Mordred stood for one moment longer before her. I think he was longing for her to break, to cry, to beg for her life, but it seemed as though she did not see him at all.
When he stepped aside, Gareth and Gaheris led her down and through the gap in the crowd.
The crowd pressed close around them, and I could hear them shouting traitor, and whore, and also witch.
Then it happened, as I had seen it happen. I heard the shouts first. I did not see Lancelot riding towards us until he was upon us, tangling with the crowd. I saw the flash of his sword. I heard Guinevere scream. Then it was over. He was riding away, her clutched before him on his horse, and the crowd was drawing back in horror from the two bloodied bodies lying on the ground. They were screaming still, but the screaming had changed from the sound of baying for blood to the sound of panic. As they backed away, as though drawn irresistibly towards the bodies of my dead nephews, I walked forwards. The crowd was scattering fast, and by the time I reached them, had mostly gone. I could see Gareth, fallen half on top of his brother where he had stepped forward to try to save him from the path of Lancelot’s sword. He was still, his surcoat of dark blue soaked black with blood spreading down from the neck.
I heard a noise, like a soft gurgling, a gentle choking, and I glanced at Gaheris. His eyes were wide, wide open, so wide that I could see white all the way around his bright blue irises. His mouth was open as though he were trying to speak, trying to call my name, but beneath his mouth, at the side of his neck, a dark gash gaped open. I could have leaned down, and placed my hand over the gaping hole that was still leaking blood, though slow now, and dark, the blood of his heart and his bones; I could have leaned down and given him my healing touch, and it might have been enough. He might have survived long enough for me to take him into the castle and give him my healing potion for his blood, but something in me refused. I could see, over and over again, him covered in blood from the fingertips to the elbow. He had not shown his mother mercy. I watched until slowly, Gaheris sank down, and his eyes sagged closed, and he fell still. He had not deserved his life.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to see Nimue. I followed her as she walked through the great open gates into the castle. The castle was filled with shouts and screams already. The scent of blood was in the air, and worse, war. In the courtyard we passed Gareth’s young wife Lynesse, running out towards the now-abandoned pyre, screaming her husband’s name and choking on her sobs. Just before Nimue and I turned to climb the stairs to Arthur’s tower, I saw Mordred step into her path and catch her in his arms.
Arthur stood at the window, staring out. He must have seen from where he stood. The window gazed out across the fields before Camelot’s great gates. In his hand, he was holding something, some piece of clothing. Something of Guinevere’s.
He did not turn around as he heard us come in. He looked calm, detached, even, but he was breathing deep to hold himself under control.
“Arthur?” Nimue called, softly.
Arthur turned around.
“They are dead,” he said, as though in a trance, as though he was seeing it over and over again.
Nimue nodded gently, and stepped forward, resting a comforting hand on Arthur’s arm. Absently, he put his hand on top of hers. He did not look at her.
“Are they coming up here now?” Arthur asked.
Nimue glanced back at me. I did not know what he was talking about.
“Arthur, they will take them to be buried,” I said, gently.
Arthur shook his head. “No, Lancelot. And Guinevere. Where are they? I want them brought here.”
Arthur still looked lost, gazing blankly between me and Nimue.
“Arthur,” I answered, “he has gone. He is not returning to Camelot. I can only imagine that he has taken her...” I glanced at Nimue, looking for her lead, but she was as blank with it as I was. “He will have taken her to Joyous Guard.”
“What?” Arthur shouted, suddenly coming to himself, and it was worse. Worse than him absent and distant, reeling from the deaths of Gareth and Gaheris. He took a violent stride towards me and unconsciously I jumped back. Nimue, too, stepped away from him as he pulled his arm away from her.
“Arthur –” Nimue began, but Arthur cut her off. He was shaking, his face flushed dark with rage.
“No. This is an act of war. She is my wife. He has taken my wife. If he had come to question the accusation, then why did he not return her? He has stolen my wife from me. After all of this. After all of the accusations, and the gossip and – What kind of King am I if I cannot stop another man from taking my wife?” he shouted.
