MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy

by Lavinia Collins

  Lancelot asked the girl something in Breton, and she replied. I was surprised. I had not known that he spoke Breton, though I supposed he had grown up in France.

  I could hear Arthur shouting outside the tent, and I rushed outside. He was jumping from his horse, Kay close behind him. Neither of them saw me; they both rushed inside, as though I was not even there. Lancelot left as they came in, but he did not go far. He stood with me outside, listening. Kay had not gone in far, but hung back by the entrance to the pavilion. So, he was wary, too. That meant that Arthur was angry.

  For a long time it was quiet; then I heard soft voices. The Queen must have woken up. However, the soft voices soon became shouting. I could hear Arthur shouting, and I could hear the raw anger in his voice, and I was surprised to hear her shouting back, her anger as powerful as his. So, she was not afraid of him. Was he angry because she had wanted to fight? But it was more than anger, really. I had seen him. He was afraid, and upset. Suddenly, Arthur strode angrily from the tent. As he passed us, I heard him shout, “Someone take her back to Britain.”

  Lancelot looked at me, his eyes wide with dread. Kay followed Arthur out, shaking his head and rubbing his face. He glanced at us, gave a defeated half-smile, and walked off after Arthur.

  Before the night came, a small party of knights and the older Breton woman left the camp, north, for Britain. I heard from Aggravain that Lancelot had asked to go with them and Arthur had refused, saying that he needed Lancelot with him. I sent a letter to Morgawse back with them. It said,

  “Your sons are doing well at war. Much better than the Queen, who has been sent back to Britain injured. Now might be a good time to send Gareth to Camelot. Hope all are thriving in Lothian. War is very dull, but we seem to be winning. Morgan.”

  And we were winning. I stayed with the medicine women, still wary around Lancelot. Now that Guinevere was in Britain, both Arthur and Lancelot seemed to fight harder on the battlefield. Arthur seemed relieved his Queen had gone home.

  We marched south, all the way to the south of France when summer was at its height. We had left Kay and a small garrison of knights behind to hold the retaken Breton city of Carhais, and as the weeks wore on I grew jealous of those who had stayed in the cooler north. In the south, it was unbearably hot, and the men sweated hard in their armour, and I, too, under my black woollen dress. I thought we would turn back then for Britain, but we did not.

  I was lonely, but none of the other women seemed to like talking to me that much. They were guarded, secretive, awkward when I tried to make conversation. Not that I often tried. Word had got around how quickly I had healed Lancelot, and how I had not been allowed to touch the Queen, and people whispered about me. I heard what they had begun to call me. Morgan le Fay. They began to say I could curse a man with a look, make a woman barren with my touch. But, in the depths of the night, a few of the women who followed the camp came to me, alone and afraid, asking me to give them the drink I had taken myself long ago, when I had been with Kay’s child. I had been strong, and I had had magic in my blood, but some of the girls I gave it to were weak or sickly or somehow wrong-blooded, and when the bleeding began it did not stop, and they died. I warned them well enough when I gave it to them, but I was still blamed for their deaths. I did not ask, because I did not want to know, if those children I killed were fathered by my half-brother Arthur, or my old lover Kay, or my young nephews. I doubted some of the women would even have known the names of the men who had taken them up and then casually cast them away. I did not ask their names, nor did they often want to tell me. Those women were the casualties of war that men never spoke about.

  By the autumn, the camp had moved south to Marseille. Arthur, no longer distracted by the presence of his wife, spent most of his time off the battlefield with Gawain and Lancelot, talking strategy. I was pleased that Lancelot was busy, still embarrassed to have once again been kissed and rejected by him, and to have shaken us both with that awful spell. But I had learned from it, and would be more careful next time.

  The time came when Arthur had to decide whether to march south into Italy and turn the attack on Lucius or, his lands defended and re-garrisoned, return home. I was surprised when I was called to his counsel on this.

