MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy

by Lavinia Collins

  “I know what you did, little Morgan,” he hissed. I was shocked to hear him use the name my mother had called me. Had Morgawse said it to him? How much did he know that he ought not to know? Did he know about Accolon? No, surely he could not know about that. He pressed his hand harder against my throat. “If you act against me again, I will kill you.”

  I closed my eyes, and let my shape change to Arthur’s. I had guessed well enough that Mordred was still not quite as strong as his father, trained from years on the battlefield, and I pushed him off me. He stumbled back, but at the sight of whose form I had taken, he looked amused, his anger suddenly fading.

  “Morgan, I am not afraid of my father.”

  I slipped back into my own shape, shrugging. “And I am not afraid of you. I need be afraid of no one when I can take any man’s form. Don’t come here and threaten me. You got what you wanted anyway. Lancelot has come, and ridden off after the Queen. We are to have our success soon, unless you want me to have killed you before you get what you desire.” I stepped towards him, and he did look wary, though he did not back away. “I have killed men before, Mordred,” I told him softly. “Have you? Do you know you have the heart for it?”

  To my surprise, Mordred baulked at this. He was young, I supposed, and had grown up under Arthur’s peace. What cause would he have had to kill a man? I was suddenly, painfully, aware of how young he was.

  “I have the heart for it,” he insisted, but he knew that I had seen his inexperience. I did not doubt that if the moment came, then Mordred would be ready to kill his father, but I was not sure he was strong or skilled enough. We were into this too deep. How was this man both a child and a monster? How could I be afraid of him one moment and embarrassed by him the next?

  I did not have to work out where I would go from there with Mordred, because I could hear shouting out in the courtyard. Mordred rushed out before me, and I followed as the plain servant. Arthur had noticed that his wife was missing when he had sent for his Seneschal to ask where she was, and found them both gone.

  Though it was late into the night, the courtyard was full of people, torches lit, running around. I could hear Gawain shouting, and Gaheris. I could hear Arthur shouting too, far away.

  Quietly, beside me, I heard Aggravain lean close to say to Mordred, “If my wife were missing overnight along with the most notorious lover of anyone and everyone in Camelot, I would be searching for her with my sword in my hand, foster-brother or no.”

  Mordred, beside him, shrugged.

  Chapter Sixty Four

  I heard the search die down just a few hours before dawn. I slept badly, stirring and waking often. I would not feel right until Lancelot returned with Guinevere and Kay. If they came back safe, I did not have to feel guilty, and I could continue with my plan, my plan to teach the truth to Arthur. To have what was mine returned to me.

  It was a tense day. I could feel it all around me. Arthur strode through the castle, his face dark with anger, and when the daylight brought no more news, and their search through the forest no sign of Guinevere or Kay, he stood with Gawain in the middle of the courtyard, even as the sun was beginning to sink down in the sky, and they began to arm themselves as though they were about to ride out far into the falling night to look for them. Ector stood with them, and though I could not hear what he was saying, I could hear the gentle concern in his voice. He did not want Arthur lured away from Camelot to be harmed. He suspected some kind of trap. He had no success, and when Arthur waved him away, he left.

  But, as their horses were brought from the stables, someone gave a shout and I turned with everyone else to see a single horse ride through the gates. On it were Guinevere, Kay and Lancelot. As soon as they were through the gates, Arthur rushed forward and Guinevere slipped from the horse into his arms. He wrapped his arms around her, and right in front of everyone, he kissed her passionately. She gently took his face in her hands. Even from where I was, I could see she was trembling. She was dressed, too, in men’s clothes. I tried to push the thoughts from my mind. The sleeves of the shirt fell back from her wrists, and I saw there familiar bruises that made my stomach turn.

  Lancelot and Kay were on the horse still, and I could see that Kay was badly injured. He slumped back against Lancelot, his face pale, his eyes falling closed. His father and Gareth stepped forward to lift him down gently from the horse. Lancelot jumped down then, and went over to Arthur and Guinevere. I could not hear what they said over the sounds of my heart pounding in my ears, but Arthur was thanking him, or congratulating him. He would not have done so, surely, if Guinevere had been hurt.