“Arthur,” Nimue tried once more, “simply send to Joyous Guard requesting her return. Let Lancelot speak for himself. Hold a proper trial.”
“No.” Arthur shook his head. “No.A man is no more than his honour, and if I want mine back from Lancelot then there must be war. Send to the vassal kings of Britain for their armies and –”
“Arthur.” The voice I heard from behind me in the doorway was Gawain, and Nimue and I turned together. There he stood, this huge grizzled warrior, and his eyes were red, and bright with tears. He had seen, too, then. Arthur stared back at him, his anger draining away, and turning to grief. Gawain strode past us as if we were not there, and into Arthur’s embrace.
Thickly, I heard Gawain say to Arthur, “As you love me, you will make no peace with that man.”
And Arthur, his arms tight around his nephew, his forehead pressed against Gawain’s massive shoulder, nodded.
Chapter Seventy One
I left Camelot then, and its preparations for war. The time had come for me to return to Rheged Castle, and to see my son, and to know what part he was going to take in all of this.
When I appeared in my old bedroom, the serving woman scrubbing at the window screamed and ran out. I was irritated, for it meant that Rheged Castle had forgotten that its mistress was a witch. I picked up my crown from where it sat on the table in my bedroom, and set it on my head. I dressed then, too, in one of my mother’s old dresses of dark red samite, and wrapped a rich cloak of furs around myself. If I was to command Rheged as the Queen of Gore, then I had to look the part.
I found Ywain in Rheged’s council chamber, with four other men who from their dress appeared to be knights, though I recognised not one of them. As soon as he saw me, he waved them away with a swift hand of dismissal. It was late on an early autumn day, and the sun came low, orange-red and slanting through the windows, throwing long gaping shapes of burning light against the wooden floor and the old wood table that stretched between us.
Ywain was grown to a man now. I was shocked by how much he had grown to be like me. Tall, skinny and – I did not know how I had not noticed before – with thoughtful grey eyes. Like my mother’s. Like Arthur’s. Like mine. And he had learned to rule. He commanded his men like a prince. I had heard that from the corridor as I approached. I felt an awful guilt, a sinking sorrow that I had had no part in making such a man of my own son.
“Ywain...” I began, stepping into the room.
“Mother.” He nodded curtly, fixing me with a business-like look.
“I see you are preparing Rheged for war,” I said.
He nodded.
“Have you chosen for whom Gore will fight?” I asked.
Ywain looked shocked. “For my Uncle Arthur, of course.”
I nodded, glancing down. “Of course.”
So, he had a fierce sense of honour rather than one of self-preservation. What was it my mother had said to me? We are all either wise or brave. Your sister is brave. You and I are wise. I had given birth to a brave son.
“Do you not think that best?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “It is well, Ywain, that you fight with your uncle. Have you sent word to Camelot?”
He nodded. “Just now, before you arrived.”
I nodded along with him again. He could do it all on his own. He had had to. He had done everything without me. I wondered wh
o had taught him to read, to speak, to walk. I wondered if anyone had taught him Latin. I could have taught him to read in Latin. It was too late now, and I had eaten up all my life and my youth with bitterness and regret.
“Ywain,” I said, quietly, afraid that if I spoke the words too loud, I would not bear them, “I am sorry, that I was no good mother to you.”
Ywain stared back at me for a moment, before he spoke. “No,” he replied evenly, “you were simply no mother at all.”
I was surprised, then, when the next day as I stood on the battlements of Rheged, staring out at the land beyond, back south to Camelot, that Ywain came to stand beside me. It was a windy day, overcast still, and I could not see far into the distance because the heavy sky leaned down to touch the hills, leaking down grey into the low valleys that stretched away from Rheged Castle. From here, the world could have been at peace, and nothing changed, and yet it had all changed, and Rheged and Gore would feel it sooner or later.
Ywain came to stand beside me as I stared out. He was quiet for a moment, following my gaze out into the murky autumn sky.
