I held him for days—Yvain, my brightest star, the twin beat of my heart—spending every hour by his side, eschewing his routines and my duties, ignoring Camelot in its entirety to absorb every last moment of his presence.
We stayed in my chambers, building towers from his wooden blocks, playing hide-and-seek on the terrace and telling stories until far too late. When his deep-blue eyes began to droop, I would carry his sleepy body to my bed and lie beside him, watching his contented breaths.
Arthur was right, I told myself; Yvain was cheerful, confident and keen for adventure, and between my brother’s scrutiny and the spirit of parental competition, his father would certainly treat him well. Later, the Michaelmas negotiations would ensure us a fair and final arrangement.
None of which seemed to matter on the morning of his departure as I faced a gossamer dawn in Camelot’s courtyard, my son still half dozing in my arms.
Alys and Tressa stood beside me, castle walls casting shadows across us, as Urien’s men waited, draped in the green and gold that had once dominated my world. Yvain’s nurses lingered a little way off among Arthur’s guards, between dragon and boar.
I shifted Yvain up and was rewarded with a beatific, sleepy smile. “I love you, my precious eyas.”
“Mama,” he said drowsily, bestowing a butterfly kiss on my lips. “Love you.”
I buried my face in his dark-gold curls. Nothing was worth this: no show of trust, no precious sword, no place on a High King’s council.
“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t hand him over. Tressa, can you…?”
“Of course, my lady.” Tressa swiped tears away and lifted him onto her hip. “Come, my sleepy young knight. Say, ‘Farewell, Mama. I’ll see you when my quest is done.’”
“Bye, Mama,” Yvain said.
“Goodbye, my one love,” I said.
As she walked away, a horse whinnied and Yvain awoke, the sight of armoured knights bringing forth his joyous laugh. He reached for his nurses and accepted their praise, leaving as I had hoped, with the sound of his contentment threaded through the air.
Between my grief and the thick heat, the Queen’s solar felt even more oppressive than usual. It was a long, wide chamber, still tapestried despite the temperature, slabs of sun from the large windows bathing the room. Guinevere sat remote in her chair atop the small dais, her attending women gathered at intervals, speaking little and fanning themselves. Alys had been charged to play her lute and sat near the royal skirts, plucking out a languorous tune.
I had taken up a settle in the shadiest corner, my work basket ignored and Lady Clarisse rustling beside me in copper silk. My usual High Table companion, she was the eldest in the Queen’s service and arguably the most formidable in position, given she bore Sir Kay and raised Arthur from a newborn babe. She was also my closest confidante outside my own household, and the only one I had told of Yvain’s departure that same morning.
“Take courage, my dear,” she had said. “You are strong enough to withstand this.”
At the time, I couldn’t respond, but her words had settled within me as comfort; she had sent her two sons off into battle enough times to understand.
The heat had rendered the ladies similarly listless, with the exception of Lady Isabeau, a bold young woman of vague royal relation, and the only one of us with any spirit left for conversation.
“One of our number has happy news,” she declared. “Lady Beatrice and her husband are going to have a child.”
The room exhaled a happy gasp, a flurry of congratulations flying towards the blushing Lady Beatrice. My eyes flicked to Guinevere.
“So soon!” she said, an octave too high. “You were only wed at Candlemas.”
I watched her form a smile, drawing the grace of a queen about her like miniver. “The High King and I bestow our warmest wishes upon you and your good lord husband.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Lady Beatrice dipped her head. “Your Highness’s blessing is a heavenly gift.”
“The child is the gift,” Guinevere replied, and the solar fell so silent one could have heard a ghost draw breath.
The Queen held taut her smile, and it surprised me how easily I could still sense the pain behind her poise. A year ago, she would have called for me in private to let me tell her she hadn’t done anything wrong, that these things took time and my own healthy son was six years in conceiving. Since then, the whispers had only got louder, but she no longer wanted me there to cast out her shadows.
“How fare you with aversions?” I asked Lady Beatrice, drawing the room’s gaze. “I could smell every tiny scent on the air and couldn’t bear wine. If you’re suffering, Lady Alys has tinctures that will settle you.”
Lady Beatrice looked relieved. “Thank you, Lady Morgan. That is very kind.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” said the Queen. “We are so lucky to have Queen Morgan’s vast knowledge to serve us. Not to mention her experience as a mother.”
Lady Clarisse cleared her throat. “Speaking of remedies, did you hear of the injury down at the stables? Apparently, a knight slapped his horse on the cheek, and it kicked out at a boy. Ten years old if he’s a day.”
“Sir Guiomar told me of that,” Guinevere commented. “Said he couldn’t get sense out of the grooms to have his horse saddled.”
“What’s the injury?” I asked.
The Queen gave a delicate shrug. “He didn’t go into detail. A broken leg, maybe.”
“How bad is it? Maybe the Royal Surgeon should––”
“The Royal Surgeon! He has no business attending some stableboy.” She gave me a pointed look. “Nor, Lady Morgan, do you.”
