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

by Lavinia Collins

  I was too angry for words. I left.

  Chapter Ten

  Nimue came to court the next day, but she went straight to Arthur, not to me. I felt the little burn of resentment. She had not seen me at all since I was married, and though she had promised me Merlin’s secrets in return for the book, she had given me nothing.

  A hunt was called, and I went down to watch them set off. Nimue had brought it as a gift – the hunt for the White Hart. I had read about it, the white beast of the quest, and the spell that called it. It was a simple thing, an innocent thing, but I was sure in Nimue’s hands it would not be the only purpose of her wedding-gift to Arthur. Uriens was going on the hunt, and I was glad that he would be gone. I stood beside Morgawse and watched the knights come down from the towers in their light hunting armour, and climb on their horses. The horses were as eager as the men, whickering and stamping their hooves.

  A sudden murmur went through the crowd, and I could see people pushing forward to look at something. Beneath the murmur of interest was a low mutter of disapproval, and when I pushed up onto my tiptoes to look, I could see why. Arthur’s new Queen had come to join him. But she was dressed in what must have been the clothes of her own people. She was wearing light hunting leathers, but the kind I had seen only on young boys before. She wore boots and breeches like a man that showed the lightly muscular shape of her legs, and a leather hunting vest. It was a beautiful thing, lightly made and engraved through the leather in swirling patterns, and held together with shining bosses of brass; but it left her arms bare, and a flash of pale flesh showed at her back, beneath the vest, and above it the soft white skin of the back of her bare shoulders. I could hear the women close to me whispering. Her hair was tied back still, but more simply than before, in a rough bunch tied with a leather thread, and I could see bright, wild coils escaping from the knot already, shining bright red in the spring sunshine.

  Beside me, Morgawse clicked her tongue. “She is so obviously not from around here.”

  Arthur did not seem to mind the mutterings of his people. When he saw her, he strode over to her and pulled her approvingly against him. He was saying something to her – I could not see what, but it did not appear to be cover yourself. His hands were against her bare skin where it peeped between the breeches at the vest just above her hips. Even from across the courtyard I could see the hunger in his grip. I saw him hesitate, as though his desire to go hunting had been replaced with something else entirely. He leaned down to kiss her, and she turned up her face to meet his. It was the kiss of a moment, before he moved away to climb on his horse, but the rawness of Arthur’s desire that I saw in it, that he showed in front of everyone, made me feel uneasy.

  When the men and the Queen had ridden away, I saw Nimue standing at the open gates, staring out through them. I walked up beside her and stood next to her, staring off after them as well.

  “So, what is this magic hunt?” I asked her. I glanced at her, and saw a little smile curl across her face.

  “I have filled the forest with those dreams of the future we have in Avalon.”

  I felt a chill down my spine. I had never read of such things in Avalon, which meant that Nimue had got hold of some of Merlin’s knowledge and not shared it with me.

  “Black Arts?” I asked her, softly. She shook her head.

  “Not really. But it is knowledge I stole from Merlin. But Morgan…” She turned to me then, her pale blue eyes suddenly fierce. She was so much smaller than me, so frail-looking I found it hard to fear her. She still looked like a child, but I knew she was serious, and I could feel the strength of her Otherworld power all around me. She was stronger than me. “I hear that you have been stealing something from me. My shape.”

  “I did it to frighten Merlin. To show him that I am capable of the same kind of magic as he is.” It was half true. I did it to punish Merlin for taking Lancelot’s shape.

  “Morgan, I don’t want you to take my shape again,” she said, sharply. “I will share with you what I know, but only if you promise you shall not.”

  I gave her the promise, though I did not see why.

  I wondered what she meant by this magic hunt. We spoke a little; less than I had hoped, only half-honest with one another. She mainly spoke of Arthur. There was something in the way she said his name that made me think she might have an interest in him beyond protecting his kingship. I wondered how she felt about the new Queen, if she too would have preferred that Arthur had married the halfwit Isolde. Once, we might have told each other the truth. I remembered when we had sat side by side on the rock, staring out across the lake of Avalon. A long time ago.