“I am sorry, Mother,” he said, softly, “for what I said yesterday. I did not mean –” He sighed, unable to find the right words. But I did not need him to apologise. It was, after all, the truth. “My father told me, when I was very young, that you were a woman of Avalon, and it was to Avalon that you belonged, not to Gore. That you had responsibilities – duties – outside of our home, and you had to attend to those. I always understood. And the nurse you chose for me, she was kind. She died, a few winters ago, but I did not want for anything, Mother. I understood.”
Even though he had hated me, Uriens had lied to our son, to make me seem a kinder mother. He had not done it for my sake, of course, but repellent though he had been, and cruel, and brutish, he had loved our son.
“Did you marry?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “It does not seem to mean much in Britain, anymore,” he said, still gazing far away. “It did not make you or my father happy, that is what everyone says. And that bastard cousin of mine, Mordred, his mother was married to someone else, when my Uncle Arthur made him. And now this war with Lancelot. No.” He shook his head again, more emphatically. “There have been offers, but I – I don’t see the need for it. I still remember,” he turned to me, then, “the half-brother I had. Born a few years after my father died. Where is he?”
I had not thought about Galahad in a long time. Somehow, it all seemed to have happened very, very long ago, almost in a different life.
“He is dead,” I replied, softly. Ywain nodded, taking it in.
After a long pause, he spoke again, leaning down, staring at his feet, bracing his hands against the edge of the battlements.
“I have never been to war before,” he said.
I did not know what to say to him. I had seen it all. The blood, the fear. I had heard the screaming. But worse than that, all my life had been a war. I couldn’t say all the things I wanted to say to him. I couldn’t tell him not to let war into his heart, or not to go at all, just to shut the gates of Rheged and hole up for a siege. I could not tell him it was better never to begin. I couldn’t say those things without giving myself away, and I did not want to do that. I wanted my son to live a life untouched by mine.
The days passed quickly, and it was almost winter by the time the armies of Rheged were ready to ride out to join Arthur. The other kingdoms of North Wales, supposedly vassal to Rheged and Gore, seemed to have already emptied their armies, and though Ywain and I demanded to know to where in our various ways, none were forthcoming. Either they had left, afraid of war, or they were fighting with Lancelot. Ywain was discouraged and upset, thinking his vassal lords had abandoned him because of his youth. I tried to explain about Lancelot. No man would stand against him in battle if they could stand with him. He did not understand. He had never seen him fight.
So, in the end it was a small army, with Ywain and myself riding side by side at the head of it, that came to Arthur’s camp, where it spread around the foot of Joyous Guard. Ywain and I would never be as other mothers and sons were, but we had found between us at least a tentative sympathy.
I was disappointed to see nothing with Avalon’s mark at Arthur’s camp. I had the sense that Nimue was more angry with Arthur than she would care to show. He had not listened to her. He had not relented or shown any mercy. She would not lend her magical strength to Arthur’s war. I was the only one left. Little did he know how I had once longed for his death.
The Arthur who strode from his pavilion to greet us looked nothing like the boy I had seen in London’s great cathedral holding Uther’s rusted sword in his hand, his eyes wide. He was nothing like the boy who had married a foreign princess and hardly seemed to notice how angry she was. He was a man now, a man in his middle years, a man marked with everything that had passed him by. His face was grim and set, and his grey eyes dark and fierce. Mordred stood at his side, bearing the shield that had once been Kay’s, the shield that carried the insignia of the keys of the Seneschal. So, Arthur had given Kay’s office to his son. That meant that Kay had never returned to Camelot, and he was in Joyous Guard, with Lancelot. At Arthur’s other side, Gawain stood in his armour, his heavily scarred face a knot of rage.
Ywain dismounted before me, moving to kneel before Arthur, who was dressed in his armour for battle, his crown on his head, Excalibur at his side.
“My Lord, King Arthur,” Ywain greeted him. Arthur put a hand on his shoulder, and Ywain looked up at him.
