“Mordred,” I hissed, “what are you doing?”
I was trying to be angry, and strong, but I could feel the tears pricking at the back of my eyes, and I could not stop my heart racing, my mind running over and over again how it had felt to have Uriens on top of me, squashing the breath from me.
Mordred shrugged.
“Mordred, I thought you wanted to have the Queen for yourself.” I tried a different approach. I thought an appeal to Mordred’s pride might be more persuasive. “How does it help you to offer her to another man for – what? To convince Lancelot to save her? What if he’s too late?”
Mordred shrugged again. “Lancelot may well be too late. But that is no difference to me. Besides, it might do her good to learn a little humility.”
I slapped him then, hard. I felt the rage pounding in my veins, and I felt my eyes burn from holding back the tears. I would not let Mordred see that. Mordred grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, hard.
“Morgan, get a hold of yourself.” He shook me again, then held me still, staring into me with his black, black eyes. “Do not let this get inside your head,” he said, softly. “It is you, and it is I. That is what matters. It does not matter what happens to anyone else. You and I. It must be done. How else will Lancelot learn that if he does not make love to his lady, someone else will? He will not leave her side, after this, and I do not see how he could be long at her side without us having our opportunity. This must be done, Morgan.”
I only wanted to leave then, to be alone, but when I was alone all I could picture in my mind was Uriens. He is dead, I told myself. Long dead. He could not harm me now, but I could not get him out of my mind.
I lay awake a long time, afraid that I would dream of Uriens. When I did sleep at last, I did dream, but thankfully it was not of Uriens. No, it was a sweet dream, a dream of Accolon. A dream thick with pleasant memories; the heat of his bare skin, the feel of his hands running through my hair. But it was fleeting, and just as I felt the remembered pleasure begin to gather through me, the dream slipped away, and I woke in darkness with the feel of a man still on top of me, but one who clamped his hand over my mouth and pushed me down, hard and rough, upon the bed. He leaned down close, and awfully, the voice I heard at my ear was Mordred’s.
“Don’t let me get inside your head, Morgan,” he whispered.
I screamed then, and woke myself properly, sitting up in bed with my heart pounding. I could still feel his hand over my mouth, and where I had been briefly, blissfully, warm from my dream of Accolon, I felt now a cold sweat prickling against my skin. I rushed from the bed to light a candle, and checked all through the room that I was alone. In the depths of the night I was suddenly, deeply afraid of Mordred. I did not know what dark powers I had given him with my black magic drink. I supposed I should not have burned all of Merlin’s books, but at the time it had seemed so much better for those secrets to be lost.
Chapter Sixty Two
With the memory of Uriens fresh in my mind, I was sure that I could not go through with it. I could not submit another woman to that, not for the sword, not to be revenged on Arthur, not for anything. I knew it would be useless trying to talk Mordred out of it, and I would have to act alone to stop it. Besides, I did not want to see him. Not until I felt stronger, and I had some distance between now and my dream.
I decided that the only thing I could do was go to Arthur, and convince him to leave Guinevere behind when he went for the hunt. I toyed with the idea of going in my own shape; though I knew Arthur had reasons to suspect me, I thought being the trusting fool he was he might not. But I thought it safer, more effective, if I went to him as Kay. He would believe some excuse about Mayday preparations around the castle, and might even be relieved at the thought of an excuse to leave his wife at home while he went hunting.
I went across the courtyard in the shape of the plain maid, wary that I might run into Kay in his own form. There was a festive air about the castle, and the courtyard was decorated around with garlands of flowers. Camelot liked its celebrations, and I was sure that Mayday this year would be no different, though I was also sure that Arthur would remember that this was the day that Mordred had been born.