  I waited in my room for Mordred, pacing back and forth. Though we no longer trusted one another, we still knew that we could not cut the other loose. I was sick with it, sorry for it, but it was too late.

  Mordred came late in the night. Meleagaunt was dead. Killed by Lancelot. I was glad to hear it, glad to hear from Mordred that Guinevere was returned without harm. He could see I was relieved.

  “It is of no matter,” he told me, evenly. “Lancelot is returned now, and he will not leave her alone after this. Now, we wait. It is only a matter of time.”

  I had to see Guinevere. To reassure myself that she had indeed come to no harm. The next morning, I slipped up to her room in the form of Marie, whom I was sure had, wild with relief that her mistress had come safely back, rushed into Gaheris’ comforting arms, and would not be there.

  As I climbed the stairs, I passed Arthur coming down. He gave me a friendly smile as I passed him, and stopped me with a casual, friendly hand on my arm to tell me Guinevere wanted her bath. I watched him go, and wondered if he, too, had known the strange practices of the Breton maid. I never saw him with other women, and he had only been friendly, but I knew how he had been when we were young, and knowing what I did of men, I could not imagine Arthur being satisfied with only his wife.

  I stopped some other girls going past to help me, and they were quick and obedient. I supposed Marie had been in charge here a long time. I looked around for the older woman, Christine, until I heard one of the other girls mention that she had died. I felt a sudden spark of pity for Guinevere, losing her women until there was just one left. The other women at Camelot were servants, or the wives of knights who came and went. It must have been a lonely life, without a child.

  When the other women had set down the bath and left, and I had filled it with water, Guinevere slipped out from under the bedcovers and into the bath. She was silent, which I had not expected, and when she sank into the water, it was absently, as though she did not feel it on her skin. She sank slowly beneath the water, closing her eyes and slipping down in the bath until the water covered her face and hair. I stared down at her as she stayed there for a moment, her eyes closed. Through the water a bubble rose from her mouth and broke on the surface. Through the clear, rippling water I could see the startling colours of her, white and red.

  Slowly, she sat up in the bath, pushing her hair back from her face, and it was as though she suddenly became herself again, noticing I was there.

  “Marie,” she said, with a smile, reaching out a wet hand towards me. I took it, not knowing what else to do. Between us, the water dripped off her skin onto the wooden floor.

  “What happened to you?” I whispered, hearing Marie’s chirping Breton accent come from my mouth, and being surprised by it. It was always hearing another’s voice that was the most surprising.

  She sighed deeply, drawing her hand away and flicking her fingertips through the bathwater absently.

  “Marie –” She shook her head. “Someone else will tell you the story. I –”

  I nodded. I understood this better than Marie would have done. She saw my nodding and gave a gentle smile in return.

  “But, Lancelot came for you?” I asked, kneeling beside the bath.

  “He is a faithful champion,” she replied, distant again. She could not have been more different than she had been when I had heard her cursing him in Breton. All tha
t anger had melted off her, and her eyes half-closed in sweet remembering, she sank down a little in the bath as the vapour from the hot water rose around her.

  I said nothing, but she did not seem to be expecting me to say anything, nor did she seem interested in talking. She sat up and looked at me expectantly, until I remembered that I had seen Marie combing through her hair before. I sat behind her, drawing the comb through her thick curls while she winced and complained, until I had wound it into a bun. The whole time, all I could think about was Lancelot’s hands on her long white thighs as I saw them rising from the bathwater, his mouth against her neck as I brushed it with my fingers. I wished that I could not picture it so clearly; I wished I could forget Lancelot, or at least not feel anything like the raw jealousy that I felt when I remembered how it had felt to be with him, and know that she had that, that she would always have that from him, whenever she desired it.

  When I was finished, she stood, patting the back of her hair with her hand to check it was in place, while the water ran down her naked body. I passed her a sheet to dry herself with. She wrapped it around herself, looking at me with a suddenly intense gaze.

