“We’re only beginning. Stay, come on.” Arthur groaned in disappointment and pulled her into his lap. I saw the flash of anger go across her face, and the flush light once more in her cheeks. This time it was not my drink. He leaned closer to her, in a way I imagined he felt to be appealing, and continued. “I’m not finished with you for the night.”
Guinevere jumped from his lap.
“If you are looking for a woman who will go to your bed whenever you desire it, my Lord, I suggest you send for a whore,” she shouted. The chatter about the table went quiet.
She turned and stormed from the room. I could not have been more pleased with my mistake. This was almost as good as having the truth from Lancelot. Arthur stared after her, his mouth open. He did not see what he had done wrong. Of course he did not. I glanced around the table. Kay, too, stared after her in disbelief, Lancelot down at his plate, blushing. Gawain and Aggravain sat side by side, twin pictures of indignation to hear their King so spoken to by his own wife.
There was a moment of awful stillness before, as I knew he would, Kay made to stand. Lancelot put his hand over Kay’s – for once Arthur was too distracted to object – and said, softly, “No – I will go.”
And he slipped from his chair and followed her. Well, the drink had got the truth from someone. Kay cast a dark look at me, but I did not care. He would be grateful one day that my other desires would help him get his.
Chapter Twenty One
I wanted to change into Guinevere’s English maid and slip up to her room the next morning, but as soon as I was out of my bedroom door, Kay jumped out, as though he had been waiting for me, and grabbed me by the shoulders, pulling me back into the room with him and kicking the door shut.
“I don’t know what new game you were playing last night, Morgan, but it has to stop,” he hissed.
I pushed him off me.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I replied. He looked as though he had slept in his clothes overnight. He was just in his shirt and breeches, his hair ruffled still with sleep.
I could see Kay straining to find the words for his anger.
“Morgan,” he whispered, tersely, “I don’t know if you’re trying to punish me, or if you have just got so deep into your black magic that it has eaten away your mind, but trying to drug Lancelot? What has he ever done to harm you?” When I did not answer, Kay stepped further into my room and I rushed to block his way. I had left my book of medicine recipes open on the desk. “What did you use? What was it?” Kay cried, jumping for the book. I grabbed it as he did, and we both pulled hard towards ourselves. There was an awful crack, and I thought the book would break in two, but it held. Kay was surprised enough by the sound of the binding cracking that he let go just enough for me to snatch it off him, and I hugged it to my chest.
“Morgan,” Kay growled, “give me the book.”
I shook my head, stepping back.
Kay lunged forward and grasped the book again. He was stronger than me by far, but my arms were wrapped tight around the book. I stumbled back, and we crashed back together against the wall, and for a moment we struggled still for hold of the book. But then as suddenly as we had begun fighting, we were kissing. Hard, angry kisses. I did not know who had begun first, if it was he or I, but I could not pretend that his body pressed up close against mine in anger had not brought to my mind vivid memories of us pressed together in that same room in the depths of passion. We were different people now, and that love was gone, but it was a long time since I had felt the love of a man. Kay pulled the book from my hands, and this time I let him, and he threw it away, down to the floor beside us, pushing me harder against the wall. For a moment, I didn’t care that he probably wasn’t thinking of me. I didn’t care that he must have been imagining thick coils of red hair between his fingers rather than my own fine brown strands. I, too, was thinking of another. But then, all those imagined images of him with her crowded around me, and my memories, too, of him with Morgawse, and all at once his mouth hot against mine and his hands wrapping around my waist and pulling me against him repulsed me, and I shoved him back.
“You should go, Kay,” I said, coldly.
His eyes were unfocussed, his mind lost in some far-off dream of another, and I seized the opportunity. I reached down and picked the book up from the floor where he had thrown it, and wrapped my arms around it once more. Kay’s look hardened. He never smiled at me anymore. He never laughed. From across the courtyard, I had seen him laughing with Guinevere, favouring her with his charming smile. That was lost to me now.
“It is not too late to give up the Black Arts, Morgan,” he said.
He reached out towards the book, and I stepped back from him, fast.
“Leave,” I snapped.
He stepped through the door, and I slammed it shut behind him.
