MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy

by Lavinia Collins

  “What if someone comes?” I whispered. He kissed me again, his hands running through my hair, unwinding the plait.

  “No one comes here at night but me,” he whispered, reaching out to slam the door shut. My horse, only just through the door, whickered in alarm and walked deeper into the stable, into the place that it remembered as its own. Accolon pushed me up hard against the stable wall, and once again I felt the dangerous thrill of his strength. He tasted of honey, and spices, and wine. He had never betrayed me. I still had the heat in me from Kay’s kiss, and from my own anger, and I had a man in my grip who was all mine. I could feel the heat of his skin against mine already, in anticipation. I took his face in my hands.

  “I want you now,” I whispered to him. “Now.”

  He lifted me and braced me hard against the stable wall, and had me as I had commanded him. I wound my fingers tight into his hair and held his gaze to mine. I had longed for him, and he had given himself to me. The force of our coming together burned through me, leaving me deliciously clean, and making me strong. Things were simpler here than at Camelot. I knew whom I wanted, and I knew whom I hated, and there was no one in between.

  I woke the next day to the sound of Uriens banging on the door and shouting for me. So, the punishment I had anticipated was coming for me. Elaine – who it seemed had been sleeping in my room all the time I was away – was already awake, her big doe eyes wide with fear, and cowering in the corner of the room. I rolled my eyes at her and grabbed her by the arm, dragging her towards the door.

  “You had better go, Elaine. Oh don’t look so afraid. This isn’t for you.”

  I did not think having her here would stop him, and besides, I wanted to draw Excalibur on him again and see the fear in his eyes, and I did not want her to know about it. I opened the door and pushed her out. I heard him greet her, suddenly gentle and kind, before she scampered away. He pushed the door open and strode in. I already had Excalibur in my hands.

  He sighed in frustration at the sight of me, in my nightdress, my hair loose, the sword bare in my hands.

  “Morgan, why am I cursed with you as my wife?” he groaned.

  I wanted to step forward, to kill him, but I held myself back. I wouldn’t risk it like this, when he might be strong enough to get the sword off me. The mixture was ready; I just had to get him to drink it.

  “Uriens, leave me be.”

  He shook his head in frustration. “I will go, for now. But you cannot continue this forever. The more you do to vex me, the more unkind I will be when I can get my hands on you away from your witches’ tricks.”

  I had to kill him soon. But not just him. No. It was Arthur who had brought me to this. Arthur who had chosen for himself the wife that he desired.

  The days passed, and I kept Uriens from my bed with my threats of witchcraft, and Accolon within it. I spent those days and nights kindling the flame of anger that burned deep within me. I found I was angry with Arthur in particular. He had followed his own desires, turning down the advice of his counsellors, and pleased himself with the Breton girl, and yet despite my protests he had sold me to this brute who forced himself on me. I had given up everything for the sake of my sister, and of the kingdom, and he had cared about neither. And he had taken a woman as his wife who had the blood of Maev in her veins. That was a dangerous choice. Maev, warrior and adulteress. Half-wild, Merlin had called her. And every man that laid eyes on her seemed to desire her. That seemed an ill combination to me, and yet Arthur had taken her as his wife anyway, because he always did as he pleased. I suffered, and Morgawse suffered, and Arthur lived careless and happy. I hated him. I hated him for changing, too, from the kind boy I had known as a child into this selfish king. They were all liars. Arthur, Merlin, Kay. I would punish them all. I would have Merlin’s secrets from him, and I would use them to destroy all of those who had made me suffer.

  One night, at the hottest peak of summer, Accolon tore back the curtains of my bed, where I had been lying in the depths of my rage, and I saw him there and I felt the rage mingle hot with my desire. I was glad that Accolon had come. I wanted his hungry roughness, I wanted the power of my rage to move through our coming together. I threw him down on the bed beneath me and tore his clothes from him. I gave myself to the feel of his hands gripping me at the hips, and his eyes running over me with awe and desire as I slipped my nightdress up over my head. I took him deep inside me, and I saw how my wildness excited him, and it made my own desire hotter. I could hear him sighing my name, and my body filling with the power of my own pleasure. I held back a little, from the edge, but only until I could be sure that he had had his fill, and then I let it wash over me. I was not sure if it was all the more filled with trembling ecstasy because I knew how he loved me, or because I knew that my revenge was near.

