The Once and Future Camelot Page 4

  More of my mother’s tricks! A raging fury consumed me – until reason told me that, far from magic, this might have been the work of a pack of outlaws instead, the sort known to hide out in forests such as these, ready to attack and rob unsuspecting travelers. Guinglan must have had enough time to hide the bag, but if that had happened, where was he? And was I also in danger? The need to find out the truth overrode my fear. I slung the strap handle of the bag over my shoulder and kept on looking, moving in ever-widening circles around the path. I was determined to find Guinglan if I could.

  There were no further signs of what might have happened in the night. Guinglan was gone, as were all our belongings as well as the supplies he’d carried, the food and ale meant to sustain us on our journey. The dense undergrowth seemed undisturbed; there were no traces of the footprints I would expect to find if outlaws were in the area, nor was there anything Otherworldly that I could determine.

  Desolate and distraught, but also hungry and thirsty, I continued my progress along the path, although I knew not where it might take me. The green tunnel of trees grew more sparsely now, so there were flowers along the path, encouraged to grow by the splashes of sunlight filtering through. White daisies lay like snowdrifts on grassy banks; golden buttercups added their rich color to poppies, red as blood, and the deep blue of cornflowers. I noticed them even through the depths of my despair, automatically ascribing healing and other properties to everything I encountered along the path, while taking comfort from their bright innocence.

  The path took a turn and began to slope down; the trees grew thicker; my way became darker. Too sorrowful to feel fear, for my mind was wholly concerned with the past and with everything and everyone I had lost, I kept going, uncaring where the path might take me or what the future might hold. And so at last I came to a small stream that gurgled merrily over its shallow depths. Conscious of a raging thirst – it had been a long time since Guinglan and I had stopped to drink and eat – I fell to my knees and began to scoop the water into my mouth, relishing its sweet coolness as it slipped down my parched throat.

  Finally, with my thirst assuaged, I stood up and looked around me. A rock nearby, covered over with a fat cushion of moss caught my eye. I walked over to it and sat down. The thought that I might never see Guinglan again caught at my heart, and once again I gave way to despair, with wrenching, heaving sobs that swelled up from the depths of my soul. The quiet forest rang with my cries, but I was beyond caring who or what I might disturb.

  I cried until I was drained and exhausted. I cried until I realized that crying would change nothing. I cried until I knew that if I stayed here I would die. At that last thought, my hand went once more to my belly, feeling the gentle swell of the life growing within. For my baby’s sake, if not for my own, I knew that I could not stay here. Somehow I must find my way home and, if that was not possible, I must instead find a way of living in this new world in which I had found myself.

  Feeling shaky, but determined, I rose to my feet and looked around me. I’d dropped the bag beside the stream in my haste to get to the water, and now I fetched it for another inspection, hoping that inside I might find a sign of some sort, an indication of what had happened to Guinglan and what I should do next. My searching hand discovered the book and I drew it out once more. I was tempted, so tempted, to open it in the hope that, perchance, there might be some magic spell to undo the passage of time, so that I could change what had happened to us by making the decision to go straight on to Angers instead of coming to Broceliande. I turned a page, and then another – and then I thrust the book back into the bag, disgusted by my weakness. When confronting my mother, I had told her I would never practice magic, and I had sworn the same oath to Guinglan. I had seen the harm my mother had done with her meddling. I would not follow in her footsteps. I would honor my oath to Guinglan, whatever the cost.

  The memory of the night we had just spent together came back to me, and with it I felt a sweet heat in my loins. Despite the fact that I was now married, making love still seemed a guilty pleasure. Brought up as I had been in a community of nuns, I was well aware of the sins of the flesh and the penalties for indulging them, even if I’d been unschooled as to what, exactly, those sins entailed. Guinglan had shown me, gently and patiently, but with increasing ardour as my passion, once aroused, began to match his. We had taken our pleasure with each other time and time again. Most passionate of all had been our coupling last night. A dream, or had he really come to me? And if so, would he come to me again, or would I nevermore know the pleasures of the bed? It was a devastating thought, tempered only by the promise of the new life we had made together. And so I made another vow, this time to my unborn child: that somehow I would find a way through the forest and, wheresoever I might find myself, somehow I would make a life for us.

