I, Morgana (33 page)

I feel sorry for her, and I take great care to stay well out of her path. I have no doubt that she will blame me for her loss if she catches sight of me. And indeed, I am to blame, and for so much more than she knows. But I already feel guilt and sorrow enough without having to listen to her venting her wrath and pain on me.

Arthur appears to swallow the story whole and treats her tenderly while vowing to seek revenge on Launcelot. The only good thing to come out of this tangle is that he and Gawain are reconciled once more, along with many of the other older and wiser knights. The time of reckoning is near. We all sense it. And I know that we all fear that this will mark the end of everything, including Camelot.

The first inkling of danger comes when I am confronted by Mordred. I have been walking alone in the garden, lost in thought, when he steps out seemingly from nowhere and stands in my path.

“Where is she, Morgana?” he says pleasantly. His cold gaze belies the affability of his words.

“Where is who?” I ask, giving myself time to think.

“Don’t play games with me. My half-sister, who else? I know she is not at Glastonbury, and neither is Guinglan.”

“You’ve been to Glastonbury?”

Mordred’s smile chills me to the bone. “I have indeed. The good sisters were delighted to see me after all these years. ‘So grown up and so handsome,’ they said. They made me very welcome—at least at first.”

Fear turns my bowels to water. “What have you done?” I whisper.

Mordred’s smile grows broader. “You will never again use your dark arts against me or anyone else, Morgana,” he taunts. “I have taken steps to ensure it.”

“What have you
done
?” In my fear, I shout the words. I grab hold of his arms and shake him, until he effortlessly twists out of my grasp.

“Where is she?” It is his turn to grip my shoulders. His hands tighten, hurting me. I am unable to free myself, but I muster all my courage and glare at him.

“She is safe where you cannot reach her,” I say, while silently I thank the gods for giving me the wisdom to follow my instinct.

“I shall hunt her down,” he says. “Owain, too. The kingdom will be mine and mine alone, Morgana. My time will come.” He lets go of me, gives me a contemptuous shove, and walks off, whistling nonchalantly. I stare after him, wishing I had the powers to strike down this child whom once I loved so dearly.

I send a message to Owain, bidding him stay up north and out of reach, and to be on his guard at all times, and then I ride back to Glastonbury at speed in the hope of reaching Viviane. I am aghast at what I find there. The priory has been burned to the ground, and my garden along with it. The ashes have grown cold, but there is still the acrid stench of burning in the air. Fearing what I may find, I walk through the charred debris. There are no bodies among the ruins. It seems that the nuns have escaped with their lives, and I give heartfelt thanks for it, and for the fact that, unknowingly, Mordred has also destroyed the one means he had of finding Marie and Guinglan.

And with that realization comes another, far worse: I shall never see my daughter again, never be able to explain to her why I abandoned her in an unfamiliar world, with no chance of ever finding her way home. I crumple and clutch my arms tight around my body in a vain effort to hold myself together. I am too shocked, too distraught to cry. I can hardly believe the full extent of my loss, but I know that I am punished now for all the harm that I have done. The pain is excruciating; I can scarcely breathe. Only my hatred for Mordred stops me from losing my mind altogether. The need for revenge is visceral; a furious rage brings a rush of heat through my body, enabling me to stand upright once more, and give some thought to the future.

I am still able to utilize the magical arts of the mind, those that do not depend on what I have given to Marie, and I pray that they will be enough for my needs. It is reassuring to recall how I defeated Merlin, and how I also evaded Gawain and his brothers. An eagle with talons to disembowel my son? A fire-breathing dragon? That would scratch the smile off Mordred’s face!

Before I have time to try out my skill, for it’s been so long I am not sure if I still possess the ability to shape-shift, I am hailed. I turn and see the Prioress walking toward me.

I wait, wondering how much she knows, or guesses, of what has transpired. “I am so grateful to see you alive and well, Prioress,” I tell her. “I was fearful you and your companions might have perished in the fire.”

“No, Dame Anna, we all managed to escape, thanks be to God, but some have severe burns while others are coughing and in great distress after inhaling so much smoke.” She frowns at me. “I should tell you that we believe the fire was set by your son Mordred.”

How can I deny it? Sadly, I tell her that I believe her, and that I deeply and humbly apologize on his behalf should it prove to be so.

“The sins of the child can often be blamed on those who influence his upbringing,” she says tartly.