I rushed up to Arthur’s bedroom, but it was empty. I walked around the room, letting my fingers trail across the tabletop, the windowsill, the edge of the bed. It was truly a long time since I had been here, and yet I could not see that anything had changed. The last time I had been here, I had come to steal my scabbard back. Of course, the whole world had changed. Lancelot and Guinevere had fallen in love, Arthur had killed Accolon, Merlin was gone. But I had not changed, and Arthur had not changed. Arthur was still naïve and selfish, and I was still bitter and angry, and we would be locked together like this, Arthur not caring, me yearning for reparation, until he was made to understand.
Well, if Arthur was not there, I would have to seek him out elsewhere.
As I walked down the stairs, I heard Arthur’s voice coming from the room where he kept the Round Table. I closed my eyes and let my shape change to Kay’s. The door was hanging slightly open. Wary that it might be Kay he was speaking with, I crept closer, peering in.
It was not Arthur I could see, it was Guinevere, standing at the table, a book open before her, her fingertips resting lightly against the page, as though she were following the words. I could see her soft, red lips moving with the words, but she was speaking too softly for me to hear what she was reading. Arthur was saying something to her, and I saw a slight smile flicker across her face, though she did not look up, or stop reading. I could see from her attitude that she was ignoring him on purpose, teasing him. He did not seem to mind. I wished that I had found him alone.
I was about to stride through the door and interrupt them, for I was sure that this was the sort of thing that Kay would do, when it became clear that Arthur did not intend to simply listen to his wife read. He came up behind her, resting his hands possessively on her hips, pulling her back gently from the book she was reading. He kissed lightly against her ear.
“Arthur,” she sighed, sounding annoyed, though I could see her smiling, “I'm reading.”
And stubbornly she continued to read as he kissed her neck until he reached around and spread his hand flat against the page, and she stopped. I saw him press himself tighter against her and she leaned back against him, closing her eyes.
“Guinevere, your book will still be there at vespers, but I don't intend for this to be.” He pushed a little harder against her and they both bumped against the table.
“Arthur...” Guinevere laughed softly, and shook her head, but her tone was indulgent. I supposed she must have been used to his demanding behaviour by now.
Arthur pushed the book off the table, and when she went to pick it up, pulled her back against him, his hands winding into her hair, pulling it loose, turning her face around to his in a passionate kiss. She relaxed back into him for a moment, until his other hand ran softly down her throat, and then down across her breasts, his fingers tucking down, into the neckline of her dress.
“Arthur, shut the door,” she mumbled, not drawing properly away from the kiss. Either he didn't hear her, or he wasn't listening. He pulled hard at the front of her dress, and I heard the fabric tear. That must have been an expensive dress of fine, thin silk, but I supposed Arthur did not care. Guinevere gasped, but it was not a gasp of surprise. It was one of excitement. I could not imagine Lancelot ripping a woman's clothes. Arthur slid his hand into her dress at the opening he had torn at its neck, and I heard her sigh softly for a moment, before she pulled away from him to speak again –
“Arthur, the door,” she insisted.
With a low laugh, Arthur lifted his hand from her dress and without moving away from her leaned over to slam the door shut. Just before it shut, I saw him turn her around in his arms and push her up on to the table.
I could see, then, why Arthur believed so strongly that his wife did not love another man. I was surprised, thoug
h, that her response seemed to match his desire. I did not believe that she had given up on Lancelot.
I did not want to burst in now, nor stand outside waiting. I would just have to try again later. I went back to my room and let Kay’s shape slip away from me, curling myself into the window seat that I had sat in so many years ago when Morgawse had burst through my door, flushed and giggling. We had not had any idea, then, what she had begun. Without that one mistake, there would have been no war with Lot, no marriage for me. Arthur might not have married Guinevere. Lancelot might never have met her, and then perhaps he might have wanted to marry me. Mordred would never have been born.
I slid down from the window seat, trying to think of what I could do, what I remembered from the books of magic I had burned, that I could use to control Mordred, to protect myself from him.
“Morgan.”
I turned around. I had not heard the door. I was not prepared. I was in my own shape, and it was too late, for it was Kay. He pushed the door shut behind him, and slid the bolt. His thick, fine dark hair stood up on his forehead as though he had just run his hand through it. His face which I had last seen up close, still charmingly boyish, now was the face of a sensitive grown man, his brown eyes still bright and mischievous, though now they held me with an even stare.
