For a while I had risen with the dawn.
Despite Camelot’s cultivated peace, my sleep had never been easy, but in the weeks since May Day I had been driven from my bed ever earlier as the pleasant warmth of early summer built dramatically into heat, gaining day upon day until the air hung thick and breezeless within castle walls.
One morning on the cusp of Pentecost, I awoke in the grip of a feverish dream that slipped away the moment my eyes flew open. Stirred and restless, I kicked off the cloying sheets and pulled on a robe, walking through my reception chamber and out onto my terrace to greet the cloudless morning, sun already climbing towards another blazing day.
The flagstones were warm underfoot as I made my way to the balconied edge and sat on the wide balustrade, taking in the view of Camelot’s high walls and the green faraway hills. Below, a secluded grove of castle gardens descended in stepped layers, cropped grass and flowered borders shaded by quince and plum trees, beginning to fruit with midsummer’s sudden advance. All around me, only quiet and heat.
A close, whispering flutter cut into the stillness, and a lone magpie alighted beside me in a whir of light and dark.
“Good morning,” I greeted it. “Aren’t you a rare sight?”
The bird hopped closer, flight feathers iridescent in the sun—shades of blue-black and green edged with flashes of violet, like a dancing night sky. It regarded me with a keen inquisitiveness, and I looked down to see the gold coin I wore, glinting with my movements on its long, slim chain.
I laughed and lifted the pendant aloft, the magpie following its gleam. “Of course, the shining thing. No doubt you would steal it away, if you could.”
“The Prioress at St. Brigid’s used to say magpies were unholy.”
I looked up as Alys appeared on the terrace, dressed in cornflower linen, her hair freshly braided in her usual fishtail plait. In her hand she held a pair of gardening shears.
The bird cawed in protest and flew off, landing a few feet away on a wooden arbour. Alys cast critical eyes over the terrace, along the potted rows of herb shrubs, fruiting bushes and medicinal flowers she had planted and nurtured, before taking her shears to a crowd of stiff blue irises.
I slipped off the balustrade and went to her. “I remember. She used to refuse to look the Abbess’s pet magpie in the eye. She and our Queen would have rather got along.”
Alys smiled, snipping with care. “Speaking of which—our day. The Queen’s ladies are due in St. Stephen’s to hear Mass with Her Highness at halfway Terce, then this afternoon in attendance. Hopefully she will allow us to sit outdoors, lest we melt.”
“Fascinating as that sounds,” I said, “I will not be there. I have a meeting with Sir Kay about the tournament.”
“You’ve been little in her presence these past few weeks,” Alys said. “It’s been commented upon. She’s not pleased.”
“Guinevere will take any excuse to disapprove of me,” I said. “If she still chooses to hold a grudge for what happened a year ago, so be it, but I’ll not beg for her approval. The Pentecost tournament is Camelot’s first, and of huge importance. I can hardly deny meetings with the Seneschal.”
Not that I was inclined to try; I held a particular amity with Sir Kay, Arthur’s prickly brother, who ran the Royal Household, an alliance I valued and trusted more than most.
“Besides,” I went on, “how does the Queen think things get done? Given Arthur has seen fit to dash out of Camelot during his busiest court of the year.”
“The King’s absence has unsettled the solar,” Alys said. “There’s been nothing but speculation. The ladies claim even Her Highness doesn’t know where he’s gone.”
I shrugged. “This court’s gossip could fuel the winter fires in every royal palace from Cornwall to Orkney. Though it’s a relief not to be the subject for once.”
“Here you both are.” A fair-headed figure in a striped surcoat emerged from the nearby doorway: Tressa, smiling and distracted by a disruption at the back of her skirts. “Lady Morgan, I have someone to see you. Now where did—ah!”
A small body sprung out, slipping expertly past Tressa and barrelling towards me.
“Mama!” Yvain cried.
I swooped down and captured my son of almost two years in my arms, swinging his ever-growing frame up onto my hip. He was pleasantly hot, like a spring sunbeam, and smelled of fresh dried linen and honeyed milk. As he laughed, I inhaled deeply of him, the sweet musk of baby sleep clinging to his dark-gold curls.
Impatient of my caresses, Yvain pushed himself back and studied me. “Mama,” he said, serious this time, “I love you. I love horses.”
“I know, dearest one,” I said. “Uncle Arthur has promised to take you to the stables to meet his bravest steeds. But tonight, Mama will tell you a story about a flying horse, and I love you more than all the stars in the sky.”