  I was disappointed when the knights began to return. Arthur was first, just an hour or so after they had set out, and he looked pale and shaken. He was alone. He nodded brusquely to Nimue as he rode through the gates, and jumped from his horse. He barely saw me. I glanced at Nimue. She had a look on her face as though she knew what he had seen. I felt pretty sure that in the woods Arthur had seen the image of his son. Well, it was no more than he deserved for abandoning the boy, for denying him. He came to stand beside us, and stare back, looking for the others. I saw him cast a wary, suspicious eye on Nimue, and then gaze back out at the woods.

  “Arthur,” I asked softly, “where are the others?”

  He did not answer. His face was dark with concern, and I wondered then how he had managed to lose the Queen so quickly in the forest.

  Others came back slowly. Uriens came next, with the mousey-haired serious youth whose name was Percival, and after that Ector, who was the only one who did not bear a dark look back from the forest. I supposed that Ector was older than the rest, and had suffered much already. The visions of the wood would not have frightened him as they had the others. We all stood tensely, waiting and watching for when the rest would return. I had a very uneasy feeling about it all, as though Nimue was involved in something dark that I could not understand. The Queen, Kay, Gawain and Pellinore – who was a northern vassal-king who I had heard had been the one to kill Lot in battle – were still in the woods. I glanced at Nimue. She was still watching with rapt attention. I wondered what else she saw when she looked. It was as though she could see right into the woods.

  At last, as the sun was beginning to sink down in the sky, out of the woods came Gawain, and Kay and the Queen riding on the same horse. Kay sat behind her, and I could not tear my eyes away from his hand, pressed against the stomach of her vest. I was surprised that Arthur did not notice, but he and Nimue ran forward to meet them, and I saw the Queen slip from the horse into Arthur’s arms. They were talking to each other, but I could not hear, and I turned away. The whole thing had given me a deeply unsettled feeling.

  I walked up to Morgawse’s room, but I stopped before going in, because I could hear, through the open door, her sons inside. Gawain, more favoured by Arthur than the others for his part in the war, had been the only one on the hunt, and he was telling his brothers about it. I could hear, as I crept closer, that he was talking about the Queen.

  “Well, I just found her wandering around on her horse all on her own. I don’t know why Arthur had left her. But,” Gawain made a low noise of frustration, half like a growl, “what she was wearing – is that what Bretons wear? I don’t remember seeing any young girls dressed like that in the war. It’s like she doesn’t know what men see when they look at her. And she was just there, on her own. Well, I got hold of her horse, and she was right there in front of me and – if she had been any man’s wife other than Arthur’s I would have just pulled her from the horse and –”

  “Gawain.” I heard Aggravain’s voice cut sharply through his brother’s, and Gawain fell silent. “Think such things if you must, but you should not say them. Not even to us. Not about any man’s wife, and especially not about Arthur’s. For my part, I think it’s ridiculous. She’s just an ordinary woman.”

  “She was supposed to be my wife, do you remember that?”

  “Yes, Gawain.” Aggravain
answered his brother more sharply still. “And then you lost the war, and you surrendered to Arthur, so everything that was once yours and mine is now his. I, for one, am pleased enough with things as they are. Arthur is a good King, and a brave warrior. I was growing tired of Lothian. Besides, you would not have had her as your wife for sure. I heard the mother hated you.”

  “She was a bitch,” Gawain said, but he sounded sulky and defeated.

  I could hear Gaheris talking, but I could not make out his words. His voice was lighter than his brothers’, his tone more careful. He was the handsome one of the brothers, and I supposed that Lot must have been handsome in his youth, before his cruelty came out in his looks. I did not find my affection came as easily for Gaheris as it did for my other nephews, and it was because of his resemblance to his father.