To my chagrin, she had read my intentions perfectly. “I just wished to know the seriousness of the damage,” I said. “Perhaps I’ll ask Sir Guiomar.”
Guinevere pursed her rosebud lips. “I must forbid any interference from the Royal Household, and I’m sure the King would agree. The stables will have it in hand. Let’s change the subject, shall we?”
Exasperated, I rose and took a turn about the room as Alys began plucking a new song and the women returned to a low hum of conversation.
“Lady Clarisse breaks her fast with the Seneschal daily,” I heard Lady Isabeau chirp. “Has he offered any insight into our mysterious champion knight?”
“Time with my elder son is not spent on idle talk,” Lady Clarisse said, to looks of mild disbelief; everyone knew Sir Kay’s excellent household management relied at least partly on gossip. She conceded a smile. “I may have heard that by the time Sir Accolon swore to His Highness’s crown, he had won every joust competition for several years. Lords across the Continent were clamouring for his presence at their tournaments.”
“Their ladies were clamouring too, I should imagine,” said Lady Isabeau. “His fame and prowess aren’t news—what of the rest of his secrets?” Her mischievous eyes alighted on me. “Lady Morgan met him a few nights ago. You’ve seen more of Sir Accolon than the rest of us combined.”
Alys’s lute quill twanged an errant note.
If only you knew, I thought.
“We were barely introduced,” I replied. “If you wish to know things, why not ask him yourself? Sir Accolon is just a man.”
“And what a fine figure of one,” she mused. “Handsome, well-dressed, noble manners, unassuming charm. Made rich by his own prowess. If I wasn’t already married…”
“Isabeau!” Guinevere exclaimed. “Camelot is a place of godly virtues. Such talk is not befitting of a wedded woman.”
Lady Isabeau grinned. “I do not speak for myself, Your Highness. Lady Joliete is the one with interest in her heart.”
Curious heads turned to a pretty, sweet-natured maiden, shrinking behind her loose walnut hair. A recent addition to the Queen’s service, Lady Joliete was not yet accustomed to the guile upon which the Royal Court fuelled itself.
“Sir Accolon is very gallant,” she quavered. “I met him and he was nothing but courteous and kind. But to speak of tender feelings would be wrong, given he is rumoured betrothed elsewhere.”
Betrothed—the word ran down my spine like cracking ice. Alys was diligent enough not to look up.
“He hasn’t admitted it,” countered Lady Isabeau.
“Gossip serves none of us,” Guinevere said. “Sir Accolon is an impressive knight, and the King already admires his skill and potential. If he does well in the tournament, he could be a fine addition to the Royal Court.”
I forced my feet to move, away from the meaningless talk. It was odd, hearing Accolon spoken of by others—admired, lauded, desired in a way that I had always considered uniquely my own—but in the midst of my other troubles I had forgotten about his descent upon my life, and was content to keep it thus.
I drifted into a wide window recess at the back of the room, taking in the view of the Queen’s complicated hedge maze. Beyond the castle ramparts, my son was already a few miles towards the main road north, and I wondered how far he would be away from me by nightfall.
“What are you looking at?”
Guinevere stepped into the alcove, casting a long slant of shadow. Her sudden proximity was strange, unusual since our breach, but I didn’t show my surprise.
“Just the view, Your Highness,” I said.
“I suppose having seen it before doesn’t mean it loses its interest.”
Her tone pricked my curiosity, but I said nothing. Undeterred, she leaned inwards until her shoulder brushed mine, as we had once shared friendlier confidences.
“Do not think,” she said in a low voice, “that because you and Sir Guiomar have exchanged a few pleasant words, you are free to converse with him. If you attempt to bewitch him again, you will answer to me.”
It made me look at her, but she kept her prim profile facing the window, and I recalled why my tryst with Sir Guiomar had cast us so badly asunder. That Guinevere still considered my private life under her authority was a severed rope that could not be rewoven. She assumed it was her right to rule me as a woman, and I would not be ruled.
“Bewitching aside,” I said, “if he speaks to me, I cannot ignore him.”
“You have a husband, Lady Morgan. Try thinking of him. I hear your son left this morning. Perhaps if you remembered King Urien is the only man God permits you to have, all three of you would be together in Gore.”
I swallowed hard. “Don’t,” I said.
She turned, fixing me with her pale gaze. “Still, Yvain returning to his homeland pleases you, I’m sure. It is, after all, so important for a son to learn the ways of his father.”
My body lit up with white heat, only the thought of Arthur stopping me from flying at her pretty yellow head. For him had I mastered my fire, and never unleashed it on his beloved wife despite her provocations, nor could Guinevere act upon her dislike in her husband’s view. Now, my council seat and future depended on me keeping my temper. I glared at her and she returned it, a futile challenge that neither of us could afford to answer.
“My lady, it’s time for the dance lessons.”
