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

by Lavinia Collins

  When Gaheris greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, I took his face in my hands and gave him a fond smile. At sixteen years old, he looked fully a man at last. He would never be as big as his brothers, but he was tall and strong with his father’s wily look about him and his mother’s kind eyes.

  “You are a man now, aren’t you?” I said.

  Gaheris laughed. “I like to think so. Our mother does not.”

  I could imagine that. I remembered how Morgawse had spoken to Gawain, though he had towered over her.

  The tent of Lot’s sons was right by Arthur’s, and as we spoke, Arthur rode past with Guinevere. I almost did not recognise her, her red hair hidden under a mail cap, but her light leather and plate armour vest left her white arms bare, betraying that it was a woman that rode beneath the armour, and I did not think it could be any other woman than her. She held the reigns of her horse with a casual, practised power as though she had ridden to war all her life, and she sat easy in the saddle. Nonetheless, her bulky armour made her look small in comparison, like a boy riding to war amongst men. Arthur rode with his helm under one arm, and I could see the sweat and the dirt from the battlefield on his face. His eyes were wild still from the fighting, and glanced over us seeing nothing. Neither of them seemed to see us. He jumped from his horse, and lifted Guinevere from hers as though she were as light as a child, and they disappeared into his pavilion, leaving the horses standing around in front. Gaheris whistled through his teeth, but said nothing. There was obviously no child.

  “It is strange to have a woman ride to war,” Aggravain observed. “I cannot imagine our mother riding to war.”

  Gaheris did not seem to be listening. I walked forward to take the bridles of the horses. I did not think they should be left to wander around the camp.

  When I held the bridles in my hand, I looked up, and I froze. From where I was standing, I could see through the cloth door of the pavilion as it stirred in the light breeze, a thin strip of what was inside. Down in a pile of silk cushions I could see Arthur’s bare back, and the pale white legs of the Queen either side of it. I saw her clasp her hands suddenly at his shoulders and I thought I heard Arthur give a low groan. I quickly looked away, to see Gaheris and Aggravain laughing at me, and the blush I felt heat my cheeks. So they had deliberately left me to take hold of the horses. They had seen this before.

  As I stood there, staring at my laughing nephews, Lancelot rode up and lightly jumped from his horse. He, too, had thrown off his helm and was still dirtied from the battle.

  “Sir Lancelot.” Aggravain stepped forward to greet him with an admiring nod. So, Lothian remembered well the tales of Lancelot and his deeds in Arthur’s war. I had not seen Aggravain ever look impressed before.

  Lancelot looked distracted, and gazed between the three of us for a moment before forming his words.

  “I’m looking for a woman,” he said, breathlessly. Aggravain laughed, soft and low.

  “There are plenty of women,” he said.

  Lancelot shook his head. “The woman who was with Arthur’s archers. Is she with the Bretons? Does anyone know who she is?”

  I saw the look that passed between Aggravain and Gaheris. For a moment, both looked the picture of their father.

  “She is not with the Bretons,” Aggravain told him, unable to keep a smile from his face.

  “Why are you looking for her?” Gaheris asked. Lancelot ignored him.

  “She is not Breton? I did not know any other realm had fighting women any longer.”

  “Oh, she is Breton,” Aggravain replied. He was enjoying teasing Lancelot. Lancelot did not respond well to being teased; he was slow on the uptake at games like this, I remembered that from when we had been children. “But she is not with the Bretons. Not anymore.”

  “Anymore?” Lancelot asked, lost.

  Gaheris, kinder than his brother, put Lancelot out of his confusion. “She is with us. She is Arthur’s wife.”

  Lancelot seemed to take it like a blow, stepping back against it, but he nodded slowly. I thought it strange that he would care so much. What would he care who Arthur’s wife was?

  “Ah, I missed his wedding,” Lancelot sighed.

  “Well that was because you spent two years in Benwick hiding from Kay the Seneschal,” Gaheris teased, with his sly smile, but Lancelot understood that and did not share his joke. He stepped towards him, and Gaheris started back.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lancelot said, firm and low and threatening.