  I decided that I had to see the new Queen for myself. Properly, and up close. She seemed to have three women who were with her every day, two Breton, one English. There was no way that I could turn myself to the shape of the Breton women, for then I would be stuck if anyone spoke to me, or if I was expected to speak, in the Queen’s own language. After a couple of days, I got used to their patterns of movement, their comings and goings, and I thought I could take the English girl’s place to have a better look at the Queen. I avoided Uriens, spending the nights with Morgawse, dreading the time – which would be soon – when I would be sent back to Gore with him. I could not hide from him so easily there. I avoided Kay as well. He did not come back for Morgawse again, nor did she seem to expect it. She never mentioned him again.

  I stopped the English girl at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the Queen’s rooms. She seemed afraid of me, flustered by the sight of my woaded face and strange clothes. She was a simpleton. I sent her to the village market to buy some things. She would be gone all day. I waited until I was sure that Uriens was out of my room, and I snuck away from there one of my plain woollen dresses. I found an empty room, and changed into it, and then closed my eyes and imagined myself as the dull-witted English maid: the mousey hair, the soft, pretty features. When I opened my eyes and peered into the window pane to look for my reflection, I seemed to have done it successfully.

  The girl had been fetching water when I had sent her on my errand, and had been too flustered to finish the job. I picked up the heavy bucket, walking slowly with it and sloshing it all over my feet and legs, looking through all the open doors until I came to the very top of the stairs. My mother's old room. The Queen’s chamber. I tried the door, and it opened. I felt a flutter of excitement. I would finally see this woman up close for myself, see what she was really like. I might hear, too, what she truly thought of Arthur.

  When I stepped through the door, I could hear the two other women chattering in Breton with the Queen. The room was filled with the bright light of the spring morning, and the sound of laugher not just from the Breton maids, but the Queen herself. Her laugh was low and soft; reserved, shy almost, though I did not think from her striding through the courtyard in her hunting clothes that she could be shy. The curtains on her bed were pulled right back, and she was sat up in bed, holding the sheet against her front; but her back was bare, and I could see her pale skin, white as milk against the dark red of the hair that spilled free and wild down her back. I could see now why it had captured Gawain’s attention. I should have liked to grab a handful of it, too, though I was sure not for the same purpose as Gawain.

  Her eyes still a little foggy with sleep, though it was past prime, she was talking with her women in Breton. I could not understand what she was saying, but I recognised among her words Arthur’s name. The elder Breton woman appeared to be asking her something, and in response, she stuck out her bottom lip and puffed out a breath that made the coils of hair resting on her forehead rise and fall in a little dance. She was annoyed.

  “What is wrong?” I asked, suddenly. I expected the older Breton woman to scold me, but she did not.

  “Oh, Margery, I did not see you there. Is that water for the bath? Come and put it in the tub.” I stepped forward with it. I dipped my hand into it tentatively. It was not as hot as it had been when I had taken it off the other girl, but I thought on the warm spring day it was hot enough. There was already some water in the tub that was steaming, so I thought it would do. I poured it in, and as I did, to my surprise the younger Breton woman, who was little as a bird with bright, pretty eyes and a sweet, girlish face, answered my question with a wicked little giggle.

  “Guinevere is complaining that she has not had enough sleep.” I realised that until now I had not known the Queen’s name. It was a strange, foreign-sounding name, but I thought it pretty.

  The elder woman clicked her tongue at the girl, but her look was indulgent. These women all seemed very close; I would not have spoken to any serving women I had known like that, nor let them giggle about me in front of them, but Guinevere was smiling slightly to herself. She yawned and stretched her arms up over her head, and I was shocked to see that she let go of the sheet, and let it fall down around her waist. It was as though she was unaware of her own nakedness. Her hair fell over her breasts, which were small but full, and a soft, pale pink at the nipple, which I saw when she scooped her hair back with one hand as she stepped from the bed to get in the bath.

  She slipped into the bath water, splashing a little as she got in, letting her hair trail out the back of the bath and sinking back into it with a murmur of pleasure, closing her eyes.

  The young maid said something to her in Breton, and a slight smile played about Guinevere’s lips in response, though she did not open her eyes. The elder women clicked her tongue.

  “English, Marie,” the older woman scolded. “It is not fair for Margery.”

