CHAPTER 19

The Search for Morgan le Fay

“Then rode Merlin unto Arthur and the two kings, and told them how he had sped; whereof they had great marvel, that man on earth might speed so soon, and go and come.”

—Malory I, 11

Next morning Dame Nimue brought up not only her husband Pelleas, but also a priest to shrive us and say Mass before we started out. It being Sunday, we should not have been traveling at all; neither, of course, should we have fought on Saturday after Evensong; but Nimue’s priest took both matters very lightly. Nimue herself, wearing an intricate silver pendant that seemed to be a cross set in a pentangle, the whole intertwined with some less Christian symbol, partook of the Sacrament with the rest of us.

She had changed her complexion to one more suited for travel. Whereas last night her hair had been pale gold and her skin almost as white as her gown, today she wore her hair chestnut brown and plaited up demurely beneath a thin silk veil, while her skin was close to Spanish olive. She obviously did not intend to ride in a litter, though she could have if she wished. She was bringing along not only the seven men and seven women from last night, but also her priest and his two acolytes, four extra squires, fourteen laden sumpter mules, extra palfreys for herself and her husband, and a white Spanish warhorse in case Pelleas decided to joust on the way.

“I hope you have enough magic,” I said, “to get this mob to Astolat by the appointed day.”

“Speedy travel was one of my master Merlin’s finest arts, whether alone or with an army,” Nimue replied. “Queen Morgan le Fay is one of the chiefest of your suspect traitors, is she not?”

“Yes, if she’s still alive,” I said.

Nimue smiled. “She’s alive. How she will receive us may depend somewhat on her mood at the hour of our arrival, of course; but if I had any serious doubts, you may rest sure I would not risk my Pelleas.”

Pelleas grinned fatuously and stroked his wife’s shoulder; and I thanked God that at least I had made my own free choice where to love. The man had, at one time, showed some kind of spirit, though he had never seemed quite sure what to do with it.

“So Aunt Morgan is still in this world, as much as she could ever be said to be in this world,” remarked Mordred. “Knowing so much, Dame, have you also been able to see her guilt or innocence?”

Nimue shook her head. “The present can be seen, sometimes, with the right tools and a knowledge of where to look. Queen Morgan can likewise read the past in her mirror, but I cannot. I can search the past only in memories, and that is scarcely reliable, when two minds remember the same events differently.”

“And the future?” said Mordred.

“It is hardly worth reading the future at all. The greatest skill in the world can see no more than shadowy outlines of what may, perhaps, come to pass, if all the persons involved do what you would expect them to do, if the wind blows favorably when it should, and if the battle is not lost for want of a horseshoe nail. Any competent general, if he can only read the present accurately enough, can also read the future as well as the most skillful mage.”

“Merlin made prophecies that came true in remarkable detail,” Mordred insisted.

“One or two,” Nimue acknowledged. “And a great many which are more vague than the Apocalypse, so that future ages may interpret them however they please. And a great many more that are already forgotten. Me for the honest and useful magic that I can control!” Nimue jumped into her saddle like an acrobat, took both reins in her left hand, and snapped her fingers.

Pelleas handed up to her a small arrow, no longer than her middle finger, and attached to a thin chain. The little dart was winged with owl feathers and seemed to have dark threads or strands of black hair bound around its copper point.

“What’s that?” I said.

“A kind of lodestone. As ordinary lodestones point to the north, my dart points toward whomever I wish to find. It is fortunate I have some hairs from Dame Morgan’s head.” Nimue held the dart up by its chain, dangling it at elbow’s length. It spun around and pointed northward.

“It seems you could have used an ordinary lodestone as well,” I remarked.

“Only as it chances, Sir Kay. Mount, my lords, and prepare to ride.”

I mounted, motioning our squires to do the same. Pelleas and the rest of Nimue’s people were already in their saddles. Mordred hesitated, as if sensing there would be no more chance for conversation once we were on the way. “How is it Aunt Morgan gave you the chance to obtain a lock of her hair, Dame of the Lake?”

“Mount first, lad, or you could be left behind,” Nimue replied. I suppose she had a right to call him “lad.” She must have been almost old enough to be his mother, though she still looked to be in her early twenties. She had also kept her clean-shaven Pelleas to some extent from aging, though he was beginning to go silver at the temples.

Mordred shrugged and mounted.

Nimue lifted both her arms slightly, like a bird preparing for flight. “We exchanged locks of hair once, years ago, Dame Morgan and I.”

Then she rocked forward in her saddle to cue her palfrey, and we were off. We seemed to be going at no more than a fast trot, maybe a little smoother than most trots—but I found it wiser not to watch the scenery, which was blurring together into streaks of green and brown as we passed by. A few times, glancing behind, I noticed that Lovel was riding with eyes closed and Gillimer looked a little green. Aside from the scenery slurring past, the ride was easy and no more tiring than a normal day’s trot, maybe less so. But once or twice, when I tried to shout back to Gillimer, he paid no attention; and a few times I saw Mordred’s mouth moving and nothing, apparently, coming out. So I assume we were moving faster than our words, leaving them scattered behind us on the path.

