I, Morgana (13 page)

“Go and do Arthur’s bidding then, and I wish you well of it,” I say.

Without further words, or even a farewell kiss in parting, I walk out of the room and down to the stables, not even waiting for my belongings to be packed. I am appalled at how quickly our joy has turned to ashes, but I keep my head held high and my chin uplifted while the groom saddles my palfrey and makes everything ready for me. The tide is out, so I can ride across the causeway rather than wait for a ferryman. I am glad of that. I do not want Launcelot to witness my distress.

My eyes stream with tears as I ride away from Joyous Garde. I wonder if Launcelot is watching me from the parapet as once I watched for him. I steel myself not to look around for one last glance of my beloved, and I ride on until the castle is out of sight. To take my mind off my despair, I try instead to focus on my immediate future.

My first thought is to go to my sister Morgause and reclaim my son. My heart, a solid rock in my breast, softens slightly at the thought of seeing Mordred again. Together, we can go back to the priory and take shelter from the world. I can have my baby there; we shall be safe. It is a tempting thought, yet one that leaves me feeling strangely dissatisfied until I realize that unless I make some effort to redeem myself, I shall for ever afterward be known as Morgana, the betrayer. For Mordred’s sake, and for the sake of my unborn child—and yes, to shame Launcelot—I need to fight for my good name and reputation.

Going to Camelot feels like the right course of action, for I have never run from a challenge in all my life. If I am at court, and if I can convince Arthur of my innocence, I can punish Launcelot at the same time. I will not have him back in my bed: not now, not ever. I intend to make him regret that he ever doubted me, especially when he finally understands that he has lost me forever.

As I have lost him. Grief shudders through me; I howl my misery aloud. I whip my palfrey into a gallop, but I cannot outrun my despair. I know that I will live with this loss until death brings sweet oblivion.

But I cannot think of death, not now, not while there is a new life growing inside me. I press my hand against my stomach, imagining the child forming within. Another child without a father. Another story to invent. What shall I say this time?

There is some ease to be found in stoking my anger against Launcelot, and against all those others who have stolen my destiny and laid waste to my future. I determine that Camelot will be my destination, because I need to settle matters there. I won’t forget or forgive Launcelot’s disloyalty, nor the conniving and faithless queen who perhaps may be used to my own advantage, now my carefully wrought plan against Arthur has gone awry. Instead of going to court and throwing myself on my brother’s mercy, can I instead find some other way to bring him undone, some way that can never be traced back to me?

Mordred? I thrust that thought aside. Although it was my original intention, I know that I cannot use my child to punish Arthur. Not Mordred. Not this unborn child either. Once more I caress my stomach, seeking to reassure the babe within of my goodwill toward it.

If I go to court, if Launcelot sees me growing great with child, will he realize that the child is his, or will he suspect that Accolon is the father? I wince at the thought. I have never lain with Accolon, but I have seen that Launcelot has lost faith in me. So he might well credit Accolon as the father rather than himself, even though the timing of the birth should leave no doubt in the matter. Does a man know about this sort of thing? I shrug, doubting it. Launcelot will believe whatever it suits him to believe. But I do not want him, or anyone, to know that I carry a child.

My head spins with ideas until I finally settle on a plan that I hope will answer my desire for revenge and, at the same time, give me the power I need to rule the kingdom in Arthur’s stead. My first task is to change my appearance. There are several things I need to accomplish, but I know my mission will be impossible if I go to court as Arthur’s sister. More, it would be excruciating to meet Launcelot under such changed circumstances. I cannot bear to see his face should he learn the full extent of my treachery, so my disguise will be part of ensuring that he never will; that no one will ever find out the truth behind Accolon’s attack on Arthur. Nor must anyone associate me with anything that happens to Arthur in the future.

And so I change my appearance to resemble one of the high priestesses of Avalon, a lady whom I particularly admire. Niniane is sweet natured, but very powerful, second only to the high priestess Viviane. I am in awe of Viviane, but I am comfortable with Niniane, who has lived in our world for a time and who understands our ways, unlike most of the neophytes and guardians of Avalon, all of whom are female. Their way is not for me; my time with Launcelot has convinced me of that. Indeed, I wonder how the more worldly Niniane puts up with the catfights and jealousies inevitable among a company made up solely of women. I am sure living in Avalon is no different from living in the closed world of the priory, and there I have seen at firsthand how favoritism and backbiting can sour even the most devout believer. It is one reason why I kept myself apart from them all.

I begin to weave the magic that will transform me, not into Niniane exactly, but into something akin. I shall say that I have come from Avalon to visit Camelot, having heard of the wonders of Arthur’s court. I know enough of my brother to understand that my flattery will win his trust and that he will not question me further. Of course, if he should ask me about Avalon I can certainly satisfy his curiosity.