“You are welcome here, Ywain. You do not have to bow to me. I am grateful to have all of my nephews fighting at my side.”
Ywain stood, clearly in awe of Arthur, whom I supposed he had never met before. All he had heard were stories of Arthur’s conquering, the sack of Rome, the victories in Britain. And, at last, the tales of Arthur’s wife. Arthur must have seemed a giant to my son, a man from legend, beyond reality.
This was becoming a war of bloods. Arthur, Gawain and Ywain on one side, Lancelot and Kay on the other. Ector, too, I noticed was not with Arthur’s party. I hoped that the kind old man still lived. If he did, he would be inside Joyous Guard, not at its feet.
Gawain stood forward to greet Ywain with a clap on the shoulder that made my son – who had not expected it, and who was slighter than his cousin – stumble a little.
I slipped from my horse and got down to greet Arthur, and to my surprise he pulled me into an embrace, and kissed me on both cheeks. I felt his armour, hard and cold, scrape against the gemstones on my black jewelled dress. It had been rare, before, that I had seen Arthur dressed for war. I noticed, too, that I saw no other women around. There must have been some, at the edges, in the villages, but I could not see them. Perhaps they were few, or perhaps they were hiding, afraid.
I felt Mordred’s eyes light on me, and flicker across my son, who was already being led away by Gawain, back to his army, so that they could be told where to pitch their camp.
I followed Arthur back to his pavilion. Once we were inside, he pulled off his armour to sit heavily down in a small wooden chair that creaked slightly under his bulk. He was strong still, muscular like a bull, but it did not matter. He was weary. I could see it in all of his movements. He put his head in his hands.
Before I could speak, Gawain and Ywain stepped in behind us. Arthur did not look up, but gestured to a table set with fruits, and cured meats, and cheese and wine, as though inviting them to eat. Ywain, young enough not to put awkwardness before hunger, and ignorant enough of the tangled web of emotions that Lancelot’s betrayal had drawn tight over us all, stepped forward and began to eat hungrily. Gawain had always had a hearty appetite, but he hung back, moving slightly to my side. The last time I had been close to Gawain, he had been clinging to me for comfort, and I knew it was comfort he wanted from me now, too. I was this huge man’s aunt, and though he was not so very much younger than I was, that did not matter. I had to fill the void his mother’s death had l
eft.
I was pleased that Mordred was not there, although I was unsettled that I did not know where he was, what he was doing. I did not know if he knew that I no longer intended to help him, and that I was with Nimue now, working against him. Arthur shrugged, leaning back in his chair, fixing me with an empty look. He was lost. I did not think I had seen him so lost ever before.
“How are you?” I asked, quietly.
“At war,” he said, simply, and I understood. He picked up a single sheet of paper in his hand from the table beside him, scrunching it in his fist as he drew it towards him. He knew what was on it. He wasn’t planning to read it. He held it out towards me. “Nimue writes to me urging me to take my wife back. To sue for peace, to have her back, and to return to Camelot as though nothing has happened.”
“But there will be no peace,” Gawain said, tersely, staring hard at Arthur. Arthur nodded. “There will be no peace with Lancelot until one of us is dead.”
Arthur was too weary to argue. He nodded slowly again.
“Arthur, could you not take her back, and settle with Lancelot alone, you and Gawain? Does there need to be a war?” I took a deep breath. “I did not want to tell you this, but most of North Wales has not stood with you. Or with us. Your kingdom is breaking into pieces, and each is turning on the other. Call an end to this war.”
“Don’t you think I know that, Morgan?” Arthur bellowed, suddenly jumping from his chair and striding towards me across the tent. I stood my ground, and he turned back before he reached me, pacing away. “She is in there with him. In his castle. He ought to have brought her back to me. She is there of her own desiring.” Arthur stopped, and I saw his shoulders sink, but he did not turn back around to face me. “I stand down here, staring up at the towers of Joyous Guard, and I wonder, is she sleeping in his bed? And I can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop picturing him in my place.”
MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy Page 52
