I, Morgana (23 page)

“My lord,” I murmur.

“But … what brings you here?” He puts me away from him and scans the forest around us, perhaps expecting to see Arthur or one of the knights closing in.

“I am alone, lord,” I reassure him, knowing this to be true. “I found you because I could not stay away from you. I long for you, Launcelot, more than I can say. And so I have come to you, to lie with you as should any man and woman who love each other more than life itself.”

I close my eyes and raise my mouth for his kiss. It comes to me suddenly that perhaps this is a dreadful mistake. If Launcelot and Guenevere have not yet consummated their love, then I am starting something that Launcelot may well wish to continue; may insist on, in fact, if and when he returns to court. But it is too late now to hold back, and so I surrender myself to Launcelot’s kiss, unwilling to spoil our time together with useless regrets.

He groans suddenly and once more thrusts me away from him. I cannot breathe in my distress, thinking that he will yet reject me from some sense of honor and duty to Arthur. But his hands fall on my gown with feverish haste and, without ado, he rips it over my head and begins to undo my undergarments with shaking hands, tearing the delicate fabric in his impatience to see my body naked. I am flooded with warmth as I untie his breeches; he is ready for loving and he falls upon me, taking me to the ground and thrusting into me with a desperate need. But I am already open and ready for him, my need matching his as he thrusts deeper and I push myself against him until, with spiraling joy, we reach a shuddering climax.

Afterwards, we lie quietly together upon the grass, while around us birds sing and butterflies flit and skitter among the flowers. He holds me close, and dusts my face with soft kisses. “My love,” he sighs. “I have waited so long for you.”

I stay silent; the urge to confess is strong within me. I long to tell him that I love him, that I have always loved him, no matter whatever else I may have done. I long to tell him about the child we made together, our Marie, who has become such a fine young woman, and a beauty too. For Marie has grown into her big eyes and wide mouth and in fact now looks more like Launcelot than me, although still not enough to cause suspicion, thank the gods. I open my mouth to speak the words, but Launcelot’s kiss stops me. Once more my body opens to his, but this time our loving is slow, gentle and unbearably sweet.

“We cannot do this again,” I say, as we lie, sated, at the end of it. “It is too dangerous. It will cause talk around the court if people realize that we have become intimate.” It is the only way I can think of to prevent Launcelot from finding out how I have tricked him.

“You are right, of course. But oh, my dearest one, I wish that we could proclaim our love to all the world, and that we could live openly as man and wife.”

“No, Launcelot! We must never speak of this again, not even between ourselves lest someone overhear us!” I am panic-stricken now, wondering what I have unleashed.

“Yes.” He takes my hands, and holds them against his heart. “But you are my life, and my love. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Launcelot, I do.” I feel a deep grief that the words I most long to hear are said to another woman. Nevertheless I lie quietly, savoring the last moments of my time with him as I wait for him to fall asleep.

Once I am sure, I stealthily release my hands from his, pick up my clothes and walk some distance away to dress. I do not want him to see me in my true guise. But he slumbers on while I, a raven once more, keep watch over him from the branch above his head.

The afternoon wears on, and still Launcelot sleeps. I watch the sun arc lower through the sky, and finally give a hoarse croak to waken him. I need to lead him through the forest to safety before it gets too dark for him to see me.

He wakens with a start and looks about him. “Guenevere!”

There is such love and longing in his voice that my heart aches. I see his desolation as he realizes he is alone. He shakes his head, then spills some water from his flask onto his hands and washes his face. As he dries himself on his sleeve, he catches sight of me.

“Tell me, bird: did this really happen or have I been dreaming?”

I am well pleased if he thinks his lovemaking with Guenevere was but a dream; it is safer that way. But he looks down at his state of undress, and frowns.

“I could swear it was real, and that she was here.” He looks up at me, as if in accusation. “Who are you?”

Fear dries my throat; I can manage only a murmuring croak. But he laughs then, and looks about him. “If you know the way out of this forest, I pray you lead on.”

I know he is joking; nevertheless, I leave my branch and fly on to another, some distance away, and wait for him.

Launcelot gives me a long, dubious look. “All right then,” he says. “I may as well follow you, for ’tis sure I know not where else to go.”

