We came over a low hill, through a small copse of trees on the top of it, and emerged to suddenly find a band of knights, fully armoured, and bearing Lot’s insignia, the two-headed gryphon, on their shields. Lancelot did not have his shield. They were on foot, their horses put to grazing, but I still felt the threat when they saw us. I counted quickly five of them. The one at the front of them drew his sword, and stepped forward. Lancelot’s hand rested on the hilt of his own, but he did not move.
“Well,” the knight coming towards us said with a grin, “look who it is. The famous Lancelot. You are younger than I thought you would be, from the tales that have reached Lothian of your deeds of arms for your boy-king. I must say, also, that you are smaller than I thought you would be, too, for such a fearsome fighter.”
Lancelot famous? Well, then he was more the fool putting us both in danger by not going disguised.
“Knights, stand aside. As you can see I am escorting a lady,” Lancelot declared. It made me wince inside, not only his painful formality, but his crashing naivety that these men would even care for such things. He had clearly never lived in the North.
“I can see you are escorting a witch,” the knight said, with a laugh. Behind him, the other knights picked up their swords and gathered.
“All the more reason to let us pass, sirs,” I told him, coldly. It is as well to frighten people, I thought.
“Well,” the knight said, laughing again, “I hear a witch dies as well as any other woman without her head.”
Lancelot dropped from the horse, drawing his sword. I pulled the horse back a little. I didn’t want it to be killed, and I didn’t want to lose my bag with my books. He was far more lightly armoured than the knights, but I saw them draw back a little as he stood before them. He appeared slighter, less bulky than them only because he was unarmoured. He stood taller than the knight before him, on his long legs, and I could see already on the man’s face that he feared he had misjudged Arthur’s great champion when he had seen him only astride a horse. Lancelot struck forward fast and for a moment, it seemed that nothing had happened, and the man gave a little cough, and then I saw the line of red across his throat, and suddenly the blood bubbled forth and he was choking on it, grasping at the open cut as though he was trying to hold it together. His fellow knights stood transfixed, as did Lancelot, as the knight fell to his knees and slowly to the ground.
There was a moment of awful pause in which I saw Lancelot tense for the fighting to begin again. It did. The other four threw themselves on him all at once.
“Morgan, run!” I heard him shout to me, but I did not. I was sure they were going to kill him. I jumped from the horse, pulling free my bag, and stepped back into the cover of the trees. The four left alive did not seem concerned with me. Perhaps they were more afraid than their leader had been. I felt the burn of rage once more that Merlin had taken my sword from me. I could have helped. I wished I could change into someone strong, but my heart was racing and my mind was fogged with panic and I was not sure I could right now. I had only done it once before. But then I saw I might not have need. The other knights were slower in their heavy platemail, and though they all struck at Lancelot he seemed to dance out of the way of their blows. One of them had already fallen to their knees, their head leaning forward. I thought I saw a stream of blood down under the helm, running down the platemailed chest. But still it was three of them against a man alone. I heard the horse whinny, and I hoped it was running away to safety.
When the third man went down under Lancelot’s sword, he saw his opportunity to turn and dart into the woods. He would have a great advantage there, being less armoured, and faster. The two surviving knights lumbered after him, and I shrank back among the trees. I heard swords clashing, and shouting, but I couldn’t see anything. I heard a man scream in agony, and I feared it was Lancelot slain, but when the clash of fighting continued I realised it must have been one of the others. So there was only one man left. I ran through the trees, looking for them while trying to hide myself. I could hear them close by, by the trees were thick and close and I could not see.
All of a sudden, I turned to see the ugly leering face of a man, his helm knocked from his head, his face spattered with blood, close by me, towering over me. I screamed. He lifted his sword over his head with an awful grin and I jumped back. But there was no need. With his arms over his head holding his sword he froze, and his eyes bulged. Then I saw the point of a sword peeping out from under the breastplate of his mail. I heard the sound of steel drawing out of flesh, and blood bubbling from his mouth, the man sank to his knees before me, and Lancelot was behind him, his sword bloody to the hilt, his face pale, his chest heaving with the exertion. I was shaking, too, the nearness of my death close about me.
