I, Morgana (34 page)

Nor, it seems, is he so badly wounded as I had feared. And so I leave him and follow Bedivere to a lake some little distance from the battlefield, for I am curious about Arthur’s request. It seems so out of character for him to revert to the old ways. But then I remember that the sword was a gift from Viviane, and she might well have instructed Arthur regarding its use.

Bedivere comes to the lake and raises the sword, ready to throw it in. He hesitates, and then lowers it and thrusts it into a thicket of bushes to hide it. He returns to Arthur. I fly after him.

“Have you done as I asked?” The king’s voice is weaker, but still steely with purpose.

“My lord, I have,” Bedivere answers.

“And what saw you when you threw the sword into the lake?”

“Nothing, my lord. It fell with a mighty splash and sank straight away, leaving only ripples to mark its passing.”

Arthur rears up, terrible in his wrath. “You have not obeyed me,” he thunders. “I command you to do as I ask.”

“But my lord, the sword has served you for so long, and may well serve you again in time to come.”

“I am dying, Bedivere; I shall not have need of it again. I bid you, grant my last request or your soul will be forever forfeit, in this world and the next.”

Exhausted, Arthur sinks back onto the ground. I am torn between wanting to follow Bedivere and staying to tend Arthur’s wounds, for I am sure that he has suffered a mortal blow. But I have no herbs with me, no potions to heal him or even to ease his pain. I can do nothing for him here. Reluctantly, I leave him and fly after Bedivere.

The knight casts a quick look around. Fancying himself alone, he retrieves the sword from its hiding place and once more raises it above his head. He stops, perhaps reconsidering his actions. And then he throws it right into the middle of the lake.

I watch, fascinated, as a hand rises up out of the water to catch the sword. The fingers lock onto it in a firm grasp and then, slowly and gently, the sword is lowered until it disappears under the water, leaving barely a ripple in its wake to mark its passing.

  Viviane? Or someone else from a different Otherworld? Cold shivers run through me at the thought that even I, with all my magical powers, have not yet fathomed all there is to know about our world and the magic of the worlds beyond. It is as well Bedivere has obeyed Arthur’s command, I think, as I change into my real guise and hurry back to the battlefield behind the knight.

“Is it done?” Arthur’s voice is very weak now.

“Yes, my liege.”

“And what saw you?”

Bedivere recounts what we both witnessed. And Arthur is satisfied, knowing that his last wish has been obeyed.

I kneel at his side. He manages to smile when he sees me. It is the smile of the little boy he once was; the child going into the dark and fearing what he might encounter there, but trying, so bravely, to hide that fear.

“Have courage, Arthur.” I take his hand. “All will be well.” He knows he is dying, and so do I now. All I can do is hope to ease his passing.

“Hurry to the castle and fetch my medicaments,” I tell Bedivere, and I give him detailed instructions as to the things I need and where they might be located. “Bring also a litter and men to carry the king.” An image comes into my mind; it is an image once seen in my scrying pool but not understood until now. “Send someone to the river to find a sturdy and comfortable boat for hire,” I add, and the knight hurries off to do my bidding.

 Once he is safely out of hearing, I sit down beside my dying brother and confess all my sins, and earnestly beg his pardon. I have greatly feared his wrath, but now, when it is too late, I need his forgiveness. But he does not give it to me. He stays silent and withdrawn, ignoring my pleas. It is no comfort to me to think that perhaps he has gone beyond earthly emotion and instead is composing himself to meet his God.

But then he sighs, rousing himself a little. “I truly loved Guenevere,” he mutters. “But no matter what I did and however hard I tried, I could not satisfy her, neither as a lover nor as a husband. I think, from the very first, she was enchanted by Launcelot. In truth, I should never have married her. But I always hoped, loving her as I did, that she would come to look beyond him and see me, especially if we could make a child together. And so I stayed quiet, both for the love I bore Guenevere but also for the sake of keeping unity in my kingdom.”

Arthur’s confession is a scourge on my heart for it was I who, by enchantment, ensured that Launcelot reciprocated Guenevere’s love, with all that followed on from that. Too late now for regrets. Too late to try to change the doom of Camelot. Nor can I cheat what the tablets have foretold.

