That was when it faded, and Kay and I stood face to face in the courtyard, in the cool spring night, the stars bright above us, both shocked, shaken, betrayed. I could not take it in. When I had encouraged Guinevere to take a lover, I had not intended for her to take mine. Oh no, I thought. Oh no, no, no. The day he had come looking for her in Arthur’s camp. That it had been he who caught her when she fell from her horse; he had been watching her. It was he, not Kay, for whom she had jumped to her feet as she watched them fight. Everything he had said: I have a lady, he had said. One whom he could not be with, for the sake of others. It was not me.
“Morgan,” he breathed, “is what we saw... the truth?”
I nodded, and Kay rubbed his face with his hands.
“Well,” Kay said, “then he must go to Cornwall, mustn’t he?”
But it seemed that Kay did not need to push Arthur to send Lancelot, for Lancelot had volunteered himself. Arthur seemed to have no idea what he had walked into the night before, but was his usual cheery self, clapping Lancelot on the back and congratulating him on his bravery for volunteering. Guinevere was quiet and showed nothing.
I could hardly believe that it was true. I walked through the castle like a ghost. The day before I had been on the brink of a love-affair, and now I was rejected once more.
I had to see Guinevere again. I had to go and look at her, see what she had that I lacked. Why had I dreamed of us together, Lancelot and I, in the clear dreams of the future, if it was not to be? I set off towards Guinevere’s room. I would not have to pretend to be someone else just to look at her. All I wanted to do was look. But I was caught on the way by the sound of her voice coming from the little walled garden that sat at the foot of her tower. As I crept closer, I heard that Lancelot was with her. Was she so bold? So reckless? They were arguing again, but their voices were soft and I could not hear the words until I came to the entrance to the garden and hid behind the stone archway that led inside.
“No. You don't have to come to me, I'll come to you. I have gone out hunting in the woods before; Arthur won't deny me. No one will suspect. Go up to my room, and take the book of Ovid. Send it to me, when you are ready, and I will find you.” She paused for a moment. Perhaps he spoke, but his voice was too soft to hear. They made a strange pairing; him shy and quiet, her angry and demanding. But then, I would think myself the better match, would I not? “Tell me it's not what you want, that you don't love me, and I will not ask you again,” I heard her say, softly. They were talking in English. I was sure that Lancelot understood at least a little Breton. It was foolish of them, reckless. What if I were Arthur?
There was a sudden quiet from the garden, and, my heart thudding, I peered through the archway. I could see them clasped together in a kiss, her hands in his hair, his around her waist, both lost in it. I could see the petals tucked into the plait of her hair, twisted up into a bun. I had seen that hair loose and wild, and he had not, and I had known him in my dreams in a way she had not yet known him, and neither of them knew the intimacy I had had with them both, and neither of them saw me. She not at all, he not really. She had taken a lover from her husband’s knights, as I had, and yet hers would live. No man – not even Arthur – would kill Lancelot. He was mine, too, and she had taken him for her own. But she was bolder than I had ever been, wilder and far more lovely. What was left for me, for women like me, when there were women like her?
I forced myself away. Suddenly, awfully, I was filled with same feeling that I had had when I had stood before Accolon with Excalibur drawn in my hands. This is a moment of destiny, I thought. I had not seen this moment, but with a sudden cold dread I realised that I had seen the moments afterwards. Lancelot, the pavilion, the springtime. My skin, pale white and unmarked by woad. It was her skin. I was her in my own dream. Was that really something I would do? Something I could do? I thought, once again, of the Lady of Avalon, long dead now, and her words about Arthur’s conception. He does not know it, but he is a child of rape. I was not sure I was capable of it, and yet I knew, I knew with a deep and empty dread, that I was, and that it had to be.
Chapter Forty Four
I did not have to wait long. Every day, I waited in the shape of the clumsy English maid at the foot of the stairs until the book came back. It was less than a week. Lancelot was, then, more eager even than he had seemed.
On a bright spring morning, I stood at the bottom of the stairs when a grubby peasant boy, paid for the errand with a shiny silver coin I pressed into his hand, handed me the book of Ovid. I glanced down at it. I had seen it before among Guinevere’s books. I could see why she was not hesitant to hazard it. It was a paltry thing – a small volume of Ovid’s stories, translated into French and bastardised with clumsy morals tacked on the end. I took it back to my bedroom, and opened it. Inside the front cover, Lancelot had written something in French. It said, Edge of the woods. Seven miles north. I felt my heart flutter within me.
Whose will was I doing? My own? I was not sure I wanted it this way. I wanted Lancelot to want me, not to have him in the guise of someone else. But perhaps it would be good to prise him from his affection for the Queen. Better for everyone. Suddenly, as clear as the time I had seen it first, I saw once more the vision I had had in Avalon of Arthur, his head bare, fallen from his horse, and Lancelot standing over him with his sword drawn and lifted, ready to strike. Would this be my revenge on Arthur? And something for myself? What did destiny want from me? If I turned back from this moment, all that I had seen might not come to pass. I would never stand on the shores of Avalon with Excalibur in my hand. It had to be. It all had to be.
