MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy

by Lavinia Collins

  The ghost of a smile flickered across Guinevere’s face, but I did not think she would smile for me. She reached up and touched the crown on her head, her face thoughtful. She murmured some kind of thank you, and I left.

  I sat for the jousting at the back of the raised platform that Arthur shared with those he favoured most. Guinevere sat at his side, the stolen crown on her head, and a thick fur of white flecked with black around her shoulders against the cold. I was wearing my dress of black gems, and wore one of my mother’s old furs. Not as rich as the Queen’s, nor as fine as the cloak of white fur Arthur had over his red and gold surcoat, but warm enough.

  For the most part, the jousting was dull. Those expected to do well did well; Gawain, his brothers, Lancelot and Kay. When Lancelot rode into the field, I noticed that he had a cloth of gold tied to his helm, and I turned to the woman beside me – the wife of some knight or other who had found particular favour with Arthur during the war – and asked her whose token it was.

  “Oh, don’t you know?” the woman replied, with a smug smile to know more than the King’s own sister. “Sir Lancelot rides for the Queen. He has been named her champion, since he saved her life on the battlefield.”

  I watched Lancelot ride, knocking man after man down, and I watched Guinevere’s eyes follow her cloth of gold back and forth up and down the jousting field. When he was not there, she looked bored and restless. Arthur was gripped by it all, and by the way he sat forward in his chair, I could tell he longed to be out there in the lists.

  At last, it was only Kay in his black Otherworld armour and Lancelot left. When they crashed together, both men fell from their horses, and a shout came from the crowd. Guinevere, too, got to her feet. I saw Arthur reach out and take her hand, saying something comforting, but she did not look away from Lancelot and Kay, fighting on foot now. I could not see properly from where I was, but I knew what the outcome would be, anyway. Lancelot would win. Far more interesting was the fact that Guinevere had jumped to her feet when they fell from their horses. She had been alone with Kay in Camelot all winter long, healing him of his wound, perhaps telling him her secrets. They both had Otherworld blood in their veins, and I knew that he had grown fond of her. More than fond. What had he said? I cannot pretend that I have not imagined what it would be like. What had he imagined? What it would be like to kiss her? To tell her how he felt about her? To hear her tell him she felt the same? To take her to bed? Things he should never have imagined of his foster-brother’s wife. And she had jumped to her feet when she saw him fall. Could it be true? She was angry with Arthur, blamed him for leaving her alone in Camelot, suspected him of having other women while he was on campaign. Kay was handsome, charming and kind, and she had saved his life. It was not unreasonable to believe that a natural affection had grown between them. Would it be so easy?

  After Lancelot had been declared the victor, Guinevere rushed away, though I knew we were all supposed to be going on to a great feast to celebrate – once more – Arthur’s great victory.

  I slipped away, too, and followed her up to her room. If she was going to crack, I would have to push her now, while she was flustered and vulnerable. I was slow through the crowd that she had evaded with her swift exit, and by the time I got to her chamber, she seemed to be about to leave for the feast. She had taken off her crown and set it on the table by her window, and thrown off her furs. I could see the flush against the pale skin of her chest still, though, and a promising wildness in her eyes. I shut the door behind me, and leaned back against it. I wondered if I could coax her into some kind of feminine confidence with me, as I had seen her share with her Breton maids.

  “Morgan,” she said, softly, “are you coming down to eat?”

  She was polite, but distant.

  I glanced at the crown on the table.

  “You’re not wearing the crown,” I observed. I wondered if she had taken it off because of what I had said about Cleopatra being the lover of two different men.

  “It’s heavy,” she answered, drawing back into herself. I saw I would not win her confidence. She was resistant, defensive.

  “You should,” I told her. She did not react. She gave a little impatient sigh as though she wanted me to move out of the way. I tried one last time. I could not appeal to her sympathy, but I could appeal to her pride.

  “I took a lover,” I told her. I had her attention. “Many men do it, some women. We should do as they do, our husbands. That is, just as we please.”

  “I do just as I please,” she answered immediately, her voice cold and sharp. I had her. She had been easy to tempt. The proud always were.

  “As does Arthur,” I replied, slipping away through the door, leaving her with the thought.

