Mordred, Bastard Son

by Douglas Clegg

  The channel seemed calm that night, so we hoped for the best.

  4

  And so, my lover Lancelot and I carried that fair maiden, Guinevere, across the marshes, hooking our hands together beneath her that she might ride without her beautiful feet touching the waters. Over the rise of the Dragon’s Mount, the fires had been lit to signal our boat’s safe passage from the coast. Twilight had descended into a shadowy night.

  She laughed and whispered to me as I set her down into the small boat well beneath her means and station, “I owe you so much. When I am queen, I will make sure that your every wish is granted.”

  “You do not need to make such promises,” I said.

  “Do not question the gift,” she said tenderly. “For you have done more for me in one night than any have done for me in my lifetime.”

  I kissed her lightly on her cheek as she said this. As I did so, I glanced over at Lancelot, who watched me as if he did not like anything I had begun doing since finding the princess.

  “Is it wise to leave tonight?” she asked as we pushed off from the strand through the tidal pools.

  “If you wish to stay and see if the darkness brings more of what we saw last night, then be my guest, my lady,” Lancelot said. He glanced at me; a look that seemed irritated, and turned, reaching for an oar. We were all three exhausted from lack of sleep, and he and I knew we’d be up most of the night, rowing.

  “We might find another boat by dawn,” she said sweetly. “You need rest. Both of you.”

  “We will rest when we reach the far shore,” I said, although I longed for a few hours of rest.

  “I’m sure these horrible devils won’t find us.” She fingered the small pendant at her throat, an amulet of her religion. “I am sure I will be safe.”

  I leaned over toward Lancelot and touched his shoulder that he might know how I longed for that simpler day when we could ride our horses along the path. Yet our lives had changed so rapidly, in such a short season. He shot me a glance that was half a flash of anger, and half of, what seemed to me, longing, though this might have been my imagination. In my mind, I wished we could be back at that thatched-roof house by the fountain, not knowing each other’s names, not know the places we’d come from that had brought us into that knot of destiny.

  I looked over at Guinevere, to her soft, rounded eyes, and that sweetness that maidens possessed—that no doubt my mother and Morgause had once had, when innocent hopes were still theirs. She was not yet eighteen, and she would marry my father though she did not know of my relation to him. My deceit did not seem so terrible to me then, as I rowed, for I could comfort myself with the knowledge that I was helping my father. I would bring him his betrothed, in safety. I would bring him his lost friend Lancelot, who had lived in sorrow for many years, separated from his beloved king and in anguish over the part he’d played in bringing Arthur into the secrets of the labyrinth itself.

  My past seemed one of sorrow, and I could not remember the intense happiness I had once felt for the Lake of Glass or its nameless Lady. When my mother’s face passed across my mind like a cloud across the sun, I remembered her tragedy too easily and not her life. When I thought of Morgause, all I saw was the vengeful fury of her face and not the kindness and gentleness she’d brought to my childhood.

  The past was a place that I could no longer visit.

  The future, ahead of us, across the narrow sea from Armorica to Britannia.

  I had great hope then, watching this maiden with her happy expectation for the future, as well as her fear of what marriage to a Briton king might mean; seeing my beloved, beside me, both of us turning the oars as if we had always been boatmen though I had never manned a boat except on the Lake of Glass itself. I felt as if my boyhood friend Lukat were there beside me, and Guinevere was his beloved, Melisse, and it was some long ago day of summer when we rowed to the far shore of the lake to look at the ancient paintings. I offered a smile to Guinevere as she passed me a waterskin for drinking.

  “When you grow tired, try and sleep so that when we arrive tomorrow, you will look as radiant as you do at this moment,” I told her.

  “Will it be so long? All night?” she asked.

  Lancelot grumbled, “Perhaps longer. We have no sail, and should the sea turn rough, we cannot know if we will even make it.”

  Out in that channel, the water seemed unnaturally calm. “A storm may come,” Lance said, glancing at the sky. “Though I do not see other signs of it.”