  “How is Kay?” she asked. I had forgotten Kay. If she were worrying at another’s injury then surely she must have been well enough herself. I did not know how Kay was, but I made some kind of comforting non-committal response and left.

  I was sure that Kay would be well now that he was back in Camelot. If he had survived the night and the ride back. Just to be sure, I made the potion for blood, and went to his room, and pressed it into his hands. When, bleary-eyed with sleep, he saw it was me, he said nothing, but drank it all in a huge gulp. When I turned to leave, he took my hand, just for a moment. He did not say anything, and neither did I.

  It was then that a summons came from Morgawse, calling us up to Lothian. I did not want it, for things were just beginning to come together in Camelot, but to my surprise, Mordred wanted to go. I think he missed his mother. I supposed a little time would not hurt. I would be pleased to spend the summer with my sister, and a short absence would make Lancelot and Guinevere feel safer, and more daring.

  In the end, it was a small party of knights that rode for Lothian. When Gawain and Gaheris heard that Mordred was going, they wanted to go too, and Lamerocke made some excuse to go with them. Mordred regarded him with a hostile eye, but did not stop him. Kay was healing, Lancelot and Guinevere were getting themselves more deeply tangled in the net that Mordred and I would draw around Arthur, and everything would take care of itself while I was gone. Besides, I had missed Morgawse.

  I went ahead of the men riding, since I had no need of it. When Morgawse saw me appear before her in her bedchamber, she burst forth in bright giggles, and drew me into a tight embrace. I held her to me and kissed her cheek. It was only when I held her back to look at her that I realised that she was beginning to look old to me. She was forty six. She had lines at the corner of her eyes now, from smiling and laughing, despite everything, and her hair now was a pale golden colour where it had once been a glorious golden-red. Still, she had the same wicked glint in her eye, which only got brighter when I told her that Lamerocke would be among the knights coming to Lothian Castle.

  Before their arrival I had my sister to myself. I listened to all her talk of how Lothian had been in our absence, how she had missed us. She asked for the gossip at court, and I gave her a little of what I knew. That night, we slept side by side like children, and I felt the same homely comfort I always did from Morgawse’s presence. It was only when I woke the next day that I realised that I was dreading Mordred’s coming.

  For the arrival of her sons, and of her secret lover, she dressed in one of her finest dresses, one of the few she had for summer, made of light blue and dark blue silk brocaded into a pattern like rose vines, and a necklace of gold set with a huge pendant pearl. She brushed her long pale gold hair until it shone and pulled it back in a clasp of pearl and gold.

  She rushed out into the courtyard to meet them. Gawain was first to jump from his horse, and he picked his mother up in his huge arms into a fierce embrace. She kicked up her feet behind her in the air, laughing. When he had set her on the ground again, she took his face in her hands and kissed him on both cheeks. She was intensely proud of Gawain, I could see that. She asked where Aggravain was, and no one was quite sure why he had stayed behind. Either that, or they would not say.

  She kissed Gaheris next, who had come to stand beside Gawain, and asked him where his wife was. He made some feeble excuse, but I was sure that Gaheris had come to Camelot to get away from the wife that he had almost entirely ignored since he had married her. I had asked Mordred if he were not worried about Lynet producing a child when Gaheris had not been near her in months. Mordred had told me then that she had had one miscarriage after another until he had discarded her. He told me that he thought her womb was not strong enough to grow a child of his black magic blood. If anyone else had said that, I would have laughed. Since it was Mordred, I had felt a chill dread settle on me. Mordred did want a son. Of course he did. He seemed to believe only more strongly after that that Arthur’s wife was the woman he ought to have, since he had heard the talk of her ancient Otherworld blood. When I told him she was barren, he had laughed. He seemed to think himself above the processes of nature. Perhaps he was. He was, after all, conceived against it.