  When I arrived, it had already begun. Gawain was dressed in his armour with his helm in his hand, but Lancelot and Arthur were in their shirts and breeches. It was the end of the day, and someone had lit a brazier in the tent that threw a warm light through it, and warmed against the new chill of autumn in the air. There was something cosy, something homely about it that seemed desperately at odds with war, and made me long for Britain and home. Aggravain and Ector were there, too, but hanging back, listening. Arthur was pacing up and down before the other two when I arrived.

  “If we pull back, securing our borders on the way, then we will lose no more men. If we march on Rome, it is riskier, but then the threat from Lucius is gone forever,” he was saying, almost to himself.

  “We have to attack Rome,” Gawain said. “Lucius dishonoured you by attacking the lands under your protection, by demanding tribute from Britain. This is a question of honour, Arthur. We can’t turn back.”

  Arthur nodded. I noticed Lancelot cast a wary look back at Ector, who said nothing. It must have been strange for him, having to keep his thoughts quiet around the boy he had raised as his own.

  “Arthur,” Lancelot began gently, “peace is better than ever more war. Lucius has suffered heavy losses. I do not think he will attack again. Meet and make terms for peace. A marriage, or something like that. Lucius has a daughter, and you have many unmarried nephews.”

  Gawain gave a derisive snort, as though he did not like the idea of marriage much, but Arthur seemed swayed a little by what Lancelot had said. Still, after Britain, Arthur had got a taste for war, for conquering. I knew he would want it. He was young, and he was tired of men questioning him because of it, tired, I thought, too, of being known only as Uther Pendragon’s son. He had won back his father’s kingdoms against the five kings, and the chance was offering itself to him, now, to be so much more than his father had been.

  “Arthur,” I stepped forward, cautiously, “it might be best to sue for peace. Make a marriage to seal it. Go home.”

  Arthur turned to look at me as though he had forgotten he had sent for me, but he did nod in agreement.

  “But, Morgan, a man must have his honour,” he replied softly.

  “Arthur, don’t you want to go back home? Back to your wife?” Arthur sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair.

  “I cannot return to her without a proper victory.” I did not think she would care.

  “Arthur, my Lord Arthur!” A cry came from outside the tent, and a boy ran in, barely more than a child, his face flushed, his eyes wide with fear. He was gasping for his breath as though he had run or ridden hard all day to get to us. He was gasping too hard to speak as he handed Arthur a scrap of parchment. When Arthur read it, I saw his face turn dark.

  “What is it?” Lancelot asked.

  Arthur crumpled the paper in his hands.

  “It is Kay.”

  “Kay?” Lancelot asked.

  “Lucius’ forces have crept back up around us and attacked Carhais again. Kay and the knights with him killed them all. Kay has been injured. They are sending him back to Britain. Why?” Arthur shouted suddenly. He turned to me. “Morgan, why would they not send him here? You are here. You have saved many men’s lives with your hands. Why have they sent Kay to Britain?” Arthur tore the letter in his hands into pieces and threw it in the fire. He rubbed his face, hard. “Well, then we have no choice,” he said. “I cannot leave Kay unavenged. Lucius will be punished for this. We will march on Rome.”

  I saw the apprehension cross Lancelot’s face, both for Kay and for the war. And I sensed the victory on Gawain’s mind. Gawain had a hunger in him for glory, I could see that. I did not blame him entirely. He had knelt before Arthur in submission. I somewhat believed that Gawain
wanted someone else to know how that felt. I could not say that we were entirely different, in that regard.

  Kay, I thought. I had forgotten that I still cared for Kay. Certainly, I did not wish him dead. The Breton medicine woman was in Britain, at least. I did not think much of her skills, more science than art, but perhaps it would be enough.

  “I want to go back to Britain,” I said, suddenly. Arthur turned to me in disbelief.

  “You can’t, Morgan. I need you here,” he said sharply.

  I could feel Lancelot looking at me. He would step in to agree with Arthur, I was sure, if I objected. He would want to keep me away from Kay.

  So, I was kept there, and the decision was made to march on Rome. The opposing forces were depleted, and Arthur’s army swift, and so it was only the tail end of autumn when we reached the city. Lucius had gathered back his forces to defend the heart-centre of his Empire, but Arthur’s army outnumbered them three to one, and when they descended on Rome it was over fast.

