by Ines Johnson
Lord Arthur certainly had no intentions toward her. And contrary to what Sir Bors might have thought, Morgan had no designs on the Lord of the Round Table. The elderly knight had hinted that his daughter, Constance, was in the lead to win Arthur’s hand as he walked her back to the drawbridge.
Morgan ran her hands through her hair, finding another twig from her time beneath the heavy weight of Camelot’s fearless leader. As Sir Bors had walked her back to the bridge and out of the way of the hunt, he’d offered her some friendly, fatherly advice. It was a subtle and kindly worded warning that was wholly misplaced.
As if! Morgan knew eager witches who hung outside the Throne Room door before the hart season. She had never been one of them. Not even as a child when her mother had tried to shove her into the path of the youngest Pendragon.
Bors had the same look in his eyes as her mother had had all those years ago. It was clear he wanted it to be his daughter tumbling in the wood with Arthur. But he didn’t need to give Morgan a metaphorical or physical push in the opposite direction. She was trying desperately to get out from under Arthur’s thumb. Not that Bors believed her.
No one believed that science and learning could be a witch’s true passion. But it was true. The only power Morgan was interested in was that which was contained in an atom.
Morgan gave herself one last look in the mirror. As a finishing touch, she put the rare hart bloom in the lapel pocket of her jacket. This was the second time she’d seen the flower in her life. The first time she’d seen it, had been during the last hart hunt.
Most women oohed and awed over the white blossom with its yellow center that appeared to sparkle in the sun. To Morgan, the plant reminded her of the nucleus of the atom with its inner and outer rings.
Satisfied that she’d dressed for the correct century, she headed out of Loren’s room but froze before shutting the door behind her.
This was the Galahad wing of the castle. Each of the knights had a suite of rooms where their families stayed while on the grounds. Morgan, Gwin, and Loren were the only people in this part of the castle and she knew Gwin was already at work.
A heavy curtain rustled in the windowless hall. Morgan saw a pair of sneakers and a pair of patent leather shoes peek from the bottom of the curtain. Morgan could feel the tension rolling off the two hidden lovers. The strain felt decidedly masculine, while the female energy tending toward giddy anticipation.
“Don’t worry, guys,” said Morgan. “I’m not going to say anything.”
Morgan heard twin sighs. The lower masculine sigh was filled with relief. The high-pitched feminine one hit a note of disappointment.
“It’s the twenty-first century, for God’s sake,” Morgan continued. “But don’t let Arthur catch you.”
If the authoritarian caught the two lovebirds he’d leg-shackle them faster than he’d slice a Templar with Excalibur. This place was so medieval. Morgan nearly ran down the hall in her eagerness to make her getaway. Unfortunately, there was still a bit of stealth required. She slowed her steps as she approached her destination.
She looked left and right before she ducked into Gwin's office. The title Lady of the Castle might be translated as housekeeper in a Victorian world, but Morgan knew that Gwin loved the post. She’d been raised for it, and truth be told, her sister was good at her job.
She kept the castle running and maintained. She managed the shopping from the food pantry on down to the weapons room. She managed the bills, both within the community and the taxes to the human government. As well as any number of things that Morgan couldn’t, or didn’t care, to think about. If Gwin ever got sick, all of Camelot would come to a halt within the hour.
Morgan went to the desk drawer where the car keys were kept. Cardiff was a thirty-minute drive from Caerleon, where the village of Camelot currently sat. Morgan could travel there in seconds by ley line, the magical pathways that crisscrossed the world that a witch could access. There was a doorway through the Throne Room, and if there was a church on the campus, she could likely access the magical highway. But Morgan preferred to travel like a human now that she was powerless.
She stopped herself. She wasn't powerless. She was no longer magically inclined. Today’s road trip, if successful, would validate her life’s purpose. And it had to be successful. The slice of the blade that took her powers hadn’t done her in, but staying in a place that didn’t support her beliefs was slowly killing her.
