MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy

by Lavinia Collins

  “Did you see how he looked at me? The disrespect he showed to me, and Mother?” He paced before me, tense with his anger. I sighed and shook my head.

  “Calm down, Mordred. We must play this slowly, and carefully, if we are to succeed. You will have to win his trust, and that will take time.”

  He was not listening to me. “I thought when he saw I was strong and true, my likeness to him” – it was, truly, an uncanny likeness – “he would be pleased.”

  He would not stop pacing until I took hold of him by the shoulders, and then he turned to face me.

  “Patience, Mordred,” I told him. “Patience.”

  He nodded, and I could feel him beginning to calm down.

  Almost to himself, he added. “At least I have the satisfaction of knowing I will have her, despite him. That, at least, is to come for me.”

  I knew what he was talking about, and I did not like the sound of it. But he left, and I pushed the unease from my mind. This would be hard, and I would have to be strong, if I was going to have my revenge.

  Chapter Fifty Four

  Reluctantly, Arthur agreed to have Mordred made a knight, but he left the knighting to Gawain, and I saw Mordred bridle under the insult. Gawain, Aggravain and Gaheris seemed pleased to have Mordred there, but I saw Gareth shy back from him sometimes. Perhaps he sensed something, or perhaps it was the look that Mordred cast on Gareth’s young wife that made him pull back. She was a pretty girl, golden-haired and sweet-faced. I wondered if Mordred had ever been with a woman. I had seen no sign of him with one the whole time at Lothian Castle. None but his mother.

  After the knighting ceremony, Arthur called a feast. He referred to Mordred always as his nephew, though it was clear to everyone that Mordred was his son. This was the first time that I had observed a feast from the vantage-point of the low trestle tables. I had always been up there, on the high table, with Arthur and his knights, and the nobles. I could see so much more clearly from down here. The men were coarse, but I was plain enough in my borrowed shape that they ignored me, and the food here was worse, but the wine was the same, and the drunker those around me got, the more and more they were happy to pay me no attention and I could watch.

  Kay sat at Guinevere’s side. Gawain occupied the place of honour at Arthur’s right, another insult to Mordred. With Lancelot gone, the place went to Arthur's second most beloved friend. Arthur did not want to sit beside his son. Mordred, instead, sat opposite his father and his stepmother. I saw Kay lean down beside Guinevere and whisper something in her ear. She turned to look at him, and they were so close that their noses almost touched. Lancelot was long gone, departed long ago looking for the Grail. Perhaps Guinevere resented Arthur. She would not have been the first wife to live with her anger. Perhaps it was not that she had wanted Lancelot so badly, but that he had wanted her and presented her with the opportunity. Now Kay was there, and though he was no Lancelot, he was handsome and attentive. Kay’s arm was around the back of her chair, and he leaned towards her protectively – or was it intimately? But then, if there was anything between them, they would not have been talking so close in public. I remembered the blisteringly intense way Lancelot and Guinevere had ignored each other, before I had realised that it was they two who were in love, not he with me, and she with Kay.

  They were talking about Mordred, I could tell. Though they were trying to hide it, I saw Kay whisper something else to her, and his eyes flicker over Mordred. Arthur, at her side, was quiet, his face dark with anger. Gawain was drunk already, and cheerful, glad of the sight of his half-brother. Aggravain, ever politic and quiet, was watchful and sober, but Gawain, Gaheris and the newly returned Lamerocke were carrying the celebrations between them, and anyone sitting down at the trestle tables would never have guessed, if they did not know what I knew, or were not watching as closely as I was, that anything was wrong.

  Marie walked past the high table, as though to bring some jug of wine, but as she did I saw her place her hand on Gaheris’ shoulder, and lean down to whisper something to him that made him smile. I remembered Aggravain’s letter to Morgawse. I could not believe I had not pieced it together before. Perhaps she still hoped that they would be married. Maybe that was why she had rolled her eyes. If she were hoping to marry a prince, she would of course be finding it tiresome to carry out other people’s errands.

  The food seemed to be finished fast at the high table, as though everyone were too awkward to want to savour their meal, and someone was calling for the musicians and we at the trestle tables, our food not yet finished, were pushed aside for the dancing.