I grow taller, and my hair changes in color from mouse brown to silvery gold. My eyes lighten to pale gray, which I hurriedly change to dark blue as I recall Viviane’s penetrating stare. She, too, has gray eyes. I give myself a heart-shaped face—I have always wanted one of those! And, while I am indulging myself, I curl my straight hair into luxurious waves. I set a gold band on my brow, like the ones all the sisters wear in Avalon. Finally, and because I don’t know how long I’ll be in Camelot, I devise a flowing gown in a filmy fabric shading from silver to blue and mauve, colors that shift and change and that, I hope, will detract from and hide my growing stomach if it turns out that I need to stay in Camelot long enough that the baby will start to show.

From time to time I pat and massage the slight mound of my belly, seeking consolation from this growing proof of my love for Launcelot and his love for me. My heart splinters into pieces at the very thought of what else lies ahead if I carry out my plan. Launcelot has put his suspicions, and his duty to the king, ahead of his love for me. In turn, I could give him a lesson in love and loyalty, a lesson that would have the potential to split Camelot in two and that would certainly lose him the love, respect and friendship of his king and the knights at court. At the same time, I would repay those others who have wronged me, who have set me on this path of vengeance—a path that only I can reverse. If I have the resolve to put the rest of my plan into action, I know I could make them all repent the past, and beg for my good governance, the governance they should have recognized right from the start. And so I tell myself that no matter what the cost may be, I must continue with my tricks and deceits, and leave the outcome in the lap of the gods—and the judgment of those whom I intend to test.

Sometimes my power to change other people’s lives worries me, but I console myself with the thought that of them all, it is Launcelot’s future that is of the most concern to me. Will he see through my tricks and deceits? Will he have the wisdom and strength not to fall into my trap? If he is the man I once thought him, then his honor may yet be salvaged
—and perhaps my happiness too. 

And so, despite Launcelot’s betrayal and my desolation at his abandonment, and despite the failure of my latest plan to remove Arthur from the throne, my courage is high when, at last, I ride through the gates of Camelot and into Arthur’s court.

Confident in my disguise, the first thing I do is request an audience with Arthur. To my annoyance, I find Guenevere sitting beside him. I have my story prepared and know it is persuasive enough to convince Arthur. I am not quite so sure about his wife. Having underestimated her in the past, I shall not make the same mistake again.

It is the first chance I’ve had to really study her, and I make the most of the opportunity. At such close quarters, my first impression of her youth and beauty is reinforced. Yet there is something to mar her expression, some discontent and, when she turns to her husband, there is acid in her tone as she chides him for not calling for refreshments to welcome me. My brother does her bidding, while apologizing for his lack of courtesy. I want to tell him to act like a man and a king; to remind him that organizing refreshments is women’s work, but I keep silent, knowing that I can learn more through observation and holding my tongue.

“Pray, be seated, lady. You must be tired after your journey.” The request is sweetly civil, but Guenevere betrays herself when she turns to her husband. “Arthur!” she snaps. “Draw up a chair for our guest.”

Interesting. I remember how unsatisfied I felt after bedding Arthur, and feel a momentary sympathy for the queen. It would seem that there are no children of this union as yet. That thought brings much comfort, while also suggesting several interesting possibilities.

“Now, lady; tell me who you are and how I may serve you?” Arthur ignores his wife’s command. He settles back into his seat, and pats her hand as if soothing a fractious hound.

I open my mouth to give my assumed name. If I had done so, I would have been doomed, for the door opens to reveal Viviane of Avalon. She strides in, gives me a long assessing stare, and then goes to stand behind Arthur, forming a protective presence at his back. I can tell from Guenevere’s sour expression that the lady isn’t welcome here. Another interesting observation to think about later. For now, I am busy revising my story, trying to come up with something convincing that doesn’t involve Avalon.

“My name is Nimue, my liege,” I say, and sweep into a deep curtsy.

“You are welcome to Camelot.” Arthur holds out his hand. I take it and kiss it.

“I come from a faraway realm, but your fame, and the news of your court, has reached even the Isles of … of Annwyn.” It is the name of one of the Otherworlds that I have visited in the past. Too late, I wonder if the Lady of Avalon also knows of Annwyn. I look beyond Arthur and find her staring at me with narrowed eyes. I wonder if she can see through my disguise. To my infinite relief, she does not challenge me.

“Why have you come to Camelot?” Guenevere asks. She smooths away a crease in her gown and primps her hair. I read in her gestures all the signs of an insecure girl needing reassurance. And she will get it—but not from her husband. My heart quails at the thought of what I propose to do. But it is not time, not yet. And hopefully, never.

“I’ve come to see for myself the wonders of your court,” I say humbly. “And to serve you in any way I can, for I have heard of the recent attempt on your life and it may be that I have information that will be of interest to you.”