Morgan left Gwin’s office. As she closed the door behind her, she spied her sister exiting the infirmary and closing the door of her husband’s room.
It was just a glimpse, but the sight of him always sent Morgan back to that dark place. The feel of the blade slicing into her gut. The magic leeching from her body had been the most painful experience of her life. She still woke up in cold sweats from the nightmares.
In the glimpse she caught of him, Morgan could see that Merlin was pale. His cheeks hollowed out. He looked like a skeleton that had pulled on a thin, skin blanket. He was powerless, harmless, terminal.
Morgan gripped the doorknob. Her body slumped into the frame. She didn’t dare close her eyes. She kept them trained out the window on the bright sun.
Golden strands blew into her view. Blue filled her vision. It was a familiar blue, as though she were looking into her own eyes.
“Hey,” Gwin soothed.
Morgan blinked, looking past her sister. The door to the infirmary was shut. The empty hall was bright. Her big sister’s sorrowful smile blotted out the rest of the world.
“Hey,” Morgan peeled her body off the door frame.
“Where are you headed?” Gwin nodded down at the keychain wrapped around Morgan’s index finger which was still wrapped around the doorknob.
“Cardiff.” Finger by finger, Morgan released her grip on the past and met her sister’s gaze.
"Is this a shopping trip?" Gwin’s gaze was clouded with guilt, remorse, and shame. But Morgan saw her push the front away and force the sun to shine through her eyes.
"No, it’s academic.” Morgan blinked away the onset of precipitation from the corner of her eyes, pulling on a bright front of her own.
She’d always told her sister everything. Not because Gwin pried. Her sister had one of those faces that anyone could trust. And they were close, close as two sisters could be.
At least they had been. Until the morning Morgan awoke on what could have been her deathbed to find that her sister was tending to the man who’d tried to kill her. It kinda put a damper on their late night gab fests.
They both tried to keep the doors of communication open. But it was clear they were often holding back. One topic that was off the table was the man across the hall.
Morgan had never liked sharing her sister with Merlin, even before he became a homicidal maniac. But her default was still to share her deepest secrets and hopes with the person she cared for most in the world. So, she spilled.
“I’m meeting with a professor at the University of Cardiff about my work. I'm going to go to school. To actual classes, not online or via the mail.”
Gwin lifted her brows in that non-judgmental way of hers that still gave one pause. Morgan knew the question her sister would ask before she said it.
"No, Arthur doesn't know. And I don't need to tell him. I'm a grown woman, three times over. I don't need protection to expand my mind. It's a school."
Gwin bobbed her head thoughtfully. "It's close enough that you'll be home every night. If you plan to stay in Camelot …”
"Yes. I’ll probably stay at home. For the first year. If I get in."
"Of course you'll get in. They'd be fools not to have you. Do you need me to open a ley line?"
"No. I'm going to drive."
Now Gwin's features clouded over with judgment and worry.
"I'll be fine,” said Morgan. “I took some refresher lessons with Loren."
"Loren? You mean the witch who crashed a car off the docks a couple of weeks ago."
Mor
gan smirked. A second later, Gwin giggled too. That had been epic. Loren had been running late to catch her ride on a yacht. She’d used magic to send the car over one hundred twenty miles an hour. The problem was, there was no way the brakes could stop the magical punch. And so—splash. Gawain had gotten that particular escapade all on video and uploaded it to the town blog.
Morgan palmed the keys as the two sisters made their way to the front door. “I’ll be fine. Go on and get back to your duties."
"It's been insane now that Arthur has said he'll choose a bride by the end of the hunt."
"He did?" Morgan croaked the words. She pounded her fist on her chest, uncertain where the burning sensation had come from. Then she remembered that she had skipped breakfast.
“Hmmm,” said Gwin. “I think Constance Bors is in the lead.”
“Too bad.”
“I thought you liked Constance.”
“Yeah. I do. Poor thing.”
Gwin tried to stifle her laugh but it came out anyway. Morgan gave her sister a squeeze. Then she turned from the castle, face up to the sun, a smile splitting her face. She set out the door to begin her new life.
