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

by Lavinia Collins

  Gareth nodded, but did not seem comforted. I had stopped listening, though, and bright with hope I rushed up to my bedroom. Lancelot did want me. Well, if he dared not act on it that did not matter, for I did. If he wanted something honourable, something that would not betray the trust that Arthur and Kay had in him, then that could be done. After all, I was a young widow, and he a single man. I was Queen of my lands, and he my equal – or thereabouts – in lands and wealth. I let myself slip back into my own shape, and pulled on my dress of black gems, and rushed down to the courtyard, hoping he was still there. Now was the moment, I was sure of it.

  When I saw him, standing on his own now, watching Gareth play-fighting with Kay, with his words still fresh in my mind, and quickening in my heart, I walked over towards him. He turned when he saw me, and our eyes met. I felt the flutter of nervousness pass through me, but he gave me a gentle smile when he saw me.

  “Are you well, Morgan?” he asked. I nodded, smiling tentatively back at him. He looked as though he was waiting to fight, dressed in the light armour that the men trained in. He looked good, with a light flush from the winter chill on his cheeks, and his hair blown through by the wind. He pulled off one of his gloves to take my hand in his. It was gentle, intimate.

  “You look well,” he told me. It was awful and wonderful to feel his bare skin against mine. I let my eyes blink shut for a long moment, and I could almost feel his lips against me. When I opened my eyes, he was leaning down towards me, and my heart jumped within me, for I thought he was going to kiss me, but it was only on the cheek, sweet and brotherly. But of course it was. We were in public, and I his King’s sister. He wanted a wife, not a lover, and I was more than happy to give him what he wanted to get what I wanted.

  “Come with me,” I said, feeling excited already. He would not say no. He would be pleased, that what he had wished for, that he had thought he could not have would be suddenly his. He would be grateful that it was I of the two of us who had dared to be brave. We would be happy together. I would not be lonely in Rheged. We could have a child of our own. I had seen us together in love. Lancelot would not have wanted to betray Arthur by dishonouring his sister; he did not have to. I did not know why I had not thought of it before.

  I found Arthur in his council chamber. The old table had been replaced by a big, round table that I thought must have been the Round Table that Kay had mentioned; Leodegrance’s witches’ table that had been part of Guinevere’s dowry. I could feel its ancientness and its power. I could not believe that Arthur would be foolish enough to simply sit around it to see to the affairs of his lands. I expected that that, too, made Guinevere angry.

  Arthur looked up in surprise to see us, me eager with excitement, Lancelot trailing behind me, confused but pliant. I thought he would be truly well pleased when he realised that I knew what he wanted.

  “Arthur,” I said, trying to keep the girlish excitement from my voice, “I have had a wonderful idea. Lancelot and I should be married.”

  I saw Arthur struggle to keep a smile from his face. Of course he thought it was funny. Lancelot was handsome, and I was thin and plain. I glanced to Lancelot. He was shocked.

  “Think about it, Arthur,” I continued. “Then your greatest knight would also be your brother.”

  Arthur was only pretending to think about it. I felt foolish already; I felt myself burn with humiliation. Arthur was trying not to laugh. Plain Morgan, thinking Lancelot, the great knight, the handsome hero of the wars would want her. He thought I was ridiculous for thinking a man might want me. But even if Lancelot did not love me as he had said he had, there was no reason for us not to be married. There was nothing wrong with me. I had produced a son. Together, we might have had as many sons as my sister. I felt myself blush. Why were they acting as though it were so ridiculous?

  Arthur turned to Lancelot, and I could hear he was holding back laughter.

  “Lancelot, what do you think about this?”

  I saw Lancelot wince. He was not going to accept me. Why not? There was nothing wrong with me. He had said he loved me to Gareth. I had been brave.

  Lancelot sighed, and I could tell that he was trying to be kind. “I never thought to be a wedded man. Marriage is well enough for kings, Arthur, but if I had a wife I would have to leave off tournaments and battles, and journeying, and that is not the life I want.”

  This is about Kay, I thought.