Dropping his sword, he leapt over the body of the dead knight and took my face in his hands.
“Morgan, are you hurt?” he asked softly. I shook my head. We were both breathing hard, both trembling a little, and I put a hand lightly against his chest, a little to steady myself, a little for him; but then our eyes met and suddenly we were kissing, desperate with the relief. I threw my arms around his neck, and he pulled me closer. We stumbled back, until I felt the tree behind me at my back, and he fell against me. My head swam with surprise, and his wild intensity. His lips were light on mine, his mouth hot, but it was passionate and sensual and I felt it overwhelming me. Through the rushing adrenaline from running from the men trying to kill me, I felt the familiar thrill of desire, and the two mixing together as I slid my hands into his hair, thick and velvety against my hands, and I felt his body pressing hard against mine. His tongue fluttered lightly against mine in response, and I felt his hands at the small of my back, between me and the rough bark of the tree, but when I grasped the buckle that held his breastplate at the black, he gently pushed me away.
“Morgan, stop,” he said softly. I felt my cheeks burn red, and the potent mix of desire frustrated and anger and embarrassment filled me. He stood back. His chest was still rising and falling hard, he was still gasping for his breaths. He shook his head slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Morgan, I – it was the fighting, and – we should not.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hold my breath steady, to fight against the feelings of hungry desire that were crowding out my anger. What did he think I wanted from him? I was not asking for marriage.
“I did not mean to make you… confused,” Lancelot said, softly. Right then I felt a stab of hate for his low, French tones. There seemed to be something superior in that voice.
“I am not confused,” I replied, coldly. He rubbed his face. I could feel my lips burning where his had been on them, and the heat of my body woken for nothing. And, dimly beyond that, the awareness that I had betrayed Kay a second time, and once again for nothing.
Lancelot found his horse grazing where he had jumped from outside the little clump of trees, and we climbed back on. We rode on for the rest of the day in silence, but it was a different kind of silence. Embarrassed on his part, resentful on mine.
We had meant to reach Camelot that day, but the fight had slowed us down, and night was falling so we stopped at another inn. We ate our meal in silence, Lancelot avoiding meeting my eye. I was not going to make it easier for him. He was not going to do something like that and then leave me to feel uncomfortable. I had not done anything wrong. I was a free woman. Besides, I was not convinced that Kay would even care if he knew. I could not work out how he felt about things like that.
I went to bed early, keen to get away from Lancelot, but for a long time I could not get to sleep because my mind was playing the kiss again and again in my head, and I felt the hot frustration gather unbearably around me. I knew that I wanted him, but I also knew I was furious with him. Did he think Kay was the only person with emotions? What about mine? But then Lancelot’s problem seemed to be that he had too many emotions and all those he had were either shame or regret. Certainly, he was troubled still by his histo
ry with Kay, and felt an odd kind of responsibility to him. Perhaps I ought to have done as well, but right then, with the frustrated desire pounding in my veins, I didn’t feel it.