  And so I walked on, following the path I had chosen that I hoped would lead me to safety. But a new worry haunted me now. My back ached, and my stomach began to cramp in spasms. I knew enough to understand that my baby was not ready to be born. My courses had ceased only some moons ago, and my stomach was by no means swollen enough to produce a healthy child. My greatest fear was that the baby might not come full to term. If it came now, I knew that it would not survive. And, out here and alone in the forest, neither would I. I began to search in earnest for the wild herbs I needed, hoping to find something that might soothe and settle the child. As I sorted and picked, I also kept a look out for somewhere that would provide both shelter and safety overnight. But the trees began to close in once more and, as the path dwindled to nothing and my pains became sharper, I sank down onto the ground, and gave way to despair.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Morgan

  Trying to brush aside the alarming thoughts she’d had on the Tor, Morgan made her way down the High Street of Glastonbury once more. She hoped she wasn’t too late now to find somewhere cheap to stay. The famous music festival was coming up shortly, and it seemed that every bed in Glastonbury was already taken. She might have to find a park bench or somewhere else to doss down for the night, if necessary. But she’d move on in the morning, find somewhere that wasn’t quite so buzzing. Truth to tell, she was getting a little tired of moving from place to place. She hadn’t settled anywhere ever since she’d run away from home, running away from memories, but also trying to work out what to do for the best, given the predicament in which she now found herself. I’m a cliché, she thought, with a wry smile. A girl in trouble, unable to face her parents or the father of the coming child.

  A light further down the street caught her eye; a pub still open at this late hour. It would provide shelter for a little while longer, and a drink too, if she wasn’t too late. She was really thirsty after that climb. And hungry. She walked in. The woman behind the bar shouted out “Last Orders” as she approached and then fixed Morgan with a suspicious stare. “Don’t even think about ordering anything alcoholic,” she said.

  Morgan felt a twinge of alarm. But the woman relented enough to say, “You’re obviously underage, but you can sit in that dark corner over there and I’ll bring you a Coke, okay?”

  ‘Thanks! Can I order something to eat too, please?”

  “Sorry, love, kitchen’s closed.” The woman hesitated. “But I can make you a sandwich, if you like. Once I’ve served the last orders.”

  “That’d be great. Thanks.” Morgan unloaded her backpack onto the floor and sat down where she’d been directed. Her stomach growled with hunger as she looked about her. The pub was called The Bell Ringer, and the walls were decorated with old photographs and maps of Glastonbury, along with framed posters from past music festivals, and even a copy of a medieval tapestry depicting two knights jousting and a lady sitting nearby in a flowery meadow. The pub itself looked really ancient, with leadlight windows and old-fashioned lamps as well as the highly polished ship’s bell that gave the pub its name. She nodded her thanks as a glass of Coke was put in front of her, and drained it thirstily. Her stomach growled
again.

  She pulled out her phone to check for messages, as she’d been checking regularly ever since she’d left home. One from her mother. Another from Lance. He was over in the States now and couldn’t know that she’d left home – unless someone had told him. Was he thinking of her? Did he miss her? Although tempted to read what he’d sent, she quickly deleted all her messages. That was then; this is now, she thought. But despite her good intentions, her mind went back to her seventeenth birthday party and she shut her eyes, giving herself up once more to the pain and the pleasure of what had happened that night.