When we came to a stream or river we had to slow down and ford it at ordinary speeds. Occasionally the forest was too thick for us to whir through heedlessly, and we had to wind between the trees no faster than regular huntsmen. And shortly before midday we paused for two hours while Nimue had her people not only prepare dinner, but pitch a canopy for us to eat beneath. Dame Nimue like to travel in a style befitting the Lady of the Lake. Nevertheless, even with the pauses and delays, we crossed all Sugales and half Norgales in a single day. The entire time we rode, Dame Nimue held her dart tirelessly up at elbow’s length, following in the direction it pointed.

As night fell, a bit prematurely because we were in a deep, heavy wood, Dame Nimue’s dart began to glow and hum on its chain. Nimue halted the procession once more, glanced around, called for lights, and sat studying her tiny arrow while people kindled their torches.

“I hope we find Le Fay early tomorrow,” I said, assuming Nimue meant to stop here and pitch her pavilions for the night.

“We will sup with her this evening. I know by my dart that she is very near.”

“Oh. I thought it was glowing because of the darkness.”

“Yes,” said Nimue, “that’s the reason for its radiance, although we would need more light than this, or even than our torches, to go on at our daylight speed. It’s the hum that tells me the Queen of Gorre is near at hand.”

We proceeded at a walk beneath the fir trees. Sometimes they grew so close that the men—afoot now—who bore the torches had to be careful not to set the branches afire. If there was a path, I could not see it; but Dame Nimue kept us going in the direction of her dart, and the thing hummed more and more loudly. Now and then, when we had to turn aside for a detour around some thorn thicket or patch of mire, it quieted down. But as soon as we were back in the way it pointed us, it spoke up again louder than ever. By the time we reached our destination, it was humming raucously enough to have frightened every night creature in the woods far away from us, if the torches had not already done that.

We emerged from the trees into a cleared area and saw the castle looming up across the park. It seemed a small fortress, but in the hands of a mere mortal castellan I doubted it would stand a siege, or even a good, enthusiastic attack. But Le Fay, of course, would have her own defenses. Years ago, she had withstood all her brother’s men, archers, and siege weapons when he tried to take back Ringwood, the little castle he had given her near the south coast; and none of us had ever seen more than three knights at a time issue out of Ringwood, and maybe six or seven archers on the walls, rarely bothering to shoot.

Besides, this castle seemed pretty well isolated in the woods, far from any strategic importance, probably invisible unless you stumbled across it by accident while out hunting. Maybe Morgan would have kept it hidden from our sight now if Dame Nimue had not been with us to counteract her spells. Or maybe Morgan herself chose for some quirk of mood to welcome us. Lights burned along the battlements and on each of the three towers, and the drawbridge was already down, with torchbearers waiting in two rows on either side.

As we crossed the drawbridge between the double line of torchbearers, half of whom were smiling damsels, I tried to look beyond them into the moat. Something was splashing in the dark water, but I could not see what it was. Only once, when I glanced back, I saw a scaly head resting on the planks between two torchbearers. It was about as big as a cow, resembled a giant snake with ears, and seemed to be attached to a long, gleaming neck. It also seemed to be watching us with friendly curiosity, like a dog. One of the torchbearing damsels noticed it and gave it a nudge with her foot to send it sliding back into the water.

Whatever else the creatures were, they must have been excellent scavengers. The moat smelled fresh and slightly perfumed. As we passed beneath the portcullis, I noticed that it seemed to be made of silver worked into fancy shapes, like an ornamental garden lattice. The courtyard was illuminated with maybe a hundred wax candles and hung around with better tapestries than those they weave in Toulouse. To my surprise, one of the tapestries showed Joseph of Arimathea bringing his followers to Christianize Britain.

“Welcome,” said Le Fay. She had appeared at the top of a flight of stone steps. The doorway was dark behind her, and she was dressed in black, so she would not have needed any magical invisibility to slip out and watch us for a few moments unobserved before speaking.

“You see, sister,” said Nimue, “I have answered your invitation at last.”

Nimue dismounted and started up the steps while Dame Morgan started down. They met halfway and exchanged a sisterly embrace and kiss.

“And this will be my youngest nephew, Mordred, will it not?” Morgan went on, gazing down at him. “How like your mother you look, boy!”

He bowed. “Thank you for likening me to her, Aunt, instead of to my father or brothers.”

“May I take it, madame,” I said, “that we’re here under a sign of truce?”

“Ah, my good Sir Kay of the caustic tongue.” Still half-embracing Nimue, Queen Morgan waved one hand and signaled her servants to start seeing to our needs. “If you look for treachery and insist on having it, my dear Seneschal, then I will oblige you. But if you give me your trust, you may sleep here more safely than in Caerleon. Nor will you wake on a barren hillside. My house and food are substantial, and most of my people are human.”