MORGAN: A Gripping Arthurian Fantasy Trilogy

by Lavinia Collins

  I stepped back from him, and he grabbed my wrist, pulling me up close to him.

  “I have it all, Morgan. I have had letters patent-made declaring that Arthur is dead, killed by Lancelot in France. Soon they will crown me King. After this, Guinevere will have no choice but to consent to be my wife, and then I will have everything of my father’s in my possession, as it should be. All except my father’s sword.” I tried to wrench my hand away, but he did not let go. “That could have been yours, if you had not betrayed me. I will have that sword.”

  “Arthur has the sword. You will have to fight him like a man on the battlefield if you want it. You won’t have any of my help.”

  Mordred struck me hard across the face, and I tasted blood in my mouth as my teeth bit into the inside of my cheek. I didn’t care.

  “You will bring my father to me,” he hissed, grabbing me by the chin with his other hand, turning my face up so that I could not look away from him. I looked back, impassive.

  “I will bring him to you, Mordred, and he will kill you. I have seen it.” It was a lie, but he did not know that.

  “A man can change his fate. You changed Gaheris’ fate with me, or don’t you remember? It was not long ago. I have changed my fate. I have taken my father’s destiny –”

  “Wearing your father’s surcoat and raping his wife hardly counts as that, Mordred,” I told him.

  Mordred laughed, low and unpleasant, leaning down to whisper at my ear. “There was no force, Morgan. Only willingness. Enthusiasm, even. Look.”

  I could feel my skin creep, and before I realised what his last word meant, he clamped his hand over my eyes, and for the moment before I managed to tear it away, I saw as I had in my dream, long ago, Mordred with the Queen, lying on top of her. She was splayed out beneath him, her limbs trailing as though she were drunk, or not entirely conscious. He kissed her, and I was surprised how tenderly he did so, though I supposed that he was trying to imitate someone else. His hands ran lightly down her body, over her nightdress, and when she sighed against him, her closed eyes fluttering but not falling open, he pulled the lacing open and slid a hand inside. Just before I wrenched his hand away, though I could not hear her, nor anything that I saw, I saw her open her mouth to say something, and her lips form the word Arthur.

  I pushed Mordred back, stepping away. He was pleased with himself now he had upset me. I remembered how Arthur had been, cold and distant. Troubled. He had not forgiven her before he left. How desperate she must have been for even the smallest token of forgiveness. How unbearably ready to believe that Arthur had come back to her.

  “I do not want to look.”

  Mordred shrugged. “I have heard that you have done the same. I heard that you wore another woman’s shape to lie with Lancelot. I have committed no such magical trickery.”

  I felt my face burn. Who had told him about Lancelot? What could I say to him? That I regretted my sins? That would only give him what he wanted. He wanted to see me weak, and repentant.

  “You men have your strength, I have mine. There’s no honour for a man in deceiving a woman.”

  He made a lunge towards me and I jumped back.

  “Believe me, Morgan, she is deceived now, but before long she will beg me for more.”

  “You are disgusting,” I told him, and he shrugged once more.

  “I am no different from you,” he said.

  When I came back to my room, following my feet and my instincts and memory, I found Lynesse waiting for me. She had her daughter with her, too. A small girl of, I supposed now, nine years old. Lynesse sat in my window seat, her arms around her daughter who sat against her. The girl had her mother’s sweet looks, and big, wide, innocent blue eyes, that – despite their innocence – reminded me painfully of Morgawse. The girl had her father’s red-gold hair, too. She looked up at me without fear, but worse with a desperate wide-eyed belief that I had come to save them.

  I shut the door sharply as I stepped in.

  “What is it, Lynesse?” I demanded, more briskly than I meant to.

  “Aren’t you going to take us away, now?” she asked, her eyes shining with tears.

  I shook my head. Perhaps I should have been gentler.

  “Not tonight, Lynesse. I will make sure that you and your daughter are safe.”

  Lynesse kissed the side of her daughter’s head. The girl was pretty, would grow to be beautiful. I felt a flash of grim relief that Mordred’s taste seemed to be exclusively for women older than himself. I wondered where the sharp-tongued Lynet was. Vanished, disposed of – it didn’t matter. She was gone.