I shake my head, trying to clear the thick fog of misery that shrouds my brain. What can I do to ease my brother’s pain other than try to reassure him? “I shall take you across the water to the magical Isle of Avalon,” I tell him, hoping that I can trust the image that I saw, and that I shall be able to find the means to bring it about. “The island is a center of sacred healing, and Viviane is there. If anyone can save you, she can. Have courage, Arthur. Don’t give up hope. You may yet come again to Camelot and unite the kingdom to create an even mightier empire.”

He makes no response. I don’t know if he has heard me, or if he believes me. I’m not sure if I believe it myself. But he is still alive when the men sent by Bedivere gently place him on the litter and carry him, with the greatest care, to the river side. There, we find a barge awaiting us, with a bed hastily fashioned out of cushions and covered with a silky black curtain on which to place the dying king. This is the barge I saw in my scrying pool, before I went to Arthur in disguise to make a child, the instrument of his undoing. It was a warning, and I did not heed it, for I had not understood that if I went ahead with my plan to seduce Arthur, I would destroy everything and break my heart. A surging tide of regret leaves me feeling sick and shaken.

Once Arthur is settled, I am at a loss as to which direction to take. The barge in my scrying pool had been sailing upriver. I remember also Arthur’s comment that Viviane had come downriver to see him at court. While I had devised my own way of visiting Otherworlds, I know that Merlin found another, and perhaps Viviane has too. I can only hope that I have read the signs aright as I give the boatmen their instructions and point them upriver.

A great wailing lament of loss and grief accompanies our passage as people hastily gather along the banks to mark our passing. The boatmen ply their oars and the river winds on, but thick tendrils of mist are reaching out to us now, enveloping us in their damp, clammy arms. The boatmen stop rowing. I see the fear in their eyes, but I command them to keep on. And so they do as the mist grows thicker, until we have no way of knowing the direction in which we are heading or even if we are turning in circles. Once again the boatmen stop rowing, but this time I leave them be for there is magic here, I am sure of it. The boat continues to move of its own accord, slipping swiftly and silently over the water. Arthur’s eyes are closed. I take his hand, squeeze it, and feel a slight answering pressure. I bend over him, and kiss his cheek.

The mist clears, and I realize that it is night. The black velvet sky is brilliant with stars, the same stars that shine over Camelot. I wonder if we are in Avalon, or merely further upriver at some new settlement. I discern the faint outlines of buildings, pricked with lamplight at their windows. A procession is wending its way to the wooden pier where we have berthed. At sight of it, the boatmen cross themselves in terror. I wait, holding Arthur in my arms, to see who comes.

It is Viviane who leads the procession. Several women hurry forward, bearing a litter. They carefully lift Arthur onto it and begin to make their way back to the settlement. I stand up, ready to follow them, but Viviane will not allow it.

“You are not welcome here, Morgana.”

I have not bid Arthur farewell. I cannot bear to let him go without a final word. I need to sing to him the lullaby that comforted him in his childhood. I need to sing my brother into the dark. I try to push past her, but Viviane is stronger than me, and she bars my way.

“Go back to Camelot,” she orders. “You may tell those few who are left behind that Arthur has gone to the sacred Isle of Avalon for his wounds to be healed.”

“When shall I say he’ll return?” I ask, accepting defeat.

Viviane scrutinizes me carefully for some moments, then looks off into the distance. I realize she is seeing things that I cannot see when she continues, “The day will come when Britain is divided and is once more under siege from within. There will be a great need for a wise and courageous leader, someone able to bring the tribes together and unite them in the quest for common ground.”

“That time is now,” I tell her. “Few have survived the battle between Mordred and Arthur. Now, more than ever, are we in need of a strong ruler.”

“And that would surely be you, would it not, Morgana?” Viviane’s voice is cool, tinged with dislike. “Have you not worked your magic for this outcome all along?”

I blush with shame that she has read my heart and my mind so clearly.

“So many knights dead, and Camelot in ruins. But surely you, with all your magical powers, can save Camelot and make it great once more?”