When I finally did fall asleep, I dreamed of Lancelot, too. It was a strange dream, strangely clear in its focus, detailed; more like a memory than a dream. I dreamed of him standing in a pavilion, at the entrance, waiting for me, and when I came, he pulled me inside, and kissed me furiously, and we fell on to the silk cushions lining the pavilion floor. The dream was so vivid, I could feel them against my skin; I could feel his lips on my neck, his voice whispering in French at my ear. I could smell the spring night all around us, hear the trees whispering in the wind above the pavilion. It was dark, but there was a low orange glow from a brazier filling the pavilion with a dim, atmospheric light. I could feel the fresh spring chill against my face. I felt the silk of the cushions we lay among against my bare skin at my back, and the delicious feel of his bare skin on mine, his hands on my body. He held me firm but gentle, by the hips, as he kissed me slow, and passionate, and I wrapped my legs around him. I felt his hands run down my thighs, gently parting them, and his mouth open under the passion of my kisses. I could taste sweet wine and spices on his lips, and felt my head reel pleasantly with it. I reached up to touch his chest and felt it as though it was really there, smooth and warm, hard underneath with the muscles of a warrior. Our eyes met, and I felt a shock through me at the look he gave me in the dream. It was a look of utter desire, and of love. I did not think I had been looked at like that before. There was no other word for it. My breath caught in me, and, our eyes still locked, he ran a hand lightly down my body. I noticed that, in the dream, I did not see myself woaded with blue, but it did not seem strange somehow. In the dream, I was not surprised to see myself that way. I reached up and wound a hand into his hair, pulling him down towards me, and as we came together in a hungry kiss, he went inside me, and I felt the heat of pleasure gathering through me. His love was slow and passionate, sensual and intense. He was powerfully responsive to my touch, and moaned in pleasure with me as we moved together. He looked into my eyes as I felt the heat rising, tightening around me, and at last, I felt the bright hot shot of bliss spark through me. I cried out with ecstasy, and woke myself suddenly, sitting up in bed, flushed hot and even more angry than before. As soon as I woke, the dream faded, its sensations and details receding away, but I felt as though Lancelot had got inside my head in a way that made me feel strangely vulnerable. I did not want to want something I could not have, because that would make me weaker, and I needed to be strong. War was coming, and I had left my sister behind in danger, and lost my sword, and given myself to black magic. I could not be longing for a man who did not want me, as well.
By the time I heard Lancelot knock on my door softly at dawn, I was exhausted, frustrated and desperate to get to Camelot and away from him as soon as possible. I had only slept a few hours, and those restlessly. When I dressed and opened the door, the sight of him made me blush with the fresh memories of my dream. It had not really happened, but it felt as though it had. It felt as though we had been together last night. It had been so vivid, it had felt so real. I had tasted his lips, and felt his naked body under my hands and had him inside me. It had felt so real. I wondered, then, if it was a dream from Avalon, but in that case I did not know why I had dreamed of myself as I had used to be, without the woad on my body.
I had been ready to be angry and haughty, but I found that, that morning, it was I who could not meet his eye. The journey back to Camelot was mercifully short from there. I wondered how I would feel, now, when I saw Kay. Nothing and everything had happened between me and Lancelot. Nothing, for him, I was sure, but I felt raw and soft and vulnerable around him now, because I had, in my dreams, known him so intimately. It made me wonder how they had been with one another. It must have been something neither of them wanted to give up, if they had been with one another as they had been with me.
Chapter Eighteen
As we came through the great gate of Camelot, I saw the courtyard was full of men equipping themselves for war. They would ride off soon, then. I spotted Kay easily among the men in the yard. He was dressed in his dark armour, all except the helm, and was helping a squire buckle a saddle properly onto a horse. The horse was quiet and pliant when he felt Kay’s touch, but as soon as the young lad tried to do anything, the horse became restless and walked away from him. I heard Kay’s laugh across the courtyard and felt a twinge of yearning in my stomach for his smile, his touch, the gentle, innocent love we had together. It was nothing like the sudden intensity I had felt with Lancelot, and that had made me afraid that what Kay and I had was the love of children. It was too simple, too innocent. Already it was slipping away from me, becoming the substance of memories, and dreams.
He saw us as we came in, and ran over, impossibly light on his feet in the armour. He held the horse by the bridle as Lancelot jumped down, and clapped him on the back with a smile. I saw that the smile Lancelot gave him in return was slightly tense. Kay noticed, of course. Kay noticed everything.
Lancelot stepped aside so Kay could offer me a hand down. I slid down before him, and felt the reassuring warmth of love flood through me as he smiled at me. It had only been a dream, with Lancelot. It was just a dream. I had not given up or betrayed or forgotten Kay. It was that – the moment dreamed with Lancelot, not the real love with Kay – that was the dream.
“Ah, my Lady the Princess Morgan. I trust the escort I sent to fetch you treated you chivalrously?” Kay asked with a wicked smile.