After that, I kept a wary eye on all that happened around me. I did not try to put anything in Lancelot’s drink again, because I felt Kay’s eyes always upon me, but I watched him. I watched as Lancelot and Guinevere began to ignore each other more and more concertedly in public. At first, I thought she was angry with him. I had seen her anger, tense and passionate as it was, and the more I saw, the more different I thought this was. As spring broke around us, I could not understand how everyone else around could find it bearable, the way they would never look at one another. Kay, too, was often around Guinevere, but her way with him was friendly, and easy, and he seemed the same with her, despite the feelings he had confessed to me, thinking I was Lancelot.
Something was going on. Had Lancelot warned her off Kay, as he had tried to do with me? Was that what made her angry? Nimue told me that news had come that Mark in Cornwall was being besieged by a giant and had sent to Arthur for help. She told me that Kay had named Lancelot to go. I thought this might be why Guinevere was angry, but why would she then not be angry with Kay? I was determined to find out what was spoiling my plan. Arthur called the knights to his council, for the decision to be made who would go to Cornwall. Mark. Mark had taken what was mine. I did not know why Arthur should help him. Mark had, too, married Isolde of Ireland, the people in Camelot were saying, who was almost as much younger than him as Morgawse had been younger than Lot when she had married. Just another thing a king was owed, I supposed – a young wife.
I was not called to the council, though Nimue was, so I would know what had happened there. I waited until I saw Kay walk across the courtyard, and stepped out into his path. He looked angry, upset.
“I’m sorry, Kay,” I said, grasping his hand and pulling it across my eyes. The Otherworld was strong enough in his blood that I would get from him what I could have given to him through just my touch on his skin. I felt the little lurch, and then we stood there, he and I, looking at him and Lancelot and Guinevere, sat around the Round Table. Kay lounged in his seat beside Guinevere, who was staring hard at Lancelot, who was looking shyly down, away from both of them. Kay was not practised in magic, so the image we saw before us was blurry, and I could not hear what any of them were saying, but I could see well enough what was going on. Guinevere wanted to talk to Lancelot, but Kay would not leave. Kay was teasing her, and made a playful grab towards her. I saw the name Gareth on Kay’s lips, and I knew what he was teasing her about. She slapped his hand away and shouted at him. Somehow, wordless and silent, her anger was all the more powerful. Kay, visibly hurt even through the blur of his unpractised memory, pushed back his chair and walked angrily out. We did not follow his memory. I glanced beside me. Kay looked confused, and worried, his eyes fixed on the scene before us. I felt a flutter of nerves in my stomach, and I was not sure why. There was something about the way Lancelot and Guinevere sat across the table from one another in silence, him looking away from her gaze, which felt unbearably tense. I noticed, too, that Arthur was not there. Where is Arthur?
Lancelot stood to leave and Guinevere moved into his path, crossing her arms stubbornly across her chest. They were arguing. They must have bee
n arguing about Cornwall. Or perhaps they were arguing about Kay. Lancelot turned away from her in frustration and she stepped towards him, putting a hand on his shoulder, though not in comfort. It was demanding. It was the hand of a queen commanding her champion to listen to her. He turned fast, grabbing her by the wrist. She jumped back, and he let her go. I glanced at Kay again. His eyes were fixed on the room in front of him. Lancelot turned away from her, closing his eyes and bracing himself against the back of one of the chairs, as though he was trying to get his anger under control. What was she saying to make him so angry? I did not think I had ever seen Lancelot angry. But then I realised, he was not angry. While she was still shouting at him, he turned in a flash and pulled her against him, into a kiss. I could not tear my eyes from their lips coming together. I had felt that kiss, I had felt its sensual passion, the intoxicating touch of Lancelot’s lips, soft yet overwhelming. She melted in his arms, her anger, like his, becoming passion, and she wound her hands into his hair. He pushed her back against the table, his lips against her neck, and lifted her lightly on to it. She leaned her head back at his touch, her eyes fluttering closed, and her lips parted slightly in a sigh of longing. I felt the blush rise in me at the sight of it, but I could not look away. I had never seen Lancelot like that; never so bold, never so wild. I barely recognised him. Suddenly, they jumped apart, hearing something that was missing from what Kay and I could witness, Guinevere pushing her skirts back down to the ground, Lancelot turning away, and Arthur strode into the room.