  I rounded on Lancelot, and in the face of my burning anger, burning from the humiliation that went with it, I saw him reel back a little.

  “You are refusing me, then?” I demanded. How could he be doing this, now? After everything that he had said?

  I did not wait for the answer. I could see it in his eyes. Why was Lancelot such a coward? Of whom was he so afraid? It was just an excuse, his desire to continue fighting and journeying. No man wanted that when they could be with a woman they loved.

  Well, I had ways of making him brave. I would have the truth from him. He would not refuse me again, just because he was afraid. Was he afraid that the others would laugh at him? Morgan le Fay – Lancelot was weak enough to fear the other knights making fun of him. Enamoured of his own wonderful reputation. A knight of great repute could not marry a plain, widowed witch. So it was not just about right and wrong, but about honour in the nastiest, meanest way.

  I went to my book of medicines, and there it was. The drink that would make Lancelot give in to his heart, which would free the truth from him. I would have it. I was brave, even if he was not.

  Chapter Twenty

  The morning of the tournament, I went to catch the dull girl again, to try to find out as much as I could of Guinevere’s secrets, but when I met her on the stairs, she had a black lacquered box in her hands. I noticed her shy back from me. Perhaps she was less dull-witted than I had thought.

  “Margery,” I said sharply, “what is in that box?”

  “It is a gift for the Queen, from the King, my Lady.”

  “Show it to me,” I said, softly.

  With blind obedience, Margery opened the box, and I recognised the crown instantly. Arthur had robbed it from the treasures of Rome. It was the crown of Queen Cleopatra. It was shaped like two snakes coiled together, with eyes of bright emerald. I reached out and laid a hand gently against the cool gold.

  “I’ll follow you up, Margery,” I told her. “I want to see the Queen put it on.”

  “Let me give it to her first,” Margery begged softly, and I agreed. I waited outside until she came back outside to bring me in with her. I supposed she didn’t want the Queen to think that she was more my woman than hers. Little did either of them know.

  She pushed the door open, and the first thing I saw was Guinevere standing framed in her window against the bright winter morning. She was dressed in a dress of rich green brocade embroidered in gold thread with crosses. It was tight enough to hide how thin she had grown while Arthur had been at war. Arthur must have brought the dress back with him, too, or at least bought it with gold taken from Rome, for Camelot’s fine things had dwindled while we were gone. Her hair was plaited and twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck, held in place by a gold and emerald net, and she was leaning her head forward for Marie to clip a chain of gold that had hanging off it hundreds of little emeralds around her neck. It seemed that the treasures had returned all at once, with the victory.

  “Morgan said she had to see it,” Margery said, as I stepped into the room.

  Guinevere turned to me, and a thoughtful look passed over her face, as though she were seeing me properly for the first time. She did not look surprised or afraid at my woaded face, but she did not look friendly either.

  In her hands was Cleopatra’s crown. I stepped forward and took it from her. She did not shy away from me as I took it, so our hands brushed. Hers were soft, and warm. I set Cleopatra’s crown on her head, among the thick curls of her hair. It fitted perfectly.

  “That crown,” I said softly, fixing her with a serious look, “w
as taken by Arthur from the treasures of Rome. It belonged to the Queen Cleopatra, who was the lover of two Emperors, or... one and a half.” I paused. Her gaze on me was steady, unreadable. I could not stop thinking of her mother, and her on the battlefield in her armour. Perhaps Arthur knew her better than I thought. This was not a gift for a queen who stayed in her castle looking pretty. This was the gift for a powerful warrior queen. Then I remembered Merlin’s words again, halfwits make good wives. A clever, brave, jealous wife seemed to me not so likely to also be an obedient and faithful wife. “She was a fearsome queen, who rode with her people into war. He must have thought it an appropriate gift for you, my Lady.”

  The ghost of a smile flickered across Guinevere’s face, but I did not think she would smile for me. She reached up and touched the crown on her head, her face thoughtful. She murmured some kind of thank you, and I left.