Defeated, I shake my head. I can find no words to defend myself against Viviane’s scorn, for everything she knows about me is true.

“Go away, Morgana. It is too late for Camelot. You must look to your own salvation now.” And she turns on her heel and strides away.

After a few moments of shocked silence, the boatmen set up a furious rowing, desperate to leave this haunted place. They say nothing of what they have overheard, and I am grateful. I have no way to defend myself, and no idea of what to do next.

Once more we are enveloped in mist, but the boat travels quickly now, caught in the current that takes us down to Camelot and will ultimately flow on to meet the sea.

This is a true account of the part I played in the doom of Camelot. This must serve also as my confession for I am weary beyond bearing, and know that the sand in my glass must soon run out.

After the battle of Camlann I returned to Camelot to find Guenevere fled to the abbey at Amesbury and the rest of the court dispersed. I heard later, from a traveler visiting the abbey here at Glastonbury, that Launcelot had heeded Arthur’s call, but had come to Camelot too late to fight at his side. Would that he had arrived in time! How different the outcome might have been—for all of us. The traveler, who had come from Amesbury and who had seen Guenevere there, said that she and Launcelot had bid one another a tender farewell, for it seems he plans to take holy orders in an abbey across the water in Brittany, place of his birth. For me, this news marked the end of a dream. I had long hoped that one day my potion would lose its power and Launcelot would come for me. I had to accept then that I would never see him again.

Of Marie, stranded in another world and in another time, I have had no news at all. I pray that she and Guinglan are safe, but suspect I shall never be forgiven by them for they will not understand the danger from which I saved them, or hear of the long, slow death of Britain that has followed the battle at Camlann.

After the fall of Camelot no one traveled very far at all. With Arthur gone, and so many of his knights either dead or dispersed, marauders from across the ocean flocked to our shores, fighting those few of our people who dared to show themselves, and stripping them of their land and possessions. It was a great grief to me to learn that Owain, too, had been killed while trying to protect his father’s estate from the usurpers. By then, I had taken refuge at the priory once more, all of us living in fear of our lives through those dark days. The invaders, while killing any who stood in their way or who did not bend to their will, left alone those who served God although they stripped the abbeys of all their wealth and most of their land. And so we live in poverty, tilling the fields and feeding ourselves as best we may. Our land is crumbling into decay, dying from within.

It has been a long journey from the daughter of a king to a humble daughter of Christ here at the priory—for I, too, have dedicated my life to God, the sisters would not have let me stay here otherwise. There is no other refuge open to me. Throughout Britain I am blamed for the fall of Camelot, my name linked with that of my son, Mordred. I am called witch and sorceress, whore and succubus. The name Morgana is associated with all that is evil. And so I shall be judged by all who follow, even until the end of time. The voices of those I have harmed, and those who are dead at my hand, haunt my days and disturb my nights. Despite confession, and multiple penances for my sins, I have found no relief. I am riven with remorse. And I ask myself: Why did I not have the wisdom or the sight to see that in taking that first small step, I would bring such misery and devastation to our land?

If the prioress knows of the part I have played in Camelot’s downfall, she is kind enough to say nothing about it. Everyone else knows me only as Anna, and if there are any doubts, or rumors, they are muttered quietly and in secret. Our days are spent toiling in the fields and doing what we may to keep our bodies together and our souls alive.

We are no longer able to house guests in comfort here, for there was only money enough for the smallest part of the priory to be rebuilt. But travelers still come and, if we have room and pottage to spare, we take them in.

On a day in early spring, a jongleur arrives at the abbey from across the water in France. In return for a meal and a bed, he entertains us with a
lai
that tells of the deeds of a knight from King Arthur’s court, called Lanval. I listen in amazement as the story unfurls, for it seems to me that it bears a strong resemblance to the love affair between Launcelot and me, as it might have turned out if I had not spoiled everything with my meddling. I question the jongleur afterwards.

“‘Lanval’ was composed by a woman known only as Marie of France,” he tells me.

Marie? I hardly dare to hope, yet my ancient heart dances a jig inside my breast. “Who is she? And how does she know this story of Arthur of Britain?”