  Chapter Seventy Eight

  The next morning I waited, watching out of my window until I saw Mordred come down, out into the courtyard. His men were preparing for war, preparing to depart.

  When I closed my eyes and pictured myself back in Arthur’s bedroom, it was nothing like it was when I opened them. The bed, which was where I appeared, had its covers thrown back, and on the floor, an empty cup lay on its side, and some white, crumpled garment that must have been Guinevere’s nightdress. At first, I could not see her in the room, and I hoped this meant she had managed to escape. But then, with an awful jerk of panic, I realised that I could not see her because I could not see her red hair. She was leaning out of the window, looking awfully as though she were about to throw herself out.

  “Guinevere!” I cried. She jumped around, her face slack with shock, her red lips parting. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, still red, just, but fading. Soon it would be as I had seen it when we stood together on the shores of Avalon. We were coming towards the end. She was dressed in a plain dress of dark violet. I was sure she would have preferred her armoured dress. I could see that she was trembling. I realised, suddenly, that it was what I had seen her wearing when Mordred had brushed against me in her shape, and seen her kissing him. It gave me an idea.

  She moved back from me, instinctively. She did not trust me. She thought I was someone else come to harm her. Unlike Lynesse, she did not have the marks of his hands upon her, but I had never seen her show anything that she felt before, and now I could see her open distress on her face. She had lost all of her protectors. I knew that Kay had watched over her, and was now gone, and now her husband and her lover were in France trying to kill one another. They had forgotten about her.

  “I’ve come to help you,” I told her. She did not move. She drew more into herself. I had caught her off guard, and she was already resistant to showing me any weakness.

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “Why?” I asked in disbelief. I had thought she would be grateful.

  “You hate me,” she said.

  “Hate you?” I repeated. The last time that she had seen me, the realisation dawned on me, I was wearing her shape, and trying to take Lancelot from her. She was as much of a child at heart as her husband if she thought that was hate. “Guinevere...” I slipped from the bed, and went over to her, taking her hands. She did not move back from me, though her look was still wary. Her hands were strong, competent hands – not really the hands of a princess, or a queen – but I could feel them trembling slightly in mine. She met my look steadily, evenly. What a creature she was. Even now she was holding it all tight inside her, drawing back, drawing in, so that I would not see her pain. “We were rivals for a man’s love, once,” I explained, “and we both did everything we could to win him. I never hated you.” I gave a shrug of confession; I knew I had been unfair. “I know I... play a little rough. True, I have had no love for Arthur. His father raped my mother, and he got that monster on my sister, and married me to that disgusting old man against my wishes –” I stopped myself. I did not want to let myself run away with my anger at Arthur. Not now. Not now there was peace between us. “But,” I continued, “you? No.” I shook my head. “You’re an innocent really in all this, aren’t you?”

  It wasn’t until I had said it that I realised it was true. She closed her eyes, and I saw her lips tense, as though she were fo
rcing herself not to cry.

  “Oh,” I sighed, “Mordred was cruel to you.”

  It had not been fair of Arthur to leave her open to this, for them all to treat her like a possession. Mordred had taken her like one, because Arthur had left her like one.

  I could feel the power of the Otherworld from her, an unfamiliar kind, and more subdued than what I felt from Mordred, or even Kay, but it was there, in her blood. At once I was met with a blur of disorientating images; her holding out her gold token for Lancelot and him taking his hands in hers instead, her eyes closing, leaning in. Then Arthur, sleeping, and she with her eyes wide open, staring up at nothing in the darkness. Lancelot in his armour, turning away from her. Blood, her hands smeared with it, blood tangling in her hair, Lancelot pulling her into his arms as she rushed towards him, and the pair of them falling into a wild kiss. Only then did I see the body of the man Mordred had offered her to lying on the floor beside them. She and Lancelot lying wound together, he with his lips pressed softly against her brow in a moment of tender intimacy, and then them sitting up, panicked, at a sound I could not hear, but which I knew was Mordred banging at the door. Mordred whose fist I then saw closing over the front of her dress, ready to tear. Lancelot putting her hand in Arthur’s. And then I saw Arthur, young again, wrap his arms around her from behind and press his lips against her neck as she leaned back against him. A flash of more and more moments like that of casual, marital intimacy. And among them, images of Lancelot in moments of blinding passion. And then suddenly Mordred’s grinning face, a handful of her fading hair in his fist. It was here, in Arthur’s bed. Cold panic on her face. Mordred, laughing. I stepped back from her. We would, she and I, destroy Mordred.