  Gaheris, to my surprise, gave an apologetic nod, and threw his brother beside him a dirty look.

  “My apologies, sir. I must have been listening to the gossip of someone who is full of shit.”

  Lancelot stepped back. So, Aggravain had been gossiping about Lancelot and Kay. I thought that had died down long ago, but clearly it had not. So Morgawse had passed one of her qualities besides her red hair onto Aggravain.

  Lancelot looked up, away from the brothers, and seemed to notice for the first time that he had come as far as Arthur’s pavilion.

  Half to himself, he said, “Since I have come so far, I ought to greet Arthur and his new wife.”

  He stepped forward, and Aggravain rushed around to stand in his way, holding out a wary hand to keep Lancelot back.

  “I would not, sir, go in Arthur’s tent.”

  Both of the brothers had become more formal with Lancelot, after seeing the flash of his anger. I did not blame them. Everyone knew of Lancelot’s strength in battle, though he was shy and naïve in other ways.

  “Why not?” Lancelot asked. He was so infuriatingly naïve sometimes.

  Aggravain gave an awkward cough, and Lancelot still did not seem to follow. Gaheris stepped forward to help.

  “Sir, Arthur has not changed in his... habits since the wars in Britain.” Then, as though he had given up entirely on subtlety and decided that crudeness was his only option, he continued. I supposed that he too had more of Morgawse in him that I thought. “Arthur is straight off his horse and on to a woman. The only difference now from the war with the five kings, is that now it is always the same woman.”

  “I shall return... later, then,” Lancelot said, looking down at the ground. Before any of us could speak, he had jumped back onto his horse and ridden away. It all seemed very strange. Why Lancelot should be so embarrassed, why he should be so desperate to find out Arthur’s wife’s identity? It made me uneasy.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The war continued, and Arthur continued to win ground, but Lancelot did not go back, after all, to greet Arthur and his new wife. He was quiet, as he always was, but there was something new and unsettling about his quiet.

  I worried for him on the battlefield, and I was proved right in my concerns when only a few days later, he rode into the centre of the camp where I was waiting with the other women, slumped on his horse. One of the women at the front of the group stepped forward, but when she saw me rush to him, and noticed the woad of my face, she moved away deferentially. At least, I though, some people still respect the magic of Avalon.

  I jumped on the horse behind him and took the reins, letting him lean back against me, and riding back to his tent. Suddenly, my awkwardness around him had left me. There was no time for it now. I supposed I should have known before that this might be the way, that even the greatest warriors are made of flesh and bone.

  He was badly injured, and delirious from it, and I had to wrap his arm around my shoulders to lead him into his pavilion. I tried to let him down gently on to his bed, but he fell heavily as soon as I let go of him, and gave a low groan of pain through his gritted teeth. I had not been inside his pavilion before, and I was shocked by how rich everything inside it was. Ban must have left many riches for his sons that Ector had never seen. The bed was a low makeshift structure of light planks, but it was laid with silk sheets in dark red and purple, sewn with gold thread, and everywhere around was gold and rich silk. Even the drinking cups were gold, or gold-plat
ed. Everything was old, too. Treasures from another time.

  I climbed on the bed with him and pulled off his helm. He groaned again, but I was pleased to see that he was not injured in the head. His hair was plastered to his head with the sweat of battle, but his skin was clammy and cold where I put the back of my hand against his brow. I pulled off his leather gauntlets, and then unbuckled his breastplate and pulled it away. It was hard, for I had to lift his weight to get it over his head and he was heavy with dense muscle, and he groaned with pain as I pulled him up to sitting to lift it off, but when I did I saw the wound. It was at his side, just below the ribs. I put my head against his chest. At least his breaths seemed to be coming in and out clean, so he seemed not to have been struck in the lungs. I pulled off the greaves from his legs, and his boots. I called out of the tent door for hot water, and, moving to sit over him, I pulled his shirt over his head. I could tell he was getting weaker, because he only murmured with pain.