  I saw Mordred stand at the high table, and I thought he was going to leave, but he did not. He walked around and offered his hand to Guinevere, as though he wanted to dance. I was surprised, but not unduly, that she took his hand. He was a knight at Camelot now, and it was up to her, as Queen, to foster good relations. I was sure that I would lose Mordred to Arthur if his father showed him even the smallest kindness. I wanted Mordred to try and try, and be refused. Then he would be mine, and I could turn him on his father. A stolen weapon.

  Guinevere was dressed in a fine dress I had seen her in before, dark green sewn with gold crosses, and a fine circlet of gold made like ivy leaves. Those were, then, her finest clothes (though I noticed she did not wear the heavy, thick gold crown of Logrys) and she had come to make an effort on Mordred’s behalf. That, truly, I had not expected of her. I glanced at Arthur, and I saw his eyes follow Mordred and his wife, down from the dais and into the dancing. Kay watched too. They were wary of Mordred already.

  Mordred did not let go of Guinevere’s hand. I could see that she was tense, and trying to hide it. Mordred was staring right at her, strange and intense. What was he doing? Hadn’t I warned him about patience? I could see her growing uncomfortable. He was saying something to her, too close and quiet for me to hear, and I saw her shrink back from him. He did not move away. Worse, he put a hand at the small of her back, almost possessively. I could see him whisper something to her, his lips right by her ear. She turned her head down, away from him. She did not push him back. Of course she did not. She was nervous of causing trouble between Arthur and his son. He was young. She would put it down to high spirits. She slipped away as the song ended, and he did not protest. Mordred stood for a moment, watching her weave back through the crowd, and turned away to leave. Arthur looked tense, and worried. It was beginning. Arthur’s perfect world was beginning to chip away.

  Mordred did not try to find me after the feast, and I was glad. I thought he was probably with his brothers. Gawain and Aggravain seemed to like him, seemed even to enjoy his strange company. Alone in Camelot, I dreamed of Kay.

  Kay was here, I was here. I did not have to sit, remembering. Perhaps a distraction would do me good. I pulled a cloak around myself. It was dark, but I still took the shape of the plain girl as I slipped through the castle. I knew the way to his room, but he was not in his room. He was out in the courtyard, sitting at the edge of it with a small nimble-looking knight I knew as Sir Dinadan. Kay was sitting beside him on a bench at the side of the courtyard, leaning his head back against the stone wall, looking up at the stars that were bright and clear in the autumn night. He was dressed just in his shirt and breeches, all in black, and with his dark hair, only his face shone, pale and white, in the moonlight, the same moonlight that caught Dinadan’s white shirt beside him where it peeped from under his surcoat. I suspected that Kay was drunk, since he did not seem to be feeling the cold. Dinadan was looking down at his boots, tapping the toe of them idly with his sword. I noticed that Kay, too, had his sword at his side. I snuck around the edge of the courtyard in the shadows until I was close enough to hear what they were saying.

  “Do you think he’s dead?” Dinadan asked Kay, quietly. So, they were talking about Lancelot. Kay didn’t look at him. He was still staring up at the stars. He shrugged.

  “Your father thinks he’s dead,” Dinadan continued, tapping his foot still with the flat of
his sword.

  “Sometimes,” Kay said, as though to himself, “I think that might be for the best.”

  I thought of all people, it would be Kay who longed most to have Lancelot back at Camelot. Dinadan didn’t say anything. I remembered him as a chatty man, but he seemed to be responding in kind to Kay’s uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. Kay knew about Lancelot and Guinevere. Did he care enough about Arthur to wish Lancelot dead? The sudden, awful thought came to me that Kay might want Lancelot dead if he wanted Guinevere for himself. The last I had heard between Kay and Lancelot had been that terrible fight where Kay had told Lancelot never to come to him again talking of the Queen.

  Kay turned to look down at Dinadan, and Dinadan looked up at him. They were sitting, I noticed then, rather close to one another, so when Kay turned his face to Dinadan’s, they appeared quite intimate. I shrank back further into the shadows, to come closer. As I did, I saw Kay lean down towards Dinadan, who pushed him sharply back.

  “Kay, you’re a mess,” he said, gently.

  Kay jumped to his feet, indignant. “I am not a mess,” he snapped, slightly too loud. He was drunk, then. “You weren’t so shy yesterday,” Kay added.

