Chapter 47
Everything was going wrong and it was Alden’s fault.
Lamorna had decided that. It had not been an easily made decision.
She’d waited, watching and listening over several days, hoping that he’d leave again, that Mordred would send him away, but that didn’t happen.
Instead, she was confronted with his face every morning, and many more times throughout each day.
She’d had enough of this draughty old castle, the dead earth outside her window, the Witchfinders lurking around corners muttering to each other. She’d had enough of faeries and magic and battle plans and things she could not control.
Lamorna wanted to go home.
But home was long gone, a place she could only visit in her dreams. It wasn’t even the biggest part of her life – the One God – that she missed.
It was small things she had taken for granted, like being the first one out of bed most mornings and having the kitchen to herself.
It was Jenyfer and their aunt sharing secretive looks when they thought Lamorna couldn’t see.
It was the walk into town with her favourite basket, the sea breeze brushing her cheeks.
It was her sister’s hair, unbound and floating behind her like a dark cloud.
It was Jenyfer’s courage, her aunt’s fortitude.
It was moments of peace where everything was normal.
She knew that now, and she missed it, and it made her angrier than she’d ever been.
She was sick of all these men thinking they knew better.
All her life, she’d been controlled by men, used as an instrument of their power, an act which denied her the power she should have been able to grasp.
Even here, where she had a voice, she was not as important.
She saw it in the eyes of the men when they came to speak to Mordred.
They tried to make her feel small, insignificant – powerless.
But she wasn’t. No woman was. She might not be as strong as they were physically, but she had endured more than they ever could. Her will was stronger than theirs. Even stronger than Mordred’s.
Lamorna had proven she was stronger than the Chif. She’d proven she was stronger than Bryn, who had tried his best to scare her. He might have intimidated her once, but he never would again. He was the instrument now, and she’d remind him of that when, if, she ever saw him again.
She was sick of feeling out of control. Sick of responsibility and performance.
Sick of her role being diminished. If it wasn’t for her, none of them would be here.
It was her strength that saw Mordred able to sway the people of Kernou to his side.
She helped him manipulate the Konsel, the Red Hand and the Chif.
It was her words, her knowledge, her power, that gave him his.
She had survived death, overcome a strange land, strange people and had taken the truth of the One God and made it hers. She commanded a dragon.
And now, someone was trying to take her place at Mordred’s side. She was not going to let them. No one would underestimate Lamorna again. Not Mordred and not anyone else.
Eight berries, she thought. Eight should be enough.
She marched into the kitchen, then through to the room where Tamora had kept the herbs.
Humming to herself, Lamorna uncapped the bottle and tipped the belladonna berries into her palm.
Would eight be missed? No, there were lots there.
She spied a piece of cloth on the bench and folded the berries inside it, before slipping it into her pocket.
Lamorna had volunteered to fetch breakfast, saying she’d arranged for one of the cooks to be up early.
She felt a twinge of guilt for the lie, but it was necessary.
The kitchen was empty; the staff were not due to arrive for some time.
She continued to hum as she made porridge, a strange song she couldn’t remember hearing anywhere, but one that seemed embedded in her bones.
The song had words, but she couldn’t remember what they were.
To the porridge she added some currants and freshly sliced apple, and to one bowl only, she added eight glossy black belladonna berries, mixing them in, hiding them beneath layers of creamy oats.
Then she made a pot of tea and collected three mugs.
Still humming, she carried everything upstairs on a tray, smiling at the people she passed.
‘Breakfast,’ she sang, pushing open the door to her quarters. Another seat had appeared in their living area – she wondered how long it had been there. She smiled as she placed a bowl of porridge before Mordred and another before Alden, who gave her a smile of thanks.
‘You’re not eating?’ he observed.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Lamorna told him. ‘Tea will be fine for me.’
She kept her eyes lowered while she poured the three of them tea. When she was done, she sat back in her chair, her cup held gently, and said, ‘Isn’t this nice? Mordred, it’s nice, isn’t it? To have breakfast together. Just the three of us.’
Mordred gave her a curious look.
Careful, the little voice that lived in the back of her mind whispered.
‘I mean you seem happy, and I’m happy because of it,’ she said. ‘Now eat your porridge, both of you, before it goes cold.’
As the men ate, Lamorna sipped her tea, sneaking glances at Alden as much as she dared.
At first, he was fine. Nothing happened and she wondered if she had underestimated.
