I, Morgana (11 page)

I collect my belongings and hurry to the stables where I direct a stablehand to saddle my palfrey. I am determined to leave Camelot without further delay, in case Guenevere is tempted to meddle further.

There is one last hurdle that I had not anticipated. As I prepare to ride through the gates of Camelot, I hear someone call my name. The voice is too faint for me to identify its owner, and so I rein in my mount and turn to see who is calling me. It is only when he is close, too close for me to flee without causing suspicion, that I realize it is Accolon who pursues me. Trying to conceal my alarm and dismay, I look down at him, and frown as he snatches my hand and holds it to his lips.

“You were going away without bidding me farewell, lady?” His face is red and sweating with exertion; the accusation I read in his protruding blue eyes is matched by the tone of his voice.

“I was not aware that I needed your permission to leave Camelot, Accolon,” I say coldly.

“I thought we had an understanding, Lady Morgana.” His tone is as icy as my own. I am suddenly afraid that the man whom I’d thought of as my tame lapdog may yet prove to have the claws of a lion.

“I’ve given it much thought and I believe it is best for me to leave Camelot at once,” I say, adopting a more conciliatory tone. “There must be no hint of suspicion that Arthur is in any danger, or that we are in any way connected to each other.”

Accolon eyes me, still suspicious. “And so you have decided to let me bear the consequence of betraying the king on my own?”

“Only because I know that you are a man of courage—and wisdom. Arthur will use his sword when danger next threatens. He is a king—and a brave warrior. It may be that the changed scabbard will make no difference to the outcome of the contest, but either way, no blame can ever be attached to you—or to me, if I am not here. Once word reaches me of Arthur’s death, believe that I shall waste no time in coming to your side with the reward that I have promised you.”

It is partly true, for indeed I shall waste no time returning to Camelot. But I alone shall claim the crown—and the kingdom—on my own account. It has not been spoken of between us, but I know that when Arthur dies, Accolon is expecting to win my hand and also the crown. What then shall I do about him if, or when, it comes about? I curse myself for not thinking that far ahead. Somehow I shall have to silence him; I cannot afford my part in Arthur’s downfall to become common knowledge. But I hide my doubts and fears and instead smile sweetly as I bid him farewell.

“Do not kiss me again,” I say sharply, as he seizes hold of my hand once more.

A movement on the parapet catches my attention, and I screw up my eyes against the sun to see more clearly. I had stood up there to watch Launcelot escort Guenevere through the gates and now it is Guenevere’s turn to watch my departure. A deathly chill steals over me as I notice how she leans over the parapet in order to see me and my companion more clearly. Accolon is still holding my hand, and I snatch it free of his grasp.

“Go away!” I hiss. “For our safety, you must pretend there is nothing between us, that there has never been anything between us.” I wheel my mount around and dig my heels against its flank. Without a backward glance, but with a heart torn between fear and anticipation, I leave Camelot.

It is difficult to find the words to describe our happiness at Joyous Garde—a place most truly named. On our arrival I was unsure of myself, for I was tormented by thoughts of other women Launcelot might have brought here in the past, until he assured me I was the first and only one. The castle itself is quite small by Camelot’s standards, but with extensive grounds that, in a high tide, are severed from the mainland so that we live almost on an enchanted isle of our own.

Most days we go riding, for pleasure but also to inspect the fields and boundaries of Launcelot’s estate. Sometimes we hunt. Other times we stay closer to home, walking through the formal gardens and flowery meadows that surround the castle. Often we visit the hawks and hounds, the stables, byres and sties, the brew house and bakery, the smithy and every other part of Joyous Garde, including the homes of those who live and work here, for Launcelot is determined to see how everyone has fared in his absence. It becomes apparent that his estate has been neglected and has fallen into some disrepair, and so we decide to replace his steward. Several men are brought in for interview—and also for my inspection—after which we discuss our choice. Although I don’t know these men, Launcelot assures me that he values my opinion for, he says, while he can assess a man’s capacity for work and organization, only I can assess a man’s heart and willingness to take on responsibility for the lives of others.

This marks the beginning of our partnership. We discuss everything after that, from the family disputes in which he is asked to mediate, to plans for the sowing and reaping of crops for the seasons to come; from the brewing of ale and the ordering of provisions to who should be promoted to new positions or downgraded for reasons of infirmity or incompetence. It is the first time I have been actively involved in the work and organization that go into ordering a well-run estate, and I glory in the fact that I am useful to Launcelot, and that he trusts and values my judgment.

There are times—so many times—that my heart is torn in two by thoughts of Mordred. I worry about my son, and I long to go to him, yet I cannot find a compelling enough reason to abandon Launcelot other than to tell him the truth—and that I cannot do. Even while telling myself that soon I will find an excuse to absent myself for a time, still I always have reasons to delay my departure.