  Dinadan shook his head in exasperation.

  “Kay –” He was still patient and gentle. “As if this weren’t a bad enough idea already, I’m tired of listening to you talk about Lancelot, or about Guinevere. I’m not taking a risk like this for someone who doesn’t know what they want. I’m sorry.”

  Kay crossed his arms over his chest, reeling slightly, casting a narrow look at Dinadan. He paused for a moment, then he shrugged.

  “Your loss,” he snapped, turning and striding from the courtyard. Dinadan sighed, leaning back against the wall. I rushed away back to my room. It had been foolish to think I would get anything from going to Kay. Kay, who seemed to have been spending his time trying to get into bed with anyone and everyone in Camelot. I could not believe I had forgotten how much Kay had changed. That had been Arthur’s doing, too. Kay was a mess. Now I had seen how he was, I had less taste for my happy memory of him.

  Chapter Fifty Five

  As winter began to set in, Mordred became more restless. He came to me often, and always with the same complaint. He would pace before me, complaining that Guinevere showed no signs of either having an affair with the absent Lancelot, or being interested in him. He, too, thought that if there was an affair, then it was with Kay, but I assured him it was not. He did not believe me. He was growing increasingly angry, less willing to heed my insistence on patience.

  Christmas was tense and its festivities flat. There was a brief moment of jollity after Guinevere, who had been tense and silent the whole evening, had retired, and Arthur and Gawain had been drunk enough to start singing, though I saw Gawain notice that Kay slipped out close behind Guinevere. This was short-lived anyway; before long Arthur wanted to retire. As soon as Arthur left, the arguments began. They had the distinct flavour of arguments that had been had many times before. Aggravain wanted all the brothers together to press the matter of Guinevere’s affair with Lancelot while Lancelot was still away. Gawain thought that was disloyal. Gaheris thought it was dishonourable, and slipped off as soon as he could with his Breton mistress. Gareth, openly upset at the accusations, objected loudly and refused to listen to another word. Mordred suggested that Arthur might not believe Aggravain, who was apparently something of a gossip, and almost got struck by his brother for saying so. That left the three of them who remained at the table, Gawain brooding, Aggravain insulted and frustrated, and Mordred scheming, and an impasse. I slipped from the high table down through the kitchens to see if I could learn anything further, but the talk was all the same. Of Lancelot and Guinevere and Arthur. I loitered behind two girls scrubbing at the big iron stew pots and heard the same suspicions, the same doubts.

  “I heard,” one said, “that Sir Lancelot is long dead. Or at Joyous Guard with Queen Isolde. All those rumours about him loving the Queen were all lies.”

  “They weren’t,” the other insisted, quiet and defensive, as though they had had this discussion before, and she had been told she was wrong then, too. “I saw them kissing in her garden.”

  “You’re making it up. Besides, in France men kiss all the ladies to show how courteous they are.”

  “It wasn’t like that. She had her hands all in his hair, and he was holding her right against him, you know. I’m not making it up. I think she misses him. I think King Arthur sent him away to look for the Grail because he was jealous.” She looked up at the girl beside her. “I think she’s sad. Don’t you think the Queen looks sad?”

  The other girl shrugged. “I think she looks angry. She always looks angry.”

  It was then that some busy kitchen-mistress hustled me away. Gossip and rumour was well enough, and that even now it was all anyone could talk about boded well for my plan to persuade Arthur, but it could only go so far. I needed Lancelot back in Camelot.

  I slept late, and Mordred came to me while I was winding my hair into a plait, still in my own shape. He burst through the door, his hand held strangely against his nose. He slammed the door and bolted it behind him. Mordred, his eyes burning with anger, lifted his hand away from his nose and fixed me with a wild stare. A thick stream of blood ran from it. I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “What happened to you?” I demanded.

  “Guinevere,” he said, thickly. I almost laughed, but I knew he was a proud man already, so I held it in. I reached out and wrapped my hand over his nose. He winced, but he did not back away, and there was enough healing in my touch alone to stop the bleeding. He would not need anything else. I wetted a cloth and wiped the blood from his face. The gesture struck me as oddly maternal, and I pushed those feelings aside. Mordred was no child of mine.

  “So, what exactly happened?”