I press my lips tight to refrain from pointing out that the sisters, too, had an influence on Mordred’s early years. But while I deplore my son’s actions, I know that the blame rests largely on my shoulders, and I accept responsibility for it.

“He said at first that he was looking for your daughter, so we told him she and Guinglan had gone to make their home at Castle Perilous—that is correct, is it not?”

I nod. “When was he here?”

“He arrived some days ago, but left almost at once. I presume he did not find your daughter, for he was very angry on his return. I must confess that I was pleased he was unable to locate our sweet Marie, for I was sure, then, that he meant her harm. Unfortunately I made the mistake of telling him as much. He accused me of hiding her and scoured every inch of the priory in search of her. I did not like his attitude, Dame Anna. Indeed we were all fearful and very relieved when he finally left—or so we thought. The priory, and your beautiful garden, went up in flames that same night.”

Her words confirm my suspicions. As well as trying to locate his half-sister, Mordred must also have hoped to discover my books and the magical possessions that help me practice my craft. He, more than anyone, would know that a knowledge of the magical arts would give him powers that no one in our kingdom, save me, would be able to match. Not finding what he desired during his search of the priory, he had resorted to their utter destruction—or so he thought. No wonder he’d threatened me with such confidence. It frightens me to think of the havoc he would have wrought if I had not removed both my daughter and my most prized possessions out of his reach. I can only thank the gods that circumstances prevented me from showing him any of my magical practices before I became aware of his true nature.

“I am so very sorry for the trouble my son has caused you,” I tell her. Fortunately I still have Launcelot’s gold ring, although it takes all my courage and will to pull it off my finger and hold it out to the prioress. Profit from its sale will be some recompense for the destruction wrought by Mordred, although losing it feels worse than would losing the hand it came from. “Please put this to use when rebuilding your priory.”

The prioress brightens and wastes no time in snatching it from my grasp. “I thank you in the Lord’s name.” She hesitates a moment. “The brothers have given us shelter in the abbey until such time as our priory is rebuilt,” she continues. “I am sure their Guest-Master will find a room for you, should you wish to rest and refresh yourself after your journey?”

It is late and I am exhausted. I am tempted by her offer, but it seems more urgent that I should return to Camelot. The destruction of my garden and its secret paths means the way to Viviane is barred to me now. There is no more I can do here. And so I bid her farewell, and turn my tired mount in the direction of Camelot.

Upon my return, I discover Mordred has sent a challenge to Arthur to meet him at the field of Camlann. He has asked Arthur to name him king in his place, and is prepared to wage war to achieve his ambition. Arthur has replied that he would like to meet in peace in order to discuss Mordred’s proposition. The date has been set for a few days’ hence. Despite the so-called truce, the castle is abuzz as squires prepare the knights’ armor and all make themselves ready for battle.

I hurry to Camlann to find Mordred, hoping I may be able to avert the doom I have foreseen. Once there I am aghast at the huge army he has managed to gather to his cause. His soldiers far outnumber Arthur’s army, although I know my brother has sent out scouts to scour the countryside for men willing to come to his aid. Owain was not among Arthur’s soldiers and, to my infinite relief, he is not at Camlann either. I can only pray that he stays safe in the north.

I transform myself into a tiny sparrow, and hop about among Mordred’s men, hoping to hear something—anything—that Arthur might use to his advantage. I hear a cacophony of different languages, and realize that these are mercenaries, men hired by Mordred to fight on his side. Might they be turned to Arthur with the promise of more silver? It is a thought worth considering, if I fail in what I am attempting to do. But I cannot fail. There is far too much at stake here for failure.

I transform myself into an eagle. I wait and watch, hoping to catch Mordred on his own, and defenseless. With him dead, or horribly injured, I know that the men will desert him and his plans will fail. He has gathered his men together and is talking to them. My confidence wavers as I hear their cheers and whistles of support. These are not men to be bought. Mordred must have promised more than payment, should his bid for the throne succeed.

The men disperse, and Mordred wanders off alone, perhaps to think, to plot and plan, to savor his coming victory.

He looks up as I approach. There is something in his gaze that alerts me to danger, but even so I swoop down with talons outstretched, readying myself to claw at his eyes and render him blind. Within a heartbeat his sword is drawn. He awaits me, smiling, as he anticipates my death.