  I went to my own room then, to collect the drink I had mixed for Lancelot. Perhaps it was risky, distracting myself with this second quest of mine, but I wanted both. I wanted Arthur’s wife and Lancelot to be free to express their own desires. His for me, hers for Kay. And why should I not encourage her? Would she not be better with a kind man like Kay, than one like Arthur who boasted to his men of the nights they spent together? I had been happier once I had had a lover. I was not entirely sure that I was ready to offer Kay up to another, but I did not think I would care once I had the truth from Lancelot. It would be worth the exchange.

  I came early to the feast. Lancelot would take his place beside the Queen as her champion, so it was easy to fill his cup with what I had brought before anyone else arrived. I was pleased to see that Nimue was there, and to see her sit at my side. She had made her threats, and she was friendly enough now. She thought that I had submitted myself to her. I had helped Arthur. She seemed to have forgiven me. She even told me she had missed me.

  Kay and Lancelot came in together, and Kay sat in the seat beside Lancelot. I saw him notice that Lancelot’s cup was the only one that was already filled, and glance at me, but I looked away before he could catch my eye. The seats around us were filling, and the men were filling their cups with wine, so it stood out less. I was beginning to feel the little glow of victory about me when Lancelot seemed to be about to drink from his cup, but then I saw him notice something, a speck of dust or dirt on the cup waiting in the space beside his. Guinevere’s cup. I noticed, too, that she had not yet arrived. Lancelot swapped the cups over, with that thoughtless deferential instinct that he should spare his Queen the dirty cup. Kay went to stop him, but it was too late, and Kay would not get the cups switched back, for at that moment, Guinevere entered the hall and took her place beside Arthur. As soon as she sat, she reached for her cup and took a deep drink from it. I saw Kay wince.

  I was sorry that I would not have the truth from Lancelot, but perhaps this would be even better. Perhaps the Queen would finish her cup and then throw herself into Kay’s arms. I could hope for that. Arthur, who seemed to have arrived at the feast from some other celebration of the tournament with Gawain – whose loud voice I could hear already garrulous with wine – leaned over and pressed a clumsy kiss against his wife’s cheek. I thought I saw a look of distaste flicker across her face. Arthur’s war was already fracturing them apart, and her jealousy, and Arthur’s complete obliviousness.

  As the feast went on and the hall filled with the heat of people drinking and celebrating, and the smell of the firewood, even I, whose head was clear of wine, was feeling a little hazy. Still, I kept my eyes on the Queen, and I knew Kay was watching her as well. I ate a little of the food; it was sweet and rich, and I had never lost my taste for plain, simple food that I had acquired in the abbey. The flush came quick to Guinevere’s cheeks, and, for the first time in public, I saw her bright smile break across her face as she began to loosen up with the drink I had given her. She was talking to Lancelot beside her, but I could see Kay’s eyes following her movements, following the cup as she lifted it again to her lips. She had finished it already, and someone had re-filled the cup with wine. I had mixed it for a full-grown man, and Lancelot was, I would have guessed, ha
lf her weight again.

  Nimue beside me was, to my surprise, drinking heartily from her own cup, giggling with the knight Dinadan beside her, a small, quick-eyed man with a keen smile. I wondered if she was drinking because she did not like so well to look on Arthur and his wife. She met with him alone. Perhaps she liked to pretend that the wife did not exist.

  Suddenly, it turned. Guinevere pressed the palms of her hands into the table as though she were steadying herself. I could see her flush darker for a moment, and then pale. It had been too much. Lancelot beside her was asking her if she was alright, but she did not seem to hear him. She pushed herself up to her feet, blowing her breath out slow, trying to get herself under control. I noticed, with annoyance, that even reeling and sick, there was some kind of fierce perfection to her, a kind of abandon all about her that I did not want to look away from.

  Arthur beside her suddenly seemed to notice that she was standing. He reached out and took her hand, his gaze up at her tender, and loving, but bleary with wine.

  “My love, where are you going?” he asked.

  She shook her head, as though trying to shake away the dizziness. If only Kay had managed to stop Lancelot. “I don’t feel well,” she said, thickly, her Breton accent stronger with the wine.

  “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 Forty Three

  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 lu
rch, 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 been 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.