I, Morgana (24 page)

I close my eyes and feel my way back into that Otherworld and the creatures that inhabited it. I think of Aleph, imagining myself within a smooth silvery coat, with a flowing tail and a silver horn on my brow. I go into myself and breathe deeply, sinking into the soul of a unicorn.

My whole body is falling; I hear the crack of breaking branches, feel the crunch of impact as I hit the ground. My eyes fly open and I realize I have succeeded in my transformation, but that I should have given more thought to the commencement of it. Too late, I understand the danger I have brought upon myself. The Orkney brothers stand frozen mid-gesture, transfixed by my unexpected appearance. But Mordred has already snatched up his bow and is busy nocking an arrow into the string.

“The creature is mine!” he shouts.

Panic-stricken I spin around and race for my life. An arrow flies past my shoulder, and I pick up speed, dodging the trees and brambles that block my path. I feel the pinprick of another shaft, and wonder if it has drawn blood. I hear the thud of running footsteps behind me, and know that Mordred has given chase, probably joined by his cousins. I dare not look back to see how many are in pursuit. The forest is thicker here; it closes us in under a green canopy. Tightly knit branches bar my way and snag my mane so I am forced to duck and weave, tactics that possibly save my life, for arrows are flying everywhere now, shot from more than one bow. If ever there was a time for a unicorn to be able to fly, it is now!

I spy a gap in the trees and aim straight for it, wondering how I might outwit my pursuers. I notice the sparkling drops of dew that ornament the delicate filaments of a spider web, and I crouch low to avoid it as I flash past. In the next instant I know what I must do. A quick chant and I check my speed slightly, praying to the gods that my trap will work.

Shouts and curses tell me that my spell has been successful, and I pause in my headlong flight and turn to watch from behind a sheltering leafy screen. The web has grown into a net of tough, sticky strings that stretches from one side of the gap to the other. The Orkney brothers and Mordred have run straight into it. Their swords flash silver as they try to hack their way through, but the more they flail about trying to extricate themselves, the tighter they become bound within its coils.

I am able to continue my search for Owain in safety, although what has happened has served as a warning that I must change my guise in a hurry rather than risk encountering another hunting party. I say the spell of transformation and after a moment as a mortal, during which I check myself for wounds, I once again fly free, but with reluctance and a great deal of regret. Brief as it was, I enjoyed my time as a unicorn.

Before I reach Rheged—and to my relief—I come across Owain traveling toward a secret glade within a dense forest. I circle several times, marveling how, in the time I have been away, my son seems to have come into his own and is now becoming a fine young man. He is wearing full armor, and is accompanied by a sturdy steed. A moving patch of dun yellow close by catches my eye. Curious, I fly closer to identify the creature. It is a lion! Fear slows my wings and I almost drop from the sky, until I remember Owain has tamed this fiercesome creature. It is his pet—and his protector. It comforts me to realize that Owain does not travel alone. I am about to reveal myself as his mother, so that I may give him both the warning about Mordred and also my blessing, when I hear the blast of a horn. A party of knights approaches. They are mounted, and in full armor, just like my son, and I wonder what trouble they are expecting. Concerned for my son’s safety, I fly toward them to find out.

One of the knights dismounts. “Show yourself, Esclados!” he shouts. “Be prepared to defend your sacred spring!” There is a stone slab underneath the pine tree in which I’ve settled. The knight pours water upon it, and at once a wild wind shrieks through the forest, shaking the trees so hard that it takes all my strength to cling onto my branch. A heavy rain begins, teeming straight down like a waterfall so that we are all soaked and shivering. Thunderclaps echo through the forest, loud as the trumpets of doom, while vivid stripes of lightning blast through the air and strike the ground. The knights cry out in fear, while I hang on to my branch and wait for the storm to pass. This is no ordinary storm, and I wonder what trickery has brought it about.

At last weak threads of sunlight filter through the black cover of cloud, the wind dies, and the trees drip with moisture.

“Where is that coward, Owain?” cries one of the knights. “He vowed to defeat the keeper of the sacred spring, having said that he would be first in line to challenge Esclados when he came. More, he promised that he would kill the tyrant and free his subjects.”