  “The sea is like a lake,” Guinevere said. “It is beautiful.”

  “When it grows calm like this, my lady,” Lance said, “it sometimes heralds an approaching gale.”

  “You both are too kind to me,” she said. She had won me over with her person, for she was not the pretentious Roman royal lady I had half expected, nor was she a spoiled little girl whose father had sold her for land. I quite liked her, and the touch of her hand brought a strange and wonderful thrill to me.

  Warmth came into her face, that same tenderness that had won me over when we found her. She offered to take Lancelot’s oar that she might row the night rather than make him suffer that pain. He grumbled at her touch upon his hand, and looked off to the northern sky, pretending to gauge the weather by the drifting dark clouds across the star-strewn heavens.

  “You ask much of us, my lady,” he said.

  “I will ensure that any wrong done against you, sir, will be redressed. I promise you that any past charges of crimes brought against you shall be pardoned and you both shall be paid handsomely for having saved me from those phantoms of the dark wood.”

  He did not look at her as she spoke, but kept watch of the sky. “See?” he said, pointing to starboard. “The taranis crows gather in those clouds. A storm will come, whether at sea or inland. But if you wish, we will go forward rather than back.”

  “We cannot go back,” I reminded him.

  As I rowed, my muscles sore but my spirit hopeful, I glanced back at the now-distant fires along the Dragon’s Mount. Where my mother had first come with me in her belly, running from the very kingdom and man to whom we now journeyed.

  I wondered when I would next return to Broceliande, and when if ever I would see Viviane or Merlin again; if I would ever return to find Lukat, a soldier in the service of King Hoel, whose armies patrolled the coast of Armorica; if I would ride the Eponi horses, or hunt the boars of Moccus, or visit that terrible Well of Poison that brought so much darkness with it into my life. I thought most about that broken Cauldron, and about my mother, whose soul could not rest so long as Morgause lived.

  Lance, across from me, remained sullen, though both the lady and I tried to cheer him with joke and song as our weary toil across the water continued. “You must save your strength,” he muttered, glancing at me as I shared some old rhyme I’d been taught by Merlin. Then, with some tenderness, he let his oar rest for a moment and reached up to touch the back of my scalp, just at the nape of my neck, so that his fingers slipped beneath the cool metal of the torque he’d given me. He whispered, “I am thinking of that first night. Of the two of us upon a flat rock. Strangers who could not resist each other, bewitched by the summer solstice.”

  I grinned, happy suddenly, as if I could handle anything that the gods threw at me—-at us—-and I rowed harder and glanced over at him often through the long night, catching the edge of his smile when he cared to look my way.

  We first felt a warm wind, damp against our faces sometime past midnight. Guinevere had long before fallen asleep, covered in fur and sheepskin, turned about in such a way that all I could see was her golden hair in the shimmering moonlight. My shoulders ached from fighting the current, and my stomach had turned sour from the slapping waves that had begun hours before.

  “It is coming,” Lancelot said quietly. I looked to the dark, swift gusts of cloud that veiled the moon as they moved across the curve of sky. “You can smell the worst of the storm an hour before it comes,” he said. “Take a deep breath.”
r />   I inhaled deeply, and felt as if I could smell that fragrance of storm that often arrived well before the lightning bolts struck.

  “Do not be afraid.” He kept his voice low so as not to wake the princess. “We will need to lash ourselves to the boat.”

  “But if the boat breaks…” I said.

  “The boat will not break.” He shook his head, grinning. “You lived too long in those caves. The boat will ride this out, but should the waves grow too high, we may each of us be cast off. Here, draw that rope from the mooring hook.”

  I set my oar down lengthwise in the boat and leaned forward, reaching for the rope. When I had it, he directed me with hand motions to loop it about Guinevere’s waist. I had to reach beneath her coverings, and I felt for her hips. When I found them, she stirred slightly in her sleep. I brought the rope gently around her, tightening it.

