THE CURSE OF EXCALIBUR: a gripping Arthurian fantasy (THE MORGAN TRILOGY Book 2) (17 page)

I began to feel sick, and weary. I knew what this was. I thought of Morgawse, and her child, far away in the North. I had not written to her, had not heard from her or seen her, in a long while. I ought to, soon. But not now, not yet. I was too ashamed of what I had done.

Chapter Twenty Three

When news came that Lancelot had passed out of Cornwall, I took my place at Elaine’s father’s castle, in her shape. I chose dresses that showed well my swelling belly, and I waited for the moment to come. It was the very height of summer, and the sun was hot and low, and gorgeously warm when he came. Five months he had been away, from the very beginning of spring to the full ripeness of summer, and it showed on me well.

Lancelot rode through the gates of the small castle with a woman at his side. Mark’s Queen by the look of her. This was the woman that Arthur had turned down in favour of Guinevere’s magic blood and sharp wit, which – little did he know – was turned against him now. She was truly a beautiful creature; pale golden hair down to her waist, big, blue eyes and a soft, pink full-lipped mouth. She had a placid expression, and a dreamy look in her eyes. I had not yet heard her speak, but I would not have been surprised if Kay’s estimation of her as
simple
were accurate. Still she was lovely, and dressed richly and beautifully. She wore a circlet of white gold, set with sapphires and pearls – which I recognised with annoyance as my mother’s crown – and a dress of pale pink silk, sewn with pearls. I wondered what she was doing with Lancelot. Surely it was not just
any
queen that he wanted.

He jumped from his horse to greet me and Elaine’s father, then helped her down and introduced her. She gave me a look of disdain. I wondered what she knew. Lancelot’s eyes, when they saw the swell of my belly, did not register surprise, only resignation. I had at least thought he might be pleased. A child is a child. Everyone had expected
me
to feel joy at the conception of my son.

“Sir Lancelot,” Elaine’s father greeted him, brusquely, “I trust you intend to stand honourably by my daughter.”

He played his part admirably. Lancelot nodded, flustered.

“A man cannot be constrained to love, nor to wed, but I expect you to take my daughter with you to Camelot, and acknowledge this as your child. She was a maiden, sir, when she came to you.”

Lancelot nodded again, his face tense and set. He knew the anger that would be waiting for him when Guinevere heard.

The journey back to Camelot was short, and tense, and when the castle came in sight over the hills, Lancelot said we had to stop and make camp. I knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to sneak ahead and make his apologies to Guinevere. Well, it was too late. Elaine’s father had written to Arthur before we left and I, and my child, would be expected.

The next morning, they were gathered in the courtyard to greet us as we came through the gates. I saw Arthur first, dressed to meet us in all the grandeur he had. I supposed he wanted Isolde to go back to Cornwall and tell her husband what a fearsome king Arthur was. Gawain stood beside him, dressed in his armour, as he always was. The other side of Arthur, Guinevere stood, squinting into the sun at us riding towards her. She did not look as angry as I had expected her to, and I was a little disappointed. In the summer heat she wore a dress of blue and white silk, sewn with silver thread that glinted in the sun, and a circlet of fine gold glinted, half-hidden in the thick curls of her hair. The delicate dress looked wrong along with the fierceness of her looks. I thought she had suited much better the hunting leathers that had made the women of Camelot whisper behind their hands.

Lancelot jumped from his horse first to greet Arthur. Arthur pulled him into a hearty embrace, clapping him on the back. Of course Arthur would be pleased that Lancelot had returned with a woman carrying his child. I was surprised to see that Kay was smiling, too. I would have thought he would be jealous. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I was sure that it was about me, and I was glad.

Isolde beside me had tried to get down from her horse, but had tangled her foot in the stirrup, and the horse was whickering and stumbling away from her. I saw Kay step forward to take hold of the horse’s bridle, as Lancelot came towards me to lift me gently down from the horse. Elaine’s little body was small and light, and even with the child growing strong inside, he lifted me easily down. I was pleased. I wanted Guinevere to see him put his hands on me.