“Kay,” I replied softly. “How did you know I was here?”
Kay shrugged. He looked desperately lost all of a sudden. “I have known all along. And then, from across the courtyard, I saw myself walking up here.”
I nodded. Of course he had. I had not been thinking, I had not been careful.
Kay walked a few paces towards me, and I did not back away.
“What do you want, Kay?”
“I want to know what you’re plotting here, in secret,” he said, soft and threatening, stepping towards me. I turned my face up towards his. He was close enough that I could smell his skin, and I was surprised at how familiar it seemed. I felt myself, against all my resolve, leaning towards him. He was my enemy now. It was not wise.
“Nothing, Kay,” I whispered.
I ought to have told him the truth, I thought, suddenly. Told him I was in too deep with Mordred, that I needed his help. He would do it. He would keep Guinevere from going out with the hunt on Mayday. I was about to open my mouth, to confess it all when he reached out and grabbed hold of my hair by the plait, suddenly sharp and rough, pulling me up against him, his eyes flashing angry.
“Do not lie to me, Morgan,” he hissed.
I slapped him across the face, and he stepped back, letting go of my hair, cursing under his breath. No, he had not expected that. He looked at me and still saw the shy girl raised by the nuns. He pretended that he saw a wicked witch, but he did not.
“Morgan,” he sighed, and his eyes fixed on me, slightly sad. “Just tell me if I need to be watching Arthur’s back. Or anyone else’s. I’m not going to tell anyone you’re here. Far be it from me to get in the way of your mad little quest for revenge. I’m sure you get as much satisfaction from hiding here plotting than you would from actually doing anything.”
I lost all the thoughts I had of warning him, of asking for his help. I stepped forward to slap him again, and he jumped lightly away. He was still nimble on his feet.
“How little you men know. No one here cares how my sister Morgawse suffers, alone in Lothian. No, no one; not you, not Arthur, not anyone else who has fucked her.” Kay flinched, but I did not care. “You all forgot me in Gore. Not one of you cares about anyone but yourself.”
“Oh, Morgan, you think you are the only one who has suffered, don’t you?” he sneered, a smile spreading cruel across his face. “No one has suffered as much as poor little Morgan.” I lunged towards him, moving as if to slap him again, and he caught me by the wrist, yanking me towards him, pulling me against him. When he had me close, he leaned down to say, softly in my ear. “You are every bit as self-obsessed as the rest of us, Morgan.”
As I opened my mouth to retort he kissed me, hard. But it was an act of aggression rather than desire and it only served to remind me of how much we had lost, and I pushed him away. I didn’t want to be fogged with desire, like the rest of them. Everything was already a sickening tangle of Mordred and Guinevere and Arthur and Lancelot. Unbidden, I remembered the awful dream, the ghost of a hand over my mouth. I needed my focus. I was here to save my enemy.
“What is it, Morgan, that you want?” Kay demanded. Folded in on himself, his arms wrapped around his chest, he was like an animal; wary, suspicious.
“I need you to do something for me.”
“I’m not playing this game with you again, Morgan,” Kay snapped, turning towards the door. I rushed into his way, backing up against the door so that he could not get past.
“Kay, please. I can’t explain why. Not now. It’s Guinevere. She’s in danger.”
Kay looked suddenly as though he was no longer interesting in leaving. He had a strange look in his eye, fear, and worry, and something darker and more complex. Well, now I had his attention.
“Morgan, what do you know?” His voice was low and tense with suspicion.
Where did I start? With Mordred? Kay had already seen that. I could not explain what I knew without revealing myself to be in league with him.
“Kay, I can’t explain, but please – make sure she does not go on the hunt.”
Kay gave me a long, wary look.
“How can I be sure that you are not trying to harm her?” he said.