My son offered me a charming grin. In many ways, he favoured his father—the facial symmetry that would one day be handsome, his burnished colouring, the easy cheer he was already harnessing into confidence—but his eyes were all mine, the deep blue I shared with my own father before me. Yvain was all of us, and entirely himself.
“What will you do today, my precious eyas?” I asked him. “Riding, archery, slaying dragons?”
“Yes,” he said enthusiastically.
“I’m sure he wishes as much,” Tressa said. “He’s determined to sit a pony by himself this summer. Today yields nothing so demanding. The day nurse says breakfast, then a walk to see the swans and, if he’s willing, a midday nap.”
Yvain looked unimpressed at the notion, twisting to get down. He ran to Alys, who offered him a cut iris, but he demurred, attempting instead to grab her shears. She put the blades out of reach and pulled her fierce leopard face at him, and he roared back.
Tressa laughed, tousling his curls as he ran off. “Bright as gold in a stream. Just like his lady mother.”
Alys slipped an arm about Tressa’s waist and kissed her, placing the bunch of irises in her hands. They shared a loving smile that filled me with happiness, and played a note of yearning that I tried to ignore. The magpie, still watching us, gave an impatient rasp.
Alys regarded it in consideration. “Where I’m from, a magpie signals the arrival of an unexpected guest. I don’t suppose there’s any word from the invitation?”
I glanced at my son, busy chasing an elusive butterfly. “No word yet, but between the offer to ride in the joust and Yvain’s second birthday, we have to assume he will come.”
“Encouraging his presence feels all wrong, given the circumstances.”
“Arthur had to invite him, one King to another,” I said. “But you may speak his name freely—he doesn’t deserve so much power.”
“You know what they say, my lady,” Tressa said. “Dare not mention the Devil, lest he appear.”
It had been twenty months since I had last seen my husband.
Two years, almost, since I had left King Urien of Gore, taking my son and what little I could carry and escaping his kingdom in the far northeast, of which I had been the fettered and frustrated Queen. Two years since I had reached my limit in enduring his lies, betrayals and flashes of violence, his presumption that my mind and body were his to control. Two years since I had set him alight with the fire of my rage, conjured in my own palm.
At first, inexplicably, Urien had wanted me back. Messenger after messenger arrived, bearing notes of demand, of exhortation, even charming persuasion. He forgave me, he claimed; he understood. My “accident” was an irrational act, the likes of which all women fall prey to. He missed me by his throne-side, at court banquets, in his bed. A queen should be in her country, he said; a wife with her husband—presumably whether he was faithful and loving or not. A son, he argued, should not grow up without the influence of his father.
I ignored his missives, having nothing further to say than when I left him in Castle Chariot’s entrance hall, the mark of my burning on his face, and the curse on my lips that I would only ever return to Gore to kill him. Back then, I had meant every word of it; now, I preferred to pretend he didn’t exist.
Then the threats began, promising all the punishments that the laws of marriage permitted, unless I obeyed him completely. In response, I burned every one of his letters and returned the ashes to him until he stopped sending them.
After that, Urien fell silent, which began as a relief but soon grew into something darker: a tactic, a threat, a way to hold my life in suspension.
When I arrived at Camelot in my flight for freedom, Arthur and I had decided that the simplest excuse for my long-term presence was for me to enter the service of Queen Guinevere as lady-in-waiting. I had long proved unsuited to such a life, but Urien could not insist upon my return if I was required to attend Her Highness. Therefore, I was safe so long as I lived to serve, but I could not step outside the Royal Household’s edges, risk being seen breaking marital law, or make plans for any other sort of future.
Then there was Yvain, my son and Urien’s heir, who I had carried off to Camelot.
“The rights of the father are God-given and absolute,” Arthur’s legal men said when I asked the futile question of my position. “Indisputable, and carved into the founding laws of this land.” Mothers were mere vessels, if they were mentioned at all.
Urien could demand Yvain’s return any time, yet he hadn’t, and I assumed it was fear of my brother that was stopping him. I had told Arthur as much as I could bear about my marriage, excepting Urien’s acts of violence and my one incendiary incident. He knew of the lies, the other women, the illegitimate child Urien had fathered and given the same name as our own son. But a husband could not commit adultery in the eyes of the law, whereas if I had been caught doing the same, a trial and the stake would have been my fate.
