will come to pass.

I worry most particularly about Marie and what will become of her once the last conflagration heralds the end of Camelot. I am desperate to save her from that, for I can’t help thinking that in her survival lies the future foretold in the tablets, if I have read them aright. She is the one and only flicker of hope that I have seen: the child who may yet play a vital role in the story of Camelot.

And all the while I try to come up with some sort of plan for the future. When it finally comes to me, I realize I will need Gawain’s help for my scheme to succeed. To my relief, he gives it willingly, although he expresses himself mystified regarding my request. I cannot take him into my confidence, I can only hope, and pray to Marie’s God and to the old gods I have honored in the past, that what I plan to do will meet the demands of the mysterious voice I heard, and that Camelot’s doom may yet be averted.

“Let us go back to Glastonbury for a short while,” I suggest to Marie. “I think it will do us both good to leave Camelot until things settle down a little.”

She hesitates, tears already glinting at the corner of her eyes. I know only too well what she is thinking.

“It may be a good idea to leave Guinglan alone for a few days—just to give him a taste of what life would be like without you,” I urge.

“I am not worthy of him,” Marie mutters.

“Your father’s sin is not your own,” I say wearily. It is not the first time I’ve pointed this out to Marie, but as always she is blinded by grief and deaf to logic. Indeed, it is my belief that it is Guinglan who is not worthy of Marie, for he seems prepared to let her go without a fight. “Come away with me, my darling. It’s obvious that seeing Guinglan every day only serves to reinforce the pain you feel at losing him.”

Eventually my daughter agrees to my request. Arthur is too heartsore to question my decision, but instead provides us with mounts and bids us God’s speed on our journey. We set out, but Marie keeps turning to look back until Camelot, at last, slips from our view. I am concerned that she might yet change her mind about accompanying me but, once Camelot is behind us, she cheers up slightly and tells me that she is looking forward to seeing her friends at the priory again. I feel a prickle of fear as I consider a new threat: that the sorrow of losing Guinglan will persuade her to make a hasty vow to join the sisterhood of the priory.

More than anything, I long to take her to the sacred pool in the hope that we are blessed with a vision. If we are, I pray that it will contradict the doom foretold in the decorated tablets. But I don’t want to scare her off by any talk of magic, at least not yet. Besides, there is still a small hope that I may have regained my powers and shall be able to scry without Marie’s help. And so, once we arrive at the priory, I leave her to renew her acquaintance with the good sisters while I hasten to the garden and make my way to the sacred pool by the secret passage.

Once there, I sit silently for a time with my eyes closed. And I pray, I know not to whom, but I ask for a blessing and a return to grace. Merlin had once admonished me to use magic only when it was most necessary. I, in my desire for mastery, and in my childish ignorance, had ignored his advice. As I sit beside the sacred pool I whisper a litany of the harm I have caused, the death and destruction I have wrought through my practice of magic. The weight of it presses so hard on my soul that I find it difficult to breathe. I am truly contrite, and I beg for forgiveness. I hardly dare to hope for anything when at last I open my eyes and gaze into the dark, still pool.

The water ripples gently into life and I see the young woman once more. She bears some resemblance to the illustration on Merlin’s wooden tablet. I utter a prayer of thanks for this blessing.

“Morgan?” I ask. Her features resemble mine, but I now suspect that she is someone from a future Camelot—or Glastonbury. She stands among ruined towers of stone, but I recognize the Tor that looms behind her.

She looks at me. I know she sees me as I can see her. She appears afraid, but it is not me who frightens her. “Help me,” she says. I hear the terror in her voice. “For God’s sake, save us! Save us all!”

“How? Please, talk to me. Tell me what you want me to do!”

The young woman begins to cry. Helpless, I watch her, holding on to her image as it wavers and fades into darkness.

Disappointed, I am about to leave when I hear the same wailing chant that puzzled me so long ago. I listen carefully, trying to discern the words above the cacophony, but I cannot hear them clearly enough to understand their meaning.

A wide river ripples into view. A tower stands beside it, a tower I think I recognize from the time I went to London with my family to pledge our allegiance to the High King, Uther. It seems the same yet it is different, for it is flanked by glittering buildings that line the curves of the river. They are so tall they look as if they might almost touch the sky. Their brilliance is reflected in the water, just as the river is mirrored in their costly facades. I am almost sure that this is the River Thames of London, for I walked along its path with my father when I was just a child, although there were only a few buildings then, and all of them much, much smaller. Now the river is criss-crossed with many bridges, and cluttered with craft of assorted shapes and sizes. I hear great bangs, and shouting, and I see struggling knots of people fighting along the river bank and through the streets nearby. They come together, and clash and part, and come together again. Their dress is unfamiliar, as are the words they scream at one another. Judging from their tone and the actions that accompany them, these are words of war, of hatred and fury, of a lust for destruction.

Some warriors wear only ragged undershirts with short sleeves, and frayed trousers, revealing bare limbs decorated with patterns and words. Jeweled studs puncture eyebrows and lips. There are young women among them, and even children. Their faces are distorted with anger. They hold frames with parchment stretched across them, painted with words I do not understand. They chant as they rush toward their opponents.