  I sat for the jousting at the back of the raised platform that Arthur shared with those he favoured most. Guinevere sat at his side, the stolen crown on her head, and a thick fur of white flecked with black around her shoulders against the cold. I was wearing my dress of black gems, and wore one of my mother’s old furs. Not as rich as the Queen’s, nor as fine as the cloak of white fur Arthur had over his red and gold surcoat, but warm enough.

  For the most part, the jousting was dull. Those expected to do well did well; Gawain, his brothers, Lancelot and Kay. When Lancelot rode into the field, I noticed that he had a cloth of gold tied to his helm, and I turned to the woman beside me – the wife of some knight or other who had found particular favour with Arthur during the war – and asked her whose token it was.

  “Oh, don’t you know?” the woman replied, with a smug smile to know more than the King’s own sister. “Sir Lancelot rides for the Queen. He has been named her champion, since he saved her life on the battlefield.”

  I watched Lancelot ride, knocking man after man down, and I watched Guinevere’s eyes follow her cloth of gold back and forth up and down the jousting field. When he was not there, she looked bored and restless. Arthur was gripped by it all, and by the way he sat forward in his chair, I could tell he longed to be out there in the lists.

  At last, it was only Kay in his black Otherworld armour and Lancelot left. When they crashed together, both men fell from their horses, and a shout came from the crowd. Guinevere, too, got to her feet. I saw Arthur reach out and take her hand, saying something comforting, but she did not look away from Lancelot and Kay, fighting on foot now. I could not see properly from where I was, but I knew what the outcome would be, anyway. Lancelot would win. Far more interesting was the fact that Guinevere had jumped to her feet when they fell from their horses. She had been alone with Kay in Camelot all winter long, healing him of his wound, perhaps telling him her secrets. They both had Otherworld blood in their veins, and I knew that he had grown fond of her. More than fond. What had he said? I cannot pretend that I have not imagined what it would be like. What had he imagined? What it would be like to kiss her? To tell her how he felt about her? To hear her tell him she felt the same? To take her to bed? Things he should never have imagined of his foster-brother’s wife. And she had jumped to her feet when she saw him fall. Could it be true? She was angry with Arthur, blamed him for leaving her alone in Camelot, suspected him of having other women while he was on campaign. Kay was handsome, charming and kind, and she had saved his life. It was not unreasonable to believe that a natural affection had grown between them. Would it be so easy?

  After Lancelot had been declared the victor, Guinevere rushed away, though I knew we were all supposed to be going on to a great feast to celebrate – once more – Arthur’s great victory.

  I slipped away, too, and followed her up to her room. If she was going to crack, I would have to push her now, while she was flustered and vulnerable. I was slow through the crowd that she had evaded with her swift exit, and by the time I got to her chamber, she seemed to be about to leave for the feast. She had taken off her crown and set it on the table by her window, and thrown off her furs. I could see the flush against the pale skin of her chest still, though, and a promising wildness in her eyes. I shut the door behind me, and leaned back against it. I wondered if I could coax her into some kind of feminine confidence with me, as I had seen her share with her Breton maids.

  “Morgan,” she said, softly, “are you coming down to eat?”

  She was polite, but distant.

  I glanced at the crown on the table.

  “You’re not wearing the crown,” I observed. I wondered if she had taken it off because of what I had said about Cleopatra being the lover of two different men.

  “It’s heavy,” she answered, drawing back into herself. I saw I would not win her confidence. She was resistant, defensive.

  “You should,” I told her. She did not react. She gave a little impatient sigh as though she wanted me to move out of the way. I tried one last time. I could not appeal to her sympathy, but I could appeal to her pride.

  “I took a lover,” I told her. I had her attention. “Many men do it, some women. We should do as they do, our husbands. That is, just as we please.”

  “I do just as I please,” she answered immediately, her voice cold and sharp. I had her. She had been easy to tempt. The proud always were.

  “As does Arthur,” I replied, slipping away through the door, leaving her with the thought.