7
Arthur looked up to see Morgan and Gwin in the doorway of the castle. His attention immediately went to Morgan. And held.
She was doing it again. Smiling. And again, it was genuine, filled with joy and not a hint of mischief. It was filled with pride, a bit of vulnerability, a hint of desire.
What was she up to?
"My Lord?"
Arthur turned back to Lady Constance. His gaze narrowed as he forced it to remain on her smile. It wasn’t a chore. Constance Bors had a pleasant smile. Nice plump lips, a tad on the thin side, but enough real estate for a man to have his pleasure. He’d never seen any mischief in her green eyes, only intelligence, compassion, and attentiveness.
“How are you finding the hunt?” asked Constance.
“More of a challenge than I expected,” said Arthur.
It was late afternoon as they walked through the town square. It was a Thursday, the start of the tourism days for the town. The British town of Caerleon once hosted a Roman legion. The ancient fortress, aged amphitheater, and dried up baths brought in a fair share of tourists. The human sightseers naturally made their way into the village. But there wasn’t much to see.
At first glance, it must’ve been hard for the outsiders to tell if the residents were a part of the medieval act or not. The town’s residents wore a mix of modern fashions and clothing from the past. Young men wore dark jeans and tunic shirts. The ladies wore lace bodices and denim skirts. And then there were the elderly, and by elderly, he meant folk who had at least half a millennia on their faces. Those gentlemen donned doublets, a quilted coat of arms, with a surcoat emblazoned with their rank or social position in the court. The grand dames wore kirtles, colorful, fitted dresses worn over blouses.
Arthur saw the floating display of goods in most shops. To the human eye, the wares all rested on dusty shelves. In the schoolyard, Arthur spied the young witches and wizards practicing their spells and moving faster than a child should be capable. To the naked eye, the kids tossed dirt instead of witch fire. They leaped instead of levitated.
The magical town of Camelot was hidden in plain sight from the iPhone, Android, and Polaroid camera viewfinders of its visitors. Unless a person’s mind could tap into the ley energy running under the city, they would see a lazy suburb that didn’t warrant more than a few hours’ stopover. The abundant invisible energy made a human’s skin crawl and they were often eager to get away from it.
The medieval castle that sat on the outskirts of the village showed a sad, crumbling face to the brochure hawkers. Yellow hazard tape and posted signs warned visitors not to approach the dilapidated bridge. But to magical kind, the turrets gleamed in the sun, the drawbridge stood sturdy and open to any who could see it.
Arthur’s grandfather had moved the original castle, known as Tintagel, from Cornwall about 1500 years ago to Glastonbury in Somerset, then to Stirling in Scotland, and now it rested in Caerleon in Wales.
Morgan made her way across that sturdy drawbridge, her smile growing as she crossed the moat. Had she always gotten a crinkle in her eye when she smiled? Did her lips always curve like that, stretching wide like a bow? Had the column of her neck always been that long and graceful, begging for someone to kiss it?
“I’ll bet you can’t wait to mount the prize.”
Arthur tripped, nearly bringing Lady Constance down with him. “I beg your pardon?”
Lady Constance brushed her skirts out, a self-deprecating smile on her face. “It’s my fault. I’m trying to engage you in conversation when I’m sure your mind is on the hart hunt.”
The hart. The hunt. Of course. She was talking about mounting the hart. Not … anything else.
The hunt had ended early with no sign of the stag. The only action any of the hunters had seen this morning was Morgan’s fur coat. And now Morgan had slipped his sight.
Where had she gone? What was she up to with that smile on her face? Arthur should probably go and hunt her down. But then he saw her near the grocer. She’d stopped to talk to Lance and Percy. All three of their heads were bent over a tablet in Lance’s hand. Probably looking at another of Loren’s antics.
“Lord Arthur, I’ll speak plainly with you, if I may. I’m looking to settle down and have a family of my own.”