And so, in a series of a short flights, I lead him through the wild innermost part of the forest, and out onto the plain beyond. The light is almost gone now; I am a black shape among shadows, but my task is done. Ahead of us stand the silhouettes of small cottages, some with unshuttered windows that show the gleam of lighted candles within. I know that Launcelot will find food and shelter here.

“I thank you, bird.” He sketches me a mocking bow, but his face is serious, reflecting his gratitude. I answer with another hoarse croak. As I fly away, I steal one last, loving glance behind me, knowing that it will have to last me a lifetime.

Conscious that I am long overdue at Rheged, I stop for a few moments to change from raven to swift before taking wing once more. As I fly onward over forests, rivers and high peaks I become ever more weary, and wish that I’d thought to commence this journey on horseback. But I tell myself there are several advantages to flight: being able to fly true and without having to avoid any danger or obstacles along my path, and also to see more clearly where I am bound.

I spy several knights along the way and recognize my nephews Gawain, Agravaine and Gareth. It seems they have just met up with Gaheris, who had been banished from court, and also with Mordred.

Despite my haste, the tie that binds mother to child proves too strong to resist—and besides, I am feeling my age; I am exhausted and in need of a rest. Feeling safe in my disguise, I fly closer and perch on a branch, listening to the cheerful banter between the brothers that not even Mordred’s sarcasm can dampen.

“So you have finally been knighted, Beaumains,” he sneers. “Is it because you cooked up a feast worthy of my father, the king? Are you pleased to be out of the kitchen at last?”

I expect Gareth to fly into a temper at this reminder of his lowly position and his cruel treatment by Sir Kay, but he remains calm as he unties the strings of his breeches to relieve himself, narrowly missing Mordred’s mount as he does so. “I had to wait for a chance to prove my true worth to the king, so when Lady Linet asked the king for protection for her mistress, Dame Lyonesse, I seized the opportunity to come forward.” He reties his breeches.

“Causing Lady Linet great shame,” sneers Mordred. “I heard her say that you stank of the kitchen. She begged the king to find her another champion for her mistress.”

“But she still consented to journey along with me, although she served me ill by inciting the Black Knight, the Red Knight and the Green Knight into combat against me.”

“But by so doing, you were given the chance to prove your worth as a knight by defeating them all,” says Gawain, ever the peace-maker.

“And I am delighted that Lady Linet has now agreed to become my wife,” Gaheris boasts.

“Then you can have no complaints about the affair,” Gareth replies.

“Neither can you, for Linet tells me you are to wed her mistress, Dame Lyonesse,” Gaheris points out.

This is all news to me, and I am pleased that I have interrupted my journey to spend time with them.

“Indeed, our marriage has been planned. As Gawain says: I have proved myself as a knight, and as a worthy companion for Dame Lyonesse.” Gareth shoots a hard look at Mordred. There is little friendship evident between them, nor, I think to myself, does Gareth seem quite so afraid of Mordred as he once was.

 His next words confirm my opinion.

“That being the situation, none shall dare call me
Beaumains
ever again—not even you, Mordred.”

The threat is unmistakable, and is enough to silence Mordred, at least for a time. As dusk falls, Gawain has called a halt to their journey so that they may prepare a safe haven against the creatures of the night. A pile of wood is gathered and lit. I watch their activity while I rest my weary wings. Smoke billows above the leaping golden flames, and I shift position so that it cannot irritate my eyes and throat. The knights remain silent, their eyes drawn to the dancing light, listening to the fire’s pop and crackle, and the calls of the wild hunters and their prey.

The sky is black as ebony, pierced with glittering stars that promise light but give none. There is no moon, not yet. It is a night for the telling of secrets and I edge closer along the branch in the hope of hearing them.

Agravaine begins the conversation. “You’ve been away from court, Mordred, so I don’t suppose you’ve heard the news that most concerns you.”

“What news?”

My heart falls anew as I hear Mordred’s surly response. I had hoped—what? That my absence from court might encourage his father to treat him more like a son? That my absence might remove the burr that pricks his heart and turns him to violence? Yet it seems he himself has been absent. Has he been gathering support for his cause from disaffected knights across the realm, as I once did? Is that why he travels with Gaheris?