  “Through the oar lock,” he said, nodding.

  I did as I was told, and then wrapped it around my right hand and he wrapped it around his left, and then through his oarlock. Finally he knotted it tightly.

  I glanced at our wrists, bound as they were to each other. “We have handfasted,” I said.

  He laughed, “Yes, I suppose we have.”

  And then the first of the rain began. I looked up to it, opening my mouth from thirst, tasting its sweetness.

  “Enjoy it now.” He shook his head at me as if I were mad. “For soon enough, the worst of it will be upon us.” His eyes scanned the dark horizon ahead of us.

  “Nothing but storms in life,” I said.

  “Storms make things interesting.”

  “How far do you think we are from land?”

  “We’ll know by the fires at Lyonesse, unless we’ve drifted more to the north than I’ve believed.”

  “Where would that take us?”

  “We might end up in the Saxon ports if we’ve gone too far. But if I’ve followed the stars…”

  “You read the stars?”

  “In some fashion.” He nodded. “The winds that are heading toward us may take us at some distance from the White Raven’s Mount.”

  “Are you scared?” I asked, glancing at the sleeping maiden. I gazed upon the face of the man I had loved from the first moment I saw him.

  “Of the wind?” His eyes gleamed even in that moonlit dark, with the rain spitting down on us. “Of rain? These are nothing to be afraid of. I cannot say, Mordred, what will become of us when we reach shore. She may not protect me from the charges that I will surely face, for I once deserted my king. You are the son of Morgan le Fay, and I understand what that means, as well. We may be heading toward our doom. What is a storm, compared to that? I have done terrible things in my youth for which I will surely pay, whether at the hand of the king or at the hand of the goddess herself. You know of my past, of that Lady of Astolat who took her life for grief when her beloved had abandoned her. Of the shame I bore, and of my lost child, hidden from me for too many years. You know of my terrible betrayal of our people, as well. And yet. Knowing this, none of these crimes of my past bring great fear to me. I am here. With you. Now. What is a storm against us? And what of the world itself, should it rise up against us?”

  He lifted his bound wrist, wrapped with the rope that hung loose, connecting the two of us, though also to the sleeping maiden, a princess of another land. “We are tied by more than rope, Mordred. And whether we go to that Otherworld tonight, or in some future day of reckoning, I have faith that you will be here, as you are now.”

  “I shall,” I said.

  “And so shall I,” he whispered in that gruff way he did when embarrassed by a shared tenderness. After a moment, his thoughts wandering, he shook his head slightly. “Look at her, sleeping like she has no cares. Who is she that she should take men’s lives? We may drown tonight to bring her to those rocks.”

  I glanced over at the sleeping maiden, her hair nearly white against the dark of night. Her small hand crept out beneath blankets, with its jeweled fingers. I had a slight memory of Merlin telling me that Lance should never meet her, and I hoped it wasn’t because she would betray him to the king. I could not bear it if I had been the instrument of anything that harmed him. Yet, she seemed so innocent and kind, and watching her sleep kept my thoughts from straying into darker territory. “I like her,” I said. “She’s not what I thought a Roman princess would be.”

  “She’s precisely what I expected,” he said sullenly. He glanced over at me and gave me a quick wink. “We could always throw her over the side.”

  I liked seeing his good humor again, and felt a bit of warmth as I watched him. I did not know what to expect in the coming day, nor did I even understand why it had been so important to Merlin that we ensure Guinevere’s safety into the arms of my father, but I felt he and I were on the path of life, together, and though sorrow followed us from the past, I did not believe it could be ahead of us even if danger lurked.

  And so I took up the oar again, thinking of our connection that ran deep in such a short time, as if the Lady of the Lake and the Lord of the Forest had indeed blessed us despite our crimes against them.

  The wind rose, and soon enough would beat against us. I had no doubt we would have a terrible battle with the taranis crows, which are the storm clouds of the gods, sent to vex us.

