MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy

by Lavinia Collins

  “Arthur is strong, and his knights are always with him. We cannot simply walk into Camelot and kill him. However, Arthur does have a weakness. His wife.” Mordred, intrigued, stepped towards me, and I saw the light spark in his dark eyes. “Arthur loves his wife. Arthur’s wife loves –”

  Mordred nodded, as though the same thought was coming to him. “Sir Lancelot. I remember – Aggravain’s letter – but I thought that was just gossip.”

  I shook my head. “I have tried several times to... draw Arthur’s attention to the matter. He sees only what he wants to see. At present, Lancelot is far from court, on the quest for the Grail, if what Gawain writes is true. I will convince Morgawse that now is the right time for you to take your place among your brothers at Arthur’s court. You will go, you will be obedient and loyal, and you will be made a knight. We watch, we wait, and when the time comes, we will bring the matter to Arthur’s attention in a way he cannot ignore. It will break him to see the wife he loves with another man, and once he is broken, he will be easy to kill.”

  Mordred looked at me narrowly, as though he were seeing me properly for the first time.

  “How did I never notice that you were this wise, Morgan?” he said. So, we had found what we needed in one another. He reached forward, and, putting an arm around my waist, tried to draw me in to a kiss. I pushed him back.

  “Mordred, I am your aunt, and this is not that kind of arrangement.” He simply shrugged, unembarrassed. I could not disguise the look of disgust in my eyes as I regarded him, nor did I mean to. I only wanted his assistance, for I could not do it alone; I did not want his friendship and I certainly did not intend to have him as my lover.

  “You’re a little pervert, aren’t you Mordred?” I sneered.

  He gave a rough laugh, turning from me to leave. “I get it from my father,” he spat, as he left the room.

  Chapter Fifty Two

  If we were to have success, Mordred and I would have to bide our time. I knew that Morgawse could not be approached with it right away. She was still too upset. I, too, wanted more time to plant the thoughts in Arthur’s head. I knew he would not believe me – he had ignored my letter saying as much – but if we were patient I thought he would give in to the truth eventually.

  We waited, Mordred and I, and summer passed into autumn, and autumn into winter, and it was too thick with snow for him to go to Camelot. Once Morgawse felt assured she had her son with her for another year, she was her old self again. Mordred seemed desperately relieved about this, for he had missed his mother’s affection. I had been more pleased when Morgawse had been wounded and sulky with him, for now I had to sit with them as the nights drew in while they cuddled together by the fire, she lying in her pile of cushions, he with his head on her shoulder, or – worse – on her stomach. I read to them – news from Camelot and Rheged (my son Ywain wrote often, assuring me that the castle was well, and of the loyalty of my lords; his letters were businesslike and without affection), or some preposterous stories from one of Morgawse’s books of romance. She liked those, but I found them trivial and silly. I would have liked to have read some Latin, but Morgawse could not only not understand it, but claimed she could not abide the sound of the language, so it was either news or frivolous tales of nonsense that kept us entertained.

  Mordred came to me one night, the week before the Christmas celebrations.

  “Morgan,” he said, striding into my room and taking hold of me by the shoulders, “we have made this pact, you and I, and nothing has yet been done. Do something.”

  I shook my head, firmly pushing his hands off my shoulders.

  “Patience, Mordred. When the snows have thawed, I will talk to Morgawse. I will make her understand there is no other way. This will take time. We will have no success if you demand to act before the time is right.”

  Reluctantly trusting in my words, Mordred stepped back from me. A curious look passed over his face, and he regarded me half-sideways.

  “Show me that woman again,” he demanded.

  “What woman?” I asked.

  “The one who you appeared as to me before. My father’s wife.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not some market-town trickster with a bag full of frogs, Mordred.”

  “Show me, Morgan,” he insisted. “After all, am I not to see what we are dealing with, when we reach Camelot?”