  I tried not to look at his bare chest, to be distracted by his naked skin close by me, and to focus on the wound at his side, but it was difficult. I had been long without a man, and Lancelot of all men made me weak enough to burn with anger at myself. He was only half-conscious, his eyelids fluttering open and shut, his lips gently parted with his breath, the dark glossy waves of his hair falling half across his face. Unconsciously, I reached forward and gently brushed the hair back from his face, and heard him give an appreciative murmur at my touch. I let my fingers brush against his lips, feel their softness, feel them tingle against my fingertips, and at the secret centre of me, but then the hot water came in.

  I ordered it to be set beside me, and sent one of the girls who had brought it to bring my bag of medicines. I glanced back over him, his lightly muscled body, the fine line of hairs across his chest, and then sank down over the wound, focussing there. The girl came back fast, and I cleaned the wound and bound it up with linen. It was deep, but it seemed clean, and I thought he would heal well enough. When the girl was gone, I mixed him a drink that would restore his blood and knit his muscle and skin back together when he slept. It was powerful magic, but I was sure that I was up to it. There were other potions that would be slower, and safer, but I thought that he and I were strong enough for this one.

  I climbed back onto the bed with him, and gently held him up to hold the cup to his lips. He drank obediently; I was not surprised. The drink was sweet and pleasant with the strength of life. Quickly after he had drunk, he seemed to fall from semi-consciousness into sleep. Last of all, I pressed my hand flat against the wound, and let all that I had in my natural healing touch rush out into him. I felt the warmth of his life, comfortingly close by me, and knew I was helping, just a little, to bring him back. It made me tired and shaky, and when it was done I settled beside him, still in my day clothes, and closed my eyes, and sleep came quickly for me, too.

  I woke in the morning when I felt him stir beside me. I had slept a sweet and dreamless sleep, but in the cool morning air of the pavilion, and having slept in my clothes, I felt grubby and unpleasant. I turned to look at him beside me. He was still waking, still stirring. Caught with a sudden desire, a sudden impulse, and a relief that he had survived my potion and it seemed to have healed him, I sat up, and gently leaned over him, and tentatively pressed my lips softly against his. To my surprise and delight he responded with a happy murmur, his mouth opening under mine, and his hands running up my legs, up my thighs, drawing me on to him, coming to hold me gently around the waist. My mind began to fill with the memories of the dream I had had, the feel of his hands in my hair, and his lips against my neck, and the wonderful moment when we finally came together. The memory, too, of the look he had given me, the look of love. I realised, then, that despite how happy I had been with Accolon, how great our love together had been, it had lacked that raw, intense tenderness. It had been dominated by my ambition, by his devotion. But I would have that with Lancelot. It would happen. It could be now; I had dreamed of us in a pavilion, in the springtime. It was blissful, for a moment. But, then, he seemed to wake properly, and push me back. He looked up at me, his eyes suddenly wide open, and his look was angry, and tinged with fear.

  “Morgan, what are you doing?” he half-shouted.

  I felt the hurt hit me at the centre I thought I had strengthened beyond any such thing. That was the worst; to feel that after everything, I was still vulnerable before Lancelot. He took me by the shoulders and lightly lifted me off him, setting me beside him on the bed, jumping up and looking around for his shirt to pull over his head. I noticed that he had not bled through his bandage overnight, so my magic must have saved him.

  “Lancelot, I have saved your life,” I protested. He lifted his shirt to look down at his wound, but it did not seem to ease the expression on his face, or the resolution in his mind. “Lancelot, why are you being like this? You were pleased with me a moment ago. Besides, need I remind you that it was you who kissed me first, when you brought me back from Lothian.” I almost added, and we have, besides, spent the night together before, but then I remembered that that had been a dream. It had felt so real. It still felt real.

  Lancelot rubbed his face with his hands. “Morgan, please, that was a mistake. It was just one kiss. I do not want you,” he said, gently. It still struck me at the heart. “Please, Morgan. Just stop this.”

  “Is this because of Kay?” I demanded.

  Lancelot sighed in frustration. “This is not because of Kay,” he insisted.

  “Well, then, who did you think I was before you so rudely shoved me off you?” I stood from the bed and walked around to face him. He would not look right at me. If there was someone else, I would rather know that than it be simply that there was something wrong with me. But who else could there be if not Kay? He barely knew anyone else and he was too shy to make friends, and I had saved his life. Why would he not care even a little for me because of that?

