MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy

by Lavinia Collins

  When my room rematerialized around me, I was on my own. I felt cold and sick and clammy. So Merlin had given all his secrets to Nimue, and now she meant to threaten me to protect Arthur. I supposed that meant that, at least, no child had died. But that night I dreamed dreams that were filled with blood.

  I thought it was best at least to behave as though Arthur had my support, and I wrote to him asking what I could do to help with his war with Lucius. He meant to march out soon. I suggested that he might need my help as a healer, and suggested that I might leave Ywain in the care of his Queen. I thought that if she had an infant child, then it would be suitable enough. I did not say so, though. I offered the help of Gore’s armies, and expressed all the sisterly affection I was able. It was easy to pretend.

  Arthur wrote back quickly, though I suspected that it was actually Nimue who penned the letter, since it was neatly written in fine script and I had seen Arthur squint and struggle over his books as a boy. The letter thanked me for my offer of help, and accepted it, but said that I could not leave Ywain in Camelot since Guinevere was riding out to war with him. Did that mean she had lost the child anyway? Or that Merlin had taken it? Had he begun whatever he had been planning?

  On the back of Arthur’s letter, Kay had scrawled three words: “Go to Benwick.”

  Benwick was the dead King Ban’s castle in the south of France. Lancelot would be there, and I was glad to go, but I suspected that Kay had suggested that because he wanted me far from Arthur. I ought not to have blamed him for his care for his foster-brother, but I did.

  I made the arrangements for my armies in Gore to ride with Arthur’s to Brittany, and left before them, alone, with only my books and the essentials I needed for my medicine and magic. The journey was long and tedious, and I hated travelling across the sea. It made me sick. I had never been to Benwick before, so I could not wish myself there, and I had forgotten how long and uncomfortable and tedious a ride across country could be. I was safe enough riding alone; my woaded face kept the robbers and rough men away.

  I was glad when, after a week of travelling, Benwick Castle emerged over the horizon. It was different from the castles that I knew in Britain. Not tall and sharp like Lothian Castle, or Rheged, or huge and grand like Camelot, Benwick was small and squat, round-towered but encased in a square wall that looked dangerously low after the sheer towers of Rheged. It had, at least, a moat around it, but it did not seem to me as well-built for siege as Britain’s castles were.

  The drawbridge was lowered for me as I arrived, so there must have been someone in the castle who knew who I was.

  It was Lancelot who had commanded I be let into the castle. I recognised him instantly, standing in the middle of the courtyard in his armour, his helm in his hand. If anything, he was yet more handsome than when I had seen him last. Warfare suited him, like it suited Arthur, though in a different way. It made Arthur hearty and bold where it made Lancelot watchful and thoughtful. He greeted me with a nod, and came forward to take my horse’s reins as I rode into the courtyard and slipped from my saddle.

  “Lady Morgan,” he greeted me softly, “Kay wrote to say I should expect you. Are you well?”

  “I’m well,” I answered.

  “Kay told me you lost your husband. I’m sorry.” He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, looking down. Why was he uncomfortable? I wondered how much Kay still wrote to Lancelot, how close they still were. I did not know what to say. I was not sorry at all, nor did I really know why Kay had told him. Of course, this meant that Kay had also told him that I had tried to kill Arthur. I didn’t care.

  I made some noncommittal noise to accept his sympathy and he led me up to the room he had for me. He talked on the way of the plans they had for the war, and he seemed far more comfortable talking business with me.

  “You have come at the right time, Morgan. In less than a week we will ride north to meet Arthur when he arrives at Calais.”

  I was glad when he left me alone in my room. It was small and plain, but I did not mind. It was a welcome change from a room seeped in memories. But nonetheless, when I slept I dreamed strange dreams. I dreamed that I lay in my bed in Rheged, and a hand drew back the bed curtains, but it was not Accolon, it was Lancelot, and he took me in his arms and we had the same desperately tender love we had had in my dream long ago, and I woke still warm with it, with the feel of his kiss against my lips tingling around me, like the kiss of a ghost.

