MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy

by Lavinia Collins

  Carhais closed its gates to us. It was not a fortress city like Rheged or Lothian Castle, nor even like Camelot. It was a low, flat town, its wall made of wood and earth. Still, with its great wooden gates shut, and its armies pressed against them, we would get no food or shelter there.

  A boy who I thought was no older than my son Ywain came to the battlements beside the gates, calling himself the Prince of Carhais. He had the same dark red hair as Guinevere, the same fierce angry expression. It was ugly on a man, and his forcefulness ill-suited his youth. He looked slight and untested in war, and he appeared slightly hysterical in his shouts to us that we could fight the armies of Carhais and its allies in Brittany, or go home.

  Ywain moved forward on his horse to reply, and I put my hand out to stop him, moving forward myself. From what I had experienced of the Breton women in Camelot, this “Prince” would be at least afraid of my woad, and understand what it meant.

  “I am the one they call Morgan le Fay,” I shouted up to him. He tried to hide it, but I could see it strike him, and he hesitated. “True, we are King Arthur’s allies, but we are not the enemies of the Breton people. Not the Breton Queen, Arthur’s wife, and not you. Let us pass by your city in peace, and I, and the witches of Avalon will not turn their anger against you.”

  The Prince of Carhais hesitated, but I knew he would agree.

  “You cannot enter,” he shouted back. His tone was sulky, ill-befitting a prince.

  So, we turned our army aside, and continued hungry and unrested down into France. We lost men from that, but not as many as if Carhais had poured out its army on us. That boy had not really wanted to fight. He only wanted to hide in his castle until it was all over. Perhaps that was the wisest choice. He was too young to have even known Guinevere when she was there as a girl, so I doubted that there was any real moral sentiment in Carhais’ decision not to honour its allegiance to Arthur. He did not want to fight with Lancelot. I did not blame him for that.

  Chapter Seventy Six

  So we arrived at Arthur’s camp mid-summer. It was late in the day, but it was still stifling hot. The grass had dried and crackled under the horses hooves. The horses were panting and sweating, and it had been too long since we had stopped for water. Mercifully, Arthur’s camp was by a stream, and I could see all the horses straining for it.

  Arthur came out to meet us, and as Ywain and I dismounted, he embraced each of us.

  “Morgan, Ywain,” he said, “I am pleased to see you.”

  We left the men to set up our tents and to tend to the horses. Arthur did not notice that our army was small, and looked ill-equipped and under-prepared. There were other things on his mind.

  When Ywain and I followed him into his tent, I saw what it was. Gawain lay on his bed, in the dirty shirt and leggings he must have been wearing under his armour. Around his head wrapped a strip of linen, bright red with blood at the centre, darkening as it moved out. The strip was dirty, too, and wrapped without skill. I realised that Arthur must have done it himself. I sent Ywain to fetch my things.

  Arthur pulled me aside, and spoke quietly, but I thought it unlikely that Gawain could hear me.

  “He fought with Lancelot,” Arthur told me, softly, “and he insists he will fight again, until one of them is dead. Can you save him? He is... badly hurt.”

  I sighed deeply. “I can save him. But, Arthur –” I hesitated. I was not sure it was right, to say what I was about to say. I loved my nephew dearly, but I was tired of war. Tired of war and anger and revenge. “I do not have to. Arthur, he will never have done with this. Don’t you want to go home? Once he is gone, you can reconcile with Lancelot, and go home.”

  Arthur shook his head, his expression tight and tense. He had not brought Guinevere with him. Going home meant going back to her, and I did not know what that meant for him, truly.

  “Do you not want to return to your wife?”

  Arthur sighed deeply, and I saw his shoulders sink. “My wife. I have her back, and I do not have her back.”

  I was not sure what he meant, but I did not ask again.

  “But Morgan, please, save him.” He nodded his head towards Gawain.

  I agreed.

  When Ywain returned, I climbed onto the bed beside Gawain. I looked down at him. He looked, in his sleep, unbearably like the boy who had shouted at his mother all those years ago for coming back from Camelot pregnant. He looked so much like my sister. His hair the same copper colour, the same broad, proud face – though his face now was lined and marked with scars.

