THE CURSE OF EXCALIBUR: a gripping Arthurian fantasy (THE MORGAN TRILOGY Book 2) (13 page)

Chapter Eighteen

The campaign against Lucius was going well. Arthur took Carhais back, and said that he would leave Kay and a small contingent of knights behind there to hold it while he turned his attention south to Lucius’ forces that were still pressing upwards against him. Still, though there was already a sense of tentative victory around the camp, and though the knights now rode south from the camp rather than defensively back on themselves to the north, I sensed a change in Arthur. I did not see him often, since he was either on the battlefield or in his pavilion with his wife, but when I did he seemed tense and anxious. I noticed, too, that Guinevere no longer rode with the archers, who hung back from the battlefield, but right at Arthur’s side.

My fears were proved correct one day when the spring was just shading in to summer. It was bright and warm, and I stood with the other women at the centre of the camp, waiting. Against the bright of the sun, I could see a knight riding from the glint off his armour, but it took me a long time to recognise him against the glare. It was only when I saw the sun catch on something bright red that, with a stab of fear, I realised there were two people on the horse riding towards us. A knight, and the Queen. I stepped forward first, and the two Breton women close behind me. I saw the older one cast me a suspicious look, but I ignored her. As the knight rode closer, I saw it was Lancelot from his red and white striped shield. The Queen was slumped back against him, her eyes shut, her face pale. He had one hand around her waist, awkwardly holding her tight against him. It looked, from where I was, as though his hand was up under her armoured vest. That meant a wound. Her hair fell all around her; she had lost her mail cap, and there was mud on one side of her face and down one arm, as though she had fallen from her horse. I was sure that Arthur could not be far behind.

The two Breton women stepped forward to catch her off the horse as Lancelot stopped before them. He jumped off, tearing off his helm and throwing it aside, and he lifted her from their arms as they awkwardly tried to carry her, and strode ahead of them, the Queen in his arms, into Arthur’s tent. I ran in after the Breton women.

Lancelot laid her gently on the bed and pulled off his breastplate and his greaves. His hands were already bare. One of his hands was dark with blood. He did not seem to notice. The Breton women rushed to her side, the little one gasping and fussing, the older one clicking her tongue. I thought she might have expected Lancelot to move back, but he did not. I walked around the other side of the bed to get a better look. The Queen did not look conscious.

The older Breton woman cast Lancelot a sharp look, as though she expected him to leave, but when he either did not notice, or did not care, she sighed in frustration and began to unbuckle Guinevere’s armoured vest. She and the young girl lifted it away. Beneath, Guinevere had a thin vest of silk that was soaked all down one side with blood. The older woman, who was the one, I understood, with the knowledge of healing skills, leaned over her and slowly pulled up the vest at the side until the wound showed. It was a deep cut a few inches long, down her ribs, but there was no bruise, so I thought with a wary hope that the bones there were not broken. I leaned forward, to offer my help, the healing that was in my touch – for there had been enough to heal Lancelot’s wounds overnight – and the older woman – whom I had liked when I had come as the English maid to Guinevere’s bedroom – slapped my hand away.

“Get your death hands away from her,” she snapped. Then under her breath she muttered, “
Avalon.
That’s no school of medicine I have ever heard of.”

Lancelot said something to her in French, too fast and low for me to understand, and she turned and started shouting at him in French. I imagined it was about me, and whether or not I should be allowed to touch the Queen. He had
felt
the power of my healing, so I was sure he was defending my right to be there. Lancelot was shaking his head and gesturing at the wound in her side, and the woman was shaking her head in return, her French too fast and heavily accented with Breton for me to follow. Then, suddenly, the younger woman, who had leaned over the Queen, gasped and the other two stopped. She had two fingers in the wound, and between them, covered in blood, I could see the dark grey of a shard of iron. She pulled, and a shard the size of her thumb came out, and with it, a gush of blood. The three of them froze, staring at it in disbelief. I walked around to pick up the armoured vest, and snatch the shard, and fit it into a broken plate of armour on it. Something had struck her to break her armour, and a shard of it had embedded in her side when she fell from her horse. I was pleased to see that the shard fitted exactly, so there was nothing left inside her.

