MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy

by Lavinia Collins

  Sat around us at the table were the noblest lords from the lands surrounding Lothian, the Lord of Orkney, who was vassal to Morgawse and Mordred, and the Barons of the Highlands, all come to pay their respects to the youngest prince of Lothian to grow to manhood. I could see, from the looks some of them gave my sister, that they also had regards they would like to give to Lothian’s Queen – and perhaps had, in the past – but would not tonight. Not under the watchful eye of her son.

  He was proper, and courteous and polite with them, but I could see that he made them uneasy. Unless he was mocking someone, he was not ready to laugh or smile as his mother was, and they cast the same wary eye on me as they did on him. Some of them seemed genuinely afraid of him, even. But they poured their attention on Morgawse, flattering her with tales they had heard of men fighting for the sake of her beauty, or recounting the great deeds of her husband, in his youth. She seemed to especially like those stories, though she had not liked her husband. No one spoke directly to me. They were all afraid.

  Towards the end of the evening, when the wine had turned Morgawse from giggly to sleepy and her eyelids drooped slightly, and the little sweet cakes had been brought out and eaten with great enthusiasm by the lords, and less enthusiasm by Morgawse, who I suspected was feeling a little sick, Mordred stood to thank his vassal lords for attending. A hush fell instantly.

  “Thank you, good vassals to Lothian, for coming today. I am a man grown now, and I wish to announce my intention –” I saw his gaze, unconsciously, flicker to his mother. “My intention to gain my father, King Arthur’s, recognition as his son. If he fails to acknowledge what, to every man in this room, I am sure is plain to see, then I ask you to honour your pledges to me today, and I will gather my armies and march on Camelot –”

  “No!” Morgawse, as always discarding any code of politeness, got to her feet, shouting. She did not look so drunk anymore; the shock of her son’s words had shaken it out of her. She turned to her lords, but they were already muttering among themselves. They liked the sound of Lothian and its vassal kingdoms taking their power back from Arthur. They remembered the early days of greatness and independence under Lot. In Mordred, they saw the potential for a Britain ruled by Lothian. “Sirs, I did not bring you here to talk of war,” she cried, staring at her son.

  The Lord of Orkney, an ageing warrior with a scarred face, a thick, brown beard down to his chest and a bald head, shifted in his seat. The look he gave Morgawse was one of intimacy, as though he had spoken to her alone before many times.

  “Of course, my Lady. But,” he glanced around to the men around him, “we would all be happy, I am sure, to pledge again our allegiance to your son, to all your sons, and to Lothian. In peace,” he added, delicately, “of course.”

  Morgawse was not a fool. But she was also not so bold, not so wild that she would deny this. The lords wanted Mordred. They turned their greedy eyes to Britain, and they thought Mordred would bring it to them. They would get rid of him afterwards. A bastard child of incest – he would be easy to throw from his place, if he got it, as King of Britain.

  “Thank you,” she sighed, but I could see she was still angry. “Lothian is grateful for its noble allies.”

  She sat, slowly, back in her seat, and Mordred followed. The conversation after that was tense, and faltering. I was glad when the Lord of Orkney made an excuse to leave. He was the most powerful of all the lords there, and the others could not leave until he did. He walked around the table to bow before Mordred, and take Morgawse’s hand in his, and press it to his lips. I watched Mordred’s eyes follow his mother’s hand, and rest on her face.

  Once they had all left, Morgawse stood huffily from her chair and rushed from the room. I saw Mordred run after her, and I followed. Out in the courtyard it was growing dark.

  “Mother,” Mordred called out after her, running over and pulling her back round towards him, holding her by the shoulders. She pushed him back. He did not let go. It was clear that any time he had been obedient to her before had been out of his choice, for he was strong enough to do always as he wished. She tried to push him away again, and I could see as I came closer that she was fighting back angry tears. I was not the only one who had noticed them struggling, for across the courtyard came Lamerocke. I thought about shouting at him to leave, but it was too late, for Mordred had already seen him. He let go of his mother with one hand to turn on the knight, and all the softness he turned on his angry mother faded, and his eyes blazed.

  “You,” Mordred shouted at him, and his voice echoed in the courtyard. Lamerocke froze where he stood. He was older, a more experienced fighter, but I could see he was afraid of Mordred. “This is no concern of yours.”

  “Mordred,” he tried. “See, she is upset. Let her go.”

  Mordred lunged forward, and Lamerocke jumped back, and Mordred laughed, low and cruel. “You think because you are fucking my mother that you have any say in what happens in Lothian Castle? Any control over me?”

  So, Mordred did know. And he was jealous. Morgawse was too angry, too upset, and too drunk to protest their arguing over her in the middle of the courtyard. I wondered where the Lord of Orkney was, and if he was listening.

  I stepped between them, giving Lamerocke a cold look. Mordred was right at least insofar as this was nothing to do with him.

