I, Morgana (26 page)

“I have seen that trouble is brewing in Camelot, Marie. I believe that the king is in danger, and so I must go there at once to warn him.” True, the warning may have to wait if he is still in pursuit of the Grail, but Guenevere will be at Camelot, and if necessary I shall deal directly with her. My hope is that I may be able to undo what I began with Launcelot so that the knights will regain their respect for Arthur and unite behind him to resist Mordred’s ambition to rule. I have not attempted to undo a love potion before; it was a strong and binding one that I brewed, with the purpose of forging ties so strong that only death would sever them. In the first instance, this is what I must try to undo, although I have found no remedy for this in Merlin’s old book.

If I don’t succeed? Should I try to remove the spell of barrenness on Guenevere instead, so that an heir might be born? But would Arthur be the father? Now that Launcelot believes he’s already lain with the queen, my greatest fear is that he might steal into her bed once more, and this time they might make a child together.

Is the death of one of them the answer? If so, who should it be? Not Launcelot! I squeeze my eyes tight shut, trying to block out the bleakness of a world without him in it. No. If anyone should die, it must be Guenevere.

“Mamm?” Marie touches my hand. I open my eyes to look at her. “Will you take me with you to Camelot?”

“No, Marie!” I am horrified at the very thought of it. “It is not safe for you to go there, not while there is so much unrest at court.”

She straightens her back and tilts her chin. I can see what this defiance is costing her, and I silently applaud her bravery. Nevertheless, what she says renders me speechless for a few moments.

“I wish to meet my father. I have a right to know him, just as he has a right to know about me.”

Her eyes are wide and troubled as she surveys me. I must think of something to say. I know I must refuse her; her presence would add an unwanted complication to what I must achieve there. Worse, if Mordred comes to hear of her, he will perceive her as another threat to his ambition. At all costs, I need to keep Marie safe—and her safety lies in the secret of her birth. “I am mindful that we need to discuss your future, Marie, and I beg you to wait here and make no decisions until things are settled in Camelot and I am able to return to you. In the meantime, I shall think about your request, and whether or not you should come to Camelot to meet your father.”

“Very well, Mamm.” She bows her head in submission. I cannot see her expression, and that concerns me. But at least she has given me her consent. I know that I can trust her to obey me.

“I’ll return as soon as I may. I promise you we’ll talk again.” I kiss her on both cheeks, and she suddenly clings to me as she used to when she was a small child and I had to leave her to go back to Urien.

“I will not change my mind about practicing magic, Mamm,” she whispers. “Nothing you can say will change my belief that what you are doing is dangerous meddling. And unnecessary. We should rather let God’s plan unfold as He wills it, for none then can hold us responsible for causing harm and unhappiness, either to ourselves or to others.”

I catch my breath in fright, wondering if she has read my mind, if she knows what I plan to do—and if she has any inkling of the harm I have already done. But her face bears only an innocent determination that I should heed her words.

I nod, feeling infinitely saddened by her decision. Yet I will not deny her my blessing. “Your path through life is for you to decide, Marie,” I tell her. “Stay well, and may your God be with you.”

“And with you also, Mamm.” She lets go of me and I walk away. I cannot resist looking back for a last glance; she is still watching me. There is a glint of tears in her eyes, which I know is matched in mine. I sniff loudly, and walk on to the stable to find my mount. I ride away with a last cheerful wave, but with a troubled heart and a mind seething in agitation.

As I come closer to Camelot, I prepare the speech I shall make to Arthur once he returns; a speech that I hope will convince him that I have truly repented of my past wrongdoings—at least, all those of which he already knows. It is important to win his trust otherwise he will not heed my warning. And heed it he must, if he is to save himself and save Camelot. I have accepted now that he will rule as king until he dies—but there is still the matter of his successor. Somehow, Mordred must be stopped so that someone more worthy can take his place. His cousin Gawain perhaps, or Galahad? But I would rather see my own kin take power in the kingdom that I still believe is rightfully mine. Owain, or even my Marie. Both are good and kind, I am sure of that, and I know that Owain is brave, while Marie has wisdom beyond her years. Although Marie is not a man, she has courage too. This I acknowledge, for despite her love for me, she has defied me. She has fought for her future with words, not arms, but either requires courage and determination, along with a clear vision of what the future might hold. Perhaps I can persuade Arthur to name both of them as his heirs so that they might rule the kingdom together?