So Urien’s supremacy as a father remained, enshrined in law and by God, whereas my presence in Yvain’s life ultimately depended on my brother’s influence. None of it could last, I knew that. One day soon, it was inevitable Urien and I would have to face one another again. Meanwhile, I continued to live a twilight life, desperate to rule my own existence, but shackled by the unknowable cost of entering into battle.
My sister Morgause was right, in more ways than one, when she told me that only women burn.
“King Urien will not be attending the Pentecost tournament.”
I had barely entered the Seneschal’s Great Chamber when Sir Kay called out the news. He stood at his desk, quill in one hand and a ruler in the other, curly brown head bent to an open ledger. Rows of shelves lined the walls behind him, bearing bound volumes and copious correspondence stowed in fastidious piles. A pair of Arthur’s banners hung on either side of the unlit hearth, red dragons rippling sinuously in the draft.
“Are you sure?” I asked, before I indulged any relief.
“It’s all there.” Kay waved to a letter on his desk; Gore’s boar-headed seal stared blankly at me, upside-down and broken. “He sends apologies but regrets he has pressing royal business.” He looked up in interest. “Did you expect otherwise?”
“It’s a surprise,” I said. “Though I can’t say I’m sorry for it.”
“I am,” he said drily. “His late refusal plays havoc with my seating chart.”
He gestured us towards a long table at the back of the room. Upon it lay a huge piece of parchment covered in Sir Kay’s impeccable black script, mapping detailed seating arrangements for the first tournament banquet. He had already redrafted it dozens of times.
Kay glanced at me sidelong. “I shouldn’t make light, my lady, nor compare your life’s concerns to my trivialities.”
“My husband is a trivial man, Sir Kay. He inconveniences us all.” I nodded to a pot of quills beside an inkwell. “May I?”
He smirked. “But of course.”
Dipping the swan feather nib, I leaned over and struck out King Urien of Gore.
“Much better,” I said, putting the quill down decisively. We stood before the plan in contemplation. “What troubles you here?”
Sir Kay sighed. “I’ve been staring at these tables since our last meeting. There are too many feuds and limited proximity to the King. I cannot placate everyone.”
“Then don’t move anyone,” I replied. “Orkney and Listenoise have the most vicious feud. Both are competitive for favour and are already seated as far apart as possible. There’s your advantage—distance. Give each of their lords a private meeting with Arthur, tell them it’s a secret, and let them assume they are the only faction that has the privilege.”
The Seneschal put a hand to his chin. “Risky, if either party finds out, and the High King’s schedule is very busy.”
“Arthur will agree if it helps ease the tensions,” I said. “Nor will they break confidence if they are made to feel chosen and therefore superior. Such enemies will hardly strike up conversation.”
Sir Kay regarded me with a sly smile. “You joust like a master, Lady Morgan, but with no need for a lance. I know every connection and grudge in this realm yet I am not half so astute. How do you do it?”
“You don’t play chess, do you, Sir Kay?” I said.
“I do not, my lady.”
“You should learn. Court, realm, feuds, favour—it’s nothing but a game of chess. All you must do is see the moves ahead and plan accordingly. And know the opponent you are dealing with.”
“Wise advice,” he said. “I’ll take your clever suggestion to our royal brother later.”
“Arthur is back?” I exclaimed. “I hadn’t heard. When?”
“Last night, in truth, though be thankful for his grace. By protocol, the whole castle should have been awakened, but he wanted to rest.”
“How is he?” I asked.
Kay shrugged. “He returned as he left us—alone, unscathed and without explanation. I didn’t hear from him until this morning. He said he was tired and needed some time before appearing to the court.”
A faint unease settled across me, which Kay must have read on my face.
“Don’t worry for him,” he said. “Once, when we were boys, I poked Arthur awake every hour of the night from Maundy Thursday to Easter Saturday so he would fall asleep during Holy Sunday’s dawn Mass. On the day, the little saint never even yawned, and saved me from being caught dozing by stamping on my toes. He is made of stubborn fortitude.”
His fond, sardonic tone cut through my cloud of concern. He handed the swan feather back to me. “Let’s get on, shall we?”
Before I could cast my eyes back to the seating plan, a sudden cacophony made me jump, the bells of Camelot’s cathedral and the household’s ringing all at once in a clanging, wall-shaking din.
“My God,” I said, covering my ears. “What is that?”
Kay looked up, unperturbed. “Don’t you know?” he said with a wry smile. “It means our little brother still prefers to make an entrance. King Arthur has officially returned.”