The jongleur shrugs. “No one knows much about her, other than that she once resided at the court of a king named Arthur, and that she was wed to a man named Guinglan.”

“Guinglan!” This must be my own Marie he is talking about! I am so filled with gratitude to have news of her I can scarcely speak. “Are they not still wed? What became of Guinglan?”

“I believe he died of a fever. Marie travelled to France after his death, along with their child. I heard she’d gone in search of her father, who is said to reside somewhere in Brittany. I know not if she ever found him, but her stories and songs have found favor everywhere in our land.”

Marie has a child! The blessings pile one on the other; I am suffused with happiness.

“Do you know aught of her child? Is it a boy or a girl?”

The jongleur looks somewhat confused by my interest.

“The child is a girl, I believe. She and her mother live within the royal court, for Eleanor of Aquitaine takes a great interest in Marie’s poetry. Indeed, the queen is renowned for the encouragement she gives to artists, scribes, musicians and poets such as Marie. To my great regret I have not yet been invited to perform at her court, so all I can repeat is gossip and hearsay from the common folk.”

“And I am truly grateful for your charity in passing it on.” I wish I had a coin to give the fellow. Instead, I make sure he has an extra helping of pottage for, by the look of him, he is in need of a good meal.

As I serve him, my joy gives way to questions. How is it that this man has been able to cross from Marie’s world to our own? By his account, that Otherworld is stable and prosperous, whereas our world has become so poor, so riven with strife, that I wonder if it is coming to an end. I resolve to question the jongleur further, but carefully, for I must not give any hint of magic or witchcraft. It is no longer safe to do so.

It seems that the sisters of the priory have so enjoyed the jongleur’s performance that they have begged him to stay on for another night to give another recital. I am pleased, for it gives me a little longer to formulate my questions so that they do not arouse suspicion.

This time he recites another
lai
, “Le Fresne”, about a young woman who is raised in an abbey and is unaware of her true birthright. Is this Marie’s own story, but woven anew into what she most desires? I listen, enthralled, as the jongleur recites her love and dependence on the king who takes her in, and her joy when, at last, she is reconciled with her contrite mother and sister.

Does Marie long to come back to Camelot, where she is known and recognized for who she truly is? The thought that she wishes to be reconciled with her mother stabs me through the heart.

I waylay the man after he has finished his meal. “How did you come to travel our way?” I ask innocently. “Is it chance, or did you choose to come here?”

The jongleur smiles. “Not chance, my lady, but a happy circumstance for me, nevertheless. I have been reciting the
lais
of Marie of France for some time now, for they are extremely popular with the common folk at fairs and in the marketplaces; even barons occasionally invite me to perform for them and their friends after they have dined. On one such occasion I was told that a woman named Viviane wished to speak with me. It was she who promised me a purse of silver if I would come here to your priory. She asked me to recite these
lais
to the community here, although I’m not quite sure why.” His gaze is inquisitive as he continues, “I was also told to ask for the Lady Morgana, but it seems she is not here.”

“Yes, she is.” Interfering Viviane! My lips twitch in a smile as I tell the man, “I am known only as Anna in the priory, but before I came here Morgana was my name.” I am suddenly anxious. “But you must tell no one, for my life might be forfeit if my true name becomes known.”

He nods. I wonder what, if anything, he has been told about me. His expression is unreadable, although he bows courteously enough. “I am pleased to meet you, my lady. I have a message from Dame Viviane. She says to tell you that she sends you both a lesson and a blessing. She says also that your daughter thrives, and that she is content.”

For a moment I am speechless with joy. “And I beg you, give her a message in return,” I say, when I am able once more to put my thoughts into words. “Please tell her that I am grateful to have news of my daughter. Will you also ask Dame Viviane to pass on to her my love, and tell her that I wished only to keep her safe?”

“I am pleased to be of service to you, my lady. But I confess, I am not sure why the dame suggested I come here to ply my trade for ours is a prosperous and settled kingdom, whereas it seems to me that your land is dying, and that people here live in fear and despair. I do wonder how I shall eke out a living while I am here.”

