MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy

by Lavinia Collins

  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 only 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 sig
h 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.

  “That’s a nasty trick, Morgan,” Lancelot said.

  I turned to him, shaken as he was, but strengthened by my anger. “It’s the truth, Lancelot. Ask Kay if you don’t believe me. He won’t lie to you.”

  “Just go,” Lancelot said, tense and angry, as he turned away from me. I had meant for him to understand that people did not need to love one another, that no one else was sleeping alone until they fell in love, and that he did not need to feel that he owed Kay some kind of misplaced fidelity. I had not meant to upset him. I had not meant to upset myself. It had been the way Kay said her name. Had he not loved me? He could not have possibly loved Morgawse. He had been different with Lancelot.

  I left, wishing I had never tried my hand at the new Black Arts I had learned on Lancelot. I wondered, suddenly, if Merlin were still screaming under that rock, the sound of the waves drowning him out. Perhaps he would scream for the rest of time, and no one would ever hear him again.

  Lancelot did not speak to me after that, if he could help it. I felt awkward too, nervous and uneasy. I spent most of the time I was not with the other healing women with my nephews. They were always laughing and joking, and it was relaxing to listen to their easy chatter. None of them seemed to be worried by the war. All three were strong and brave, and Gawain a seasoned fighter already, so I did not worry for them. I only worried a little when I saw Aggravain watch his twin brother called into war councils with Arthur without him, or honoured always for his deeds on the battlefield while Aggravain was ignored. The rumour was that Aggravain was the elder, and certainly he was the more shrewd. I kept my eye on him. Perhaps this was what Aggravain wanted. Perhaps he thought he could have Lothian all for himself if Gawain grew close enough with Arthur. If such a thing would happen, Aggravain would know about it. Aggravain heard – and repeated – every scrap of gossip that came through the court. It was from him I learned what had become of the awful bargain I had made with Merlin. He told me that everyone at Camelot said that Merlin had pulled the child from the Queen’s womb as retribution for Arthur fathering a bastard child with his own sister. I knew that was not quite true, but I felt the cold clamp of guilt at my stomach that I had given away the life of the girl I had seen full grown for the sake of nothing at all. Well, Morgawse and her youngest son were safe. He told me, too, that it was only after that that Nimue had returned Excalibur to Arthur. I wondered if she had needed it for that awful magic that she had used to shut Merlin beneath the rock.

  Chapter Forty

  The campaign against Lucius was going well. Arthur took Carhais back, and said that he would leave Kay and a small contingent of knights behind there to hold it while he turned his attention south to Lucius’ forces that were still pressing upwards against him. Still, though there was already a sense of tentative victory around the camp, and though the knights now rode south from the camp rather than defensively back on themselves to the north, I sensed a change in Arthur. I did not see him often, since he was either on the battlefield or in his pavilion with his wife, but when I did he seemed tense and anxious. I noticed, too, that Guinevere no longer rode with the archers, who hung back from the battlefield, but right at Arthur’s side.

  My fears were proved correct one day when the spring was just shading in to summer. It was bright and warm, and I stood with the other women at the centre of the camp, waiting. Against the bright of the sun, I could see a knight riding from the glint off his armour, but it took me a long time to recognise him against the glare. It was only when I saw the sun catch on something bright red that, with a stab of fear, I realised there were two people on the horse riding towards us. A knight, and the Queen. I stepped forward first, and the two Breton women close behind me. I saw the older one cast me a suspicious look, but I ignored her. As the knight rode closer, I saw it was Lancelot from his red and white striped shield. The Queen was slumped back against him, her eyes shut, her face pale. He had one hand around her waist, awkwardly holding her tight against him. It looked, from where I was, as though his hand was up under her armoured vest. That meant a wound. Her hair fell all around her; she had lost her mail cap, and there was mud on one side of her face and down one arm, as though she had fallen from her horse. I was sure that Arthur could not be far behind.

  The two Breton women stepped forward to catch her off the horse as Lancelot stopped before them. He jumped off, tearing off his helm and throwing it aside, and he lifted her from their arms as they awkwardly tried to carry her, and strode ahead of them, the Queen in his arms, into Arthur’s tent. I ran in after the Breton women.

  Lancelot laid her gently on the bed and pulled off his breastplate and his greaves. His hands were already bare. One of his hands was dark with blood. He did not seem to notice. The Breton women rushed to her side, the little one gasping and fussing, the older one clicking her tongue. I thought she might have expected Lancelot to move back, but he did not. I walked around the other side of the bed to get a better look. The Queen did not look conscious.

  The older Breton woman cast Lancelot a sharp look, as though she expected him to leave, but when he either did not notice, or did not care, she sighed in frustration and began to unbuckle Guinevere’s armoured vest. She and the young girl lifted it away. Beneath, Guinevere had a thin vest of silk that was soaked all down one side with blood. The older woman, who was the one, I understood, with the knowledge of healing skills, leaned over her and slowly pulled up the vest at the side until the wound showed. It was a deep cut a few inches long, down her ribs, but there was no bruise, so I thought with a wary hope that the bones there were not broken. I leaned forward, to offer my help, the healing that was in my touch – for there had been enough to heal Lancelot’s wounds overnight – and the older woman – whom I had liked when I had come as the English maid to Guinevere’s bedroom – slapped my hand away.

  “Get your death hands away from her,” she snapped. Then under her breath she muttered, “Avalon. That’s no school of medicine I have ever heard of.”

  Lancelot said something to her in French, too fast and low for me to understand, and she turned and started shouting at him in French. I imagined it was about me, and whether or not I should be allowed to touch the Queen. He had felt the power of my healing, so I was sure he was defending my right to be there. Lancelot was shaking his head and gesturing at the wound in her side, and the woman was shaking her head in return, her French too fast and heavily accented with Breton for me to follow. Then, suddenly, the younger woman, who had leaned over the Queen, gasped and the other two stopped. She had two fingers in the wound, and between them, covered in blood, I could see the dark grey of a shard of iron. She pulled, and a shard the size of her thumb came out, and with it, a gush of blood. The three of them froze, staring at it in disbelief. I walked around to pick up the armoured vest, and snatch the shard, and fit it into a broke
n plate of armour on it. Something had struck her to break her armour, and a shard of it had embedded in her side when she fell from her horse. I was pleased to see that the shard fitted exactly, so there was nothing left inside her.

  The older woman was telling Lancelot to leave in French, but he was shaking his head, saying he wanted to stay until Arthur got there. The woman rolled her eyes, and pulled the blood-stained vest off Guinevere. Lancelot turned away. I saw him blush. He should have listened to her.

  “You,” the older woman said to me, sharply, “make yourself useful and get some hot water.”

  What would happen when Arthur came to find his wife unconscious, injured, and half-naked with one of his knights refusing to leave her side?

  I came back quickly with the water. The woman quickly cleaned the wound, and wrapped it with linen and pulled a clean vest over Guinevere’s head, casting another dirty look at Lancelot. He did not see, he was still looking away, but the young girl, Marie, kindly tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around. Marie moved so that he could see her properly, taking a cloth soaked in the hot water and placing it against her brow. Guinevere seemed to stir a little, and murmured.