  From where I stood in the camp with the other women, we could hear the screaming and the clashing of steel. In the evening, when the late autumn sun was setting behind Lucius’ huge palace, the men pushed the great gates open and we all walked in, through the smoking city, half in ruins, many of the houses still burning, right to its centre. Arthur’s men had torn through it, hungry for destruction, and I could smell in the air that there had been slaughter, and it made me sick.

  Arthur stood before his men on the steps of the ancient senate-house. They were all shouting and cheering. Gawain and Lancelot stood either side of him, too, Gawain grinning with victory, Lancelot still and pensive. They did not see me in the crowd. It was only after a moment that I saw, clasped by its grey beard in Arthur’s hand, the head of the Emperor Lucius.

  The knights pulled up the barrels of food and of wine from the cellars of the Emperor’s palace, and pulled down the benches of the senate-house into its central floor for makeshift trestle tables. When Arthur saw me, he called me to his side at the high table he had set up, with Lancelot and Gawain at his side, and Ector and Gawain’s brothers further from his special favour, and I sat with them and watched as Arthur’s knights drank Rome’s wine and shouted and cheered and sang. Over and over again they told and re-told the stories of the final conquest, the work of that day, and I looked out over the shouting, swearing, drinking men who had torn down the benches of the senate house to make themselves a mead hall, all dirty and sweaty and bloody from battle still, and I thought what savages we are.

  I had read some histories of Rome in the abbey – Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita, the great epics of Virgil and Statius – and I had read the work of Roman poets and philosophers – the wry humour of Catullus and Horace, and the harsh philosophies of Seneca and the Stoics. I knew what they would make of Arthur and his rabble, who shook the heads of their enemies in front of their baying army, who tore down the ancient civilisation around them for the sake of a night of drinking and feasting. The men were wild with victory, and drunkenly grabbed at the women among them. I was glad to be far from it, to be on the high table – if it could be called such a thing. Still, the talk here was hardly less crude. Gawain was laughing with his brothers about the Emperor’s daughter. I had missed the beginning of his story, and I was glad of it. I did not want to listen to my nephews talk about such things. Arthur was drunk, flushed and grinning, talking to Lancelot, who was quiet and sober at his side. He should have been drinking like the rest of them.

  “I will ride back to Britain,” Arthur was saying, slightly too loud, slightly too slow, “and I will tell my wife that she is an Empress now, and then I will...” Arthur made an expressive gesture, and Lancelot blushed, “love her like an Emperor should.”

  “If she is not still angry with you,” I said, before I realised I had spoken. Perhaps I had drunk more of the Roman wine than I thought I had.

  Arthur turned to me. “What are you talking about, Morgan?” he demanded.

  “It did not sound to me like she wanted to be sent back to Britain,” I pointed out, haughtily. I did not like the way he talked about her. It made me think of the Breton queen, to whom I felt a strange sense of duty still, long after her death.

  “You don’t know what you are talking about, Morgan,” he replied, with a shrug. He did not seem bothered. He did not seem worried. But Lancelot caught my eye, and I knew that he understood. I stayed quiet for the rest of the feast, and when the men began to disperse, I hung back, hoping that Lancelot might want to speak with me, but he left with Arthur once Gawain had dragged one of the women out with him, and I was left to walk back to the camp on my own. In the cold autumn night the stars seemed sharp and hostile.

  Chapter Forty One

  The journey back to Britain was slow. The army was tired and winter was setting in, and got colder and colder as we moved north. But, we returned with victory.

  When we came in the great gates of Camelot, I heard the shout go up and the horns sound. There was crying and shouting with joy; it was a city welcoming back its conquering King. The boy Kay had teased as a child was now truly a great man. He had defeated an Emperor, he had made Britain safe. A small party had ridden ahead to warn of Arthur’s coming, Lancelot among them, and when I rode into the courtyard beside Arthur, I saw the Queen waiting there. She had a cloak of thick grey furs around her, but beneath, a dress of plain, rough wool. She was not wearing a crown, or any jewels, and she looked thin. Was this how things had been in Camelot? I glanced through the crowd for Kay. News had not come to us of his death, so I hoped that he had survived, but it felt ill not to see him.