These others have a darker skin. Some are bearded and have cloth wound around their heads; their tunics reach down to their ankles. Beside them are smaller, slighter figures; women I think, but it is hard to tell for their faces and bodies are completely shrouded. There are some children present in this group too, boys and girls together. I hear another long wailing cry: “Allah-u-Akbar.” Their voices are also full of hate. They, too, carry placards, but the writing looks different. The letters are curled and ornate, something like the ancient scripts of the Arabs that I’ve seen in the abbey. But I know their message is not of mathematics or astronomy or medicine and healing, for these people are full of anger as they brandish their weapons.

I watch with dread in my heart, for I sense that the sides are evenly matched in their rage and determination to annihilate and silence each other.

The opponents collide and fragment into smaller groups, all of them armed with clubs and knives, or holding unfamiliar weapons that, although small, seem to bring instant death with each reverberating bang. It greatly distresses me to see women and children taking part in a vicious melee; I have never seen such a thing before.

 My hope that the women might try to prevent this death and destruction is unfounded, for all wield their weapons with great force. Men, women and even children are dying. Some people are running around throwing small metal objects into the crowds and aiming them toward large metal containers on wheels, causing death and destruction with each explosion. The streets turn into blazing infernos and people scream and scurry like ants in a vain effort to escape.

Horrified, I peer through the flames and smoke, searching for armed knights, for soldiers, for a king—anyone capable of restoring order, and bringing the culprits to justice. But there is no one in control, and the battle rages on. These troublemakers are now joined by several other groups, each tribe different in appearance and dress, so that the streets become jammed with warriors seemingly determined to kill any who stand in their path. I see children cry out in fear and pain. Some are alone and abandoned, desperately trying to escape. Others are being dragged through the throng by their mothers in a bid to flee the danger. But the hatred is so strong that even they are being cut down.

I think of the young woman’s plea, but I have tried and I know that I cannot reach across the centuries, I cannot traverse time to make a difference. In the face of this mindless anger, this need to destroy, I am impotent. Is this what I have set in train with my magical arts; this violence, this hatred, this thirst for destruction?

The leaping flames continue unabated. I hear their hungry roar as they consume everything in their path. Is this the end of our world in the future that I am seeing—or is this some other world unknown to me? I become aware of a low droning: objects fall from silver birds and crash into the buildings that line the streets, smashing them into pieces. I duck to avoid the flying, glittering shards, even though I know I am safe and that they can’t hurt me. But those who are still standing are flayed like beasts in the butchers’ stalls at the markets. There is blood everywhere, dark red rivers of it. And the screaming goes on.

Small silver specks appear in the sky. They look like stars, but it is not night. They seem to hang in an infinity of space. As I pray that they herald deliverance, they begin to float silently down toward the river. A blinding flash of golden yellow leaps across my pool. Even the water is on fire! Fascinated but fearful, I reach out. The water feels reassuringly cold to my touch. I wipe my wet fingertips across my face, and wonder if I am awake or dreaming. I peer through the golden miasma, and try to understand.

When the mist clears there is only a long river that winds and coils through an empty wasteland. Buildings, people—all are gone. But I can still hear the screams of all those who are no longer there. It is a chilling sound that goes on and on and on. I put my hands over my ears in a vain effort to shut out their cries, but I cannot bear to close my eyes in case I miss some hint of how I can make things right again.

The horror fades into silence, the emptiness dissolves into darkness. I stare into the depths of the pool, willing the young woman to reappear, to talk to me, to tell me what’s happening and what she wants me to do. She seems to know all about me, she apparently has great faith in me, and yet she is a complete mystery to me. If the prophecy of Merlin’s tablets is to be believed, she is vital to our future and the wellbeing of our land—and yet I do not understand how I can help her. I try prayers, and wishes, and even threats, but she has disappeared and I see and hear nothing further.

Finally I leave the sacred, secret place, concerned about what Marie might be doing in my absence, and go in search of her. I find her sitting in the parlor, with two nuns keeping her company. To my surprise Guinglan is also present, sitting at a decorous distance from my daughter. I can tell, from the sly peeks they’re exchanging, that only the presence of the good sisters is preventing them from rushing into each other’s arms. A weight falls from my shoulders, a weight I was not aware that I was carrying.

“What brings you here, Guinglan?” I ask, thinking this was not part of my plan. I’d asked Gawain to wait a few days, so that the pair could have time to properly miss each other, before divulging Marie’s location.

“I beg your pardon if I have acted precipitately and against your wishes, Lady Morgana.”

Guinglan has leaped to his feet at my arrival. He smooths down his hair in nervous fashion, and bobs a hasty bow. I smother a smile. No matter how tarnished my reputation at court, it seems that this suitor still recognizes that he must win over the mother of the object of his desire. I warn myself not to appear too keen, and so I take a seat, and indicate the chair so suddenly vacated by Guinglan.