  I thought of my mother, young, running from my father, with Merlin beside her in a long boat, but on a similar journey. All these were the connections of existence, which brought the soul’s journey to completion.

  I had all that I needed within that small boat. Ahead of me, the future which no one could predict to my satisfaction; perhaps my father would embrace me if he knew my identity; perhaps he would seek to have me murdered; my mother’s castle of Tintagel, of whom I’d heard much and seen through her visions, might wait with its arched doorways and small windows and roughhewn steps; or Morgause’s prediction, which had been Merlin’s prophecy before my birth, that I would be the instrument of the great unmaking, the greatest unraveling of all; behind me, my childhood and youth and those crimes of such innocence and ignorance; but here, within this boat, with the approaching storm sweeping down upon us, as Lancelot himself had whispered to me:

  Here, now.

  In this humble boat, with a princess who would soon be queen; with a hermit who had been a knight; and with that third soul, the one that he and I shared between us. Not a half-soul of shadow, but that soul made by the binding of our two souls.

  I did not even know if the morrow would bring our separation. I did not even know this man beyond my experience with him and my sense of him. We had been through much in a short period of time, and I would lay down my life for him now if it were asked of me.

  And yet, these were my thoughts as the storm descended upon us:

  No fear, no sorrow.

  For we were bound in some way, beyond rope or storm or sea.

  I cannot ask more from the world than this moment, I thought. It is a sacred moment, a flickering candle to be protected from the wind.

  The debt of love. It was that overwhelming sense of binding with another soul, and the obligation to protect that flickering candle of it. From storms. From armies. Even from self. I owed this love all that I had to offer.

  Even then, in my innocence, I could not have predicted what awaited us within a few short hours. I could not know that sometimes, even the one you love and trust has shadows that cannot be swept back with the hand of love. Nor that all promises made might not be kept.

  Still, I had no fear when the storm came. As the waves raised our boat up, we fought against the will of the universe to toss and drown us, that vessel of life that protects and destroys—our backs to the past, and our muscles taxed to their limits from the fight.

  Bound together, we moved toward dawn.

  Epilogue

  1

  In that cell within a monastery, many years after, Mordred finished the telling of his early life for the evening; he no longer sat in a boat, crossing with Lancelo
t and Guinevere. He lay upon the straw of his bed, worn from a night of memories.

  The young monk of fair face stared as if not recognizing the man who had begun the tale. “It was as if—”

  “I spoke in your mind,” Mordred said. “Wouldn’t you think I’d have perfected such arts learned in childhood?”

  “But this is not the end of your tale,” the monk said. “I know of events that have come to pass since your passage to adulthood. Of Guinevere and of Lancelot. I have heard stories of Morgan’s fury, which at its greatest moment blazed like a tower of fire.”

  “That half-soul within Morgause, yes,” Mordred nodded. “She did not rest, having lost her first battle for Guinevere. You demand so much from me. Why is that, little brother monk? What incites this burning interest in the life of these folk that I knew in my life?”

  “You have known great knights, and kings and queens. You have known sorcery and magick,” the monk said. “All I have known are within these walls.”

  “You may hear petty rumors from field-hands about the terrible and powerful Mordred. Why risk your own life here? For surely, the night is half done, and your brethren might wonder why you spend a night alone in a cell with the traitor, Mordred, bastard son of Arthur and of that Witch-Queen.”

  The monk grew pale, but did not speak for several moments. Then he said, tenderly, “I can’t believe everything said by those who were not witness to such wonders. But you must be tired. You should sleep.”

  Mordred’s curiosity had been raised. “Though you are young, did you play some part in my life that I don’t know? Why this keen interest?”

  “I have sworn a vow to never speak of these things,” the monk said.

  “And yet I must speak of them, fair monk.”

  “If you have this great magickal arts, surely you’ve already sifted my thoughts.”

  “I’m a knave in many things,” Mordred said. “But I would not penetrate a mind against the will of its owner. You promised me freedom if I told you all that I know.”