Arthur greeted me first, kissing me on the cheek and making some kind of meaningless compliment that I was not paying attention to. I could feel Guinevere’s eyes against my skin.

I turned to Guinevere and she took my hand with all politeness, but then I felt in the pit of my stomach the feeling I had felt once before, when I had seen her on her wedding-day. Up close again, and my own dark power working within me, I was overwhelmingly aware of the ancient Otherworld blood in her, and it seemed to recognise the dark magic in me, and both bridled at one another. I could see her feel it, see it pass across her face. I saw her breath catch. But it passed, and she said nothing. She did not see through me, as I had feared for a moment she might. She kissed me on the cheek, and we gave each other the proper greetings, commending each other’s beauty. I could see her eyes measuring my form, testing Lancelot’s excuse.

Since Isolde was here, and Queen of a rich if no longer powerful realm vassal to Arthur, some court had to be paid, and Guinevere led the small group of women that we made into her walled garden. It was a lovely place, small and intimate, smelling of roses and honeysuckle. Someone had set out silk cushions and thick silk rugs over the grass, and we – Isolde, Guinevere, her three ladies, and I – sank down among them. I was glad to sit down after the long ride. I had forgotten, too, how tiring it was to have a child growing inside me. Guinevere lay back among the cushions and, closing her eyes, turned her face up to feel the hot summer sun against it. I could see Isolde beside her chattering away, her soft pale-pink lips moving strangely slow. I suspected that Guinevere was not listening.

There was a lute player there, and Isolde stopped talking to watch him, and I saw Guinevere put a hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun, and gaze up at Isolde. She was, certainly, avoiding looking at me.

Her maid Margery was sat beside me, the girl who did not know I had taken her shape many times to spy on her Queen and mistress. I turned to her and gave her the sweetest smile Elaine’s pretty little face could manage, and she smiled back, at first warily and then, glancing towards Guinevere and seeing her engaged in some conversation with Isolde, leaned down close to me to whisper.

“You are lucky, lady, to have had Sir Lancelot as your lover. He is a very handsome man. I do not doubt that there are many women,” she could not hide her eyes’ unconscious sweep back towards Guinevere, “who envy you that.”

I gave a gentle nod of agreement, and a smile of complicity.

“Tell me what it was like,” she whispered, leaning even closer, encouraged. “I don’t know what it is like to be with a man, and no one will tell me.”

At the other end of the garden, I could hear Isolde beginning to sing.

“Well,” I began coyly, “not all men are the same, or so I have been told. Some are rough and mean, but the man I have known, he was gentle and loving.”

Margery giggled, as though I were telling her some great, forbidden secret.

Suddenly, Guinevere was standing over us, demanding to know what we were laughing about. She had lost that steely control I knew so well; her anger had overtaken her, and the opaque calm I had seen on her when we had ridden into Camelot had utterly evaporated. She grasped me hard by the arm and pulled me to my feet.

“What amuses you two ladies so?” she demanded, in her anger her Breton accent thick, her English words too formal.

I gathered my best politeness around myself. I only wanted her to appear more wild, more out of control than even she was. The more scandalous it seemed, the more the gossip would eat away at her, and I would have what I had waited for.

“Forgive me,” I began, demurely, fixing her with the most innocent look I could muster. It was difficult, for I was enjoying myself. “I was telling Margery of the love of Sir Lancelot. I know I should not speak in public of such things, but he was so tender. So,” I drew in an expressive breath, and saw the rage catch deeper in her, “
manful
, I –”

To my absolute pleasure and triumph, she slapped me hard across the face. I barely felt the pain, I had such a rush in my veins. I heard Margery gasp beside me. I had won. Perhaps I would even go to Lancelot, and cry, and say that she had been unkind, and then he would hate her for it.