Arthur nods, and motions toward a bench. He turns to Viviane. “Pray, will you take a seat with us, lady?” To my relief, for I am not sure how long I can endure that questioning stare that stabs like a sword, she relinquishes her post behind Arthur and helps me drag the bench closer to the royal couple. We sit down, and she is no longer in my line of sight.

“I am greatly indebted to the Lady Viviane, who is able to see something of the future, and who came down the river to my court in order to warn me that my life was in danger,” Arthur tells me. “It seems that King Urien’s son, Accolon, stole my sword and scabbard and left imitations in their place. He provoked me to a quarrel, and would have killed me but for Viviane’s warning to be on my guard. Fortunately, I was able to seize Excalibur from Accolon and, instead, I slew him.”

“Do not forget, sire, that it was your sister Morgana who wove the scabbard that tricked you into believing that Accolon’s sword was your own,” Viviane murmurs.

I grit my teeth, wanting to choke her. But this is my chance to speak on my own behalf. “You are greatly mistaken, lady,” I say sweetly. “I am in the confidence of the Lady Morgana, and I know how much she loves and respects you, sire. She would never try to harm you.”

I can read the disbelief on Guenevere’s face. It is sweet to think of the fate I have in store for her. “As for Accolon of Gaul, he was ever a liar and a braggard,” I continue. “The Lady Morgana has told me how he followed her around while she was here at court, promising her that if only she would lie with him, he would conquer the world in her name and make her his queen. She said she laughed at him when he told her that, sire. Rather than stay, lest it encourage his foolish ambition, she bade him farewell and left your court. Never for one moment did she dream that he would try to make good his boast. She was devastated when she found out what he’d done. And she gives thanks that he did not succeed.”

“You are saying that my sister is innocent of the charges that have been laid against her good name.”

“On my life, sire!” I put all my heart and feeling into the oath. I can tell that Arthur believes me. But I am fairly sure Guenevere will not want to think well of any woman, particularly someone she perceives as a rival for Launcelot’s affection. As for Viviane, she sits upright and silent beside me.

“I am pleased—and very relieved—to hear of my sister’s innocence,” says Arthur. “But where have you seen her that you seem to know so much about her, for she vanished from my court many, many moons ago?”

“She is living quietly at a priory not so very far from here. I … I took shelter there on my journey to your court and, when I saw how distressed she was by the rumors that have come to her ears, I stayed on a few days more to comfort her. She begged me to put her case forward on her behalf. It would relieve her mind greatly if I could tell her on my return journey that she is absolved of all guilt, my liege.”

“And so you may.” Several servants now stand at the door, bearing jugs of spiced wine and plates of honey wafers. Arthur beckons them forward and they lay out the refreshments. Hungry and tired after my long journey, and feeling an immeasurable relief, I lick my lips in anticipation. But it seems I am not yet out of danger.

“Nimue? You bear a marked resemblance to the Lady Niniane, to whom I have left the care of my demesne in my absence.” Viviane is scrutinizing me with those big gray eyes that seem to see and understand everything.

I shake my head and assume a modest expression. “I am but a humble damsel, my lady; I can claim no kinship with anyone from the sacred Isle of Avalon.”

“How do you know I come from the sacred isle?” Viviane retorts sharply.

I think quickly. “The Lady Morgana mentioned you to me; she spoke of your power and your gift for seeing the truth.” I hold my breath as I say this for, if my magical powers are not greater than Viviane’s, now is the time for her to reveal her knowledge of my true identity. But she stays silent. I feel a flash of triumph as I continue, “The Lady Morgana and I spent a great deal of time talking together.”

I turn to Arthur in appeal; I will not deal with Viviane again unless I have no choice. “My liege, she sought me out once she knew where I was bound. I cannot tell you how greatly her heart and mind have been affected by these foul rumors.”

Guenevere gives a delicate sniff. “Why then does she not come to court to speak for herself?”

The queen is someone else I need to watch out for, I remind myself. “Your sister fears your wrath, my liege,” I say humbly, still addressing Arthur. “But, if you forgive her, you may wish to send for her yourself?”

“There’s no need for that, Arthur.” I am grateful that Guenevere has put that notion to rest although it’s fairly clear that Launcelot’s expected arrival is behind her words. It seems she will do anything to keep me out of his way. And she will attain her heart’s desire soon enough, I think savagely, although the price she will pay is beyond her calculation.

“You forget that some questions regarding this affair have not yet been answered, my liege.” Viviane’s quiet voice alerts me to further danger. “Who wove the false scabbard, if not your sister Morgana?”

This time I cannot speak, for to do so will betray more knowledge than I should possess. Arthur shifts in his chair, looking uncomfortable. The silence lengthens until I am forced to break it.

“Surely there are other seamstresses in your court, sire, skillful enough to weave a copy for a man whom they might well covet as a husband?”