  It was to Mordred that Morgawse came next, and he wrapped his arms around her tight, burying his face in her hair. I could see his chest rising and falling with emotion, and I was shocked. I had forgotten how deeply Mordred loved his mother, and I had forgotten that everyone – even Mordred – was capable of such deep love. Such vulnerability. Morgawse held him back, smiling with tears in her eyes to see Mordred back, brushing his cheek with her thumbs. When she told him she had missed him, he pressed a tender kiss against her lips. I thought it was too close, too intimate, but when I glanced at Gaheris and Gawain, they did not seem to have seen it. Still, I caught Lamerocke’s eye, and he looked away too fast not to betray his discomfort.

  Chapter Sixty Five

  That night, Morgawse had arranged a great feast to welcome her sons back to their castle. She was a little put out that Gareth had not come with his wife and her granddaughter, but Lynesse was delicate and shy, and the little girl small for her age. Morgawse did not seem to be concerned by the excuse, telling the story again of how Gawain and Aggravain had been born tiny as baby birds, and had grown into giants of men.

  Morgawse spent all night smiling and laughing, and it made me feel happy to see her. She grew lightly flushed with the wine, and began to lean her head back lightly against Mordred’s chest, since he sat behind her with his arm around her shoulders. After the sweet cakes were taken away, Morgawse sighed and settled back further against Mordred, and he kissed the top of her head, then ran his hand slowly, softly down her arm and twined his fingers with hers. It was then that I saw Gaheris watching the pair of them, wary. Lamerocke was watching, too. Gawain had not noticed. He was singing, loud and raucous and drunk as always.

  I stayed at the feast as late as I could. I did not like the watchful looks, nor the tense atmosphere that descended once Gawain and most of the other knights had retired to bed, but it seemed as though my concern was for nothing, for both Mordred and Lamerocke left when Morgawse yawned and declared herself ready to retire. I walked back with her to her room, and kissed her goodnight on the cheek. She did not ask me to come inside, so I was sure that she was expecting Lamerocke, and was wise enough to ask him to come later, in secret, when her sons would not see.

  I could not get to sleep in my bed for a long time. Something had unsettled me, and I was not quite sure what it was. It was only in the depths of the night when I was just beginning to drift away into sleep that I heard, deep in the distance of the castle, a shout. Filled with an instinctive dread, I jumped out of bed, threw my cloak around my shoulders and rushed down the stairs and out into the courtyard. As I ran, I heard more shouting, an
d louder.

  I followed the sound of shouts, and as I came across the courtyard I saw Lamerocke, in his shirt and breeches, running, as if for his life. I felt my heart quicken. I began running then, wishing as I had wished so many times that I had Excalibur by my side.

  I felt no comfort as I followed the shouting up towards Morgawse’s bedroom. No, I thought. If Lamerocke had escaped alive and there were still men shouting, then that only meant that my sister was in danger.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, the first person I saw was Gawain, his face twisted with anger. But it was not Gawain who caught my eye. Gaheris stood a few paces past him, right beside Morgawse’s bedroom door, which was opened onto a crack of darkness, and I could not see within. Gaheris was bloodied from the fingertips to the elbow, still clutching his sword in both hands before him, holding it out towards Mordred who stood the other side of the doorway, in his shirt and breeches, his feet bare, blood splattered down his shirt. Gaheris’ face, too, was spattered with blood, and his chest was rising and falling as though he were half way through a fight. His and Mordred’s gazes were locked together, both hostile. Neither of them seemed injured, and Lamerocke had not been. Where had the blood come from?

  “What is happening here?” I demanded.

  No one spoke. Gaheris and Mordred were staring at one another, and Gawain was staring at Gaheris.

  “What has happened?” I shouted. That seemed to shake Gaheris’ gaze away from Mordred, and he turned to me with his mouth hanging open, as though he had something he desperately wanted to say, but that was beyond him. Behind him, in the half-dark of the corridor, I heard Mordred’s voice, cold and flat with anger, and it chilled me to the bone.

  “Gaheris has killed our mother.”

  My sister. My dear sister. We had been the only one the other could rely on, and I had not stopped this and – her own son.