  Arthur did not seem to notice how thin his Queen looked, how hungry his people, after his long war, but he jumped from his horse to lift her into his arms, and pull her against him in a passionate kiss before she could even speak. I saw Lancelot walk out from the stables where he must have been setting his horse to feed, and his eyes followed Arthur as he took his wife by the hand and rushed her up the stairs of his tower with him.

  I was not sure that Kay would want to see me, so I waited until I was alone in my room, and I took Lancelot’s shape to go looking for him. The last book I had learned from allowed me to change the shape of my clothes, too, and it was easy for me to become the man I saw almost every time my eyes closed. He was easy, so easy for me to become. Too easy.

  I knew where Kay’s bedroom was, and I found him there. When I pushed the door open, Kay sat up on his bed, where he had been lying, and his familiar smile spread across his face.

  “Lancelot, you look well. War suits you. It did not suit me so well, as I suppose you heard.”

  He pulled up his shirt, and at the side of his stomach, I could see the pale knot of a scar. It should not have looked so healed already. Someone with strength in healing as great as mine – or more – had done that. It made me feel wary, uneasy. Who could it have been? Not Nimue. Nimue was many things, but she was no healer.

  “You are well healed,” I said, hearing Lancelot’s soft French tones come from my mouth.

  To my surprise, Kay gestured him – me – further into the room. I stepped in and shut the door behind me. I was not sure that I was prepared enough for what was expected of me if Kay wanted to take Lancelot to bed, but he did not seem to want to. He stood up and rubbed his face, pacing before me.

  “Lancelot, I am going to tell you something I should not,” he said thickly.

  “What is it, Kay?” I asked.

  Kay ran his hands through his hair before turning to look at me. I could see that he was trying to work out what he wanted to say.

  “So, you know that I was injured and I was brought back here? Well, when I was brought here, well, I don’t remember the journey. I was feverish, had strange dreams, but through those dreams – awful dreams – I began hearing this voice. It was speaking to me... in Breton. I did not even know that I had arrived in Camelot, or that Guinevere was here, but it was her voice I heard over and over again, in Breton and in English, saying wish for life,
wish for life. And I remember lying side by side with her on the Round Table. I was dying Lancelot, dying. I had disease in my wound, and she wished it away. I felt it. It was all her. Oh, I don’t know – how can it have been? But there was only darkness, and her voice. Then, when the fever passed away, and I woke, I was in Arthur’s bed and she was there, sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, asleep against her hand as though she had sat up with me all night, and it was like I was seeing her for the first time. I have heard the others talking about her – Gawain, his brothers, you know, the men, the others – but it was as though I had never truly seen her before that moment. She saved my life.” Kay shook his head and ran his hands through his hair again. “You were gone a year. A year. It was a different world here – I – it is not as if anything was said, it is not as if anything was done – I do not even know if she –” Kay shook his head, as though he was trying to shake his troubled thoughts into order. “It was easy to forget the way things truly were. You were all long gone, we were here alone, struggling to feed everyone, to keep the castle in order – but I should not have – I have thought things – ah, I know that sounds like nothing – but I cannot pretend that I have not imagined what it would be like – and then you all returned, and I stood at the window, and I watched Arthur jump from his horse and pick her up in his arms, and I… The world as it was here while you were all gone was an illusion. It was easy to forget, but I should not have done. He is my brother, whatever anyone says about blood. Arthur is my brother and I… But things will go back to the way they were. Yes. I am sure. I do not suppose you like to hear this, though we ought to be long past jealousy now,” Kay added wryly. Then he sighed, “I wish I could undo this.”

  I did not know what to say. I had no comfort to offer Kay, and I was angry and disgusted that now even he was besotted with the Queen. Why would he tell Lancelot? Why would he tell Lancelot about this, and not about Morgawse, who I was sure had been meaningless to him?