“Skillful enough to make a copy, perhaps, but not skillful enough to weave magic into it.”

“Was magic woven into it?” I meet Viviane’s searching glance with a shocked expression. “Was not the trick dependent on merely exchanging the one for the other?”

“Of course it was,” Arthur said impatiently. “I was wrong to blame my sister. I was wrong to suspect her of this right from the start.”

I glance thoughtfully at my brother, whose sword within its magical scabbard lies close to his hand. I have other plans for it now. He will not be able to find it again once I have finished with it.

“Perhaps, sire, you should not listen to the lies of the court but rather make up your own mind about what happens here in your demesne?” I cannot resist the rebuke but, as I watch Arthur’s face darken in anger, I am sorry I have spoken.

“Hold your tongue, lady,” Guenevere spits like a small, angry kitten. “You do ill to speak so disrespectfully to the king.” It seems that, while it is quite fitting for her to shame Arthur in public, no one else is allowed to do so.

“I humbly apologize, my liege,” I say hastily. “I assure you, I meant no disrespect.”

 Arthur nods. Viviane says nothing, and I am glad of it. Having accomplished what I set out to do, I am anxious now to flee their presence. And so I make an excuse that I need to wash after my long journey, and with great relief I take my leave.

After my ablutions, I visit the castle gardens, saying that I have heard of their magnificence and wish to see for myself what makes them so memorable. Once there, I stroll about in seemingly aimless fashion, picking sweet strawberries to eat, and a selection of flowers and herbs that I fashion into a pretty posy. In themselves the plants are relatively harmless. Combined, they become effective for my purpose, but what will really give my potion its power hereafter is the incantation that I shall recite during its concoction. I am more determined than ever to secure the kingdom for Mordred, if not for myself, and I am prepared to use all my magical arts to ensure it. What I most need now is some privacy to prepare the infusion for the queen, for I know she will ask for it sooner or later.

I wait for a chance to talk to Guenevere through a lengthy dinner the following noon. It comprises an array of courses the like of which I’ve never seen before: roasted swan and hedgehog, porpoises and an assortment of sea creatures, some in a variety of shells that for the most part take quite some getting into and for very little reward. It is clear that Guenevere has set her seal on Camelot, and on its kitchen in particular. But I dine well and with enthusiasm; I am always prepared to try anything new.

During the meal we are entertained by a juggler and then a magician, who performs a series of tricks that I find so laughable I am sorely tempted to show off a few of my own. He is followed by a poet with a lute, who gazes at Guenevere with soulful eyes and sings ballads to her beauty and to the splendors of the court. It is nauseating, but I can tell she is swallowing it down as greedily as a pig at the swill bucket.

When Arthur excuses himself from the table to attend to the steward who has been hovering by his side for quite some time, I move from my seat to sit closer to his wife.

“Lady, I apologize for my rudeness earlier,” I say, willing to humble myself if it serves my purpose. “I can assure you it was not intended as a judgment of the king. Rather, it was a reflection of my eagerness to keep faith with the Lady Morgana, who trusted me to bring her message to the court and, most particularly, to her brother.”

Guenevere looks down her nose at me. Flattery, I remind myself, and begin to praise the dinner and the beautiful queen who presides over it. Finally, when I think she has thawed sufficiently, I broach the true purpose of this conversation.

“Forgive me if I speak too freely, madame, but it saddens me that as yet you have no child to bless your union with the king.”

Guenevere draws a quivering breath. Tears glimmer in her eyes and she dashes them away. I know how hard it must be for her, knowing that the whole court is watching and waiting for her to produce an heir, and commenting on her failure to do so. And I feel a moment of shame as I begin to tell her the story I have prepared.

“While living on the island of Annwyn I learned much of herbs and their properties, and also the healing arts … including a way to encourage a reluctant womb to bear seed.”

I have Guenevere’s full attention now. She clutches my arm. “Can you help me, Nimue?” she whispers.

I smile at her. “It would be my honor and a privilege, your majesty.” And so we make an arrangement to meet later, under cover of night, and she gathers up her ladies and leaves the hall.

I linger, for I’ve noticed that in his hurry to attend to his steward’s request Arthur has forgotten to take both his sword and its scabbard. They stand propped close to his seat, according to custom, for no knight will sit down to his meat fully armed. I click my tongue, tutting that he can be so careless after having so recently survived an attack on his life. Once I am sure that I am unobserved, I nudge the sword to my side and unsheathe it before placing it under his chair as if kicked there by a careless step. With the magical scabbard hidden within the folds of my dress, I stroll out of the castle grounds, telling the guards that I need to visit the water meadows and there pick some special herbs at the queen’s command. They cannot know that I already have what I need, and Guenevere’s name is enough to guarantee that they will not question me further.