Authors: Felicity Pulman
As I pace restlessly around my room, thinking through what has just happened, I come to some painful realizations. Arthur’s betrayal is one. How greatly I once loved him—and how I fear him now. Ambition has wakened in him. If he can, I know that he will grab the crown that is rightfully mine, and Uther will support him. My mother, too, has turned against me. By not speaking out on my behalf, she has forfeited any last shreds of my love and good will. My heart is full of vengeance against them all, but most particularly against Uther. All my hopes and my dreams now count for naught, for he has made it clear he has no intention of honoring my father’s wishes. He has full power to direct my future, and I fear what he has in mind.
I fall onto my bed and pound my feather pillow in utter despair. I cannot allow this to happen. I swore an oath to my father. Somehow I must find a way to fulfill my destiny.
The thought comes to me: What about Merlin? Can I ask for his help? I stop punishing my pillow and roll over onto my back to ponder the question. It has been some time since we last met; he has been rather evasive of late. But he, too, has promised me a golden future. Would he support me in my bid to stop Uther arranging my marriage and exile from the land that is rightfully mine?
On further reflection, I shake my head. Even if Merlin had the courage to speak out on my behalf, he is not accepted at court. Uther would pay no attention to anything he might have to say.
Magic, then? I sit up, and consider it. Persuasion won’t change Uther’s mind, I know that full well. Can I convince Merlin to help me devise a spell?
I shake my head. He has lectured me on the need to use magic wisely and only when necessary. I believe that the time is now, but Merlin might not agree.
I stand up and begin to pace once more. I know Uther will waste no time in getting rid of me by any means at his disposal—so perhaps I should get rid of him first? I stop abruptly, and a smile spreads across my face as I wonder how I might use my magic to achieve this without any blame being laid at my door.
The long hours of darkness drag on, but by the time the stars fade into the light of early dawn I have still not come up with a plan that will best suit my purpose.
As soon as the hunting party is assembled in the courtyard, I transform myself into a swallow just like the one nesting on the roof outside my window. Once free from my prison I begin to follow the hunt, flying high above the men on their horses, feeling a savage delight that I have managed to defy my stepfather. Yet I am also puzzled. Even though the hounds are in hot pursuit of a fox, the men following Uther seem to be dressed more for a battle than for a hunt. And there are so many of them, far more than would normally be invited on a hunting expedition. Not only that, they carry all the appurtenances of battle, most of them with shields, swords and lances along with their bows and quivers full of arrows. It’s as if they are expecting to meet trouble along the way.
I fly on, determined not to concern myself with minor details. My mind is wholly bent on how to get the better of Uther, although I am still debating ways to achieve my aim. Can I perhaps turn myself into a fox to put the hounds off the scent and lead the huntsmen astray? But I am afraid of being chased and possibly caught. In my imagination I feel sharp teeth shredding my flesh to bloody scraps. I wince, knowing that I can’t risk it. But how else can I spite Uther, who is leading the charge? Can I become a gryphon, or a dragon perhaps, something to frighten his horse enough that he’ll be thrown and maybe injure himself, or even die? Or what if I change myself into something fiercesome enough to eat him? The idea is tempting, but I am afraid I might not have the power or skill—or even the will—to carry it through. Another thought stops me: If I try to assume the guise of a creature from an Otherworld, might those real creatures attack and punish me for bringing their guise out of safety? Could I try to summon them here to my cause? But I have not attempted this before, and I am not sure they would come at my bidding. A further thought makes me hesitate: even a gryphon or a dragon can be captured and slaughtered by my stepfather and his men. It is too great a risk. Depositing a dropping on Uther from on high would be safe. But that’s a child’s trick, and I am no longer a child. Besides, it is not serious enough to punish him for his treatment of me, nor will it change his mind about ordering my future.
An idea stirs in my mind. As I think it through, I like it more and more. Excited now, I fly ahead of the hunt into the heart of the forest, looking for an open space where I can shape-shift into something else.