  I went to my own room then, to collect the drink I had mixed for Lancelot. Perhaps it was risky, distracting myself with this second quest of mine, but I wanted both. I wanted Arthur’s wife and Lancelot to be free to express their own desires. His for me, hers for Kay. And why should I not encourage her? Would she not be better with a kind man like Kay, than one like Arthur who boasted to his men of the nights they spent together? I had been happier once I had had a lover. I was not entirely sure that I was ready to offer Kay up to another, but I did not think I would care once I had the truth from Lancelot. It would be worth the exchange.

  I came early to the feast. Lancelot would take his place beside the Queen as her champion, so it was easy to fill his cup with what I had brought before anyone else arrived. I was pleased to see that Nimue was there, and to see her sit at my side. She had made her threats, and she was friendly enough now. She thought that I had submitted myself to her. I had helped Arthur. She seemed to have forgiven me. She even told me she had missed me.

  Kay and Lancelot came in together, and Kay sat in the seat beside Lancelot. I saw him notice that Lancelot’s cup was the only one that was already filled, and glance at me, but I looked away before he could catch my eye. The seats around us were filling, and the men were filling their cups with wine, so it stood out less. I was beginning to feel the little glow of victory about me when Lancelot seemed to be about to drink from his cup, but then I saw him notice something, a speck of dust or dirt on the cup waiting in the space beside his. Guinevere’s cup. I noticed, too, that she had not yet arrived. Lancelot swapped the cups over, with that thoughtless deferential instinct that he should spare his Queen the dirty cup. Kay went to stop him, but it was too late, and Kay would not get the cups switched back, for at that moment, Guinevere entered the hall and took her place beside Arthur. As soon as she sat, she reached for her cup and took a deep drink from it. I saw Kay wince.

  I was sorry that I would not have the truth from Lancelot, but perhaps this would be even better. Perhaps the Queen would finish her cup and then throw herself into Kay’s arms. I could hope for that. Arthur, who seemed to have arrived at the feast from some other celebration of the tournament with Gawain – whose loud voice I could hear already garrulous with wine – leaned over and pressed a clumsy kiss against his wife’s cheek. I thought I saw a look of distaste flicker across her face. Arthur’s war was already fracturing them apart, and her jealousy, and Arthur’s complete obliviousness.

  As the feast went on and the hall filled with the heat of people drinking and celebrating, and the smell of the firewood, even I, whose head was clea
r of wine, was feeling a little hazy. Still, I kept my eyes on the Queen, and I knew Kay was watching her as well. I ate a little of the food; it was sweet and rich, and I had never lost my taste for plain, simple food that I had acquired in the abbey. The flush came quick to Guinevere’s cheeks, and, for the first time in public, I saw her bright smile break across her face as she began to loosen up with the drink I had given her. She was talking to Lancelot beside her, but I could see Kay’s eyes following her movements, following the cup as she lifted it again to her lips. She had finished it already, and someone had re-filled the cup with wine. I had mixed it for a full-grown man, and Lancelot was, I would have guessed, half her weight again.

  Nimue beside me was, to my surprise, drinking heartily from her own cup, giggling with the knight Dinadan beside her, a small, quick-eyed man with a keen smile. I wondered if she was drinking because she did not like so well to look on Arthur and his wife. She met with him alone. Perhaps she liked to pretend that the wife did not exist.

  Suddenly, it turned. Guinevere pressed the palms of her hands into the table as though she were steadying herself. I could see her flush darker for a moment, and then pale. It had been too much. Lancelot beside her was asking her if she was alright, but she did not seem to hear him. She pushed herself up to her feet, blowing her breath out slow, trying to get herself under control. I noticed, with annoyance, that even reeling and sick, there was some kind of fierce perfection to her, a kind of abandon all about her that I did not want to look away from.

  Arthur beside her suddenly seemed to notice that she was standing. He reached out and took her hand, his gaze up at her tender, and loving, but bleary with wine.

  “My love, where are you going?” he asked.

  She shook her head, as though trying to shake away the dizziness. If only Kay had managed to stop Lancelot. “I don’t feel well,” she said, thickly, her Breton accent stronger with the wine.