  Gently, I unwound the strip of linen Arthur had set roughly around his head. The wound was deep, into his skull above his ear, but he would live from it, with my help. It smelled unpleasantly sweet, until I put my hand gently against it, and felt the healing power within me rush into Gawain. I had Ywain hand me the herbs I needed, and made a poultice for the wound. I wrapped it again, carefully, in a clean strip of linen. We could only wait now.

  The days passed, and Gawain woke from his deep, wounded sleep. At first when he woke he tried to jump from the bed, and Arthur, Ywain and I had to hold him down between us, or he would have rushed out on the battlefield then, right up to the gates of Benwick Castle to shout to Lancelot to come out.

  From the camp, Benwick loomed dark on the horizon, tall, closed off. I did not see lights from within. If Arthur had not told me that Lancelot and his army were in there, I would not have believed it. But where were the rest of the armies of France? If Lancelot had called his allies, then they could have chased Arthur, who had only Logrys, Lothian and Gore with him, back to Britain. But he had not. It seemed that some decision had been made that he would settle with Gawain in single combat. That was better, I supposed, though it would have been kinder of him to finish with Gawain properly, than leave him wounded and dying.

  Summer was coming to an end when Gawain was recovered from his wound. I was not sure how I felt about healing him, since he insisted that he would go out and fight again. What was the good of my saving his life, if he would only throw it away? He paced around the camp, deep in his anger. Not even his wound could make him forget the death of Gareth, and the dishonour to Arthur, wrought by Lancelot. Worse, he talked about it day and night to Arthur and Ywain. I could see it making Arthur sad and weary, but to my alarm it was beginning to bring a kind of fanatic light to Ywain’s eyes, as though he were becoming convinced by Gawain’s hunger for revenge.

  Eventually, we could keep Gawain in the camp no longer. He insisted that he would fight. I sent Ywain back to the men on some task as Arthur and I helped Gawain arm himself for battle. I did not want him listening to Gawain’s increasingly violent ramblings about revenge. I wanted the war to be over once Gawain had been killed by Lancelot.

  “Gawain,” I said, gently, handing him his gauntlets. “You do not have to do this.”

  Gawain shook his head. “It must be done, Morgan. I have nothing left now, except my honour. I have nothing left to give my lost family, except revenge.”

  I glanced at Arthur. His face was set, unreadable. It was an unpleasant day. The end of summer, a thunderstorm gathering, tense and uncomfortable. But Gawain would not wait until after the storm.

  Arthur showed nothing. Gave nothing. They talked of the practicalities of battle, the equipment. No one mentioned Lancelot. No one said Guinevere’s name. Gawain did not bid us goodbye when he went with his huge shield and his sword, dressed in his armour, out onto the field outside Benwick, to beg once more for death.

  I stood with Arthur, side by side in the opening of his pavilion. The late summer rain fell heavily around us, smelling of the tired dry grass brought back to life by the rain, and of the last fruits of summer, rotting in the ground, and, obliquely, of regret. Why had it taken me so long to come to this point? Why had I not realised for so long that my hate for Arthur was destroying me faster than it was destroying him? And Lancelot. And Guinevere. And Kay. How had the five of us been tied so tight that we had come to such a place as this? And I co
uld not tell who was responsible for it; I only knew it was either her or me. The men had followed us blindly, first one then the other, as we had rushed, blindly, too, at our own desires. They had been weak, and blind and foolish. They should have been stronger. So, too, should we. But then there were others – Nimue, Gawain, Morgawse – who had made it so these were the only paths we could take.