  “We are women together and I have come to protect you from Mordred,” I told her, briskly. I could not believe how she gave none of it away. Though I had just seen the whole knot of it for her, she showed none of it on her face. I supposed that was how Arthur had never guessed. Well, it would give her the strength to escape Mordred. I knew she had the strength to do it. “Agree to be his wife. Agree to be his wife until you can get to somewhere safe, and I will come to you again. Just pretend to give in. He will show his weakness when he thinks he has won.” I took her hands up again and squeezed them hard. She did not trust me, but it was me or Mordred, and I knew I would win with her.

  “I will come to you again,” I told her.

  I closed my eyes and let myself melt away, down to the courtyard. When Mordred saw me appear before him he gave his smug grin.

  “Where have you been, Morgan le Fay?” he sneered, “Playing at spells with the other witches? Come to try and stop me?”

  I shrugged. “Why would I stop you rushing towards your death?”

  He didn’t look pleased. Perhaps he was more worried about it than I had thought he was. He was putting on his armour, buckling it on to himself. It was his own, battered already though he was young.

  A girl came rushing out towards us across the courtyard.

  “Sir Mordred, Sir,” she called.

  He turned.

  “What is it?” he snapped. “I’m about to leave.”

  “Sir,” the girl was shaking, “the Queen wants you. Wants to see you.”

  Mordred flashed me a smug smile. He turned to me. “I told you, did I not, Morgan? I told you she would beg.” He turned back to the girl. “Not now. You can tell her I will come back for her. We have invaders from France at our shores. I must ride to war.”

  “Sir.” The girl tried again, and I was surprised. “Sir, she is very insistent.”

  Mordred sighed with annoyance, and strode off. I felt the little jump of victory within me.

  The next part of it would be Kay. I knew where I hoped to find him. I closed my eyes and pictured Joyous Guard.

  Chapter Seventy Nine

  When I appeared outside the gates, they opened for me. Someone in the watch-tower must have known the sight of me from far away.

  When I walked into the courtyard, Kay stood there, in his black armour, his helm under his arm, and Ector by his side. Ector stepped forward to hug me into a tight, fatherly embrace.

  He held me away, gently, his kind eyes large with worry.

  “What news, Morgan?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. “None good. Mordred has forged letters saying that Arthur is dead, and is having himself made King.”

  Ector nodded. I could feel Kay’s eyes on me. He must have been sorry, truly, that he had left the brother of his childhood to come to fight with Lancelot. I realised, then, that I had not heard Arthur speak of him.

  “News came here of that, too,” Ector told me.

  I nodded. Mordred would not have stinted to have his victory announced anywhere it could be.

  “You should stay here, stay safe. I will go to Ywain, see how things are with Arthur’s army. Check that Arthur is... well,” I told him.

  “Ywain?” Kay asked, confused, stepping forward.

  “My son,” I replied sharply, annoyed.

  “No, I know, but is he old enough for that?” Kay asked, more to himself than to me. He shook his head thoughtfully. “You know, Morgan –” He looked up at me, his gaze suddenly intimate and intense. I wanted to draw away from it, to back away. “I have never seen him,” he said, softly.

  I did not reply. I did not want to speak intimately with Kay with Ector there. Besides, I knew what Kay wanted to see, and he would not see it.

  “I hope you will live to, Kay,” was all I said, before I closed my eyes and pictured myself back in Arthur’s camp. I hoped that they would still be there, and I would not open my eyes onto empty barren earth, but I also hoped that they were gone, riding for Britain already.

  When I opened my eyes, it was to an empty field, but Nimue was there. She held out her hand to me.