That was when it faded, and Kay and I stood face to face in the courtyard, in the cool spring night, the stars bright above us, both shocked, shaken, betrayed. I could not take it in. When I had encouraged Guinevere to take a lover, I had not intended for her to take mine. Oh no, I thought. Oh no, no, no. The day he had come looking for her in Arthur’s camp. That it had been he who caught her when she fell from her horse; he had been watching her. It was he, not Kay, for whom she had jumped to her feet as she watched them fight. Everything he had said: I have a lady, he had said. One whom he could not be with, for the sake of others. It was not me.
“Morgan,” he breathed, “is what we saw... the truth?”
I nodded, and Kay rubbed his face with his hands.
“Well,” Kay said, “then he must go to Cornwall, mustn’t he?”
But it seemed that Kay did not need to push Arthur to send Lancelot, for Lancelot had volunteered himself. Arthur seemed to have no idea what he had walked into the night before, but was his usual cheery self, clapping Lancelot on the back and congratulating him on his bravery for volunteering. Guinevere was quiet and showed nothing.
I could hardly believe that it was true. I walked through the castle like a ghost. The day before I had been on the brink of a love-affair, and now I was rejected once more.
I had to see Guinevere again. I had to go and look at her, see what she had that I lacked. Why had I dreamed of us together, Lancelot and I, in the clear dreams of the future, if it was not to be? I set off towards Guinevere’s room. I would not have to pretend to be someone else just to look at her. All I wanted to do was look. But I was caught on the way by the sound of her voice coming from the little walled garden that sat at the foot of her tower. As I crept closer, I heard that Lancelot was with her. Was she so bold? So reckless? They were arguing again, but their voices were soft and I could not hear the words until I came to the entrance to the garden and hid behind the stone archway that led inside.
“No. You don't have to come to me, I'll come to you. I have gone out hunting in the woods before; Arthur won't deny me. No one will suspect. Go up to my room, and take the book of Ovid. Send it to me, when you are ready, and I will find you.” She paused for a moment. Perhaps he spoke, but his voice was too soft to hear. They made a strange pairing; him shy and quiet, her angry and demanding. But then, I would think myself the better match, would I not? “Tell me it's not what you want, that you don't love me, and I will not ask you again,” I heard her say, softly. They were talking in English. I was sure that Lancelot understood at least a little Breton. It was foolish of them, reckless. What if I were Arthur?
There was a sudden quiet from the garden, and, my heart thudding, I peered through the archway. I could see them clasped together in a kiss, her hands in his hair, his around her waist, both lost in it. I could see the petals tucked into the plait of her hair, twisted up into a bun. I had seen that hair loose and wild, and he had not, and I had known him in my dreams in a way she had not yet known him, and neither of them knew the intimacy I had had with them both, and neither of them saw me. She not at all, he not really. She had taken a lover from her husband’s knights, as I had, and yet hers would live. No man – not even Arthur – would kill Lancelot. He was mine, too, and she had taken him for her own. But she was bolder than I had ever been, wilder and far more lovely. What was left for me, for women like me, when there were women like her?
I forced myself away. Suddenly, awfully, I was filled with same feeling that I had had when I had stood before Accolon with Excalibur drawn in my hands. This is a moment of destiny, I thought. I had not seen this moment, but with a sudden cold dread I realised that I had seen the moments afterwards. Lancelot, the pavilion, the springtime. My skin, pale white and unmarked by woad. It was her skin. I was her in my own dream. Was that really something I would do? Something I could do? I thought, once again, of the Lady of Avalon, long dead now, and her words about Arthur’s conception. He does not know it, but he is a child of rape. I was not sure I was capable of it, and yet I knew, I knew with a deep and empty dread, that I was, and that it had to be.
Chapter Twenty Two
I did not have to wait long. Every day, I waited in the shape of the clumsy English maid at the foot of the stairs until the book came back. It was less than a week. Lancelot was, then, more eager even than he had seemed.