  “I will take my sister to her chamber, thank you, sirs,” I said, sternly. I reached out for her hand, and she took it. She was trembling, though I suspected it was with rage. Mordred held on for a moment, a demonstration to me of his strength, that he was only letting go because he wanted to, and then released her. I rushed us both up to her chamber and shut and bolted the door. As soon as we were alone, Morgawse, carried by the strength of her rage – and the wine – paced into the middle of the room, pushing her hair back from her face and shaking her head.

  “Morgan, what am I to do with him?” She turned to me, her face wild with exasperation. “He has said these things to me before, of course, but I never thought he would do something like this, in front of the lords. They will be behind him now, not me. They want it. They’re all greedy for it. Especially Orkney. Ugh, Orkney. He has become a nasty, cowardly, greedy old man. Not so long ago, he was brave. But they will all go with Mordred if they think there is something for them. Then Orkney will be wanting to wed me again, though it’s not like I am going to be having any more children at my age. But that’s not what he wants. He wants Lothian Castle. Mordred would give it to him, as well, just to get some recognition from his father. Arthur.” She sighed in annoyance again. The way she said his name, it was as though he were just in the next room. There was a startling intimacy about it, a rawness I did not want to hear. “If Arthur could just – ugh – just show him the smallest amount of interest, proper to what any other father would show a strong, noble son of his. I am not some peasant woman he had at the side of the road, I’m a queen, and it is an insult to me as well that he does not, he will not acknowledge our son.”

  “You are also,” I reminded her, tentatively, “his sister.”

  “Morgan,” she cried, and I saw the tears gather in her eyes, “you are my sister. We share all the same blood, we grew up together. Arthur is not my brother. Not really.”

  “It is all the same to him, Morgawse,” I told her, softly. Morgawse covered her face with her hands, and I felt the stab of pity at my heart for her. All of those men she had claimed to have enjoyed, and she was still thinking of Arthur. I wondered how easy it had been for Arthur to forget her.

  That night we lay side by side, as we had done so long ago, and so many times now since we were girls, and she fell asleep fast, tired out with the wine, and the shouting, and the tears that she had kept inside herself; but I lay awake, thinking of Galahad, and his father, who probably hated me more than Arthur hated my sister, and I could not sleep all night.

  Chapter Fifty One

  In the morning, Morgawse was weary and thoughtful. She had gone to sleep thinking of Arthur, and
he was still on her mind. As the day had come, I had just drifted into an uneasy sleep, but I woke again when I felt her sit up in bed beside me. I looked up at her, blearily, the sheets gathered around her, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, her arms wrapped around her knees where she rested her chin. She could have been a girl of eleven years old again. I sat up beside her and put my head on her shoulder.

  “I still remember the first time we kissed,” she told me, softly, “like it was just yesterday. It was on the battlements, at Camelot, and we were looking out. He was nervous. I could tell. He was nervous right up until the moment that it happened, and then he did not seem nervous at all. I had never kissed a man, apart from Lot, then, and it was something different entirely. He loved me. I know he loved me. How could it disappear all in a moment like that? How do men’s feelings change, so sudden? I know, I do, that it was wrong, but that didn’t make any difference to how I felt. It didn’t feel wrong. I don’t suppose he ever thinks about it, now. It is as though Mordred and I don’t exist for him, anymore.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I knew she wanted me to say that Arthur had asked about her, but in truth I thought she was right.

  “You should try to forget, too,” I whispered.

  She nodded, but she did not seem to mean it.

  We did not talk about Arthur again. Spring shaded into summer, which was not warm in Lothian, and I felt myself longing for Camelot’s long, sweet summers, its ripe apples and pears, the days spent lounging on the soft grass in the shade of the trees. Lothian’s summer was short, and somehow bleak. Mordred said nothing more about marching to Camelot, though I was sure he still thought of it; nor did he shout again at Lamerocke, though I noticed the knight took greater pains than before to avoid him. I felt as though the moment was beginning to slip away from me. I did not want Mordred to lose interest in his ambitions, but I was not yet sure enough to try to have him leave Lothian with me. I wondered how much of my black magic had reached his blood. I could not tell. I felt nothing from him that I recognised as such, but I had some deeper, unconscious sense of something powerful about him. Whether it was just the black destiny that hung over him, I was not sure. Nimue might have known for sure, but I was not in such a position that I would take her into my confidence.

  As it happened, I did not have to force the matter at all. Mordred was keen as I had hoped to be at his father’s side. It was a late summer day, and the sun was bright, though the air had not lost its northern chill. We three, Mordred, Morgawse and I, sat in her council chamber. I did not like it there; I had too vivid a memory of Lot holding me down against the table in that room to want to return there often, but news had come from Camelot that Gawain and Aggravain had returned from the Grail quest, and Morgawse had called us there to tell us. News reached Lothian slowly, it seemed, for the last I had heard there was only talk of the Grail. Had Galahad even still been in Camelot when I tried to see him and was stopped by Nimue, if men were already returning? Time was beginning to slip past me in fits and starts, fast then slow, then fast.

  “You see, Mother,” Mordred began, pointedly, “I have missed the quest for the Grail. It is time I became a knight. I want to go to Camelot. I need my father’s recognition, otherwise it is dishonour on Lothian. A grown man cannot be without a father to name.”