Once I was sure, I went back in the shape of the maid Margery again, and from the rumpled sheets of Guinevere’s bed, I took her nightdress, and tucked it among my own belongings.
I took my leave of Arthur, saying I had to return to my own kingdom. Arthur seemed sorry that I wanted to depart, but my young son was enough of an excuse to sway him. I had not brought a retinue – no ladies, no knights – so it was easy for me to gather my belongings and leave. I did not know the place, so I had to ride north until I found it. I felt tense and sick inside, but sure that this was the only path that I could take. It was what destiny demanded.
When I came upon the pavilion it was empty. I had some of the mixture I had made before left, and I took the opportunity to pour it into the skin of wine I found among Lancelot’s things. It would be for the better if he was hazy, and unquestioning.
When I had had a good sight of the place, I closed my eyes and pictured myself back in the stables of Rheged. They were not empty when I opened my eyes and found myself there, but that was all to the good. My own people knew I was a witch, and were afraid of me. No one questioned me anymore; no one suggested that a woman should not govern her dead husband’s lands and castle. I did not mind that the quality of their respect was tinged with fear, only that I had it, and had it without question. I took my belongings back to my room, and locked the door. I pulled out Guinevere’s nightdress. It was soft, thin silk, and the scent of it, oddly familiar. Had I spent so long around her, come so close, to know so well the delicate smell of rose petals in her hair, of the fresh grass? I shrugged away the strange, unsettling feeling of it, and pulled off my own dress, and the nightdress on, and stood before the mirror to watch myself become the woman who had everything. My hair, brightening from dark brown to deep, rich red, the patterns fading from my skin, the lines of my face softening, just a little, and my body shrinking, my long limbs moving more into lithe, feminine proportions. I smoothed down the dress over the body that was newly mine. I felt tense, but the sight of myself as her was oddly comforting. We were not so different. We were both angry. We both loved Lancelot. We would both stand on the shores of Avalon, with Excalibur. I knew so much of her, I had dreamed so much of her, I wondered if I was not, already, fading into her. It is easy to lose oneself in another’s shape.
I closed my eyes, and pictured Lancelot’s pavilion on the edge of the woods.
I saw the light in the pavilion before anything else, glowing dark purple through the silk fabric of its walls. Then I saw the trees around it, as I had pictured them, and the low, soft grass around it in the little clearing. The night was dark, and clear. I could see the stars bright overhead, and a sliver of the growing moon. A good time for it. I began to feel the world more solidly around me, the grass beneath my bare feet, the light spring breeze on my cheeks, and through the thin silk of my stolen dress. It was strange to see my hands before me without the blue of the woad, to feel the different movements of another’s body. She was a little stronger, a little more lean and muscular than I. But it was not really her body tonight. It was mine.
I walked over slowly, and stepped into the pavilion. For a moment, Lancelot did not notice, as he sat in a small wooden chair, staring into the low coals of the brazier. They lit his face orange, casting shadows against his high cheekbones, his thoughtful mouth. A gust of breeze flapped the tent door, and the noise of it made him look up. He saw me then, and as though unconsciously, as though moving in a dream, he stood to his feet. Taken with a sudden rush, he strode across the pavilion towards me. He gently took my face in his hands, and pressed his forehead lightly against mine. I could feel the fluttering of my heart within me, the heat already kindling deep within. I forced myself to push away the thought that it was not me that he saw. I turned my face up towards his, closer, and I felt his nose brush against mine as he leaned down to me.
“Guinevere,” he whispered, but I did not care. He drew me into a kiss. On his lips I tasted the wine, and the heady spice of the herbs that I had given him in it. I felt the slightest tremble of desire run through me, like a spark of fire. I pushed him back gently towards the pile of silk cushions beside the brazier and the chair. I slid my hands up under his shirt, feeling the hardness of muscle beneath, the softness of his skin, and the brush of the soft, inviting hair that ran down from his navel. I should have held back, I should have been more cautious, but I had waited so long, and the desires of my body were clouding my mind. I had dreamed long ago of this, and I had waited and waited and this was the moment, and I could not hold myself back from it. I pulled the shirt up over his head, and threw it aside. He drew away then, holding my face gently in his hands.
“Guinevere,” he whispered, his voice thick with anxiety that I had not expected, “I have to tell you, I... You are used to a man who has known many women. There has been – I have known no other woman. I... I am not sure that I know exactly –”
I rested my fingertips lightly against his lips, and shushed him gently. He closed his eyes for a second, and I felt his lips yield slightly under my touch. I took a step back from him, and unwound my hair. I was half-surprised to see it fall, thick and red, in curls around me. I was already forgetting that I had come in another’s shape. Then I reached down and slowly pulled the fine silk dress up over my head, and stood naked before him. I saw his eyes mist over with desire, and a low sigh escaped his lips.