The older woman was telling Lancelot to leave in French, but he was shaking his head, saying he wanted to stay until Arthur got there. The woman rolled her eyes, and pulled the blood-stained vest off Guinevere. Lancelot turned away. I saw him blush. He should have listened to her.

“You,” the older woman said to me, sharply, “make yourself useful and get some hot water.”

What would happen when Arthur came to find his wife unconscious, injured, and half-naked with one of his knights refusing to leave her side?

I came back quickly with the water. The woman quickly cleaned the wound, and wrapped it with linen and pulled a clean vest over Guinevere’s head, casting another dirty look at Lancelot. He did not see, he was still looking away, but the young girl, Marie, kindly tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around. Marie moved so that he could see her properly, taking a cloth soaked in the hot water and placing it against her brow. Guinevere seemed to stir a little, and murmured.

Lancelot asked the girl something in Breton, and she replied. I was surprised. I had not known that he spoke Breton, though I supposed he had grown up in France.

I could hear Arthur shouting outside the tent, and I rushed outside. He was jumping from his horse, Kay close behind him. Neither of them saw me; they both rushed inside, as though I was not even there. Lancelot left as they came in, but he did not go far. He stood with me outside, listening. Kay had not gone in far, but hung back by the entrance to the pavilion. So, he was wary, too. That meant that Arthur was angry.

For a long time it was quiet; then I heard soft voices. The Queen must have woken up. However, the soft voices soon became shouting. I could hear Arthur shouting, and I could hear the raw anger in his voice, and I was surprised to hear her shouting back, her anger as powerful as his. So, she was not afraid of him. Was he angry because she had wanted to fight? But it was more than anger, really. I had seen him. He was afraid, and upset. Suddenly, Arthur strode angrily from the tent. As he passed us, I heard him shout, “Someone take her back to Britain.”

Lancelot looked at me, his eyes wide with dread. Kay followed Arthur out, shaking his head and rubbing his face. He glanced at us, gave a defeated half-smile, and walked off after Arthur.

Before the night came, a small party of knights and the older Breton woman left the camp, north, for Britain. I heard from Aggravain that Lancelot had asked to go with them and Arthur had refused, saying that he needed Lancelot with him. I sent a letter to Morgawse back with them. It said,

“
Your sons are doing well at war. Much better than the Queen, who has been sent back to Britain injured. Now might be a good time to send Gareth to Camelot. Hope all are thriving in Lothian. War is very dull, but we seem to be winning. Morgan
.”

And we were winning. I stayed with the medicine women, still wary around Lancelot. Now that Guinevere was in Britain, both Arthur and Lancelot seemed to fight harder on the battlefield. Arthur seemed relieved his Queen had gone home.

We marched south, all the way to the south of France when summer was at its height. We had left Kay and a small garrison of knights behind to hold the retaken Breton city of Carhais, and as the weeks wore on I grew jealous of those who had stayed in the cooler north. In the south, it was unbearably hot, and the men sweated hard in their armour, and I, too, under my black woollen dress. I thought we would turn back then for Britain, but we did not.

I was lonely, but none of the other women seemed to like talking to me that much. They were guarded, secretive, awkward when I tried to make conversation. Not that I often tried. Word had got around how quickly I had healed Lancelot, and how I had not been allowed to touch the Queen, and people whispered about me. I heard what they had begun to call me.
Morgan le Fay.
They began to say I could curse a man with a look, make a woman barren with my touch. But, in the depths of the night, a few of the women who followed the camp came to me, alone and afraid, asking me to give them the drink I had taken myself long ago, when I had been with Kay’s child. I had been strong, and I had had magic in my blood, but some of the girls I gave it to were weak or sickly or somehow wrong-blooded, and when the bleeding began it did not stop, and they died. I warned them well enough when I gave it to them, but I was still blamed for their deaths. I did not ask, because I did not want to know, if those children I killed were fathered by my half-brother Arthur, or my old lover Kay, or my young nephews. I doubted some of the women would even have known the names of the men who had taken them up and then casually cast them away. I did not ask their names, nor did they often want to tell me. Those women were the casualties of war that men never spoke about.