  Morgawse shook her head. “Mordred, my love.” She stepped forward and took his face in her hands. He put, I noticed, a hand against her waist in response. “He will not give it to you. I am sorry for it, too, but it is better to stay here. Besides, my love, really, you are too young.”

  “Mother,” he was beginning to sound annoyed, “I am fifteen years old.”

  “His father was such an age, when he was made,” I pointed out, gently.

  “He was not,” she snapped. “He was much older. Eighteen years old, at least.”

  She must have known that was not true. She turned back to Mordred.

  “A few more years in Lothian will not do your honour harm, Mordred.” She stroked his cheek lightly with her hand, and he leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. “I will be lonely without you,” she whispered.

  “Mother,” he sighed, drawing her tight against him, into an embrace. “I could take you with me,” he said, softly, into the top of her hair. She rested her face against his chest wrapping her arms around his neck. They looked for all the world like two lovers. I was sure she had never been so intimate with any of her other sons. His resemblance to Arthur, her lingering affection, the possessive way in which they behaved towards one another all filled me with unease.

  Morgawse shook her head, against his chest. “No, my love. Your father would refuse to see me. Just, forget Camelot. Stay. Stay with me. Morgan,” she turned to look at me, her eyes imploring, “tell him he should stay.”

  Of course I wanted him to go, but I was weak as always in the face of Morgawse’s pleas for help.

  “Morgawse...” I began, warily, but she did not want to hear what I had to say.

  She moved back from Mordred to take hold of his hands. “Don’t think I don’t know what you want there. Arthur won’t stand for it, you turning up and demanding to be made his heir. He has a wife, who is still young, and may yet have a child, and if you go there demanding to be his heir you will get yourself into danger. We don’t want another war, Mordred. You shouldn’t be trying to start one.”

  Mordred was suddenly angry, too, but his anger was different in quality from his mother’s. There was something beneath it, something darker. It wasn’t the red-hot flash of rage I had seen in Morgawse and Gawain. No, it was the slow-burning anger of his father. “I only want what is rightfully mine,” he shouted, towering over his mother who let go of his hands to cross her arms over her chest.

  “It is better giving up on wanting something you can’t have,” she retorted, and I could hear the bitterness in her voice. It had hurt her, giving up on Arthur.

  “Men,” Mordred growled, “do not give up.”

  “Men are all stubborn fools,” Morgawse shouted back.

  Mordred opened his mouth as though he was going to say something else, and I knew it would not be kind, but Morgawse did not wait to hear it. She turned from him, and rushed past me from the room, slamming the door behind her. I did not know which was worse for her; the thought of her son leaving her, or the thought that it was to be with Arthur, who had abandoned her. But it would be now. I was sure of that; sure that the moment for me to take this into my hands was finally upon me. Mordred would do anything I said now, if it would get him what he wanted. I had shown him my power, and now it was time for me to show him that we wanted the same thing.

  I waited until I heard Morgawse’s footsteps fade to silence as she walked down the stairs. Mordred stood looking away from me, leaning back against the table, his hands braced against it beside him as though he were holding himself back from something. I could see his chest rising and falling. How long had he been angry like this? Every single day that he had heard his father was the King of Britain, and that he would get nothing for it. That his was a cursed life, and a cursed birth, and it was he who caused the mother he loved to suffer.

  He did not seem to notice that I was still there, but he would. I stepped in front of him, crossing my arms over my chest, and he looked up.

  “Mordred –”

  “I do not need another lecture,” he growled, not meeting my eye. I did not know if he would crack with the strength of his emotions if I took him to Camelot. I was ready. I had waited and waited for the opportunity, and now it was so close I thought I could feel the net tightening around Arthur, and just the thought of it quickened my heart a little.

  “Actually, Mordred, I thought we might be able to help one another,” I said, carefully. He looked up at me then. “You and I both have reason to hate Arthur, and you and I both want the same thing. Well, not the same thing, but they can be achieved through the same means. I want to punish Arthur, and you want what is rightfully yours by birth. Is that
correct?”

  Mordred did not answer, but stood up straight, suddenly attentive. I could see the quiver of dread excitement run through him. I could see the hunger for what he thought was justice, and perhaps for destruction as well, light in him.

  “Good. I suggest we make an agreement between us. I will help you take the throne that is your birthright. I will put all my skills and power behind you, and we shall not fail. We will destroy Arthur. In return, I shall take the sword Excalibur.”

  A cunning smile spread over Mordred’s face, and he nodded.

  “Though, I should like the sword. What if I gave you Lothian once I was King?”

  I shook my head. “There will be no negotiations, Mordred. If you want my help, the price is the sword.”

  He thought about it, but only for a moment, before he nodded in agreement. I felt a dark thrill go through me.

  Mordred had begun to pace thoughtfully before me.

  “But how is it to be done, Morgan?” In the thoughts of his own greatness, his anger had dissipated, dissolved as if it had never been, and was replaced with a manic fervour. When he had paused his pacing to glance to me for an answer, I gave him an arch smile of my own in return.