  I sat beside the young woman, Marie, next to the bath. No one seemed to mind. The older woman sat at its foot in a chair, sewing carefully at something. She was attractive still, about of an age with Morgawse, I thought, or a little older. Dark, dark, black hair and pale skin, with sharp blue eyes.

  The young girl, Marie, looked a little flustered at being scolded.

  “Sorry Margery. I was just saying that I am amazed that Guinevere can spend so long in bed, and get so little sleep.”

  She looked embarrassed to say it to me, as though Margery were a prude, or that she was only used to teasing the Queen in Breton. Without opening her eyes, Guinevere lifted a hand in the bath to splash Marie with some of the water. Marie squealed.

  The older woman made a shushing noise.

  “Margery doesn’t want to hear your crude jokes, Marie.”

  Suddenly, without warning, Guinevere slipped down in the bath, sloshing water out of the sides, to dunk her hair through the water. When she came back up from the water, she pushed the hair back off her face, and flashed her slight, reserved little smile at me and Marie, pulling her knees up close and wrapping her arms around them. The water dripped from her thick hair onto the wooden floorboards with a soft tapping noise.

  There was still something childlike about her, though she had obviously grown to womanhood. Marie had begun to comb through her wet hair, and Guinevere wrinkled her small, pointed nose with discomfort every time Marie tugged at a knot.

  “Marie, you will tear out all my hair,” she said, half-laughing. I realised that this was the first thing that she had said. Her voice was soft and low, reserved without being shy, like her manner, and rich with her Breton accent.

  “I am not the one who tangles it up,” Marie quipped with a smile. Guinevere splashed her again.

  “Marie,” the older woman scolded, glancing warily at me. Were they afraid that I would tell someone how they talked? Or was Margery truly as shy and prudish as they acted as though she was? I had heard my sister talk far more candidly. But they were talking about it as though it were something happy, and Guinevere still wore her half-smile of secret amusement.

  It suddenly felt painfully unfair that I was so unhappily married, and yet Arthur had summoned a woman whose family
he had slaughtered to be his wife, and they had found some kind of tentative new-married happiness. I could not believe that she would have wanted Arthur as much as he wanted her, and yet there was no hint in anything anyone said that he had been forceful with her. Had I misunderstood so much? Had my own experience of marriage made me believe that everyone was unhappy?

  “Where did you say Arthur has gone?” Guinevere asked, standing suddenly in the bath now that Marie had untangled her hair and wound it, still wet, into a tight plait and then a bun at the nape of her neck. She stepped naked from it, the water running off her on to the floor. The two other women barely seemed to notice. Guinevere picked up a sheet from the table beside the older woman, and wrapped it around herself to dry.

  “To speak with the woman from Avalon.”

  Guinevere made a small noise of assent, as though she barely cared, or as though she was thinking something that she would not say. I hardly thought that Arthur would desire Nimue in return. She looked like a child still, and the woman who was newly his wife had the strong, full body of a woman. Suddenly, looking at her made me feel my own inadequacy, my thinness, my plainness. But perhaps it was better. No man would ever talk about me in the awful way I had heard Gawain and my own husband talk about Guinevere.

  When she waved me and Marie away to fetch her clothes, I heard her speaking to the older woman in Breton, faster and bolder than her English. I thought about what Arthur had said, that she had threatened to kill him. I could not make any sense of it.

  I made an excuse to slip away, and when I was alone, I returned to my own form. That night, sleeping beside Morgawse, I dreamed a strange dream about Guinevere, the Queen. I dreamed of a man like and yet unlike Arthur, holding her down on the floor in her bedclothes while she struggled and kicked, and then the same man, who might or might not have been Arthur, in the same place, still on top of her, but she kissing him, wrapping her arms around him, and pressing her body against his in hungry desire. The dream was sharp and clear, like the dreams from Avalon, but it did not make any sense. If it had truly happened, it would have already taken place. I did not think the dreams could show me the past. But it left me nervous and unsettled, and the dream stayed with me long after I had woken.