  I dressed in the black jewelled dress, and the crown of Gore. It was best to look as powerful as I was. Lancelot came in the morning to bring me to his counsel. When he came, the memory of the dream was still close about me, and I felt nervous. He seemed distracted with thoughts of war and he rushed ahead of me to the small room where he met with the others who commanded his army under him. The others were already there, and among them I recognised Ector’s brother, Bors. He bore little resemblance to Ector, or to Lancelot with whom he shared only a father, being stocky and short with sandy-brown hair and an angry, square face. I wondered what he made of being under the command of his younger half-brother, but Lancelot had a quiet authority and I had never known a man question him. When Bors saw me, he started back.

  “Lancelot, you are not bringing a witch to counsel, are you?” he asked.

  Lancelot looked innocently between us, and his brow crinkled slightly in confusion.

  “You’re not afraid of her, are you Bors?” he asked.

  Bors blustered back, shaking his head, upset at having been accused of being afraid of anything.

  “Morgan is wise from her time in Avalon, and she has the knowledge of healing. She will be very helpful to us,” Lancelot explained.

  He turned and gave me an encouraging smile, and I felt my stomach flutter slightly. I felt angry with myself for being vulnerable to my desire for Lancelot. I was not a shy little virgin anymore, a simple country girl to be flustered by the attention of handsome men. I ought not to be pleased to have a smile from him. He had been rude to me. I was a grown woman, brave and powerful. I knew the Black Arts and I had killed a man. I would not be made weak but one knight who had kissed me in the forest.

  It was only two days later when the army began its march north. It was a short march, and Arthur had not yet come, so Lancelot’s army set up its pavilions to wait for him, on the borders of the land Lucius had taken. I stayed mostly with the camp, with the local women who followed behind either to heal with what limited magic and knowledge they had, or to give their comfort to the knights any other way they pleased. I knew what war was like, and I was not surprised to see men I knew as honourable knights take the peasant women that followed the camp as they chose, but I was pleased that Lancelot was not among those that did so. The camp grew as the men set up pavilions in preparation for Arthur’s arrival – one in white and blue-green with Uther’s woad-blue dragon flying from the top of it for Arthur, and one in Lothian’s dark blue for the sons of Lot, and others, more and more besides to await the arrival of the rest of the army.

  Injuries were few whilst we were waiting, and I had little work. I avoided Lancelot. I felt a little lonely, a little lost among all the men. At least people either respected me – the blue of my face, my knowledge of healing – or they were afraid.

  When Arthur’s army came, there was great celebration and feasting, though there were fewer of them than I had expected. I had dreaded their coming, for that was when the war would begin in earnest. They were young men, still, only tested in the small wars of Britain. Arthur and his men were about to throw themselves against Europe’s mightiest force, Rome. I was not sure we would survive it, but it was either that or sit in our castles in Britain and wait for Lucius and the armies of Rome to come and crush us.

  Arthur had, at least, brought healing women with him. There were a couple from Avalon, but they were before their woad and I only knew they were from Avalon from overhearing them talk. Among them, too, were the two Breton women who had come over with Guinevere. I wondered how much healing they
truly knew. I joined the healing women, glad for female company. The two Breton women kept mostly to themselves, I noticed.

  Then the first battle came. We stood in the centre of the camp, the other healing women and I, waiting for when the first injured man would come. I had put away my crown and my jewelled dress, and had returned instead to plain black wool. I did not want to speak to Kay, or Arthur, and I was happy to stay innocuous. A few of the women chattered, but most of us were quiet and tense. We could not see the battlefield from where we were, only the crowd of pavilions and the short, scrubby grass around them. There was something vulnerable about the pavilions made in rich silk. Beautiful, but strangely unwarlike. When Arthur had fought with Lot, the men had slept wild, in the dirt, in the forest, in caves. Already, Britain and France were powerful enough and rich enough to wage war in luxury. There was something perverse about it.

  Only a few injured men came, and I was glad. Everyone returning seemed pleased, flushed with victory. I did not rush forward to any of the injured men, since there were plenty of us, and no one I recognised was injured. Instead, I wandered through the camp towards the dark blue tent that would house Lot’s sons. It was right by Arthur’s, and I did not want to run into him or Kay, but I wanted to see my nephews.

  I was pleased to see Gawain, Aggravain and Gaheris standing outside their pavilion. They all greeted me warmly, but Gawain made a quick excuse to leave. It seemed that he was commanding a wing of Arthur’s army. I imagined Aggravain would be jealous; his twin brother had won Arthur’s favour fighting at his side in the war with the five kings, and he had been left behind.

  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 Thirty Nine

  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-plated. 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.