One is the construction of a new garden to service Launcelot’s demesne. On my instruction, the existing garden is being extended and replanted with those herbs most useful for concocting remedies and potions, for I intend to teach his tenants some of the skills I have learned from the infirmarian at the priory and the great healers in the Otherworlds I’ve visited. I am happy to share my knowledge for I know how much can be achieved if knowledge is matched with a healing touch and the correct treatment.

But our nights together are mostly responsible for delaying my departure, for they bring me the greatest joy. That first night with Launcelot—my heart still catches at the memory of it. We arrived late in the afternoon after four long days in the saddle. I was weary and, I must admit, somewhat apprehensive about the night to come. After the huge disappointment of Arthur, I wondered if it was always like that for women: a man pleasuring himself and then rolling over to slumber, leaving his lover aching and unfulfilled.

The first thing Launcelot ordered on our arrival was hot water and refreshments to be brought to the room we would occupy. I looked at the big bed that took up most of the space, and wondered if he would take me there and then, and how I should respond if he did. In truth, I was not in the mood for love, feeling grimy from our journey and utterly exhausted. Instead, Launcelot bade me rest, and indicated a comfortable, cushioned chair. He sat close by, and we sipped spiced wine and nibbled on sweet pastries while a large tub was carried up to the room and placed in front of the crackling fire. Servants arrived in relays, bearing jugs of hot water, steaming and fragrant with rose petals. Candlelight gilded the ripples as water splashed into the tub and the level began to rise. Finally, Launcelot dismissed the servants with a flick of his wrist. He stood up, and gave me his hand to help me rise.

“There’s nothing to fear,” he said. I felt mortified that he had sensed my lack of desire and was about to brazen it out, but he put a finger to my lips and I knew then that he had experience enough for both of us.

He held me close to him, and so we gazed into each other’s eyes for a few moments. My mouth was dry, and I moistened my lips with my tongue. As if waiting for this signal, Launcelot removed the veil from my hair and untied my girdle. I stood passive under his touch, unwilling to break the spell he was weaving about me as he slowly began to unlace my gown. It slipped to my feet, and I stepped out of it and out of my shoes. Launcelot’s fingers on my skin sent shivers of delight through my body as he helped me take off my pleated undertunic and more intimate garments. Finally, I stood naked before him. Still he did not caress or fondle me, but instead loosed my hair so that it fell around my face and over my shoulders. He looked at me then, a long and watchful stare that heated my body almost to melting point.

Still holding my gaze, he unbelted his girdle and began to unlace his tunic. I watched, mesmerized, as his broad chest and muscular arms were revealed to my wondering gaze. I was finding it difficult to breathe. I had thought to undress him as he had undressed me but, when it came to it, I couldn’t move, I could only watch and marvel as his naked body was finally unveiled. I could see he was as aroused as I now was, and yet he made no move to push me down on the bed and have his way with me. Instead, he stepped into the bath, and beckoned me to join him.

As I lowered myself into the golden water, it lapped around me like a balm. I lay back and closed my eyes, feeling my muscles relax into looseness. I breathed in the fragrant steam.

Launcelot picked up a cloth, dipped it into the scented water, and began slowly and gently to wash my face, my arms and breasts, dipping the cloth into the water before moving on to my stomach, marking a trail of hot desire as he moved downwards. I wanted to beg him to stop, to take me there and then when he paused a few moments to gently stroke and probe. I thought I would die with wanting, but I kept my eyes closed and silently waited for him to complete the cleansing ritual.

Surely we must consummate our relationship now—I opened my eyes, ready to abandon all pretense.

He had dipped the cloth once more into the water and was silently mopping his own face with it.

I could no longer stay still; I needed to match him with my own actions. And so I took the cloth from him and began the tantalizing path of exploration downwards, moving from the dark thicket of the hair on his chest over his flat stomach and on, taking special care to caress his arousal as part of my ministrations. He groaned, but still he made no move to mount me. And so I dipped the cloth once more and continued, taking delight in the feel of skin and hair under my fingertips, although I was growing more nervous by the moment.

Finally, he took my hand and we stepped out of the tub together. Surely now, I thought, as he moved toward the bed. But it was only to fetch a towel, with which he tenderly patted me dry. By now I was shaking with fear, and with desire. I snatched up a dry towel, impatient to complete this dance between us, but he seized it from me and quickly rubbed himself down.

I could bear the delay no longer, and so I lay on his bed, and waited for him to fall on me and ravish me as Arthur had done. But he did not. He settled down beside me and began to kiss me. His mouth covered mine; his tongue darted and flicked, and I moaned and tried to shift under him so that he could fill me where I longed to be filled. Instead, his mouth moved downwards, fluttering kisses onto my breasts, onto my stomach and downwards until I opened myself wide to him, felt his tongue enter and tease me until I began to shake and thrust against him and again and again until I came to climax with a final glorious explosion of release.