“Hold your tongue and let Owain speak for himself when he gets here,” says their leader. “And if Owain does not come, then it will be to your glory to mount the first challenge.”

“Who calls me a coward?” Owain has caught up to the party, and now he bursts through the screen of bushes. His helm is on and his lance is at the ready. The waiting knight reaches for his own lance and readies himself to meet the attack.

Owain charges at him and they clash with such force that both lances split and shatter into pieces. Owain has dealt such a mighty blow that the knight loses his balance and falls from his horse. There, on the ground, he cries mercy. And my son takes off his helm to reveal his true identity. In turn, the vanquished knight takes off his own helm, revealing himself as a somewhat chastened Sir Kay. I am proud of my son, who has proved himself a true warrior, and pleased to see Sir Kay taken down after his sneering words. The other knights also reveal themselves, and led by their leader, the king, they applaud and congratulate him. Even a grudging tribute is paid by Kay. But they clamor with questions about Esclados, and won’t be quietened until Owain tells them that he has already defeated Escalados in battle, and that the much-feared tyrant is dead.

 “I came on ahead, and managed to defeat Esclados on my own,” Owain tells them, with no hint of boastfulness. “In return, I have won the gratitude of all his subjects, along with a lady’s hand in marriage. Her name is Laudine, who was once the wife of Esclados.”

“You killed the husband and then married his wife?” Arthur’s tone is incredulous.

Owain gives a small smile. “Not yet, for she calls me still too young. But I fell in love with the lady, and would not depart from her. With the aid of her serving maid, Lunete, I persuaded her that I was the only knight capable of protecting her sacred spring from intruders, while those others in her court who might have taken my place had they the courage to do so, joined in urging her to accept me as her husband and protector. Once we are wed, I mean to do all in my power to live up to the honor she has bestowed on me.”

“In the absence of anyone else from King Arthur’s court,” Kay sneers.

“That’s enough, Kay!” Arthur’s tone leaves no room for argument. “You were bested by a man you called a ‘coward’, and don’t you forget it.”

After the knights have congratulated Owain on his coming nuptials, he invites them to ride to his castle for a feast. Intrigued, I fly some little way behind them, for it is news to me that my son now possesses a castle, and I long to know more. But I am tired of my feathery appearance now, and I need to resume a mortal’s shape so that I may issue my warning and depart. I dare not reveal myself while Arthur and his men keep company with Owain, and so I wait outside in the courtyard, fuming impatiently, hoping to catch him on his own.

Finally, tiring of the pretense, I retreat into a barn and once more become myself. As Morgana, I beg parchment and sharpened quill from the porter and write a message to my son, requesting he come out to meet me in a place where we shall be safe from prying eyes.

“Why are you here, Mother?” he greets me when at last he comes. His tone is cool, distant, and I hear the echoes of a child abandoned and ignored. I am full of remorse, and take him in my arms in an effort to reassure him that he is loved.

I hear a low growl. It is Owain’s lion, there to protect him from his enemies—and seemingly even from his mother! Owain stands still within my embrace, making no effort to return it. I release him and he steps back and, with arms folded, surveys me gravely.

“I am here to see you. I have missed you.” How can I explain to Owain that I do love him, but that I love Marie more; that I have found it increasingly difficult to spend time away from that child of my heart, living proof of the love between her father and me? I read the disbelief on Owain’s face as he listens to my words, and understand that he has grown beyond the soft words, the sweetmeats and treats that have won him over in the past. He is a young man now, able to make up his own mind and judge me accordingly. The lion has come to his side; he fondles its ears in a gesture that speaks poignantly of his capacity for affection, while marking how wide and deep the chasm between us has become.

“I have not been a good mother to you,” I say quietly. “I know that, and I regret it. But you are still my son, Owain. And I love you dearly.”

“That may be. But you did not love my father, nor have you been a good wife to him.”

Unable to deny it, I bow my head. What he says next bites at my conscience, and saddens me.

“Urien is dead.” His face twists in misery, but his gaze is flint hard as it rests on me. “I sent word to Camelot begging you to come, for he was asking for you toward the end, but no one knew where to find you.”