  Arthur was staring out through the rain, his eyes fixed on Lancelot and Gawain crashing together on the field before us. Gawain had driven Lancelot back hard all morning, and Lancelot had seemed to buckle under his powerful blows, his shield shattering until all he held was the iron boss of it, with shards of broken wood sticking out from it like some ugly misshapen star. But Gawain was a powerful fighter who relied on his strength, and Lancelot was quick and had evaded him until, as noon passed, Gawain began to grow tired, wearying under the weight of his own rage, the crushing power of his blows, and his strength had waned, and now, as night was falling, Lancelot was driving him back easily towards our camp. Arthur’s eyes followed his nephew with a wild intent. Though Lancelot’s shield was shattered to pieces in his hand, he did not have a mark on his body. Gawain was injured, dragging his left leg with him as he moved back from Lancelot’s blows, which were fast and stinging now they had the chance to fall. And yet Lancelot held back from striking a fatal blow. He could have done, long ago, once Gawain’s strength had begun to tire, but he did not want to kill Gawain. It was obvious even from as far away as Arthur and I stood that Lancelot was desperate for a reconciliation. So was Arthur. Lancelot was hoping that if Gawain were too injured to fight, he would accept terms for peace, but I knew my nephew well enough to know that the only terms for peace he would accept were his death, or Lancelot’s.

  Arthur was tired of war. I could see it on his face. I was aware, suddenly, of how much we had all aged. Arthur’s boyish looks had faded, and he looked weary now, grizzled as Uther before him had done. That had come to him fast. Only a few years ago, he had been a man in his prime. He had had all the looks of a mighty king about him. He had been happy. He had been strong, and famous and brave. Now he was the king everyone knew as one whose wife had loved another man. This had torn the heart from him, his betrayal by Guinevere.

  I had got what I wanted. He had suffered. It was in every line of his face. I was not sure, anymore, if I had truly wanted it. Even Lancelot, whose face had once been smooth and fair as a lovely young girl’s, wore the marks of age. His face was lined with his troubles, and at his temples, thin lines of grey threaded through his hair. Only Gawain, carried through by his rage, had any stomach for it anymore.

  “What did he have,” Arthur said, suddenly, thoughtfully, catching me by surprise as I watched the fighting, “that I lacked?”

  I shrugged.

  “He is not bigger than me,” Arthur continued, resentfully. “I have seen him.”

  I was shocked that Arthur's understanding of this was still so simple. Had he known his wife at all?

  “Arthur,” I replied gently, “I am sure you lacked nothing as a husband. You are just... different men. You forget – you chose her, she did not choose you.”

  He turned to look at me. I could not read his expression. This war with Lancelot had robbed him of that open look, perhaps of his generous heart as well. He had, after all, put Guinevere to the fire.

  “Not every husband was like your husband, and your sister’s husband,” he answered, sharply. “I was kind. I was a good husband.” Turning away from me, he glanced back to the fighting. I could see Lancelot hold back from a blow that would have sliced under Gawain’s breastplate. Very softly, he added, “I loved her.”

  It was awful, the way he said it, as though she were dead.

  “You will not forgive her?” I asked.

  Arthur shook his head and rubbed his face. “No, no. Of course. Of course I will. I love her, it is just... Something is lost, Morgan. I thought that I was everything to her, and I was not. She was, in a way, everything to me.”

  I thought he was lying to himself, just a little, in that. He had been as concerned with jousts and games with his men, with his own power, with the glory of his knights, as her. He had never learned her language. He had never told her the truth about her mother. He had never gone with her back to Carhais. He had sent her home from war, for his own sake, not for hers. He had loved her, as well as he could, but she had not been everything to him. She had been his wife.

  There was a huge crash as Lancelot’s sword struck Gawain’s helm, and Gawain sank to his knees. Lancelot stood over him, still. Once more, he did not strike the death-blow. I could hear Gawain shouting, desperate for an end, but I saw Lancelot shake his head. The rain ran down his face, plastered his hair to his head. He had fought without his helm all day, as though daring Gawain to strike a blow that he knew Gawain could not. Or perhaps he hoped that Gawain would, and it would all be over for him. Lancelot threw down his broken shield between them in the mud, churned up from the rain and their fighting, and he turned away. Arthur gave the shout, and men rushed out to bring Gawain inside the tent.

  With a chill, I realised suddenly that Mordred had never come. How had I not noticed before? I had assumed he would go to France, and wait for his chance with Arthur. I had thought to catch him at his plotting here. No. He was in Britain. He had my potion.

  “Arthur,” I asked, with dread gathering around me, “where is your son?”

  “Oh,” he replied absently, his eyes still on his nephew, and the men trying to lift the wounded bulk of him on to a stretcher to bring him back to the camp. In the distance, Benwick Castle lifted its portcullis for Lancelot to enter, and he was swallowed up by it. “I left him at Camelot, to take care of Britain, and to guard Guinevere.”

