I, Morgana (28 page)

She is speaking my mind. I retreat behind a high hedge, for I don’t wish to be observed, particularly by Viviane. But she watches me as I soar above her head in the direction of Meliagrance’s castle. The thought of Launcelot spurring forward to rescue the queen adds speed to my wings, so I am quite breathless by the time I alight on the windowsill of Guenevere’s prison.

I am relieved to see that nothing of great event seems to have happened in my absence. The queen is still prostrate upon the bed; her ladies are still fluttering about her. The wounded knights of her party are also present; those who are less badly hurt are trying to take care of the more grievously wounded among them. I hop down and quietly transform myself. My sudden presence among the company merits no more than a half-glance.

Guenevere sees me, and waves her ladies away. “Do you have news?” she asks urgently.

I hesitate. I have flown in advance of Launcelot and his companions, but have no doubt they are flogging their steeds to get here as fast as possible. I decide to keep the details of Guenevere’s rescue attempt as vague as I can.

“The king has sent a large party of knights,” I reassure her. “It is up to you, my lady, to stall Meliagrance for as long as possible.”

“Is the king among them?”

“No, my lady.”

Guenevere sighs. I suspect she shares my opinion of Arthur’s apparent reluctance to involve himself in affairs of the heart.

“What about Launcelot? Is he among them?”

Reluctantly, I nod.

“I warrant Meliagrance only dared lay his filthy hands on me because Launcelot was absent from our riding party,” the queen says angrily. “He will soon change his mind about keeping us when he knows who comes to my rescue.” Her face is all sunshine now that she knows her beloved is on his way.

“It would be best not to threaten Meliagrance, my lady. For now, he thinks he has you secure, and that no one knows where you are. Do not warn him; do not give him time to prepare a counter-attack.”

The queen tips her head to one side as she considers my words. “You are right, Morgana. And I thank you for undertaking this task on my behalf.”

It occurs to me that perhaps my actions this day will take me some way further toward my rehabilitation at court, and for this I am grateful. I leave her then, and go to tend the wounded knights as best I may, given the lack of medicaments at my disposal. But a bath has been brought and filled with water and rose petals, presumably for the queen to bathe in before giving herself to Meliagrance, although she has obviously not yet availed herself of this convenience. So there is clean water to bathe the wounds of the knights, while the hems of the ladies’ undergarments may be torn into bandages. Although they protest somewhat, Guenevere orders them to do as I ask, and my ministrations bring some relief to the men.

We are summoned to dinner in the Great Hall. A feast is laid out on a snowy white cloth, but none of us has the appetite to do it justice. Meliagrance and his men set about gorging themselves, working their way through salmon and duck, wild boar and a baron of beef, all accompanied by huge quantities of wine and ale. I am hoping they will drink themselves into a state of insensibility, but Meliagrance is too canny for that. He is seated between the queen and me, and as the honey wafers and fruits preserved in syrup are passed around, I am well able to hear when he leans over to Guenevere and tells her that she is to come to his chamber at the conclusion of the meal.

“No,” she says, in a voice that quavers slightly. “My lord, I cannot.”

“My queen, you will.” The menace is apparent in his eyes, and in the way he takes hold of her arm in an iron grip.

I struggle to find something to say to put off the evil moment, for Launcelot and his men, riding as hard as their horses will bear them, must surely come soon.

“The queen has been quite overcome with the shock of what has happened to her and her knights,” I say. “She has been too faint and unwell to bathe as yet, but would like to do so before ever she comes to your bedchamber, lord.”

Meliagrance scowls, but I can see gratitude in Guenevere’s eyes.

“Very well,” he says curtly. “But do not tarry. I have waited long enough for you, and my patience is growing very thin indeed.”

“Shall I bathe?” Guenevere asks me, when once we are back in our chamber.

“No. You must keep yourself ready to leave, for help must come soon.” I wonder if she is always so helpless in times of trial. But I hide my irritation and go to stand beside the window, watching for signs of Launcelot and his men.