With a sudden lurch of guilt, I wondered if it might not be about the child as much as it was about Lancelot. The child I had offered up in exchange for Mordred’s life. Once the thought struck me the guilt did not leave easy. I had been happy to enjoy her suffering when I had thought it was a lover’s jealousy, but for a lost child – I was not so sure. It had been a year – two? – since then, and there was no sign that she might have another. It struck me that only a woman who knew she would never bear a child would demand her lover’s compliance as boldly as I had heard Guinevere do. She had nothing to fear. It was too late for hesitancy now, though. Too late for doubt.

As I walked back to the room that had been set aside for me, I overheard two voices I knew almost as well as my own, arguing. It was Kay and Lancelot, and I thought to burst in, and throw out my tears so that they would know what a cruel and jealous woman the Queen was, but when I came closer and pressed my ear to the door, I held back.

“Well, you can’t go,” Kay was saying, angrily.

“Kay,
I don’t know what to do
.
If I don’t, she’s lost to me forever. I know, I know I should not, but Kay, I don’t know what else I can do.”

There was a short silence, and even through the door it felt tense.

“Why are you telling me this?” Kay snapped. “What do you expect? Is this just so that if Arthur ever finds out you can tell him you had my blessing? Because you don’t, Lancelot. Not at all. Do you truly need me to tell you how foolish this is?”

I heard Lancelot sigh, so deep that the sound came to me through the thick wood of the door.

“I
know
, Kay. But I cannot stop it. I cannot.”

There was a long silence, and I wondered if they were talking too quietly for me to hear. I leaned closer to the door. For a moment, there was more silence, and then I heard Kay speak, soft and low with anger.

“You know, Lancelot, if you were going to go and do something like
this
anyway, if you truly do not care about what people think is right and wrong, I don’t know why you gave up so easily on me.”

“Kay, I did not –” Lancelot began, but Kay interrupted him, forcefully.

“No, Lancelot. You ignored my letters, you refused to see me –”

“
Kay.
” I had not heard Lancelot shout before, and the sound of it shocked me. “I was sixteen years old. I was
afraid
. Your father sent me from his house in disgrace. What was I supposed to do? Besides,” his voice sank, became the slightly sulky tone I had not heard fully since he was a boy of that age, “it was you first, who... knew another.”

I heard Kay give a groan of frustration. “
Morgan?
Are you
still
angry about Morgan? You know, she wasn’t anyone else’s wife. She was kind, and she was
there
. You were gone. What, was I supposed to spend the rest of my life alone because you didn’t want me anymore?”

“Not just Morgan,” Lancelot answered, grimly, after a pause.

“No,” Kay replied, “not just Morgan.”

“Her sister, too.”

Kay sighed, this time. “I suppose Morgan told you that.”

“Well, is it true?” Lancelot demanded.

“Yes,” Kay said, “it’s true. We can’t all live like you, waiting for the great power of true and perfect love before we have anyone. I am a man of flesh and blood, Lancelot. I will not live my life lonely, because I cannot have any of those whom I have loved. And I will not be made to feel ashamed of it by you.
You
should be ashamed. For God’s sake, give up your thoughts of Guinevere. Marry this girl who has your child. Live an easy life, a happy life.”

“Like you, Kay?”

There was the sound of some kind of scuffle, as though one of them had lunged at the other, and a fight was about to begin, but it stopped as quickly as it had begun.

I heard Kay reply, “Never, Lancelot,
never
come to me with this again. I do not want to hear it.”

I slipped away, my heart cold within me. Lancelot was planning to go to Guinevere again, even though he had me, and I had his child. He was still involved with Kay. They might not share a bed anymore, but I had never known two people to argue like that who had totally forgotten one another. I thought, too, of the last time Kay and I had argued, and the scuffle I had heard. Had it been about to go the same way? Who had grasped hold of whom? It seemed it was over for Lancelot, if all he thought of was the Queen, and yet he was still angry that Kay had loved me, once he was gone.
Sixteen years old
, Lancelot had said. Had it been so long ago? Seven years? Despite how much had changed, how much I myself had changed, I could hardly believe that so much time had slipped past me. Too late to think back, too late to turn back. I had already become who I was.