I, Morgana Page 10

  “I shall count the hours,” he says, and takes hold of my hand. “Wear this ring as my pledge that I shall come to you, and make you my own.” He slips a thin gold band onto my littlest finger. It is almost unnoticeable among the many jewel-encrusted rings I wear. Perhaps that is his intention, for it would be hard to explain a ring of betrothal or of marriage when no vows have been exchanged in public. This is his private vow and I give him one last kiss for it.

  With a singing heart, I leave the shadowy alcove and venture out into the sunlit courtyard, closely followed by Launcelot. Half dazzled by the light, I stop a moment to shield my eyes, and feel Launcelot’s hand grip my arm to steady me. I become aware that the courtyard is still crowded with courtiers, Arthur and Guenevere among them. Her searching glance moves from me to focus over my left shoulder, and she smiles with the innocent, open face of a girl in love. At once I shift away, but Guenevere has already seen where Launcelot’s hand rests, and has drawn her own conclusions. Her smile darkens to a frown as she studies me more closely. I hurry away from Launcelot, lowering my head to avoid Guenevere’s searching gaze. I am anxious to pack up my belongings and leave, for I cannot bear to wait a moment longer to be alone with him at last.

  And yet, once away from the thrilling urgency of his presence, questions return to torment me. I know he’s anxious to bed me, but why this need for such secrecy? He’s given me a ring; we could live openly as man and wife, and yet we steal away like fugitives. He hasn’t mentioned marriage or our future together. Why? Does he intend this to be just a temporary—and private—liaison?

  I shrug the doubts away as I fold my possessions into a bag. After all, I don’t see the need for the trappings of marriage; even less will I honor the convention that binds a woman to the will of her husband. This is not for me, especially as I believe that Arthur’s kingdom by rights should be mine. While there is a place for a man by my side, I certainly have no intention of sharing my throne.

  It is too late to leave Camelot for night is drawing in, and so I am forced to sit through the sumptuous feast that has been prepared to welcome Guenevere to court; forced to watch, from my lonely bench, how all the eyes of the court are focused on the fair-haired beauty who sits between Arthur and Launcelot. It is clear that Guenevere is well aware of the attention she commands, for every action seems staged for her audience: the delicate gestures of her small, white hands; the toss of her long golden locks; the fluttering of eyelashes as she turns from Arthur to Launcelot, with a look that suggests she will never tire of watching him. Finally her attention shifts to all seated around the large table. I notice that her smiles are designed not to encompass her admirers but as a screen to search for me. Her gaze moves past Arthur’s favorite knights and their ladies until she locates me on my lonely bench outside their charmed circle. A genuine smile lifts the corners of her mouth as she observes my lowly position. Thereafter, her attention seems entirely taken by the man at her side.

  Although I know Launcelot’s true feelings for me, it is an effort to keep my composure. Somehow I keep smiling; somehow I endure the long night alone. As soon as morning dawns, I complete my preparations and then go to the hall to break my fast. I am about to leave Camelot when my brother summons me to attend him. Thinking it best to keep on side with him, I obey his command. As soon as I enter his solar, Arthur stands to welcome me. He takes my hand in his and escorts me to a seat beside him, before dismissing all those who wait on him. There is a silence between us as they bow and shuffle out.

  “I want you to know that I have forgiven you for your trickery, Morgana, but I also want to make amends,” he says, once we are alone. I wonder if he is referring to the way he’s usurped my throne and I warm slightly toward him. “I realize you’ve been hiding in a priory this long while,” he continues, “but I think it’s now time for you to have a home of your own. To this purpose, I propose to give you an estate, along with a castle—although of course you’ll always be welcome here at court,” he adds stiffly.

  For a moment I am lost for words; my brother’s gesture has taken me completely by surprise. Even so, I need to make sure that he will not repent his magnanimity and so, after thanking him, I question him regarding the castle’s name and whereabouts, and ask him to sign a deed that names the Castle Perilous as mine. As he signs and seals the parchment, it occurs to me that perhaps Arthur’s generosity is dictated by the need to have me settled as far from the court as possible so as to keep our secret safe.

  “Guenevere is concerned for your future, just as I am,” he says awkwardly. “Now that you have an estate of your own, she has begged me to arrange a prestigious marriage for you, Morgana. We believe King Urien of Rheged will make an excellent husband for you.”

  Urien of Rheged! I would sooner walk over hot coals than marry that old man. I’d rather drown myself than submit to his embrace. How dare my brother and his child bride presume to meddle in my affairs! A moment’s reflection brings understanding: that this, of course, is Guenevere’s ploy to get me away from court and keep me apart from Launcelot. It seems that I have underestimated the guile that lurks behind that innocent, lovely face. A slow rage begins to simmer in my breast.

  “Urien won’t do at all, brother,” I say sweetly, thinking of the plot I’ve woven that concerns Urien’s son, Accolon; thinking too that soon enough I shall be free of both Arthur and his meddling wife-to-be. “There are others at your court who are far more worthy of marriage to the king’s sister; others who are far more to my liking than Urien of Rheged. And I shall certainly inform you of my choice, once I have made my decision.”

  Launcelot, not Urien! My heart leaps with joy, with the knowledge that we shall soon be together despite Guenevere’s machinations to keep us apart.

  “But I am not ready for marriage yet,” I say hastily. “With your leave, I wish to return to the priory for a time. I have been away too long already.”

  I face him, daring him to refuse, but he says only, and with a trace of disappointment that I could swear is real, “I’d hoped you would stay on and attend my marriage to Guenevere, Morgana.”

  “I shall do all in my power to return to court in time for it,” I assure him, although I have no intention of honoring my promise. But it seems enough to satisfy Arthur, for he nods in agreement and even kisses my hand in farewell.

  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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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.