And if Arthur is not at court? I think of all the harm I’ve already caused: the deaths of Accolon and an innocent young girl, and the imprisonment and probable death of Merlin. I would scrub my hands free of their blood if only I could. I make a vow that I must not be responsible for any more deaths—at least, not if I can help it. But I acknowledge that I may not have any choice in the matter.

Having left the priory in a great hurry to warn Arthur, now I dally along the road while I wrestle with my thoughts and with my conscience. I suppose, in my secret heart, I am hoping to give Arthur enough time to return so that I shall not have to face Guenevere, although it might be easier if she is there on her own, for that will give me the freedom to do what I may and, if need be, even act against her.

To my surprise, the courtyard is in turmoil when I arrive, wounded knights crying out for treatment, staggering away from dusty, sweating horses that tell much of their hard flight from danger. In the prevailing chaos I cannot find anyone who can give me a coherent account of what has transpired to bring this about. Finally, I shrug and go inside, wondering what sort of reception I’ll receive from Guenevere, or even Arthur, if he has returned.

When Guenevere sees me, she gives a little cry and, to my surprise, hurries to my side to tell me how welcome I am to Camelot.

“I know we parted on bad terms, Morgana,” she says, “but I am delighted to see you now. So many knights are returning from this quest for the Sangreal in need of care. All bear the wounds to prove how difficult and dangerous their journey has been. But despite their best endeavors, it seems that it was all for nothing!”

“The quest was unsuccessful?” I can hardly hide my surprise, for having seen the determination on the faces of the knights I encountered, I would have sworn on my life that they would not return until one or other of them had found the Sangreal and taken it to King Pelles.

“Successful for some.” Guenevere’s voice is bitter. “Sir Galahad, in the company of Sir Perceval and Sir Bors, came to Carbonek Castle and there found the Sangreal—at least, that is what we are told, although their journey sounds too magical to be believed. The other knights are all disillusioned and angry, and have returned to Camelot thinking of themselves as failures. But of course many knights will never return, for they have died in search of this will-o’-the-wisp fairy tale!”

It surprises me that Guenevere and I are in agreement on at least one thing. “Has Arthur returned yet?” I ask cautiously, and at once her eyes narrow in suspicion.

“How did you know he was away? Have you been spying on us, Morgana?”

“No, not at all!” I wave a hand in the air in dismissal of such a notion. “I merely assumed that everyone had gone, including the king. I trust he is safely returned?”

“Yes.”

“And Sir Launcelot?”

“He is also safe, thank God.” Guenevere crosses herself. “But many of the knights need urgent treatment, and I know not what to do. You have the skill of healing, Morgana. Will you help me, please?”

I nod in agreement. Guenevere takes me by the hand and draws me across the hall and down a passage to a smaller hall where the sick are usually housed. It bears some resemblance to the infirmarium at Glastonbury Priory, although there are not the same facilities or remedies at hand. I quickly issue instructions for boiling water to be brought, along with soapwort and other herbs that I know will help to ease the pain and heal the wounds of those poor wretches now lying on beds and pallets around the room, sighing and groaning their agony. At my bidding, Guenevere hurries off to find clean linen to tear into strips to bind their wounds, although I suspect her first call will be on her ladies-in-waiting to ask them to carry out my orders.

There are several new knights at Camelot, younger knights unknown to me, and as I minister to their wounds I listen avidly to their talk, although it pains me to hear it. Mordred’s name is mentioned more than once. He is now actively making mischief against Arthur, using the affair between Launcelot and Guenevere as a fulcrum.

“A king so blind to the lack of loyalty shown him by his wife and his most trusted knight is hardly worthy of ruling a kingdom,” one of them says. I feel sure he is quoting directly from Mordred, and my suspicions are confirmed when his companion replies.