I can see that Owain is grief-stricken, and I try to find words to excuse my absence. And my negligence. I cannot tell him about Marie, so instead tell him that I’ve been at my Castle Perilous, and that no one has known of my whereabouts.

“You should have been at Rheged, with us.”

“I know that now, and I am more sorry than I can say that I was not there at your father’s passing. It is true I did not love him, but he was a good man and a good husband.” My words are heartfelt, and the tears of remorse I shed are genuine. After some hesitation, Owain puts his arms around me to comfort me. I am surprised that he is touched by my distress, and determine that I shall do all in my power to win back his love and respect.

“I was on my way to Rheged to find you because I have reason to believe that your life is in danger,” I tell him.

“Who threatens me? And why?”

“The threat comes from Sir Mordred, one of the knights at King Arthur’s court.” I wonder if Owain has heard about Mordred’s parentage. He already holds me in contempt and I am reluctant to earn his further scorn by spelling out all the details. No doubt he will make enquiries, and will find out soon enough without my having to tell him about it now.

“He is the king’s illegitimate son from a previous liaison, and therefore has ambitions to succeed him,” I continue, understanding from the puzzled frown on Owain’s face that as yet he knows nothing. “But I am the king’s sister, and was always the chosen heir to the throne until Arthur usurped my crown. So Mordred now fears that you, as my son, will challenge him for the right to rule.”

“But I wouldn’t think of it.” Owain still looks bewildered. I reflect that for all his prowess as a warrior, Owain is too innocent for his own good.

“It might help if you make that fact as widely known as you can, but please do not tell anyone who warned you against Mordred. Be ever on your guard, for no matter how hard or how often you protest, it may still not be enough to keep you safe. I have already heard Mordred say that he wishes you dead, and it is quite clear that he means what he says.” It grieves me to speak of my firstborn thus, but I know that my caution is necessary. It is a sad indictment on Mordred—and also on me as his mother, and Morgause as his guardian—that he should be judged thus. “Promise me that you will not trust him should you ever encounter him,” I insist. “And keep your lion with you always.”

 Owain makes the promise. To my surprise, he also asks for my blessing. I discover, to my woe, that the knights have been telling him about this quest for the Grail and now he is on fire to join them.

“It is a fool’s errand,” I tell him.

He is quick to disagree. “The king has told me that this is the cup that once caught drops of blood from Christ as He died upon the Cross. His uncle, Joseph of Arimathea, brought it to Britain afterwards, and it then disappeared. But Mother …” Owain’s face is alight with eagerness. “It has now been seen! Joseph of Arimathea’s own descendants are also searching for it.”

This is something new! I raise a questioning eyebrow.

“In the past, Sir Launcelot has never spoken of his childhood, or of his parentage, save that he was born in Brittany. All we know of him are his deeds since he came to the king’s court at Camelot,” Owain explains breathlessly. “But the king has discovered that Launcelot himself is a descendant of Joseph of Arimathea, as is his son, Galahad.”

And therefore, so is my daughter, Marie. I blink, hardly able to credit what I’m hearing. I cannot believe in this so-called Sangreal, nor can I believe that Joseph of Arimathea was present at the death of the man they call Christ. As for Launcelot being his descendant—that seems much too far a stretch! And yet it is true that Launcelot never told me of his childhood or anything of his family save that he is the son of King Ban. I marvel now that I never thought to question him further.

Does Owain speak the truth? I cannot tell, but what I have already heard is almost too much to comprehend. I need to think on it further, and ponder what it means for Marie. In the meantime, I bid my son farewell. I tell him that I love him, that I am proud of him, and I give him my blessing.

“May God go with you,” I add, for I know that this is what he would want me to say. And perhaps it is true, at least for this world we inhabit. “And remember: beware of Mordred.”

“But I still don’t understand why he considers me a threat to his claim. After all, the king may yet have a child with Guenevere.”

“No, he won’t.”

“You sound very sure of that.”

I’d spoken without thinking, and now I regret it. “The queen is past the age for bearing a child,” I say hastily. I’m not sure how true this is, but I doubt Owain would know of such things anyway.