Guinevere turned to snap at whoever had interrupted us, pausing when she saw it was Lady Clarisse.
“Of course. Gather the ladies,” she replied, then regarded me expectantly. “Shall we, Lady Morgan?”
“No indeed,” I said. “I’m leaving.”
“You certainly are not,” the Queen snapped. Beyond us, the room held its breath.
“Perhaps, in the circumstances, Your Highness,” Lady Clarisse said, “you should let Lady Morgan go.”
“She does not control that,” came the royal response. “She waits upon my grace.”
Lady Clarisse regarded her daughter-in-law with a steady calm. “My dear, there’s more to being a gracious queen than giving orders and sitting a throne. King Arthur would wish for greater kindness in our hearts, wouldn’t you say?”
Guinevere looked astonished; no doubt she had never been scolded in her life. She grimaced her assent, bound by the unquestionable authority of the woman who had known Arthur longer and better than anyone. I beckoned to Alys, nodded gratefully at Lady Clarisse, and left the solar without another word.
“What did the Queen say to you?” Alys asked the moment we were within my reception chamber.
“Nothing of consequence.” I didn’t wish to recount Guinevere’s unexpectedly painful goading, so instead I asked, “Did you know about Accolon?”
She raised an eyebrow. “There are rumours, but he hasn’t confirmed any betrothal.”
I stared at her, aghast. “Not that. I meant the possibility he might join the court.”
“Oh! It’s the first I’ve heard, but he is garnering considerable favour.”
“My God, why should I even have to care?” I leaned against the door and put my head in my hands. “What happened to me, Alys? When did I lose sight of it all?”
She regarded me patiently. “Lose sight of what?”
“This—the Royal Court, endless travel and duty—it was never supposed to be our entire life. We wanted to go to my mother’s manor, remember? Live there for half the year, to study, heal, work, spend time with my son in peace. Camelot was always part of the plan, but Fair Guard was to be our home.”
I went across to Tressa’s parchment-covered scribe desk; she was the only one of us who had done any writing in over a year. Beside it, I opened a small trunk and lifted out two manuscripts: the Ars Physica, where my love of healing had begun, and another volume bound with blue leather.
“Remember this?” I said. “The manuscript on women’s afflictions we began writing in Gore? When did we last look at it?”
An empty lectern stood beside the desk, melancholy in its disuse, and I propped both books upon it. “I didn’t burn Urien into submission and flee in great danger so we could sit in the Queen’s presence with our minds going fallow. Nor did I drag you and Tressa to Camelot so you could endure the same restrictions as in Castle Chariot.”
“Tressa and I would follow you into Hell, but weren’t dragged into anything,” Alys said firmly. “There are no regrets here.”
“I should regret it,” I said. “Look at how things are. I cannot keep my child with me, or think of love, because I am forever bound to a man I hate. I can’t even take a fleeting paramour to bed because the Queen assumes my body is her jurisdiction. There’s no time to further our work, nor can I use my skills to help someone if they do not carry the right rank. As if any of that threatens my loyalty to my brother. This is not the freedom we fought for.”
“You had to escape Gore. What more could you have done?”
“The question is, what have I tried to do since?” I turned from the lectern, resting my fists against the desk. “When we first came here, we talked endlessly about a different kind of life, without protocol. Not only where I can choose my own path, but where you and Tressa can sit beside one another at table, dance with your arms around one another, express love in the myriad careless ways others do. This cannot be what you truly want.”
“And what do you want, Morgan?” she said. “Only you. Not back then—now. Today.”
Her question arrested me, the answer elusive, unformed. My eyes drifted back to the Ars Physica, unopened for so long.
To fix all this, I thought. One broken thing at a time.
“I want…” I said slowly, “to heal the stableboy.”
Alys nodded. “Tressa mentioned him earlier. His leg is shattered. They say it’s unlikely he’ll ever walk again.”
“He will if I have anything to do with it,” I said.
“You’re going to lay hands?” she said in surprise. Aside from Arthur’s headaches—a closely guarded secret—I had done little of that kind of healing. Sometimes, the shadows of my old life still loomed large.
“I’ll have to. I won’t see an innocent boy crippled because some spoiled knight cannot control his temper, or because Guinevere likes to control me.”
I opened the cover of the Ars Physica, turning page after page. I still knew it all by heart, but just to look upon it again brought new pleasure. A loose leaf of parchment caught my eye, an intricate diagram of the human leg in crosshatched ink, one of many sketches I had done under the Prioress’s watchful eye in St. Brigid’s Abbey.
Four major bones between ankle and hip, the stanchions of all that came above. My hands tingled in anticipation.
I brandished the sketch at Alys. “Will you come? I cannot soothe pain at the same time as mending a fracture, so I need your remedies and keen eye. Though the Queen has forbidden it.”
She smiled with distinct mischief. “I am with you, always.” Then, gently: “What about the rest of it?”
“We’re going to heal the boy, Alys,” I said. “Damn the rest of it.”