  It had started innocently enough. Although she would much rather have gone out to a restaurant, her mother had insisted that she invite her friends to Cornwallis Hall and that the event be held at the stately home belonging to her stepfather, Lord Easterbrook. It had been in his family for several hundred years, but she still couldn’t think of it as home when, every day, she was able to see the cottage where she’d been born. The problem had been compounded by her mother, who had overseen the flowers and catering, and had hired a band, seeming determined to turn the whole thing into a showcase for what most mattered to her: her position as Lady Igraine, wife of Lord Easterbrook of Cornwallis Hall. The guest list had also reflected her mother’s ambition, with all the notables of the county invited, although Morgan couldn’t think why they should want to come. But at least she’d been allowed to invite some of her own friends from her posh boarding school, along with Lance and his mates.

  Thinking back, Morgan acknowledged that she’d fallen for Lance the moment she’d laid eyes on him, even though he’d been hot and sweaty at the time having come straight off the rugby field. She’d gone to the match with a friend who had her eye on one of the guys from the grammar school who was on the same team. Morgan had been bored rigid – until her attention was caught by the scrum half. Thereafter she’d watched the match with great attention and had managed to introduce herself to Lance afterwards.

  “Your sandwich.” The barmaid’s voice interrupted Morgan’s musing. She thanked her, and took a huge bite. Tomato and cheese – her favorite. She quickly took another bite before setting it down.

  She and Lance had hit it off immediately. Even better, it turned out that he lived not far from her, and soon they were seeing each other regularly in the school holidays, despite the fact that he was in his last year at school while she was a couple of years younger. Friendship had quickly deepened into something else: kissing, touching, hands that explored further each time they met, with each encounter leaving them breathless and frustrated. Lance had been patient and far more disciplined than she was, pulling back each time it seemed they might go all the way. It had been hard for him, she knew that, but it was hard for her too and so she’d resolved that, whatever happened, she and Lance would get together properly on the night she turned seventeen. If she was going to lose her virginity, it would be with him and with no one else. And so, after the band packed up and the guests left, Morgan had sneaked downstairs and out of the house to meet Lance at the gazebo, as they’d agreed.

  Desire shot through Morgan’s body like a bolt of electricity at the memory of that night. As part of her plan she’d stashed a camping mattress and a duvet in the gazebo and, after some thought, a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, and two glasses. She remembered creeping through the cold night to wait for him; how anticipation had unexpectedly given way to a crushing sadness that she couldn’t understand. Nor could she understand the fear that had accompanied that overwhelming feeling of grief. For a moment, she’d been tempted to flee, and yet there was also a sense of inevitability about what was going to happen this night. And then he’d walked in and she’d flown into his arms, all worry and care forgotten.

  Thinking back on it now, Morgan was glad that she had stayed; that night would be etched on her mind for eternity. She remembered how they’d drunk champagne together, not caring about the cold, not caring about anything other than exploring each other’s body and finally, finally, consummating their relationship and assuaging their need. It had been so sweet that, when passion stirred once more, she’d begun to touch and stroke even though Lance had protested that he didn’t have another condom.

  “I don’t care,” she’d whispered, caressing him into hard arousal before opening herself to him.

  It had been a night of loving and even now, despite the consequences, Morgan did not regret a single moment of it.

  “Have you finished? It’s time for me to lock up now, I’m afraid.” The barmaid’s voice brought Morgan abruptly into the present. She fumbled in her purse for some money, turning aside so that the woman wouldn’t notice the tears running down her cheeks. “Keep the change,” she gasped, and pushed back her chair, ready to flee.

  “Are you okay?” The woman looked down at the note Morgan had given her and tutted. “That’s twenty quid here, far too much for a tip but thanks for the thought. Just wait while I get you some change.”

  Morgan was about to flee anyway, but the woman put a hand on her arm to detain her. “Wait,” she said. “If you’re in trouble it might help to talk about it? Two heads are always better than one.”