  He did not answer, but put his hand over my eyes. I was surprised that he knew what to do. As with Kay, his lack of knowledge blurred the words away, but it was clear enough what I was seeing. First it was Guinevere alone in Arthur’s chamber. She was dressed carefully, as though for some occasion, the little gold circlet in her hair, a gold necklace hung with emeralds around her neck, and she was pacing. I was not sure, for I could not see as clearly as if I had begun it myself, but I thought she was trembling slightly. She was nervous. The door opened, and she looked up sharply, but when she saw it was Mordred she unconsciously shrank back. I saw Mordred draw the bolt on the door. He stepped towards her, and I could see her making an effort to be kind and friendly. It was strange to see her so, when she was always so reserved around everyone else, and when it was clear to see how uneasy he made her. Suddenly, Mordred grabbed hold of her, pushing her up against the little table in the corner of the room, grasping her by her hair, and kissed her, hard. I saw her hand reach for something, anything, and close around a silver candlestick on the table beside her, and she brought it, hard, against the side of his head. Mordred drew his hand away from my eyes.

  I was furious.

  “Mordred, what were you thinking?” I shouted. “She will tell Arthur, and you will be sent away, and all will be for nothing.”

  “She will not tell Arthur,” Mordred replied, sulkily, feeling his healed nose tentatively with his fingertips.

  “How do you know that?” I snapped.

  “I told her that if she did I would tell Arthur about her and Lancelot.”

  I gave a groan of exasperation. “He won’t believe you, Mordred, and she knows it.”

  “She doesn’t know that. In her position, she would be wise not to risk it. But, Morgan –” He stepped forward, suddenly aggressive, and, caught off guard, I warily stepped back. He reached out and grabbed me by the shoulders. “This was not the easy success your little vision promised me. Were you lying to me, to get me here, so that I could steal your precious sword for you?” He grabbed me by the hair, grasping the thick base of my plait, twisting my face up towards his and leaning down threateningly. “Aun
t or no, I will not tolerate being lied to. If I find that you are trying to use me, I will destroy you.”

  I closed my eyes, and let myself take his shape, feeling his grip close on nothing as my long hair disappeared. When I opened my eyes, he looked shocked and I was pleased. I wanted him to know that I had more power than he could guess at, and if he thought he could frighten me with his strength, then he needed to know that his strength was something I could take for myself. I squared up to him, crossing my arms over my chest. His body was huge, and powerful, and I could feel the raw power in every muscle and limb, and it was good to feel such power.

  “We want the same things,” I told him, and the voice that came was his, low and darkly threatening. I wrapped my fingers around his wrist, which still hovered, stunned, where my hair had been, and pushed his arm back towards him, letting him feel how real the borrowed strength I had was. “And rest assured, Mordred, if your recklessness ruins my plans, then it shall be you, not I, who suffers for it. Patience. I warned you, and you have put us both in danger already because you will not wait. If you are finding yourself out of control, I would remind you that Camelot has many other women.”

  Angrily, he pushed me back by the shoulders, but I had the weight of his bulk on my side, and I did not move, but shoved him hard in return. Having tested my strength and found me no weak opponent, reluctantly he turned and left, slamming the door once more behind him. I let his shape slip away from me. It was only then that I realised that I was shaking, slightly, and that I had been holding my breath.

  News came that Bors had returned, which left only Lancelot, Percival and Galahad looking for the Grail. I felt it in my heart that my son was dead. I blamed Nimue.

  Spring came, and then summer. Guinevere seemed always restless. I sometimes took Marie’s shape, when I knew the girl was with Gaheris. At first I was wary that Guinevere would try to speak to me in Breton, but it seemed she did not want to speak very much at all. She seemed to want to spend the hot, lazy summer days sitting in her walled garden with her two Breton women – where Margery had gone, I did not know, but she was nowhere to be found – listening to the older one read. Often, Kay was there, and he would sit beside Guinevere idly for an hour or so, before he wandered away to the rest of his duties, and sometimes Gareth and his wife Lynesse would come to sit with her, and she was cheerful around them, though I noticed they did not bring their little girl, and Guinevere never asked. She did not seem to be aware of anything around her, but lay back on the grass, her fingers playing idly through its soft, thick blades, staring up through the leaves over her with half-closed eyes, as though dreaming of something very far away.