  “Avalon could not protect Arthur over Lancelot, but it will throw every power it has behind protecting him from Mordred.”

  I nodded, and took her hand, but I wondered as we drifted away from wherever we were to where Nimue knew Arthur was, if it would not have been better for us to go inside Benwick Castle and beg Lancelot to come with us. Though he could not. Not with Gawain still raging against him. While Gawain lived, there would be no allegiance between them.

  When Nimue and I appeared in Arthur’s tent, he did not look surprised. They were already back in Britain. He did not say anything. He was sitting in a chair beside Gawain, who was lying on Arthur’s bed, a strip of linen around his head in the same place. His face was grey-white, pale with coming death, and though I could see his lips moving, I could not hear what he said. Arthur leaned close to hear it, and I could see him writing down the words in his still-clumsy hand.

  I waited until Gawain’s breathing had stopped, and Arthur had stopped weeping silently beside him and fallen asleep, to take it in my hands and unfold it. It was a letter to Lancelot, from Gawain. A letter of forgiveness, begging him to return. I handed it to Nimue, and she disappeared before me.

  Ywain was at the camp, and I was glad to see him. He looked well, older again already. I supposed that was war. I got a letter from Kay, telling me he had gone to London, to the old Roman tower. He told me Guinevere had called him there, and was there with him. They were barricaded in, with the knights left in Joyous Guard and I supposed whoever she had taken with her when she had fled from Camelot, for a siege. It was some safety. They would be safe enough until they ran out of food.

  I had been at war so many times before. This was the worst of them, for Arthur was grim and set and seemed to go each day in his armour with a fatal set to his face, as though he longed for his death.

  We were losing. Every time I saw Ywain and Arthur ride back from the battlefield I felt a desperate clutch of relief. Mordred had more men. Lothian was with him now, as its only surviving heir, and those who had favoured Lancelot before had mostly gone to him. Arthur had only his own men, and Ywain’s.

  It came to the point where we had to offer Mordred a truce, a d
eal. Just until Lancelot came with his armies from France. I was confident enough that when Lancelot’s old allies saw he was once again with Arthur, they would come back to us. Nimue had not returned, which either meant that Lancelot was reluctant or preparations were taking longer than they should. She wrote to me, assuring me that if we got three months of truce with Mordred that would be more than enough time, and we would, with Lancelot’s help, crush him. Arthur was quiet, and dark, and thoughtful. I wondered if he wanted to see Lancelot again, if they would shout at each other. If they would talk about Guinevere. Arthur and I did not speak much, nor did I say much to Ywain. By this point, when we could all feel the awful end of it around us, there was not much to say.

  Mordred sent a letter, agreeing to meet to discuss terms of the truce. With dread, we went.

  It was a dark day for the start of summer; the clouds, low and heavy in the sky with rain, felt as though they were pressing uncomfortably down on us. In Mordred’s pavilion, it was stiflingly hot, humid. Mordred was stripped to his shirt and breeches, and Arthur’s red and gold surcoat hung casually over the back of a chair as he paced before us, reading over Arthur’s terms for peace, his lips moving with the words but his voice, whispering, lost to us. I glanced at Arthur beside me. He was tense, uneasy. His hand rested on the hilt of Excalibur and in his armour he was sweating. I could see a bead of it rolling down from his temple, where at last his gold hair was beginning to pale to grey. Mordred had Arthur’s crown, too. I saw it set on a table at the back of the pavilion.

  Many of the men who stood armed behind Mordred were men who had fought with Lancelot at Joyous Guard. I supposed it made sense to them to keep the same enemy. Arthur, on the other hand, was flanked by young men. I was aware, suddenly, of how all of his friends were gone. Gawain and his brothers dead, Lancelot in France, Lamerocke, Percival and Tristan dead, Ector and Kay in the Tower hiding from Mordred. The only one of the knights who had sat with him around his Round Table and pledged to make Britain great who stood with him now was Dinadan, and he was much changed. His laughing face was scarred and thick with greying stubble now, and if I had not known his shield, I would not have recognised him. Besides, it was not he who stood at Arthur’s side, but Ywain.