Panicking, I beat my mighty wings in a desperate effort to avoid that shining blade. I swoop over his head with only a hair’s breadth to save me from slaughter. His mocking laughter follows me as I fly higher, away from my shame and from danger. He might not have mastered the trick of transformation, but I know now that any form I take will find him armed and prepared to defend himself. I am impotent against the implacable ambition of my son.

It seems clear to me now that Marie is wise to say I should leave matters to God to either save or destroy Camelot. Weary and fearful, I stay on at Camlann to witness the outcome of this meeting between Arthur and Mordred. Knowing that, as a woman, I would not be allowed near the field, I transform myself from eagle to harmless sparrow once more, and take shelter in a copse of trees. I am close enough to the field to see what transpires, but far enough away and so insignificant that Mordred will not notice me—or so I hope. And there I wait until I hear the sound of a horn ring out, and the clinking of armor and the tread of horses’ hooves as Arthur’s men approach Camlann. They are far fewer in number than Mordred’s men, and my heart sinks in my feathered breast as I see my son’s eyes narrow in swift calculation. He smiles.

I fly as close as I dare, and watch as Mordred brings his men into formation behind him. Both sides stop while still some distance from each other. There is a tense silence as Mordred and Arthur step forward, ready to parley. Arthur holds out his arms, palms upraised in a gesture of friendship, wanting a truce. But Mordred takes a step back and folds his arms across his chest.

A flicker of movement catches my eye. A small brown snake has emerged from a patch of dry grass and is weaving its way toward one of Arthur’s men. Instantly I understand the danger, but I am unable to call out a warning. The adder strikes the soldier. He feels the sting and at once draws his sword to kill the serpent.

A great roar arises from Mordred’s men. They have seen the action, and misinterpreted it. Taking the drawn sword as a sign of Arthur’s treachery toward their leader, they rush upon Arthur’s men who, almost before they have time to draw their own swords, find themselves fighting for their lives.

Sick at heart, I watch them from my perch. Watch as men wield swords and battleaxes, cutting down opponents as lightly as reapers scythe hay. The ground darkens with the blood of the wounded, the dying and the dead. Shouts, curses and the prayers of the dying fill the air, along with the clash of metal on metal, and the wild squeals of destriers that lash out with their hooves at the enemy, but are inevitably cut down. It is a bloody scene, a field of carnage, a careless destruction and waste of life.

Through it all, I keep an anxious eye on Arthur and Mordred. They, too, are intent on massacring as many of each other’s soldiers as humanly possible. It seems that Arthur’s men, trained fighters as they are and with so much more to lose, are winning the battle, for Mordred’s men, those who have not been killed, are now in retreat. I suppose, having been promised an early and easy victory, they now realize that their lives might well be forfeit if they tarry longer.

Mordred looks about him, surveying his dead. His shoulders sag in acknowledged defeat. Arthur too, is looking around, assessing the damage. So many men have died, including Gawain and other knights of the Round Table. But loyal Bedivere is still standing, and it is he who shouts a warning to Arthur as Mordred rushes toward him.

With a roar, Arthur snatches up a spear and throws himself at Mordred, slicing the sharp spear through his armor and deep into his son’s body. It is a death blow, and I feel an overwhelming sense of relief.

But it is not over. Mordred’s eyes widen in anticipation of one last act of revenge. As Arthur turns, he lunges forward over the spear and, with sword upraised, strikes Arthur such a blow on the back of the head that he cleaves through his helmet. Arthur drops instantly. It takes Mordred a little longer to die, but die he does, and painfully.

A great silence falls over the battlefield. I am filled with shame, and remorse. If I had not thrown away the magical scabbard that protected Excalibur—and Arthur’s life—he would have survived this day. Truly I have caused more harm than ever I could have imagined when first I embarked on my quest to reclaim my realm. I have destroyed everything.

I fly down to the ground, ready to transform myself and go to my brother’s aid. But before I can do so, I am aware that Arthur has not died after all. Bedivere kneels beside him; they are talking together. I fly over to them and hover above, hoping with all my heart that all may yet be well.

“Take my sword and throw it into the lake,” Arthur tells Bedivere. I am intrigued. This was once a ritual observed by all warriors in our land in a time long ago. Upon their death, and sometimes even before it, perhaps in hope of a boon, warriors would throw their swords into a lake or the sea, or a spring perhaps, to appease the gods and guarantee a safe passage to the afterlife. This practice is still observed in the Otherworld of the Druids, but I have not seen it at Camelot since the court turned to the way of Christ. It seems now that my brother is not quite so devout a Christian as I had once thought.