On a bright spring morning, I stood at the bottom of the stairs when a grubby peasant boy, paid for the errand with a shiny silver coin I pressed into his hand, handed me the book of Ovid. I glanced down at it. I had seen it before among Guinevere’s books. I could see why she was not hesitant to hazard it. It was a paltry thing – a small volume of Ovid’s stories, translated into French and bastardised with clumsy morals tacked on the end. I took it back to my bedroom, and opened it. Inside the front cover, Lancelot had written something in French. It said, Edge of the woods. Seven miles north. I felt my heart flutter within me.
Whose will was I doing? My own? I was not sure I wanted it this way. I wanted Lancelot to want me, not to have him in the guise of someone else. But perhaps it would be good to prise him from his affection for the Queen. Better for everyone. Suddenly, as clear as the time I had seen it first, I saw once more the vision I had had in Avalon of Arthur, his head bare, fallen from his horse, and Lancelot standing over him with his sword drawn and lifted, ready to strike. Would this be my revenge on Arthur? And something for myself? What did destiny want from me? If I turned back from this moment, all that I had seen might not come to pass. I would never stand on the shores of Avalon with Excalibur in my hand. It had to be. It all had to be.
Once I was sure, I went back in the shape of the maid Margery again, and from the rumpled sheets of Guinevere’s bed, I took her nightdress, and tucked it among my own belongings.
I took my leave of Arthur, saying I had to return to my own kingdom. Arthur seemed sorry that I wanted to depart, but my young son was enough of an excuse to sway him. I had not brought a retinue – no ladies, no knights – so it was easy for me to gather my belongings and leave. I did not know the place, so I had to ride north until I found it. I felt tense and sick inside, but sure that this was the only path that I could take. It was what destiny demanded.
When I came upon the pavilion it was empty. I had some of the mixture I had made before left, and I took the opportunity to pour it into the skin of wine I found among Lancelot’s things. It would be for the better if he was hazy, and unquestioning.
When I ha
d had a good sight of the place, I closed my eyes and pictured myself back in the stables of Rheged. They were not empty when I opened my eyes and found myself there, but that was all to the good. My own people knew I was a witch, and were afraid of me. No one questioned me anymore; no one suggested that a woman should not govern her dead husband’s lands and castle. I did not mind that the quality of their respect was tinged with fear, only that I had it, and had it without question. I took my belongings back to my room, and locked the door. I pulled out Guinevere’s nightdress. It was soft, thin silk, and the scent of it, oddly familiar. Had I spent so long around her, come so close, to know so well the delicate smell of rose petals in her hair, of the fresh grass? I shrugged away the strange, unsettling feeling of it, and pulled off my own dress, and the nightdress on, and stood before the mirror to watch myself become the woman who had everything. My hair, brightening from dark brown to deep, rich red, the patterns fading from my skin, the lines of my face softening, just a little, and my body shrinking, my long limbs moving more into lithe, feminine proportions. I smoothed down the dress over the body that was newly mine. I felt tense, but the sight of myself as her was oddly comforting. We were not so different. We were both angry. We both loved Lancelot. We would both stand on the shores of Avalon, with Excalibur. I knew so much of her, I had dreamed so much of her, I wondered if I was not, already, fading into her. It is easy to lose oneself in another’s shape.
I closed my eyes, and pictured Lancelot’s pavilion on the edge of the woods. I saw the light in the pavilion before anything else, glowing dark purple through the silk fabric of its walls. Then I saw the trees around it, as I had pictured them, and the low, soft grass around it in the little clearing. The night was dark, and clear. I could see the stars bright overhead, and a sliver of the growing moon. A good time for it. I began to feel the world more solidly around me, the grass beneath my bare feet, the light spring breeze on my cheeks, and through the thin silk of my stolen dress. It was strange to see my hands before me without the blue of the woad, to feel the different movements of another’s body. She was a little stronger, a little more lean and muscular than I. But it was not really her body tonight. It was mine.
THE CURSE OF EXCALIBUR: a gripping Arthurian fantasy (THE MORGAN TRILOGY Book 2) Page 17