  “You did what?” I cried, in utter disbelief that Arthur could still have been so naïve, so stupid. Mordred must have laughed with glee when Arthur told him all his ambitions were to be granted in one, foolish bequest.

  Arthur turned back to me, angry and defensive. “He proved himself loyal. Someone had to guard my kingdom, and my wife.”

  “Arthur –”

  “What, Morgan?” he demanded, irritably. “What have you known about this, too, that you have neglected to tell me until it is too late?”

  I could not speak, I was too frustrated, too desperately angry with him. But, it was with myself, too. I had unleashed Mordred on Camelot in my own desire to do Arthur harm.

  Turning from Arthur, I closed my eyes and pictured the courtyard in Camelot. It was raining there, too, the fat, heavy raindrops of late summer, and I felt them on my skin before I saw it come into place around me. It was late in the night, and no one was around. I wondered if I still had time.

  Chapter Seventy Seven

  I rushed up her tower, to her room. The door hung open on its hinges, and I saw within the wreckage of some awful fight. One of the bed curtains was torn down from the bed and lay in a heap on the floor, stained with blood, and there was blood, old and dried, soaked into the bare floorboards.

  Well, she was not there now. But she had to be in Camelot. Mordred would not have left. He would want to stay at the heart centre of Arthur’s kingdom until he could take it for his own. He would not be happy if he was not sitting in Arthur’s throne, and sleeping in Arthur’s bed.

  As I turned to leave, I almost bumped into Gareth’s wife. She must have seen me appear, and followed me up here. I would have rushed past her, but she had a desperate look in her eye. She thought I had come to save her. She looked as though she needed it. A little bruised, very frightened. I knew what Mordred was like.

  “Tell me where the Queen is,” I said urgently, taking her by the shoulders. She shook her head.

  “Tell me, Lynesse,” I insisted.

  She began to cry, shaking with her tears.

  “Promise me you’ll take me away with you, and I’ll tell you,” she said thickly, through her tears.

  I did not think that I could. I promised, anyway.

  “
He keeps her in Arthur’s rooms,” she mumbled.

  Without replying, I rushed away. I could save them both, take them away from Camelot, but then what? I still had to stop Mordred.

  I raced up the stairs, past the room with the Round Table, and up to Arthur’s bedroom. I pulled at the door. It was bolted from the inside. I put my ear to the door. Silence. I pulled harder at the door, but it only rattled against the metal bolt. I had not even seen any evidence of Mordred in Camelot, apart from Lynesse’s distress. Perhaps he was not there.

  As I stepped back from the door, someone inside wrenched it open and I jumped back. Mordred strode out into the corridor, his face dark with anger, but when he saw it was me, he grinned, pushing the door gently shut behind him. I noticed then, in the darkness of the night, and the low light of the torches burning, that he was naked except for his breeches, which had clearly been pulled on in haste, the laces pulled closed, but hanging down untied.

  “I thought you were a servant. I was going to scold you. You might have woken my Lady.” His grin deepened as he stepped towards me, and I felt suddenly, strongly repulsed by him.

  “Mordred...?” I murmured. Surely, he could not have won Guinevere over, after she had refused him so many times. She had been here waiting for Arthur’s return. The drink he wanted, I thought. And his own words came back to me: In the dark, I don’t need your black magic to take my father’s shape. I felt sick.

  “Ah yes, Morgan, you arrive too late.” He shrugged, as though it was nothing. “She will complain when she realises that it was I, and not my father, but she did not seem to find me unpleasant.” He grinned deeper, leaning towards me. I had grudgingly enjoyed his mother’s confessional nature, but this was making me sick, making me wish I had the strength to kill him. “I had wondered what it was about this woman that made all the men mad, and now I have known it, I must confess that it was no exaggeration. I have had my hands all over her body, and I know that she loved it. My father never loved her like that, I am sure. And, Morgan – Morgan, what I have known, you cannot imagine.” He laughed, soft and cruel. The worst of it all was that he had gone to it imagining his own father, too, in comparison.