  Touched by her kindness, Morgan sank down onto her chair once more and watched the barmaid walk to the till. She judged her to be in her late forties, early fifties. She had long gray hair, pulled back with two combs, and she wore a multicolored kaftan that shifted and changed color as she walked. She reminded Morgan of her grandmother; her father’s mother, although she’d never seen Gran wear anything quite so daring as a kaftan. But they both had the same kindly expression. She missed Gran; they’d always got on well on the few occasions she was allowed to see her. Her mother didn’t like driving her over to Camelford after she married again, perhaps because it reminded her of her roots, or perhaps because Gran kept calling her Iggy, the nickname she’d been given as a child. Slumming it. She could hear her mother’s thoughts whenever she’d dropped her off at Gran’s cottage. She never came in herself. Morgan had long ago judged her mother, and had lost all respect for her as a consequence.

  The woman came back with her change, but also with a pot of tea and two cups.

  “My name’s Elspeth,” she said, as she poured tea for the two of them. It had a sweet fragrance. Morgan guessed it to be some sort of herbal concoction and wondered if it would be all right for the baby.

  “It’s quite safe,” Elspeth said, seeming to read her mind. “It’s chamomile; it’ll help to calm and relax you.” She pushed a brimming cup over to Morgan. “And you are …?” she asked.

  “Morgan.” She stretched out a hand for the cup. “Thanks for the tea.”

  “You’re welcome. So, Morgan, like to tell me what’s troubling you?”

  Morgan shook her head, unsure where to start.

  “Let me guess. You’ve run away from home?” A slight nod confirmed that Elspeth had guessed correctly.

  “A fight with your parents?”

  This time a shake of the head.

  Elspeth gave her a considering look, then said: “You’re knocked up and too afraid to face them?”

  “They wouldn’t understand.” Morgan knew her mother would never forgive her for bringing scandal into the stately home. Nor would her stepfather.

  “The baby’s father?”

  “Gone to the States on a scholarship.”

  “Does he know you’re pregnant?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  “No.” This was something Morgan had decided on from the first moment she’d realized what had happened. Lance had been so chuffed when he’d had the letter of acceptance from Harvard that she knew she couldn’t jeopardize his chance of success, nor could she put him under any obligation to her. But as her stomach had begun to swell she had worried and worried over what to do for the best. For a while she’d contemplated having a termination, but in the end she had fled after leaving a note for her mother saying that she would contact her s
oon and begging her not to try to find her.

  Her mother, it seemed, had obeyed her daughter’s request; there’d been no police or press reports about her absence from home. But perhaps her mother hadn’t reported it for fear of her runaway daughter gaining notoriety in the popular press? Either way, Morgan was glad to be gone. In an effort to disguise herself, she had chopped off most of her dark brown hair and, after contemplating peroxide, had instead added pink streaks and gelled it up into spikes. She was rather pleased with the effect. She’d also discarded the expensive tailored garments she normally wore, bought for her by her mother to reflect her social status, and instead had visited a charity shop selling secondhand gear. All she owned now was what she’d snatched up from her room to stuff into her backpack.

  Elspeth surveyed her thoughtfully. “You’re in quite a spot of bother then,” she observed. Morgan stayed silent, unwilling to admit that as yet she had no plans other than the hope that she might find a job and somewhere to live before she ran out of money.

  “It’s late, and I can see that you’re tired. Maybe things’ll look better after a good night’s sleep?” Elspeth suggested. “But if I were you, I’d think carefully about going home and telling your parents the news. I’ll bet they’re worried sick about you.”

  Morgan gave a disbelieving snort and stood up.

  “How come you’re out so late anyway?”

  “Been climbing the Tor.”

  “Ah.” Elspeth nodded, and began to clear away the tea things. “Well, better get off to your bed then.” She looked up. “You have got a bed to go to, haven’t you?”

  Morgan hesitated, hearing Elspeth’s concern but not wanting her pity. “No.”

  “I wondered about that. Glastonbury’s heaving at present – it’ll be like that until after the festival.” Elspeth frowned, considering, then said, “There’s a spare bed at my place. You’re welcome to use it – just for a time, mind, until you find your feet.”