I lifted my hand and put it over his eyes. Before us we saw the Breton queen sitting in the bath in Rheged Castle, me sitting, heavily pregnant, at the foot of her bath, then kneeling down beside her to wrap a strip of linen around her wounded arm. Then, again, me watching her buckle on her armour while she talked about her daughter until Arthur and Uriens came, to lead her away to her death.
When I drew my hand away, I could see that Kay was convinced enough. Convinced by the woman’s likeness to Guinevere – even stronger, now that Guinevere was almost the age that her mother had been then – and my own clear memory of it. Kay nodded, and I knew I could be sure of him.
“But Morgan,” he said, softly, “truly you cannot tell me the whole truth of this?”
I shook my head.
Chapter Sixty Three
Mayday came, and I watched the hunt leave nervously. I was only calmed when I was sure that Guinevere and Kay were not with it. It would be easy enough for him to keep her in the castle. But I began to feel concerned again when I could not see them in her garden, or anywhere around the castle. In the shape of the plain maid, I asked Marie where the Queen was.
“She has gone out Maying with Kay the Seneschal,” she told me, dismissively.
I felt cold with anxiety. How could Kay have been so stupid? I had meant for him to keep her in the castle. I felt an increasing sense of dread when, wandering down to the armoury, I found his black armour and his shield, marked with the great grey keys of the Seneschal, still lying down there. I had no idea if any of the swords were his, though I hoped even Kay would not go out without his sword. I should have told him the whole truth. They would have been safer with the hunt, surrounded by armed men, than out Maying alone. What if Lancelot did not come?
But he did. I ran out to meet him as I saw him riding up to the gates in his armour. He stopped when he saw it was me. I did not care anymore if anyone saw I was there. I did not wait for him to get off his horse, but as soon as he had lifted the helm from his head, I told him that the Queen was in danger, and pointed off in the direction she must have gone with Kay. I was about to explain, to explain that it was not Mordred, that it was not what I had told him of before, but he was already gone, riding off. He had let his helm drop to the floor in his haste and I picked it up, cradling it against my chest, wrapping my arms around it, but it gave me no comfort.
I stood in the courtyard as dusk began to fall, wearing the shape of the serving girl no one ever seemed to notice, and I watched Arthur ride in through t
he gates of Camelot. He was smiling and laughing. Gawain was at his side, and Mordred just behind them. Mordred caught my eye as he rode in, and his smile deepened. I felt sick. If he was not angry that Guinevere had not gone with the hunt, and she was not yet back with Kay, I dreaded to know what he was pleased with himself about. And what about Kay? Did this mean that Kay was dead, or a prisoner, too, somewhere?
Arthur was jumping down from his horse, pulling off the game birds and rabbits he had caught and tied to his saddle, and handing them to a squire, but he was not looking at what he was doing. He was looking for Guinevere. He did not seem troubled, yet. Gawain jumped down beside him and, smiling at each other, and Arthur clapping Gawain on the back, they walked off past me, to clean the sweat and dirt of the hunt off them. As they passed me, I heard Arthur say to Gawain, “It is a shame that Lancelot did not come back for the hunt,” and Gawain gave a low grunt of assent.
Arthur would expect to find his wife waiting for him in his room. How long would it be before he realised that she was missing? Would he check in her room for her? When would he raise the alarm?
I did not know what to do, so I wandered back to my room to wait. I did not know where Meleagaunt’s castle was. I did not know how Lancelot would find Kay and Guinevere without knowing the way. I had set his helm on my table and I stood there, staring at it, as though it would give me some kind of answer.
Suddenly the door of my room flew open, and Mordred stood there. He was furious. I stepped back from him, but he was fast across the room, throwing the door shut behind him, grabbing me by the throat and slamming me hard against the wall. I wrapped my hands around his wrist, pulling his hand back enough for me to breathe. He let me have that, but he did not move back. He leaned down, his face threateningly close to mine. I heard his voice again in my head, as I had in my dream: Don’t let me get inside your head. I was afraid that he was already there.
MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy Page 47
