I Am Morgan le Fay

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

The Beggar Queen
Lloyd Alexander
Crown Duel
Sherwood Smith
The Dreaming Place
Charles de Lint
The Ear, the Eye and the Arm
Nancy Farmer
Fire Bringer
David Clement-Davies
Growing Wings
Laurel Winter
The Hex Witch of Seldom
Nancy Springer
I Am Mordred
Nancy Springer
I Am Morgan le Fay
Nancy Springer
The Kestrel
Lloyd Alexander
Mossflower
Brian Jacques
The Outlaws of Sherwood
Robin McKinley
Redwall
Brian Jacques
The Riddle of the Wren
Charles de Lint
Spindle's End
Robin McKinley
Westmark
Lloyd Alexander

FIREBIRD
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Putnam Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published in the United States of America by Philomel Books,
a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2001
Published by Firebird, an imprint of Penguin Putnam Inc., 2002

Copyright © Nancy Springer, 2001

All rights reserved

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PHILOMEL EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Springer, Nancy.
I am Morgan Ie Fay : a tale from Camelot / Nancy Springer.
p. cm.
Summary: In a war-torn England where her half brother Arthur will eventually
become king, the young Morgan le Fay comes to realize that
she has magic powers and links to the faerie world.
1. Morgan le Fay (Legendary character)—Juvenile fiction. [1. Morgan le Fay
(Legendary character)—Fiction. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Fairies—Fiction.
4. Knights and knighthood—Fiction. 5. England—Fiction.
6. Arthur, King—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S76846 Iaap 2001 [Fic]—dc21
99-052847

eISBN : 978-1-101-14262-2

 

 

SEATED AT THE HIGH TABLE, WITH THE EMERALD NECKLACE her husband had given her resting on her half-naked bosom, the emerald tiara nestled in her dark hair, Lady Igraine tried not to answer the leer of the king. After years of warring with the duke—her husband—why now had the king suddenly called a truce and summoned them to his court? Why was he now feasting them? And why was he ogling her so?

She tried to listen to the minstrels playing upon lute and viol—music was a rare treat, but it could not cheer her. Nor did the sweet fragrance of scented beeswax raise her spirits, or the way candlelight glowed upon vessels of pure tooled gold. Although the servants placed before her roast suckling pig, quail in pomegranate sauce, sweetmeats, plum pudding, and many other delicacies, Igraine ate little. At last the marzipan was served and it was over. She rose to rejoin her husband, who was seated near the king, next to that fearsome old sorcerer who served as the king's chief counselor. A look into the dark pits of the sorcerer's eyes made Igraine shudder almost as much as her spidery sense of the king's stare on her bare shoulders.

Lifting her heavy silk skirt a few inches to free her slippered feet, Igraine took a couple of steps toward her husband. But the king stood in her way.

“Lady Igraine,” he said, grasping her hand and pressing it to his lips.

She curtsied without replying. Perhaps she blushed, although she hated herself for blushing—but he was kissing her hand more than once, far more than courtesy called for. She wanted to pull her hand away, but did not dare. He was the king.

“Igraine the Beautiful,” he told her in a low, vibrant voice, “there will be peace if only you will be my paramour.”

Panic stabbed her; her heart pounded. With a word she could save the lives of many, many men—but her husband! How could she betray her husband? Did this lecherous king not know what it meant for a woman to love and be loyal to her husband?

“What say you, my lovely Igraine?”

“I say no, Your Majesty.” Her voice trembled. She wished it would not tremble, but it did. So did her hand.

The king scowled. “What?”

“By your leave,” she quavered, pulling her hand away from him. She fled to her husband's side.

“What is the matter?” he asked her.

“Shhh.”

Later, in their bedchamber, she told him. He leaped up and started slinging on his armor. “I'll kill him!”

“No, darling, think what—”

“He must die. I'll kill him now. As he sleeps.”

“Dear heart, there are guards! You'll be one against many! You'll be slain.”

“I care not. I will kill him.”

“And if he kills you instead, what will become of me?”

He faced her without speaking.

“Let us take to horse,” Igraine said, “and leave this place at once.”

They did so, making their escape in the night. When the king heard of their flight, he was enraged. He sent a messenger after them with word that they could expect either to be dead or be his prisoners within six weeks.

The duke manned and provisioned his two strongest castles, one for his wife and one for himself. Although Igraine understood that they separated for her safety—for the king would attack the duke first—still, she missed her husband dreadfully. Four, five, six weeks the king and his army besieged the duke's castle. Igraine paced the battlements every day. Even the playful hugs of her little daughters, Morgause and Morgan, could not comfort her.

Daughters. Two daughters, and her husband loved her still, even though she had not given him a son. Her heart swelled with longing for him.

On a night of the dark of the moon, she lay abed in her lonely chamber—although not yet sleeping—when she heard the surprised cries of servants in the hallway. Her chamber door opened and her husband strode in.

“Darling!” She sprang up to meet him. He looked weary and grimy from weeks in the field.

Without a word he took her into his arms.

She gave herself to him utterly. But something was wrong. He did not speak to her; he did not whisper endearments to her. He did not caress her as he usually did. It was as if she had given herself to a stranger.

At dawn he arose, kissed her silently and left her.

She gazed after him, longing for something more, some sign. And perhaps it was a sign she saw, but a freakish one. As he passed through the chamber door, beyond it she saw the wolfish gleam of eyes, one glimmering green, the other eerily purple. Igraine knew those fey mismatched eyes: her younger daughter, Morgan, roaming the shadows like a restless spirit.

Then the door closed.

Igraine lay for a while staring into the shadows of the ceiling groins, then called for her women to help her dress. She refused breakfast. An uncanny knowledge rode in her belly: She carried a son from the night just past.

She climbed the spiral stairs of her tower. At the top, standing upon the windy battlements, she looked up—and shuddered. Over her head hovered a great soot gray carrion bird. It answered her stare with its pale, beady eye, then gave a harsh cry and flapped away.

Dread clawed Igraine's heart as she descended to the great hall.

Messengers awaited her. Her husband was dead, they told her. After seeing the king ride away from his encampment, the duke had sallied forth in a nighttime attempt to lift the siege. He had been killed.

He had been killed some four hours before dawn. Four hours before he had kissed her good-bye.

M
Y FATHER LOVED ME.

He was the only one ever to love me truly.

They killed him when I was six years old.