  I sank down beside him, and we lay a long time in a pleasant silence. I did not hurry to ask him. I knew he would not deny me. Only when the candles were low and the night at its blackest depths did I speak. I lifted a hand to stroke through his hair, and he murmured with appreciation.

  “Do you love me?” I asked, softly. He pushed himself up to sit facing me.

  “Of course, Morgan. Of course I love you,” he said, pleased. Pleased that I had asked. I saw a smile spread across his face. He was anticipating sweet, meaningless lovers’ talk, but that was not what I had in mind.

  Fixing him with a serious stare, I asked him softly again, “Would you do anything for me?”

  He leaned over and kissed me, slow and tender, and then whispered, “Anything.”

  I put a hand against his cheek, and looked him deep in the eyes once more. He looked yet more pleased, slightly excited even. He thinks I am going to ask him to kill Uriens.

  “Kill Arthur,” I said.

  I saw the surprise pass across his face. He drew back a little. “King Arthur?” he asked. “Your brother King Arthur?”

  I leaned away, letting my hand fall away from his cheek.

  “Every man swears his love easily before he hears the price,” I said. I did not want a coward.

  “No, Morgan, no.” He laid a hand on my bare shoulder. “Just... you are sure this is what you want?”

  “I am sure,” I told him.

  He thought for a moment, and then, drawing in his breath deep, he nodded.

  “I will do it,” he declared. He did not sound so absolute, so entirely certain as he had done before.

  I took hold of him by the chin, turning his face up to mine and looking deep into his eyes. I could see that he would do it. I could see that he was entirely mine.

  “As you love me,” I told him softly, “you will show no mercy.”

  “No mercy,” he whispered in agreement, and I kissed him with a wild passion, and he pulled me into his arms once again.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  I sent Accolon away from me early in the morning. The time was not yet right to strike against Arthur. When the time came, I would press Excalibur into Accolon’s hands, and he would not fail. First, I would go to Camelot and retrieve the scabbard. I wanted to make sure that my lover would be safe.

  Arthur could wait, but I would deal with Uriens now. I had to wait until the evening, but that was not long at all. He kept away from me, and he would not drink from my hand, but that was no matter to me. When the sun had at last dipped below the horizon and the summer stars were bright in the sky, I closed my eyes and pictured Elaine’s sweet, doe-eyed face, her little, girlish frame. I felt myself change easily into the form I knew so well. I had sent her on a long errand, to the next town, and I knew she would not be back. I took the drink I had prepared for Uriens in my hand and I went to Uriens’ room. Her movements were slick and graceful, and I felt my borrowed body skip light through the hallways and up the stairs to his bedroom.

  I knocked lightly, and he called me in. He smiled when he saw it was Elaine. He had been sitting at his window in his shirt and breeches, trying to get some of the cool summer breeze. He gestured me over, and
I came, holding the cup of wine out before me.

  “My Lord,” I said, hearing her demure little voice come from my lips, “I brought you some wine. To help you sleep.”

  “Thank you, Elaine. That is kind,” he replied, gently, taking the wine from me and placing it on the table beside him. “I wish my wife were as kind as you.” To my surprise, he reached out and took me by both hands, pulling me onto his lap. So, he had not been pestering me to get into my bed because he had been with Elaine. I wondered if she liked it. He behaved as though it was a mutual desire. He slid his arm around my waist, holding me close, and reached up to turn my face towards his. The kiss he gave her was entirely different from the dry, perfunctory way he had kissed me. It was complex, sensitive. He was gentle and deep. I wanted to shout, Why did you never kiss me like that? I would never have loved him, but I could have stood him, if he had shown me even the tiniest bit of kindness.