  I could see that he would not be dissuaded, and I did not see what harm it would do. I was reluctant to perform magic at his request, for I did not want him to think that I was his creature to command, but I wanted to keep him on my side. I closed my eyes and pictured Guinevere again. Her image was still as vivid in my mind as my own. I had taken her shape many times before.

  When I opened my eyes, Mordred was staring at me. Was he so stunned by the look of her? He reached out a hand towards me, and before I could step back, his fingers brushed lightly against my neck, and suddenly the room disappeared around me, around both of us, and we stood in Arthur’s chamber at Camelot. At first, I thought I was looking at Arthur, for the man before us both wore Arthur’s red and gold surcoat, but as the room came into focus, I saw it must be Mordred. Guinevere was there with him. Mordred stood facing her. Their eyes were locked together, and his hand was pressed against the base of her ribs, his fingers spreading out across her chest, as though he was holding her against the wall. She did not, however, seem to be attempting to push him off. Still, there was a strange defiance on her face, and resignation. He, on the other hand, looked lost, consumed with some unspeakable desire, some fervour like the one I had seen him in when I had promised him the throne. He leaned down and kissed her, and she did not push him back, but seemed to respond with an equal passion.

  I felt Mordred draw his hand back, and I saw the victory on his face. He, then, had not seen her strange, equivocal expression, had not wondered what his father’s wife would want with him. I let myself slip back into my own form. I did not want to be faced with an over-excited Mordred. He was grinning, pacing with half-jumping steps.

  “Morgan, was that from me, or you?” he asked. I did not know. There must have been some of my black magic strong in his blood for his touch to send us both there, into the same vision of the future. He did not wait for me to respond. “Will that truly happen?” he demanded, his black eyes bright with grim excitement.

  I hesitated. I knew the danger too well myself of the things I had seen.

  “Mordred...” I began, tentatively, “you did not see, I think, quite what you thought you saw.”

  “I saw my father’s wife giving herself to me. What a victory, Morgan. What a victory. You know what this means, of course?” He looked at me, eagerly. “A day will come when I will be recognised not only as greater than my father, but greater than the knight Lancelot, who all men say is the greatest living knight. When I have my father’s wife in my possession, men will understand my greatness, and recognise me as the rightful king I am.”

  Possession. The word made me feel uneasy. It made me think of Lot, and Uriens, and Arthur. Of the men at Arthur’s wedding shouting Arthur the Conqueror, of the feel of a hand clamped over my mouth.

  Mordred took me by the shoulders and stared at me, wild and intense.

  “Morgan. Talk to my mother. I must go to Camelot.”

  When spring came, I broached the subject with Morgawse. Lamerocke had gone back to Camelot, summoned by Arthur, and I had begun to spend my nights sleeping side by side with her once more.

  It was on a bright morning in late spring and we sat side by side in the bed. Morgawse was eating an apple, and spilling little bits of its juice over the furs spread over the bedsheets against the cold. Morgawse had always been messy. The annoyance reminded me of our childhood, for I had always been shy and neat while Morgawse was bold and clumsy, and I felt the tug at my heart for what I was about to push her into. But I was doing it for her; Arthur deserved to be punished for her sake as much as for mine. I took a deep breath.

  “Morgawse... I think it
is time that Mordred went to Camelot.”

  To my surprise, she nodded. She did not look at me, but she stopped taking bites of the apple, and just stared at it in her hand. I could see a tear rolling down her cheek.

  “I know,” she said, softly. I put my hand on her shoulder, and she rested her cheek against it, closing her eyes. She added, “I just hoped for a little longer. I will not have any more children, and when he is gone, I will be alone.”

  I put a hand comfortingly on her hair.

  “You could come,” I suggested, doubtfully.

  Morgawse gave a rough laugh.

  “I’m sure Arthur would be pleased to see me,” she said. I kissed the top of her head, and we were quiet again.