“How came you to Glastonbury?”

“Dame Viviane sent me downstream in her barge, and I was left on the riverbank.” The jongleur brightens somewhat. “She did say that if I was unable to find a patron, I should wait there and the barge would come for me, and that I would find the promised payment on board.”

He has said all I need to know. I wish him well, and apologize for not being able to reward him for his pains. He looks around our poor priory. “I realize how things are here,” he says. “So I shall ask you instead to please pray for me, pray for my soul.”

I assure him that I will do so, and that I will also pray for his safe return to the world that he knows. His gaze sharpens with interest, but he does not question me—which is fortunate, perhaps.

The jongleur has set my mind at rest about Marie, but it has also prompted me to think anew about our own fate. And so I convince him there is nothing more for him here and I personally escort him to the river. He accompanies me willingly enough, having seen for himself his lack of future prospects, while I ensure that he speaks to no one who may tell him of the events that have brought us into such a parlous state. I am reassured that the story of Camelot lives on with Marie, but I am determined now that my part in its downfall must be hidden and forgotten. And so, once we catch sight of the barge, I bid him farewell and hurry back to the priory.

I pray that my waning powers will be equal to the task as I weave the spell that I once used to seal Merlin into his cave. In so doing, I hope to ensure that our world will be lost forever, and my shame will die with me.

The spell is successful, but it has taken its toll both on my body and on my ability to practice any magic at all. Over my years in exile at the priory, I have attempted to rebuild my once beautiful garden, although I was unable to restore the secret ways without the magical tools at my disposal. But I still take comfort in nature, and in my resurrected garden, poor imitation though it may be. The flowers that bloom are still magnificent. Trees still cast their shade in summer, lose their leaves in winter, and promise new life in spring. Everywhere I look I see an affirmation that no matter what has happened in the past, plants keep on growing, babies are born, and the great cycle of life continues. 
There is a comfort in that thought. 

The news that Marie is safe and well, and has a royal patron, was balm to my soul, but the hunger to see her again, awakened by the jongleur’s words, is a constant ache. I long to see her one last time, just once before I die, for I suspect that my end is near. I resolve to go out into the garden to say farewell while I still have breath in my body.

It is a fine day. The sun shines warm on my shriveled limbs as the good sisters carry me outside and into the garden. At my wish, they seat me on a turf bench close to its center, where I have fashioned a small enclosed pool that is fed by the ancient spring with its rusty water the color of blood, the same spring that used to run into the sacred scrying pool in my secret garden.

I ask the sisters to leave me alone by the pool. There is some concern but when I insist, they agree on the understanding that it will be only for a short while, and that they will return soon to make sure that I am comfortable.

I wait until they have gone. Slowly, I pull myself up from the bench and stumble toward the pool. I fall to my knees beside it, and look into the water. This is my last, desperate attempt to see my daughter.

The water stays dark. I close my eyes, and pray to the gods that I may be granted a last vision. When I open my eyes once more, I find I am looking directly into the face of a woman I am almost sure I have seen before.

“Morgan?” I ask. She looks some years older now. It comes to me that in fact there is a striking similarity between her and the illustration of the woman holding the crystal on Merlin’s tablet. A man sits beside her; he bears such a strong family resemblance that they might even be twins. They are seated at a round table, surrounded by a sober group of men and women who are nothing at all like the wild rabble I witnessed in the streets of London. Yet there is some similarity to those warring tribes in the differing styles of their dress and skin colors.

Great windows of glass set along the walls give a view of the Tor standing like a sentinel beyond, with the ruins of stone towers and walls scattered among the grass at its feet. Is this the Glastonbury of our world, or is this the Otherworld I chose for Marie? And why has the abbey been destroyed? This must surely be a vision of the future.

Morgan and her brother, if that is who they are, appear to be in deep discussion with their companions. It is a serious debate, but I sense there is no anger among them. There is tension, but not the overwhelming fear I felt before, when I witnessed the streets of London erupting into fire and vanishing as if they had never been. These people seem to have come together for a common purpose, a purpose I can only guess at: how to overcome the threat to their kingdom, the threat that has already caused so much devastation.