The afternoon wears on; the rays of the setting sun slant across the courtyard bathing it in a rosy glow that belies the chill of desperation permeating the room in which we are incarcerated. Meliagrance’s patience will not last forever. The chatter has died away; everyone sits silently. Guenevere’s face is gray, haunted. I feel sorry for her, and wonder now that I could ever have wished her dead.

Perhaps it is Launcelot who will die instead, cut down in battle by Meliagrance or one of his men? I put my hand to my heart at the shock of the idea, although I know it would solve a good many problems if it came about. But the very thought of it so grieves me that I cannot prevent despairing tears flooding into my eyes. I try to force my mind on to more cheerful thoughts, but the possibility of Launcelot’s death lurks like a black shadow.

I feel excitement mingled with dread when, finally, I hear a warning cry from below. I look down from my seat at the window. The courtyard is swarming with armed knights. Launcelot has come at last and he and his party are wasting no time in hacking their way toward their queen.

“Help has arrived! The king has sent a party to free us,” I call out.

At once there is a pushing and jostling as everyone tries to get to the windows to see what’s happening. I am shoved aside by the queen herself. With flashing eyes and gasping breaths, she gazes down at her beloved, and I remember all over again why I hate her. But there is no time to reflect on this for there is the sound of cheering, followed by the thunder of feet coming toward us.

The door swings open and hits the wall with a thud. Launcelot is already halfway across the room, his arms held out. The queen rushes into his embrace and, in front of all assembled, they kiss.

Excited cheering has given way to a deep hush as we all witness the intensity of their devotion and the passion of their kiss. Becoming conscious of his surroundings, Launcelot thrusts the queen away from him and sinks onto his knees.

“I am at your service, my lady.”

But the damage is done. No one present can doubt that the rumors swirling around the pair must be true. Guenevere knows it too, for a deep blush stains her fair complexion as she gives Launcelot her hand and bids him rise.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” he stammers. “I was overcome by my fear for your safety.”

“And I thank you for your concern, Sir Launcelot.” Is there a tinge of self-satisfaction in her voice? “Fortunately, I shall be able to reassure the king that no one has had knowledge of me to which he is not entitled.”

Perhaps this is meant as a reproof to all present for what they must now be thinking, but I am fearful. Having impersonated the queen when I lay with Launcelot, I know that he now believes that he does, in fact, have intimate knowledge of Guenevere. I cross my fingers behind my back, and pray that he will not betray the secret.

“It is a great relief to me to hear you say that you are unharmed, my lady,” Launcelot assures her gravely.

The queen is still flushed; her breath has slowed, but her eyes are bright as fire. It seems that all her fear has flown now that Launcelot is present. More, his embrace has kindled a desire that burns across her face for all to see.

“Where is Meliagrance?” she asks.

“In chains and locked up.” Launcelot surveys her with a smile. “You have no more to fear.” The queen exhales, visibly relieved. Their eyes lock, and hold; the connection between them is plain.

I am becoming increasingly anxious. “It is growing dark, my lady. We really should set out for Camelot without delay.” The courtyard is already in deep shadow, but even if it means riding at night I would rather take that risk than stay here.

“Nonsense. We are quite safe now; we have Sir Launcelot’s assurance on that.” The queen flashes a quick smile in his direction. “I am completely worn out and undone by the travails of the day, as I am sure are all of you. We shall abide here for the night, and take our rest. Tomorrow will be soon enough to return to Camelot.”

I can see the queen’s suggestion is welcome to all; indeed, I am also weary beyond measure. It is only my concern that drives me to make one last protest.

“The king will be worried about you, my lady. I am sure he will fear the worst if you do not return this evening.”

Guenevere does not deign to reply. Launcelot gives me a quizzical look, and I realize that he now has proof, if proof were needed, that I do indeed possess magical powers.

“The king knows that the queen is in good hands. He would not want her to tire herself unnecessarily,” he says.

I am defeated, and I know it.

Several knights have gone scavenging, and now they return with armfuls of pallets, some of which they scatter around the room, while the rest are reserved for the knights who will sleep in the room across the passage. Launcelot and Guenevere are huddled in the corner. I long to know what they are saying, for my fear increases moment by moment. But the knights gravely give the ladies good wishes for the night, and take their leave. I am relieved to see Launcelot is among them.