By the autumn, the camp had moved south to Marseille. Arthur, no longer distracted by the presence of his wife, spent most of his time off the battlefield with Gawain and Lancelot, talking strategy. I was pleased that Lancelot was busy, still embarrassed to have once again been kissed and rejected by him, and to have shaken us both with that awful spell. But I had learned from it, and would be more careful next time.

The time came when Arthur had to decide whether to march south into Italy and turn the attack on Lucius or, his lands defended and re-garrisoned, return home. I was surprised when I was called to his counsel on this.

When I arrived, it had already begun. Gawain was dressed in his armour with his helm in his hand, but Lancelot and Arthur were in their shirts and breeches. It was the end of the day, and someone had lit a brazier in the tent that threw a warm light through it, and warmed against the new chill of autumn in the air. There was something cosy, something homely about it that seemed desperately at odds with war, and made me long for Britain and home. Aggravain and Ector were there, too, but hanging back, listening. Arthur was pacing up and down before the other two when I arrived.

“If we pull back, securing our borders on the way, then we will lose no more men. If we march on Rome, it is riskier, but then the threat from Lucius is gone forever,” he was saying, almost to himself.

“We have to attack Rome,” Gawain said. “Lucius dishonoured you by attacking the lands under your protection, by demanding tribute from Britain. This is a question of honour, Arthur. We can’t turn back.”

Arthur nodded. I noticed Lancelot cast a wary look back at Ector, who said nothing. It must have been strange for him, having to keep his thoughts quiet around the boy he had raised as his own.

“Arthur,” Lancelot began gently, “peace is better than ever more war. Lucius has suffered heavy losses. I do not think he will attack again. Meet and make terms for peace. A marriage, or something like that. Lucius has a daughter, and you have many unmarried nephews.”

Gawain gave a derisive snort, as though he did not like the idea of marriage much, but Arthur seemed swayed a little by what Lancelot had said. Still, after Britain, Arthur had got a taste for war, for conquering. I knew he would want it. He was young, and he was tired of men questioning him because of it, tired, I thought, too, of being known only as Uther Pendragon’s son. He had won back his father’s kingdoms against the five kings, and the chance was offering itself to him, now, to be so much more than his father had been.

“Arthur,” I stepped forward, cautiously, “it might be best to sue for peace. Make a marriage to seal it. Go home.”

Arthur turned to look at me as though he had forgotten he had sent for me, but he did nod in agreement.

“But, Morgan, a man must have his honour,” he replied softly.

“Arthur, don’t you want to go back home? Back to your wife?” Arthur sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair.

“I cannot return to her without a proper victory.” I did not think she would care.

“Arthur, my Lord Arthur!” A cry came from outside the tent, and a boy ran in, barely more than a child, his face flushed, his eyes wide with fear. He was gasping for his breath as though he had run or ridden hard all day to get to us. He was gasping too hard to speak as he handed Arthur a scrap of parchment. When Arthur read it, I saw his face turn dark.

“What is it?” Lancelot asked.

Arthur crumpled the paper in his hands.

“It is Kay.”

“Kay?” Lancelot asked.

“Lucius’ forces have crept back up around us and attacked Carhais again. Kay and the knights with him killed them all. Kay has been injured. They are sending him back to Britain.
Why?
”
Arthur shouted suddenly. He turned to me. “Morgan, why would they not send him
here
? You are here. You have saved many men’s lives with your hands.
Why have they sent Kay to Britain?
” Arthur tore the letter in his hands into pieces and threw it in the fire. He rubbed his face, hard. “Well, then we have no choice,” he said. “I cannot leave Kay unavenged. Lucius will be punished for this. We will march on Rome.”