  He murmured Elaine’s name under his breath, and his kisses became more urgent as I felt his hand at my breast. I wanted to push him off, angry and disgusted. I was hurt, too. He had not ever tried with me. It was him; he was the one who should have been making an effort to get used to me. I did not want him to touch me anymore. I laid a hand on top of his, and to my surprise, he responded, stilling his hand and letting it fall away. So, he could be refused. Just not by me. He pulled away gently, taking his arm from my waist, and letting me stand.

  “Of course, Elaine. Of course,” he said kindly, as though in response to a question. Perhaps there was somewhere Elaine had to be this time of night. But then he reached for the wine, and drank deep from it. I felt a jolt of excitement go through me. The time of my revenge was near. As the wine hit him, I saw his forehead crease. He could feel its strength, but it would not hold him back. He reached for it again, and drained the cup. I could see it run through him, making his limbs heavy, making his mind fog. It would rob the strength from his limbs and leave him at my mercy. But he had shown me no mercy.

  I reached out a hand for him, and he took it. I could feel from the way he pulled on it, it was difficult for him to stand already. I led him towards the bed, and he went willingly, a look of sleepy excitement on his face. He thought Elaine had changed her mind. I pushed him down on the bed, and he fell back with a smile spreading on his face. I climbed to sit over him, pressing my hands down against his chest and looking down into his eyes. He put his hands around my back, and murmured Elaine’s name again. I leaned over him, looking right into his eyes. I could see him struggling through the sleepy haze to focus on me.

  Very close, I whispered, “I have to do this. I don’t want people to hear you scream.”

  His mouth formed the word, what? But I had let myself turn back to my real form over him, a grin spreading across my face. Revenge was sweet. As I saw his eyes widen in fear, I grasped the pillow beside him and forced it down over his face. He tried to push me off, but there was no strength in his limbs and his hands fell heavy and powerless against me. I pushed harder and harder, feeling the joy of relief break deeper and deeper over me with each breath I drew, and each breath that came weaker and weaker to him. How many times had I felt weak under his hands? How many times had I lain underneath him, vulnerable and afraid? I hoped in his last moments he was repenting his cruelty to me. I hoped that he was understanding how it felt to be powerless under another’s strength. I would never feel that again. I would never be vulnerable again. I would never be afraid again. I would destroy everyone who had ever made me feel afraid.

  I waited until I could no longer see his chest moving before I took the pillow away. I leaned down to feel for his breath against my cheek, and felt nothing. His eyes looked glassy and vacant. I gently pushed his eyelids closed. I wanted people to believe that he had died in his sleep. I supposed that if I had to do that, I would have to undress him, too. With distaste, I pulled off his shirt and breeches. I tried to look away as best I could, until I could throw the covers over him.

  I folded the clothes and set them on the chair. The vivid memory of our wedding night came back to me, when he had folded his clothes so carefully as he had taken them off. I had been an innocent then, really. I would never have thought of killing a man. Well, I had tried to be kind, and people had been cruel to me, and I had tried to be trusting, and people had tricked me, and I had tried to be loyal, and people had betrayed me. Instead of all those things, I only needed to be strong. That was the only way to protect those I loved. My sister. Myself. Accolon.

  That night, when Accolon came to me, I told him it was done, and he grasped me to him in the rough, desperate passion of relief. I felt the relief, too. I was free of Uriens, free of fear. I sent him from me in the middle of the night, as soon as our passion was spent. I did not think it would look well for me to be found with a lover in my bed the morning my husband was found dead.

  I woke in the morning to the sound of Elaine screaming. I slipped from my bed and into one of my mother’s old dresses, a light dress for summer of pale moss-green. I did not think it would do to look too funereal.

  I rushed to Uriens’ room when I was called, and I cried with the rest of them to see him. They were real tears, but they were tears of relief. I would never feel him on top of me again, never feel his hand over my mouth, him forcing himself inside me. I closed my eyes and the tears shook harder through me. I was free.