Arthur blinked, turning back to Constance.
“I’ve been running Stirling Castle in Florida for three decades now. I’m the most qualified for the job of Lady of the Castle. I’m young enough to have children.” She spoke with determination, precision, and clarity.
“That’s a glowing resume,” he said. “But the role of my wife isn’t an employment opportunity.”
“Isn’t it? We’ve both been alive for centuries now and neither of us has found love. The two of us have always gotten on. I think we could make a strong unit. I’m a practical woman, and you’re a practical man. I’m duty bound and so are you.”
Arthur looked at Constance. Really looked at her. His loins gave a stir. She was attractive. Bedding her would be no chore. And she was right, they’d always gotten along. He knew she ran a tight ship in Florida with the magical kind there.
She was the perfect choice. She'd make a perfect wife. A kind mother. A dutiful Lady of Camelot.
Constance smiled up at him, as though she’d seen him tick each box in his mind. Her smile was lopsided, reminding him of a checkmark. There was no mischief or joy. Just quiet certainty.
He should make an offer for her. He would make an offer for her. It would be the right thing to do. The right thing for all involved.
“You don’t have to answer now,” she said. “I just wanted you to know where I stood on the matter.”
“Thank you,” he said. “That’s very good of you.”
Something tightened in his chest. It wasn’t desire. Desire rose and clouded the head. This feeling sunk down, bringing him a bit low. He’d liked her assertiveness just a moment ago. The castle needed a woman to take charge. But Constance’s firm tone had quieted after she put the decision back in his hands.
He offered her his arm and they continued down the street. He wasn’t certain where to lead the conversation after her overture. Luckily, another’s overtures caught his attention.
Arthur released Constance’s hand and marched down an alleyway. He pulled apart the two embracing bodies he found there. The young man’s sneakers kicked up dirt as he tumbled away from his paramour. The young lady slid the toe of her patent leather shoe up and down her leg in what had to be a nervous gesture.
Arthur turned from her and glared at the young man. “You were taking liberties with this young witch?”
The young man opened his mouth, but words wouldn’t come out. Pure panic streaked down his face in thick droplets of sweat.
“You know what that means?” demanded Arthur.
The boy still couldn’t
get out any words. The skin of his throat, where a post-puberty beard reared a few hairs, turned green. That told Arthur, the young man knew exactly what taking such liberties with a witch meant.
Arthur turned back to the young lady in question. Both her feet were planted firmly on the ground. In fact, it looked as though she’d clicked her heels together like the start of a jig.
“Go tell your parents,” Arthur demanded.
The young witch grabbed her new fiancé’s hand and pulled him out of the dim alleyway and into the light of day. The young man backpedaled a few steps. But, inevitably, he began the slow march towards his destiny.
Arthur felt no sympathy for the young man. The protection of witches was the reason for the existence of the Knights of the Round Table. If a man dared dally with one, he would make the ultimate sacrifice; marriage. Which is why Arthur had never dared touch one. Until now.
He returned to the mouth of the alley and held out his arm for Lady Constance. They finished their promenade, making small talk which Arthur would not be able to recall later.
It no longer mattered what was said. His decision had been made. There was no reason to dally any longer.
Once Arthur had deposited Lady Constance back with the other women, he made a beeline for the weapons room. The smell of iron, polishing oil, day old pizza, and testosterone was a welcome assault on his nose.
Ancient swords and medieval weaponry dominated most of the room. But in the other corners were more modern weapons like guns and computers. A group of young squires sat off in the corner, polishing swords, laughing and joking, sipping sodas and wolfing down cold pizza.
On the opposite side of the room, two large flat screens dominated the wall. Arthur found Percy with a controller in his hands losing badly at Assassin’s Creed. Lance sat next to the knight, head down looking at a tablet.
“How did it go with Lady Constance?” Lance asked without looking up. He used his thumb and forefinger to make the image on the tablet larger. “You hitched yet?”
“What?” said Arthur. “Yes. I mean no.”