  After that, we began to make the arrangements. I wrote to Ector. He was the one person at Camelot who I thought did not have a reason to mistrust me, and I was sure he would be kind. I told him that Morgawse wanted to present her son to Arthur. I thought it was best if we knew, even a little bit, what kind of reception we were likely to get there. By the time Mordred had turned sixteen, I had a long reply from Ector, detailing all the news from Camelot. All of the men had returned from the quest for the Grail apart from Lancelot, Bors, Galahad and Percival. I wondered how restless the Queen was becoming, with her lover away for so long. It was not ideal for drawing it to Arthur’s attention, but I was sure that Lancelot would return alive, and after such a long time apart, I was sure that the time would be right for us. The letter was long and detailed, but lacked a direct answer to my questions about whether Arthur would receive his son. That in itself did, however, seem to imply that the reception would not be favourable.

  I showed it to Morgawse and she shook her head and sighed. She wanted to use it as an excuse to keep Mordred with her. They shouted again, Morgawse raging and hysterical, Mordred determined. She cried, he yelled, but it would not be changed. She knew that he would have to go to his father eventually.

  It was not until autumn was coming that Mordred set off for Camelot. To my surprise, Morgawse insisted on riding with him. We did not send word to Camelot to say that they were coming. I did not want to give Arthur the chance to refuse.

  I did not ride with them. I was unsure how welcome I would be in Camelot in my own form. I did not know how many people Guinevere and Lancelot had told about the true identity of Elaine. I imagined that they would not have told anyone at all, for it would have been hard to explain the whole truth without giving themselves away, but they might have lied enough about it to Arthur to only tell the truth about me. Besides, I thought I would be better in secret. I could observe more carefully what was happening around me if I were unrecognised.

  I closed my eyes and pictured myself back in Camelot, and in the form of a nondescript serving girl, one I had seen around Lothian Castle. She was shortish, medium build, with mousey hair wound into a long plait, and then up around her head. She would not attract any attention, and since she was not one of Camelot’s servants, no one would try to make me do anything, and I would pass unnoticed. Dressed in one of my plain black wool dresses, and wearing a plain face, I was confident of my ability to exist at the heart of it all, utterly undetected.

  Chapter Fifty Three

  So I went, and I waited for Mordred’s arrival. I was eager to see Arthur’s reaction, and I was not disappointed. It was an early autumn day. While it was cold in Lothian already, Camelot was still mild and warm. The courtyard was almost empty when I heard the horn sound as someone spotted their approach. They would have looked like a royal party even from far off. Arthur was not, then, prepared for their coming. I had been afraid that Morgawse would write to him.

  Arthur rushed down, Guinevere at his side, just as the gates opened and Morgawse rode through at the head of her party. He was not at all prepared; he was without his crown and gilt surcoat, wearing instead a plain doublet. He looked more of a warrior in his plain clothes. Somehow the grandeur of his king’s clothes hid his powerful strength. Guinevere, at his side, looked just as I remembered her. She had that same strange sulky loveliness that I had seen when I had seen her married, the slightly pouting red mouth, the unreadable expression of her eyes as she watched her husband’s bastard child ride through the gates of her castle.

  I could see that Arthur was angry. But unlike Guinevere, he was not watching his son, he was watching Morgawse. I hoped he felt ashamed, to stand there beside his wife, with Morgawse riding towards him. She was as lovely as she had been all those years ago, in a rich robe of dark red, edged with white fur, her copper-gold hair all but loose around her shoulders, only drawn back at her temples, and on it the crown of Lothian, dark gold and studded with rubies.

  Mordred jumped from his horse first to offer Morgawse his hand. She took it with a gracious smile to her beloved son, and slipped down. Arthur was bristling. They walked up to Arthur and Guinevere, and Morgawse curtsied low and Mordred bowed. Guinevere did not take her eyes off him.

  “Why did you bring him here?” Arthur demanded. Morgawse bore it well, giving Arthur a casual, easy smile, as though they were two old acquaintances making conversation.

  “It is fitting that he comes to fight for his King, Arthur. Lothian is still a vassal kingdom of Logrys, so it is only right that you accept my sons – all my sons – as your knights. You can’t just take the ones that please you. Besides, Mordred will please you. He is strong already, and it is his wish to become one of your knights,” Morgawse added.