  The funeral arrangements were long and tiresome, but eventually dispensed with. I could not tear my eyes away as I watched his body burn. I demanded to be made Queen Regent until my son came of age, and since I had the support of Uriens’ steward, the rest of the household gave in. I took the dark gold crown of Gore in my hands and set it on my head in front of Accolon in the great throne-room of Rheged. It was deep in the night, and in the autumn midnight dark torches burned low in the sconces on the wall, casting long shadows through the room. I wore my black jewelled dress, and the long shadows made me appear taller, grander, more powerful. I had seen myself as such a queen. I sat in the throne that I had never seen Uriens sit in during my whole time in Rheged, and beckoned Accolon to me with one slender finger. He came to me, and I stared into his eyes as I pulled open his breeches, and watched his need for me overpower him. He murmured my name and I pulled him down to me in a hungry kiss as I felt him grasp hold of me, throwing back my skirts and pulling me hard on to him. I wrapped my legs around him, and we came together, hard and fast, rough and eager, against my husband’s throne, and I with his crown on my head.

  I dealt, too, with Elaine. I knew that she was hiding from me, and I let her hide a little while longer before I dragged her from her room by the hair. I did not care about Uriens, but it had been an insult to me. I shouted at her until she cried, calling her a whore, shouting through the castle what she had been to my husband. I sent her back to her father, weeping and ashamed. I was not sorry to see her go.

  “What now?” Accolon whispered to me, as we lay curled together naked in the darkness.

  “Now,” I whispered back, winding my hands through his hair, “I steal my scabbard back, and I bring it to you, and you will kill Arthur.”

  He gave an eager murmur of assent, and I rolled back on to him as our mouths met.

  Chapter Thirty Five

  The task of stealing the scabbard meant that I had to go back to Camelot, and without Arthur knowing, but I knew how I would do it. I had given Nimue the book of Macrobius, but I still remembered its secrets. I practised a few times first, closing my eyes in my bedroom and imagining myself in the stables, feeling a light-headedness pass through me, before I opened my eyes and was where I had pictured myself. Accolon was there, and he smiled to see me, as excited as I was now about the prospect of Arthur’s death. Beyond the initial satisfaction of revenge also glimmered the hope that I might have Logrys for myself; but that was dimmer, and more distant, and I was not sure how it could be done. All I knew was that the more power I felt in myself, the more I wanted, and the more I needed to be sure that no one could hurt me again.


  When I was sure of myself, sure that I could go from place to place without losing or damaging myself in the thin mist of black magic I passed through to get there, I closed my eyes, and pictured my room in Camelot. When I opened my eyes, blinking away the delicate dizziness of my journey, I saw the familiar room with wonder. It had seemed easy enough to move through Rheged on a wish, but I had come far across the land.

  Well, I could not move through Camelot as myself without alerting suspicion. Besides, I wanted to get into Arthur’s bedroom to get a hold of the scabbard. I was sure he would keep it there. I thought the safest option was Merlin, but when I tried to become him I watched in the smudgy surface of my hammered mirror as my form flickered alarmingly between the young man, and the bald grinning man, and an old man with a long white beard, and a little child with shiny black eyes like a beetle. Did Merlin truly have no real form? Or had I never seen it? Or perhaps his black magic had eroded him so much at the centre there was nothing of him anymore for me to anchor to; inside he was just dust and darkness.

  That left me with two options: Arthur, or Guinevere. I did not want to be mistakenly snatched up and manhandled into bed by Arthur, so I decided that it was his form that I should take rather than the Queen’s. Safer, by far, to take the form of a strong man. When I remembered what Gawain had said about the Queen, I was even more sure of my choice. But, first I had to find some men’s clothes. Morgawse’s room above mine was empty, too, and some of her sons’ clothes were folded away there. I dressed in a shirt and breeches of Gawain’s – I imagined – and closed my eyes to imagine myself as Arthur. I was surprised how clearly I could picture him; the kind, open face, the broad frame, the gold hair, and my mother’s – our mother’s – grey eyes. My own, also. The clothes were a good fit, and when I peered at myself in the window, I was pleased with what I saw. I felt my heart flutter with excitement; my victory was close.