“I am sure nature will take its course,” I replied softly. The voice when I spoke was her voice; low and sweet with its Breton tones.
Lancelot did not need any more prompting. I expected him, however, to rush at me all at once the way all the others had done, wild with desire. He no longer hesitated, but his touch was light and teasingly slow as he ran his hands over me. I had never been touched like that; not by a man whose eyes were full of wonder, not by one who wanted to know every inch, not by one who was not hasty to have his own pleasure. He let me wait until I was wild for him, my body aching, though no longer because he did not dare. I slipped him from his clothes and pulled him down among the silk cushions with me. And then it was all the cool silk of the cushions, and the fresh smell of the grass, and his hands sliding up my thighs, still making me wait; and though I had thought that I would have to lead him through this, I found there was greater delight in committing myself to this sensuality that I had not known before. And when I took him inside me at last, it was with all the rapturous relief that my dreams of him had promised. Everything else fell away, but the pleasure of the moment.
In the darkness afterwards, he whispered, “I love you.”
He does not mean you, I told myself, but I could not stop myself from believing it.
I dreamed strange dreams that night. I dreamed of Guinevere, lying out in the grass of the clearing, asleep in the moonlight in the nightdress I had stolen. It was she, but her pale skin was traced with blue-green woad, and when I went over to her, and knelt beside her, she stirred and murmured my name. In her sleeping hands she held Excalibur, clasped tight in her grip, and when I reached for it, the dream faded away.
I woke suddenly in the morning, my heart racing, as though from a bad dream. I sat up sharply in the pile of cushions, and Lancelot murmured beside me and turned over in his sleep. It was cold. I felt the dewy spring morning against my bare skin and shivered. I should not have slept there. I still wore her shape, still saw pale white limbs free from the lines of woad before me, dark red hair falling in front of my face. What was I going to do? I could not just leave. He would speak to her about it, to Guinevere, and they would work out that it had been me. He knew my powers, and he would hate me. His memory would be hazy, his mind clouded with the drink I had given him, but he would not be so befuddled with it that he would think he could have confused a woman painted with woad with one who was not.
Then, I thought, Elaine. No one at Camelot had met her. No one knew who she was. She had been a comely girl, and Lancelot would have a hard time convincing anyone at Camelot that he had not desired her for her own sake. She was a cousin of mine. He could not put her away, nor me if I wore her shape. I could bear it.
I closed my eyes, and pictured her as I had last seen her. Big brown doe-eyes, long shiny chestnut-brown hair, small, delicate frame. When I opened my eyes, I saw that it had been accomplished.
Lancelot stirred again beside me, and I put a hand against his chest. He, still half-asleep, took it and pressed it to his lips.
“Good morning,” I said, softly. I saw his brow wrinkle in confusion. He took his hand from mine and rubbed his face, and when he drew his hands away and opened his eyes to see a woman he did not recognise, he cried out, jumping up in surprise and snatching his sword into his hand.
“Who are you?” he shouted, grabbing his shirt from the ground and pulling it over his head, still keeping hold of his sword. I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them, casting him a pitiful look.
“Sir, you do not remember?” I said. I could feel tears gathering at the back of my eyes, strange tears. I did not know why I should cry, but at once I felt sad and vulnerable. Perhaps it was the thought of the awful thing that I had done, or it was the knowledge that he would be even more dismayed if he knew it was truly I.
“What did you do to me?” Lancelot demanded. I could see the fear in his eyes, I could see that he was trembling. What had I done? I pushed it away. I had to. The tears came suddenly then, and at the sight of them I saw Lancelot weaken, and he dropped his sword and came back to kneel beside me, picking up the nightdress and handing it to me gently so that I could pull it on. He did not seem to notice that, while the woman had changed, the dress was the same.
“Who are you?” he asked, more gently, taking my face in his hands, turning it up towards his. “How did you come to be here... with me?”
I wiped the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand. “It is a part of our destiny,” I said, shakily. I could not think of any other explanation, and it seemed inadequate. The words seemed foreign, too. “My name is Elaine, sir. I am a cousin unto King Arthur.”
Lancelot leaned away, and I saw the frustration and the despair pass across his face. He knew that whatever there might have been with him and Guinevere was over now, before it had begun.
He gave a slow nod.
“I know that you thought I was the Queen, sir,” I said, putting my hand over his. He jumped slightly, and looked nervous.
�
�Elaine,” he replied. “I am sorry. I will take care of you, I promise. I must go, for Cornwall, but I will give you any protection you need from me. May I... take you anywhere?”
I shook my head. I did not want him to take me to Elaine’s father’s castle only to find there were two of the same girl.
“I live close by,” I lied. “I should like the walk.”
He nodded.
“Come back for me,” I told him, putting a hand against his cheek. I could see him soften, could see he was sorry.
MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy Page 36