It took me a few moments to realize what had happened, and then I was overcome with shame. I had done to Launcelot what Arthur had done to me; taken my pleasure without thought or care for him. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, but he kissed me again, stopping my words. I could taste myself in his kiss. Full of remorse, I moved my head away and, in turn, began to kiss his nipples, his stomach, feeling desire ignite once more as I came down to his erection. More than anything I wanted to love him as he had loved me, and give him the pleasure that he had given me. I touched his swollen penis, felt it throb within my fingers and then, with an agonized groan, Launcelot covered me and thrust himself inside. I felt myself melting into him as he pushed deeper, until it seemed that we had become one, rising and rising on spirals of infinite joy and sensation until I cried out in a shuddering climax, and felt the spurt of his seed inside me.

Passion spent, still we cleaved together, one body, and one heart. And so we slept, and woke, and made love, and slept again.

Each time we come together seems more delightful than the last for, as the days pass, so we have come to know each other’s bodies as intimately as our own, and we find new and diverse ways to pleasure each other. I cannot tell Launcelot how superior a lover he is to Arthur, but I can tell him in so many other ways and gestures that he is everything to me, both as a lover and as a friend. And I wait for him to speak of the future, our future. But he does not. However, I take it as a measure of his regard for me when he commissions a series of tapestries to be woven to my design to adorn the walls of our hall.

“But what scenes shall I choose?” I ask him.

He smiles at me. “That is for you to decide, but you must be in all of them. There should be at least four tapestries, one for each wall, so that I can see you at every turn.”

Four scenes from Joyous Garde? The castle itself? The garden? The river? The ocean beyond that surrounds us at high tide, and then retreats once more? Or something more magical than that?

I recall the Otherworlds I have visited, both with Merlin and on my own. And I remember the silvery white unicorn I befriended, along with many other marvelous creatures I encountered. I look at my new pet, a puppy abandoned by its mother and adopted by me. It follows me everywhere. There is also the little monkey that Launcelot bought for me as we passed through a fair on our way to Joyous Garde. Ideas start to stir, and for the next few days I scribble busily on scraps of parchment until I have the theme and the designs sorted out to my satisfaction.

“What have you decided on?” Launcelot asks when I bid him summon the seamstresses for consultation.

“It’s to be a surprise. You’ll have to wait and see.”

I keep a close eye on the work as it progresses. There are ten seamstresses, all of them skillful and quick with their needles, and all of them sworn to secrecy. I think the tapestries will turn out well and I wait impatiently to see them whole.

Seasons change, and change again, and I am happier than I have ever been. True, I was happy as a child, before my father was slain. But this is a happiness that goes far beyond childhood, for Launcelot treats me as a friend and as an equal by day, and with a passionate and tender love at night. And yet a nagging question lurks always at the back of my mind: Am I right to trust Launcelot when everyone I have ever loved in the past has betrayed me?

The other thing that troubles me is Mordred. I miss my son, sometimes with an ache that is hard to hide. I wonder if he is fretting without me, and I try to console myself with the thought that he has his cousins to amuse him, and the care of a loving surrogate mother in Morgause. I tell myself also that he is of an age when high-born children are sent to friends or relatives in noble houses elsewhere, to become first a page and then a squire; to learn courtly manners but also how to hunt and ride, and to master the arts of war. I would have had to send him away soon enough, for I want my son to grow up as a man, and with a manly sense of duty. He would not have learned any of this in the priory.

Thus I rationalize my desertion of my son, but still his absence pains me. Whenever Launcelot asks why I seem so pensive I long to tell him, but always I hold back. Each time I try to speak, something stops me. Perhaps it is because I know I shall have to tell him a lie, and I cannot bring myself to do that. And yet my silence is also a lie. I call myself a coward, yet I do nothing, and say nothing, hoping that somehow, some time, I will find a way to be truly honest with Launcelot without jeopardizing the happiness I have found here. Meanwhile I make excuses for my inattention: that the sultry weather has brought on a headache, or that I have had a bad dream.

The seasons change again, and the day comes at last when the tapestries are finally complete. They are all and more than I had hoped, for the seamstresses have added touches of their own: wildflowers are scattered like stars across their dark red backgrounds. Launcelot’s coat of arms adorns the draperies. Other creatures, hares and baby lambs, keep company with my young whippet and pet monkey. A lion on one side balances the unicorn on the other. All these changes were sanctioned by me, and I am delighted with the result. I am impatient to witness Launcelot’s reaction.

Once I am sure that he is out and busy with affairs around the estate, we carry the tapestries to the hall. There are six of them, and I summon several workmen to help with their hanging. And then we walk around, the seamstresses and I, marveling at how well they have turned out. I congratulate them and give them my heartfelt thanks, with a purse of silver to add to their wages as a token of my gratitude. When I hear Launcelot calling for me, I run to greet him. “Come and see.” I drag him into the hall. He stops on the threshold, his eyes wide with wonder. Slowly, he paces from tapestry to tapestry, inspecting each in careful silence. I pace with him, wishing that he would say something. Anything. I worry that he is displeased, and I can’t think what to say.

“Don’t you like them?” I whisper at last.