  Arthur did not say anything for a long time, and I noticed that Mordred had not spoken. His eyes flicked across the courtyard to me, and I felt them lock with mine, and I knew that he saw right through me. He should not have been able to. I felt my heart thud suddenly with fear. I had a lost a little ground from him.

  Arthur made some angry gesture of acceptance and turned to leave, storming back up to his tower. Morgawse turned back to her son, and to her attendants to arrange where their things would be taken, and in the business of that, I saw Guinevere turn and slip up to her own room. I was surprised that she did not follow Arthur. Perhaps she was angry. I followed her, looking out for Margery on the way. If I could, I would send her off on some errand and take her place. I did not see her, and I was wary to take her shape if she had died or been sent from the castle. I did, however, run into the younger of the Breton women, Marie. When I told her that one of the women in the kitchen wanted her, she rolled her eyes as though she was above it, but she went nonetheless. I closed my eyes and took her shape, though it was an effort, for I had seen less of her and it came less readily to me, but I was convinced it was done well enough. The only problem now was that Guinevere would speak to me in Breton, and I would not know how to answer. I was curious enough to risk it.

  When I pushed the door to her room open, she was sitting at her window, staring out, down at the walled garden beneath her tower. I could see her profile, the soft lines of her face. She looked different alone.

  When I pushed the door shut behind me, she looked up, and a gentle, tired smile came to her face.

  “Oh, Marie,” she said. She had not said anything in Breton, and I sensed my chance to speak to her in English.

  “You have seen Queen Morgawse’s son, my Lady?” I asked, tentatively.

  Guinevere gave an odd laugh, looking down at her knee, picking at a stitch in her dress. “Arthur’s son, you mean?” She was so open with her women, so different.

  “What do you... think about it?” I asked, not sure how much directness I could dare.

  She shrugged without looking up, biting one side of her lower lip. “I don’t know,” she answered, honestly. She turned to look at me, her fierce green eyes soft for once with thought. She looked as though she were about to say something, but then she pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead.

  “Marie...” she sighed, shaking her head, but not lifting away her hand or opening her eyes. She did not say anything else, as though it was too tight within her, the emotion. Suddenly, she seemed to close off, and pull herself
together, rubbing her face lightly with her fingertips, patting her hair to check it was in place, standing up. “Marie,” she continued, suddenly brisk, “I will be in Arthur’s rooms tonight.”

  I nodded, not sure what to say in response. I was sure, from what I remembered, that the Marie she knew would have had some joke to make about that, but I had none. She walked swiftly past me, leaving the door open, careless. If she would not even tell her confidantes that she was not pleased that Arthur’s bastard child was at court when she had no child of her own, she would not have spoken to them of Lancelot. She had such control, to hold her secrets within herself, and hold herself together behind that stern mask. She would be harder to break than Arthur, or Lancelot.

  Morgawse knew what shape I would be in, and knew to look for me. I had let myself slip back into the plain servant girl from Lothian’s shape. Morgawse found me in the courtyard as the sun was going down. She was flushed and annoyed. Arthur had shouted at her, demanded that she go back to Lothian, tonight. We talked in hushed tones at the side of the courtyard. I did not want anyone to guess who I was. One could never be sure in Camelot if someone was listening.

  “Morgan,” Morgawse took my hands in hers, imploringly, “stay here and make sure that Arthur is good to him.”

  I promised Morgawse that I would write to her, and she seemed deeply relieved. She kissed me on both cheeks, and reluctantly she mounted her horse and left. I was surprised how much it hurt to watch her go. The two years I had spent in Lothian with my sister had reminded me of how deeply I loved her, and how I would do anything for her. Especially this. For her, for me. For the Breton queen even, perhaps. As I turned to go up to my room – which I knew was unoccupied – I noticed Kay, in the corner of the courtyard. So, he was here, not hunting for the Grail.

  Mordred was waiting for me, and I could see that he was agitated. He began talking almost before I had shut the door behind myself.