I alight on the ground and become myself once more, but only momentarily. Calling on all my powers, I quickly transform into an enormous oak tree. I tremble with fear and excitement as I listen to the sounds of the hunt drawing near. I close my mind off to everything but the fox, and I sing it toward me. Even through its panic it responds, fleeing straight to the shelter of the mighty tree, desperate to escape. The hounds chase after it, closing in on their prey. Uther leads the charge in their wake. But then I hear a murmuring behind me, the soft footfalls of men and horses, a clink and a chink as if swords are being unsheathed.
I cannot allow myself to be distracted, not with my quarry coming so close. I steady my gaze on Uther, who is still charging toward me. I wait, readying one of the tree’s many limbs in preparation. I’ve already chosen the branch that will become my instrument of justice, and have asked the tree I have become if I may make the sacrifice without harm to my mortal self. I’ve never attempted such a thing before but I take comfort from the fact that if I succeed, no blame can ever be laid at my door.
Stay steady, stay in control
, I warn myself
.
Do not act too soon, or too late. The wrong timing will wreck everything
.
I hold the heavy branch strong and steady in my mind, ready to let it fall on Uther as he passes by in the hope that it will smash him into the earth. The fox races past my tree with the hounds in pursuit, but Uther abruptly checks his mount and holds up his hand in warning. The huntsmen abandon the chase and circle around Uther, lifting their swords and shields in readiness. Uther’s steed paws the ground uneasily. I will Uther to come closer, but instead he begins to organize his men into formation, using hand movements to indicate silence.
I remember the muted sounds behind me, and suddenly realize what is really happening. Uther must have had warning of a raiding party and, under guise of a hunt, has prepared his men for battle. No wonder I wasn’t allowed to accompany them! I keep as still as I can, hoping that no one will pay any attention to me or understand that the tree close to them is not all it seems. But my leaves rustle as I quiver with the knowledge that the enemy is already near.
Uther and his men are armed and ready, and they wait in silence. They’ve forgotten all about the fox for they have a new prey now, one that is far more deadly. The marauders charge from their hiding place in the forest and rush upon the waiting soldiers with a ululating battle cry loud enough to freeze the blood and turn strong men into mewling infants. But Uther’s warriors stand fast, meeting steel with steel and blow with blow. The earth reddens with the blood of the wounded and dying; the air resounds with their screams. Thuds and buffets, the clash and clang of weapons, grunts and shouts and curses as the men fight; the fierce battle rages around me, while I hold my breath and keep still. I am frightened to move so much as a leaf in case the tree suffers damage that might have unforeseen repercussions on my own body. Uther’s men—some of them my own father’s warriors—are as brave as lions and strong as bulls. Slowly, inexorably, they cut their way through the raiding party, decimating their ranks. Accepting defeat but not capture, the marauders turn and flee.
With the enemy on the run, Uther’s men pause to regroup and catch their breath. But I notice an armed invader wheel around and turn back. It seems to me he is a harbinger of doom, and I am suddenly filled with anxiety. I try to shout a warning, but manage only a leafy rustle. Uther can’t see him. He is facing his men, and their eyes are on him as he congratulates them on their prowess. Their cheering covers the sound of the approaching rider who, with dagger drawn, leans sideways out of the saddle and stabs Uther in the back. Struck dumb with horror, Uther’s men are too slow to stop the assassin from regaining his seat and racing off to rejoin his brothers-in-arms. When Uther’s men finally come to their senses, they set off after him with a roar, leaving their king alone to die.
Too afraid to show myself, to intervene or help, I watch as the terrified horse wheels and stamps and does its best to shake off its burden. Uther topples out of the saddle, but his heel catches in the stirrups and his head hits the ground. He makes a feeble gesture, trying to free his foot perhaps, or calm his mount. But the steed continues to buck and kick until finally it is free. At once it takes off at a gallop, while Uther lies in a pool of his own blood and breathes his last.
I look down on him, my mind churning in a giddy whirl of elation mingled with regret—and fear. My wish has been granted, but did I really want Uther to die or did I just want to change his mind and at the same time teach him a lesson about power? Now that he is dead, I find it hard to believe that I ever wished him quite so ill.