  “Morgan, I was just confused. Morgan…” He stepped forward and took me gently by the shoulders, looking at me. I did not want him to touch me, if he would not accept me properly, but I did not push him away. “I am fond of you, but I cannot – I will not – make all the pretences, do all the deeds, of love with anyone I do not love. It would not be fair on either of us.”

  I knew he was being reasonable, but it made me angry nonetheless. He might find he loved me afterwards, and besides, I had never asked for love from him. I had never asked him to tell me he loved me. I had never said I loved him. I only wanted to feel our bodies coming together, as I had dreamed of it. Then a thought struck me; it was the thought of Merlin with his hands over my eyes, and the secrets I had learned from the book I had stolen from him.

  “Kay has fucked Morgawse,” I told him. He flinched.

  “That isn’t true,” Lancelot protested. He sounded suddenly as he had those years ago when he had turned up at my bedroom door, to lecture me about love. Well, he still had that annoyingly naïve idealism, and if anything I was helping him.

  “It is true. Kay doesn’t believe in only for love anymore. That’s a child’s silliness, Lancelot. If you had ever been married you would not talk about only for love,” I said, stepping towards him, pushing my point. I was ready to make him understand.

  “I don’t believe you,” he insisted.

  I jumped towards him, wrapping my hand over his eyes, and to my surprise I felt myself lurch into my memory with him. So, Merlin had been there with me, too, when I had seen him with Kay.

  Lancelot and I stood where I had stood at the top of the stairs, watching Kay, Morgawse slumped against his shoulder, fumbling at the latch on the door. It was faded, fuzzy, as though in a dream, but it was clear enough what was happening when Kay went to leave and Morgawse grabbed him by the front of his surcoat to pull him into a kiss. I glanced at Lancelot, whose face was set and eyes fixed on the pair of them as Kay went to pull back, and then weakened under her kiss, and followed her inside to slam the door.

  I thought we would onl
y see what I had seen, but suddenly, with a rushing movement I felt lurch in the pit of my stomach, we were inside the room. I felt suddenly afraid, afraid that I would not bear to see what I was making Lancelot watch. I didn’t know how to make it stop. Morgawse pulled Kay down on top of her on the bed.

  “This is a really big bed,” I heard Kay mumble, in surprise, and Morgawse laughed. They were both drunk, and clumsy with it, and I was surprised to see that Morgawse was the one who seemed to be better in control of herself. She pulled open his surcoat, and I saw one of the buttons pop off, and heard it skitter across the floor. Neither of them seemed to notice as she pushed it off his shoulders and he threw it away into the corner of the room. I glanced back at Lancelot beside me. He looked pale, and nervous.

  When I looked back to Kay and Morgawse, she was tearing off his shirt, and he kissed her, rough and passionate. I could see him grasp two fistfuls of her thick silk skirts and push them up. I heard him sigh with longing, and it was so raw, so painfully familiar. Morgawse turned her face to the side as Kay kissed her neck, and I saw her slide her hand down into his breeches. Kay gasped her name, in pleasure and surprise.

  Lancelot turned to me and grabbed me by the shoulders.

  “Morgan, make it stop,” he cried.

  In awful, desperate panic, I realised that I did not remember how. I knew that Merlin had taken his hand away from my eyes, but, like in a dream, what I did with my body here did not seem to match what I was doing in real life.

  “I don’t know how,” I confessed.

  Lancelot ran his hands through his hair, pressing the heels of his hands into his forehead in despair. He turned back, as though he could not help himself, to Kay and Morgawse. Kay had pulled off Morgawse’s dress, and she lay in her shift, stretching her arms over her head while Kay, burying his face in her hair, his lips against her neck, ran a hand up the inside of her thigh. I looked away when I saw her gasp and her forehead crease in that almost-painful delight. Suddenly, now I too was desperate for it to stop, I felt aware enough of my real body to pull my hand away, and Lancelot and I stumbled apart, both shaken.