I could not help but smile in return. “For the most part.”
I flashed Lancelot a narrow look, but Kay just laughed.
“For the most part,” he repeated, laughing and giving Lancelot a playful shove. “Well, you’re here safe.” I wondered if either Lancelot or I would confess our kiss to Kay. He smiled, and for the first time I noticed that his smile seemed unsure, a little unsettled. “Listen.” He glanced at Lancelot, and I saw suddenly that there was something that they knew about that I didn’t, and I felt afraid. “Things have happened quickly here while you were gone. War is coming fast and Arthur – well…” Kay sighed and smiled again. “You don’t have to hear this now. Go and rest. I’ll…” Under Lancelot’s glance, Kay paused. So, Lancelot had had some kind of talk with him as he had had with me. “I’ll see you when I can.”
Kay gave a little bow, and as he turned from me, a wink. Kay had not changed.
I went up to my room, and unpacked my bag, hiding away the book of Macrobius among my dresses again. I pulled off the clothes I had travelled in and dressed myself again, and lay back on my bed. I felt a pang of guilt that Kay had obviously sent Lancelot to get me because he could not go himself and Lancelot was the only other person he trusted to bring me back safely. Lancelot was already well-known as the best of Arthur’s knights; he would not have been spared to fetch me, princess though I was, unless Kay had asked for him specifically. But it had been nothing more than a kiss. I had nothing to confess, nothing for which to feel guilty. Kay would have laughed at me heartily indeed if I had come to him, guilty of a dream.
I heard a soft knock at the door, and I jumped up, hoping it was Kay, but it was not. It was Ector. His kindly eyes looked worried, and the smile he gave me was uneasy.
“Morgan, my dear, Arthur would like to see you in his council chamber.”
I took the hand Ector offered with the gentlest smile I could muster. Ector had been more of a father to me than anyone else. This must have all been as hard on Ector as it was on any of the rest of us.
But he led me through the castle in an uneasy quiet. I supposed that Camelot was still reeling from new-declared war, and Arthur from finding out that Morgawse was his sister, but it made me feel unsettled. I would have liked some gentle words of comfort from Ector.
The first thing I saw when I came into Arthur’s council chamber was Kay, both his hands braced so tight against the back of the chair he
was leaning on that his knuckles showed white, his eyes as they lit on me dark with dread and his usually twinkling face pale and set. I felt the trepidation hit me, and I looked around at the others there. Kay knew what this was about. That was why he had been uneasy when I arrived. All that slightly forced jollity, all those tense looks between him and Lancelot. And I had thought it was because of something so small and petty as childhood jealousies. Arthur stood beside him, dressed in the king’s clothes that he still did not look used to, the rich red and gold surcoat embroidered with Uther’s dragon, and the crown on his head. He smiled when he saw me, but I already knew what it was that had brought the awful look to Kay’s face, because opposite Arthur and Kay and Ector stood a stocky man in battered armour, his sandy hair lightly threaded through with grey at the temples. He looked to me to be about fifty years old. I was still not yet twenty. The man had a rough, unpleasant-looking face, tanned and wrinkled and scarred. He had small pale-blue eyes that squinted angrily out of his wrinkled face and the look about him of a hardened warrior.
I had known this day would come, but I wished that any one of them had prepared me. Kay and Lancelot had known. Ector had known. Lancelot could have told me on the way. Could have prepared me. Kay could have written. No one had warned me. They had plotted this for me while I was away with Morgawse and now they had brought me back to sell me off like cattle. I should have know. I should have known.
“Morgan,” Arthur began cheerfully, and I lingered in the doorway. I looked at Kay, but he was looking down at his feet, a slight flush high on his cheeks. Why won’t you look at me? “This is King Uriens, from the Kingdom of Gore, in the north of Wales, one of the vassal kings to Logrys.”
THE WITCHES OF AVALON: a thrilling Arthurian fantasy (THE MORGAN TRILOGY Book 1) Page 15