“You have a half-brother by the name of Owain. He is the son of your mother, Morgana, and Urien of Rheged.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Agravaine, being ever one to enjoy passing on news of the court, is not deterred. “Ask my brothers. They know all about him.” He glances around the company. “Well, not Gaheris. He’s not welcome at Camelot after what he did to our mother and to Lamorak.”

“Never mind ancient tales of revenge! Tell me what you know of Owain,” Mordred insists.

“He is young; he was only sixteen summers or thereabouts when he first arrived at Camelot. But despite his youth he was knighted almost straight away by the king.” Agravaine splutters with laughter as he continues the story. “At the start he scared the court half to death—in fact the queen was so terrified she dropped down in a deathly swoon.”

“Why should she be so afraid of a vagabond knight?” Mordred says.

“Because the ‘vagabond knight,’ as you call him, travels everywhere with a very large and ferocious pet lion.”

If I had doubts about Agravaine’s story before, they are dispelled by this news that, to anyone else, would seem beyond belief. But I know that if anyone can befriend a lion, it is Owain. I hop down a couple of branches so that I can hear more.

“A lion!” Mordred’s jeering laugh cracks through the quiet forest. “There never was a lion for a pet in all of Christendom! Where do you find such stories, Agravaine?”

“He speaks the truth,” says Gawain, the oldest and therefore the one for whom they have the most respect. “It is said that, after Owain left Rheged in a bid to be admitted to Arthur’s court, he encountered a snake fighting a lion. The snake had the animal tightly bound within its coils and was about to make a fatal strike. But Owain drew his sword and cut the snake’s head from its body. He then unwound the lion from the snake’s deathly embrace before setting off once more for Camelot. But the lion followed him and, on occasion, protected Owain from errant travelers who wished him harm. So Owain told the king, and the king believed him. And for that deed he knighted Owain and bid him—and his lion—welcome at court, although he did not stay for long.”

Owain! I berate myself for my recent absence from Rheged, for not realizing that of course he is now old enough to seek his fortune at court. I remember the child who was always bringing hurt creatures home to nurse back to health, and my eyes fill with fond tears. I wonder if he too has set off on this fool’s errand for the Sangreal, and I determine to look out for him. What I hear next chills me to the bone.

“If I find him, I shall kill him.”

The silence that follows Mordred’s pronouncement is absolute and profound.

“Why would you want to do that?” Gawain asks cautiously.

“Because I mean to inherit Camelot, of course, and I will let no one stand in my way.” Mordred’s tone reflects his scorn for their dullness in missing the obvious. “The king has no heir by Guenevere. And I am his only son.”

“Begotten on his sister,” Agravaine points out.

“What of it? To my way of thinking, that makes me twice the legitimate heir. But my mother may well disagree with me. She has long schemed against Arthur to reclaim what she believes was hers by right. If Owain is truly her son, then he stands in line as her legitimate heir—but only while he lives.” Again, there is a silence as the brothers ponder his words.

“You have a far lesser claim than I do,” Mordred points out, adding, “and even though the king will not anoint me as his heir, he’ll never forgive Gaheris for slaying your mother, his sister, either. You are all tainted in his eyes.”

“But we are as much in line to succeed Arthur as Owain is,” Gawain says quietly. “Are you planning to kill us too?”

Mordred grunts, but does not reply.

“If you are searching for the Sangreal with murder in your heart, you may as well give up the quest right now,” Gawain continues, perhaps hoping to change the subject and keep the peace.

“I have as much chance as any of finding it,” Mordred boasts. “Besides, who among any of us has a pure heart?”

“Galahad,” says Gawain.

“Who is Galahad?” Gaheris asks.

“He is the son of Launcelot and Elaine of Carbonek.”

The shock is so great I loosen my hold on the branch, and almost fall. I cannot believe I have heard aright.

“Galahad considers himself so worthy of respect that he has occupied the Siege Perilous at the Round Table. But he comes from tainted stock,” Mordred sneers. “You only have to look at how devoted his father is to the queen. Launcelot loves Guenevere beyond anything, and everyone knows it. Only my father, the king, seems blind to their betrayal. But that’s not the worst of it. He has betrayed other young women too. Elaine of Astolat died of love for Launcelot after he wore her favor in combat and led her to believe that they would wed. And Galahad’s own mother, Elaine of Carbonek, suffered at Launcelot’s hands. He says that Elaine seduced him into her bed with the use of a love potion, and he swears that he left her as soon as he found out the truth. He will not accept that he was at fault, nor will he offer the lady his support and protection. It seems she is estranged from her own family, and she kept Galahad hidden away and both her family and Launcelot ignorant of the boy’s existence. When Elaine of Carbonek finally brought her son to court to meet Launcelot, I thought the queen would die of rage. In fact, she banished Launcelot from her sight for quite some time.”