The soldier huntsmen return. While I’m quite sure that Uther is dead, one of the men confirms it after feeling his chest for signs of a heartbeat and listening for a breath. He breaks the sad tidings to the assembled company, and I watch as a litter is quickly improvised and the bloody body of my stepfather is laid upon it.
I’d thought to feel triumph as the cortege moves away, accompanied by the lamentations of Uther’s companions. Instead, my fear grows as the implications of his death become clearer. It is only chance that the king’s blood is not on my hands but, even if I’m not responsible, the end result is the same: the kingdom has been left without protection.
I shiver at the thought of what Merlin would say if he ever found out what I intended. With an effort, I calm my trembling leaves and make a solemn vow to myself that he will never, ever find out the part I almost played in Uther’s death.
And yet with Uther dead, and my mother no doubt prostrated with grief, my future is no longer in doubt, for surely Merlin will agree that it is time for me to seize my birthright and rule over south Britain? If I am wise and strong enough to fulfill our dreams for the future, I shall then go on and bring all the realms of Britain beneath my sovereignty, and so make our nation great. My spirits rise in wild elation as I realize that this dream is now almost within my grasp. I feel a surge of power; I am desperate to be gone. But I know that I must stay until the last straggler has left the scene. I need to be sure there is no one around to spy on me, in case the observer understands what’s happening when I transform myself first into Morgana and then into a swallow to fly back to my bed. I can only hope I have not been missed. Once I have been freed from my prison, I shall profess myself ignorant of all that has befallen the unlucky Uther. I shall join my mother, and all the others in the castle, and I shall pretend to mourn him.
Conscious of time passing, and fearful that, even now, someone might be unlocking the door of my bedchamber to find me gone, I finally transform myself and quickly check for signs of damage. To my relief, there are none. I am about to become a swallow once more when a large eagle alights on the ground nearby. As I pause to rethink my strategy, for a swallow would be no match for an eagle, a well-known voice drives all thought from my mind and shrivels my heart with fear. The eagle has resumed its human form.
“That was ill-done, Morgana.”
I tremble as I stand before Merlin. He seems taller somehow, powerful and terrible in his wrath as he glares down at me.
“You stupid, stupid girl,” he says softly. “You could have inherited a great kingdom but, by your own willfulness and vengeful thoughts, you have squandered your birthright.”
“But I was just watching. I didn’t do anything!” I’m hoping to bluff my way out of this, but I quickly realize that Merlin can see right through me and that he knows everything.
“Even though it was not your hand that struck Uther down, the intention was there. You would have killed Uther without thought for a kingdom left unprotected at a time of great peril, all to satisfy your own desire for revenge. And at such a cost! You have known only peace and plenty in your life. Did you ever pause to think how we shall fare if the invaders defeat us? They will swarm over our lands, stripping us of our wealth, our possessions, our crops and animals, our homes and our livelihood. And do you know the price they will exact in order to keep themselves safe? They’ll kill our men—and our children. And they’ll seize our women—yes, even you, Morgana, especially you—for their own pleasure. Our kingdom will become theirs, at the price of our blood and our liberty.
“And now the death of our king has left us vulnerable to these predators; it has extended an invitation for them to invade us without delay. Our way of life will come to an end, unless we fight for it. You would have extended that invitation on your own account even without that marauding party today. For shame that you have so little regard for human life, Morgana! For shame that you have so little regard for your family, for your people and for your kingdom!”
“I’m glad he’s dead,” I mutter, stung by Merlin’s criticism and anxious to defend myself. “He was going to go against my father’s wishes, and stop me inheriting my birthright. Worse, he threated to marry me off to one of his old retainers. He said that he’d make sure it was someone who lived far away so I … so …” I take a deep, shuddering breath. I will not let Merlin see me cry. “He’s dead—and I’m not sorry!”
“You should be,” Merlin says sternly. “Being a ruler is not only about being strong and having a knowledge of magic. It’s also about diplomacy, the art of negotiation and the gift of persuading others to see your way. Above all, it is about having a clear vision for the future of this country, and the courage and determination to bring it to fruition.”