With as good a grace as I can muster, I prepare myself for bed, as do Guenevere’s ladies. After some thought, I position my pallet as close to the queen as I dare, perhaps with some thought of warding off danger, although I am unsure who or what I most fear.

I cannot sleep. The night is awash with moonlight and starshine. The scent of the briar roses perfumes the air. It is a night for lovers, and I ache with loneliness. I do not mean to keep vigil, but the hours pass and the darkness deepens, and still I cannot sleep. And then I become aware of small sounds outside: the rustle of leaves, a grunt, a quiet curse. A face appears at the window. Only with difficulty do I suppress a small squeak of alarm—until I recognize our night visitor. It is Launcelot.

His hands are on the bars and he heaves and strains, and I pray that he will be defeated. But he is not. One of the bars gives way, and he turns his attention to the one beside it. Once he has made enough space, he wriggles through and quietly steps down from the windowsill into the room.

I realize then that I am not the only one who has kept vigil. Guenevere props herself up on one arm, and beckons him across to her bed. I’m about to shout a warning, but realize that they would be fatally compromised in the eyes of the court if I did so. Instead, I leap up and stand in Launcelot’s path. But he sweeps me aside and disappears behind the bed hangings that Guenevere closes to screen what will happen next.

But the fabric cannot stifle the sounds they make, and even though I put my fingers in my ears, I hear every soft cry of pleasure, every sigh of delight. It is as if a thousand knives are cutting into me, so great is my pain, my grief—and my envy. I reflect that unknowingly, they have taken their revenge on me this night for all the harm I have done to them in the past. And I wish, more than anything, that I had positioned my pallet as far from the queen as was possible.

An even greater alarm presents itself for my inspection. The potion I had brewed for Guenevere ensured that she would never bear a child to Arthur. Would it also hold true for Launcelot? I close my eyes, thinking I shall surely die if a child results from their union this night.

Sighs of delight have given way to a soft murmuring, which gradually changes to muffled cries and moans as they come together once more. The thought of the pleasure they are taking with each other awakens my own desire, which nothing can assuage. I ache with wanting; I am hollow with loss. Every moment lasts an hour, and I believe that this night will never be over.

Fortunately Launcelot has the good sense to creep out of our chamber before daybreak. I watch his dark form squeeze between the bars, and hear once more the grunts and soft curses as he works his thorny way down to the ground. But his passage is clear for all to see when the ladies awake. Guenevere is still asleep, with a smile curving her lips, but it vanishes as she wakes and hears the squeaks and exclamations of alarm.

“Someone has come into our room in the night!” One of her ladies gestures toward the broken bars and the drops of bright red blood that lead a telltale trail to Guenevere’s bed. Launcelot must have injured himself in his desperation to get to the queen.

Guenevere slowly draws herself up, no doubt giving herself time to think. “It must have been one of the wounded knights,” she declares, looking around. Her gaze alights on me and on my pallet, the closest to her bed. “Morgana, have you had a visitor in the night?”

I read the appeal in her eyes, but I am too furious to respond to it. She was the one who had branded me a whore at Camelot; she will not have the chance to do so again.

“No, my lady,” I say. “I slept single all night.”

“Then who could it be?” She throws out an arm in appeal to her ladies. They exchange uneasy glances before turning to stare at me.

“No!” But my cry in my own defense stands for nothing as they recall the gossip and innuendo that has circulated around the court in the past. Their hostile faces tell me that I stand condemned, with no way of proving otherwise.

The knights knock and enter at the queen’s bidding. The ladies break into small groups; they huddle together, surveying each of the knights and with covert looks in my direction. I don’t need to hear their whispers to know what they’re saying, and my anger intensifies.

Launcelot approaches the queen. Now that the danger is past, she has a new air of serenity, the small lines of frustration are smoothed from her face. She is truly happy. Launcelot makes his obeisance and smiles at her with deep tenderness. She touches his arm; he puts his hand over hers, and quickly withdraws it. I sense how difficult their restraint must be after their night of love. They stand close together, as close as they dare. And I feel faint with jealousy, and silently curse the knowledge of magic that has brought about my doom.