“I heard that Elaine managed to get him to lie with her and give her a child by assuming the guise of the queen herself,” says Agravaine.

I am torn between laughter and fury. Galahad is Launcelot’s son! No wonder that, when I met him, I thought of his father. And when I looked on Launcelot, Galahad came into my mind. I, who thought I could read men’s hearts and minds; how could I have been so blind! And yet I cannot help but feel a grim amusement over the situation. It seems that I am not the only one to have tricked Launcelot into making love to someone other than the queen! Not that another child is likely to result from our recent coupling; I have gone too far in age to bear any more children.

“Twice the shame for Launcelot then, that he would believe that he was lying with the queen. But however it came about, Galahad is bastard born and therefore unfit to find the Sangreal.”

“Should the son be judged by the father?” Gawain’s clear, cold sense silences Mordred, particularly when he continues, “For if that is so, you should look to your own heritage, Mordred.”

It is a fair comment, and it bites my conscience with the venom of an adder’s strike. Mordred’s birth, his very existence, was by my hand and through trickery—and that one fatal decision has led me on to all that has happened throughout my life. Would that I could change the present by changing the past, for there is so much that I now regret and would undo if it was possible! I try to seek comfort from the notion that perhaps, one day, I shall learn how to traverse time and, even better, how to reverse it. Until then, however, I must live with the consequences.

The conversation drifts into a drowsy murmur, and thence into sleep. I stay on a little longer, mulling over what I have heard. It grieves me that my son has not seen the danger into which his anger and hurt pride might lead him. But, unwittingly, he has warned his cousins of his vaulting ambition. I could not mistake their shock, their horror, as they heard of Mordred’s intention, and I hope that Gawain, at least, will now try to steer him along a wiser path.

For myself, I am more determined than ever to keep Marie’s birth a secret from Mordred. And for love of my son Owain, I know that I must go in search of him, in order to warn him and so protect him from his older brother’s jealousy and lust for power.

But what has most upset me is the startling revelation of Galahad’s birth. I try to calculate when Launcelot lay with Elaine of Carbonek. It must have been after our time together at Joyous Garde if the girl needed to assume the guise of the queen. This leads me to wonder if their bedding marked the start of a new relationship between Launcelot and the queen, but then I remember his haste with me and I think not. Nevertheless I am haunted by the fear that our coupling might prompt him to steal into Guenevere’s bedchamber for another taste of forbidden love, and come to an understanding of how he has been tricked once more. Worse: it would lead to their deaths if they were found out. Not only would I lose the man I love, I would also lose my chance of the crown, for the court would unite in support of Arthur while my kingdom would slip even further from my grasp. Now I most bitterly regret giving way to desire, and can only hope and pray that Launcelot will honor my warning to keep our meeting in the forest a closely guarded secret.

I must have dozed off on the branch, for I wake to the dawn chorus as birds open sleepy eyes, fluff up feathers and warble their greetings to the new day. A quick check reveals the Orkney brothers and my son are also astir and I am gripped with alarm by the thought that I have no idea where Owain might be if he is not at Rheged, and that Mordred could well come across him before I have a chance to warn him. I stretch out my wings, hoping that the sun’s early rays will warm my feathers and ease my aching joints. I am not as young as I was, and I am used to sleeping in a bed rather than on a branch.

From my perch high in the treetops I scan the countryside to determine the direction in which I should fly, already dreading the long journey to Rheged. If only I could transform myself into a winged beast, something big and powerful, something that could effortlessly cruise on the currents of the wind without the expense of so much energy!

Unbidden, the image of a silvery white unicorn comes into my mind. “Aleph,” I breathe, remembering how I’d once asked him if unicorns could fly. I’ve never tried to transform into a unicorn before, nor have I visited that Otherworld since Merlin withdrew his patronage from me. Can I do it without revealing my true self?