“The old king has worn out his usefulness. We need a younger man now; someone with the right bloodlines, as well as someone who is in tune with the times.”

He glances around the room; I wonder if he is looking for Mordred. I have already checked and know that he is not present. I am not sure whether to feel glad or sorry that he is not among the wounded.

“‘The old king,’ as you call him, reunited the tribes and brought the peace and prosperity to our kingdom that you now enjoy and take for granted!” My tone cuts like a knife, although I smile inwardly at the irony of my defending Arthur when most of my life has been spent in trying to achieve exactly what these young fools are talking about. “He has the wisdom of age, the experience of past battles, and he knows more about statecraft than puppies like you can begin to imagine!”

I pick up my medicaments and walk away, ignoring the sullen whispers that break out behind my back. My attention is drawn by the sound of a slow clapping. I look to its source, and see Gawain applauding me. He is sitting on a pallet on the floor looking pale and haggard. A bloody bandage is wrapped around his thigh. It is filthy, and I hurry to remove it.

“Well said, Aunt!” he greets me, then winces as I try to unwrap the bandage. The linen fabric has stuck to a patch of dried blood and as I pull it, the wound opens and bright new blood begins to seep out. I beckon for a basin of warm water and begin to sponge his leg, hoping to ease the bandage off less painfully once it is wet.

“What I said is true. And I have no doubt they wish to usurp your uncle with your cousin.” I find I can’t bring myself to own Mordred as my son, but Gawain has no such qualms.

“Your son. Yes, they do,” he says.

I close my eyes. “You must put a stop to Mordred’s trouble-making, Gawain. Please.” In my urgency, I clutch his arm. “I would rather you, or Owain —or someone else—take Arthur’s place when it is time. God knows, I’ve had my hopes for Mordred, but I fear what he has become, and what he might do to us all in his ambition to rule Camelot.”

“I fear it too, Morgana.” Gawain is serious now. “He has set himself to charm the younger knights, most of whom haven’t a grain of sense in their heads beyond dreams of chivalry and winning the hands of fair maidens—and attaining the Sangreal, of course, although that is now over.”

“Is it true that Galahad, Perceval and Bors achieved that honor?”

“Yes—but at great cost.” Gawain’s voice is somber as he begins to recount the story of their quest.

“Only Bors has returned to tell the tale of their search for the Sangreal and their many wondrous adventures along their journey: hazardous exploits in strange lands against magical beasts, and encounters with beautiful maidens who tempted them and who turned into devils when they would not break their vows of chastity. Things were never as they seemed. Bors says he even fought his brother, Lionel, without knowing him for who he was. By all accounts, strange dreams and voices led all of the knights astray—even me. Only Bors, Galahad and Perceval prevailed for, after traversing the country, they found a mysterious ship that, with no help from them or from the wind, bore them to Carbonek. There they found the Maimed King lying abed, grievously hurt and with a broken sword by his side. He told them that his wounds would not heal until this sword, that had shattered when it pierced his side, was made whole again. Bors said he tried to repair it, as did Perceval, but it was only when Galahad took up the sword that it became straight and whole again, with no chip or crack to show that it was ever broken.

 “That was when the Sangreal appeared once more. And oh, how I wish I’d been blessed to see such a sight! Bors said that King Pelles bade them drink from the cup, and that he had never tasted anything so fine. Once their thirst was sated, Galahad asked the Maimed King how they might serve him further. And the king called Galahad to his side and gave him his blessing, and in front of them all, he recognized Galahad as his own grandson. And he asked Galahad to pick up the mended sword and lay it on him for healing.”

Gawain gives me a faint smile. “It seems that Galahad did not know his identity until then, for his mother, Elaine of Carbonek, had been estranged from her father. And so there was a great reconciliation between the two of them.” His smile is replaced by sadness as he continues his story.

“According to Bors, Galahad did as King Pelles asked. And the king arose from his bed as if he was a healthy young man once more, as if he hadn’t spent years in pain and misery, confined to his bed and wishing to die. Bors said that they all praised Galahad then, and asked for his blessing.”

“Surely that would be a further occasion for rejoicing, so why do you sound so miserable?”