But her aunt had said belladonna was poisonous in large doses.
Perhaps it hadn’t been large enough? By the time she had finished her tea, Alden was frowning.
‘I…’ he began and then stopped, blinking rapidly. ‘I can’t see.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mordred asked sharply.
‘My chest,’ Alden gasped. He tore open his shirt, hands flying to cover his heart. ‘It feels like my heart is…’ He stood abruptly, swaying on his feet.
‘Maybe you should sit,’ Lamorna suggested. ‘I’ll get you some water.’
Alden shook his head. Mordred got to his feet but before he could do anything, Alden crumpled like a piece of paper, his head connecting with the corner of the table as he went down. Lamorna winced. That hadn’t been part of the plan. She set her teacup aside, fingers trembling.
‘What’s happening?’ she cried. ‘Mordred?’
Mordred, crouched on the ground next to Alden, looked up, horrified, and met Lamorna’s eyes. ‘He’s been poisoned!’
She made herself gasp, made herself stand; her knees were trembling dreadfully.
‘I’ll get help,’ she managed, racing from the room.
Once in the corridor, she stopped and leant against the wall, her heart thundering.
She waited, counted to twenty, then started again, before going in search of someone who could help.
What a shame her aunt was no longer in Dinas Emrys.
‘Mordred, you’ve been here all night,’ Lamorna said, resting her hand on his shoulder. The sun had risen and painted the side of the mountains with flecks of gold. ‘You need to sleep. I’ll stay with him for a while.’
Mordred nodded and sighed. He stood, giving Alden’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, before leaving the room.
Lamorna waited until the door had closed before she took up his position.
Alden was awake but his eyes remained closed.
Jenyfer used to do the same thing, Lamorna recalled.
Pretended to be asleep so she didn’t have to talk to her sister.
‘How do you feel?’ she asked softly, reaching over to place her hand on Alden’s forehead. ‘You’re still a little warm.’
‘Being poisoned will have that effect, Lamorna,’ Alden replied, opening his eyes.
He’d been given charcoal to eat and then ordered to bed. His lips were still black. She took up the bowl of water and cloth from the table near the bed.
‘Yes. Belladonna poisoning must be terribly unpleasant.’
‘How… how did you know it was belladonna?’ Alden asked after a moment.
Lamorna busied herself with the bowl, wringing out the cloth so she could place it on Alden’s forehead. ‘Obviously I messed up the dose,’ she said casually. ‘It was an estimate. It should have been enough. I know now, though, how much I need. I won’t miscalculate it next time.’
Alden shrank away from her hand. ‘You… you did this?’
‘Of course,’ Lamorna said. She let the cloth drop onto the bed with a sigh. ‘What did you expect me to do? You think I’m not capable of fighting for what is mine?’
‘What is yours?’ Alden echoed, before comprehension crossed his features. ‘I see. Lamorna, listen—’
‘There are two ways to go about things now,’ Lamorna cut in sharply. ‘Two ways for you, that is. Stay, and always be looking over your shoulder. You might not think much of me, Alden, but I am very determined.’
He stared at her silently. She held his gaze, chin lifted, shoulders back.
‘And the second option?’ the Cruithean asked eventually.
‘Return to your home, as soon as you’re fit to travel, of course,’ Lamorna added.
Alden shook his head. ‘And leave my friend here to face what’s coming alone?’
‘He isn’t alone,’ Lamorna said from between her teeth. She leant closer to Alden – he had no choice but to look at her, to see the resolve in her eyes. ‘He’s got me.’ She set the bowl aside and stood, smoothing away the anger on her face with her fingers. ‘I’ll leave the decision up to you.’
It was a long way down from the window. In her mind, she could see herself there, broken on the stones. Could she die twice?
Since she left Kernou for Cruithea, Lamorna sometimes felt she had been existing in a nightmare of her own delinquencies.
The deviant nature of her mind, body and soul that had been dragged into the light, shaking her from the very foundations of herself.
She had thought she knew herself, knew what it was she wanted, knew what she was capable of.
But she hadn’t.
Past Lamorna would not have poisoned a man for loving Mordred. Past Lamorna would not have made the Chif kneel on broken glass. Past Lamorna would never have met a man like Mordred in the first place.
Mordred had not come to their bed in three days. Lamorna had no idea where he was. She hadn’t seen him and had not gone looking for him. Calla had told her that Alden had left as Lamorna lay in bed and pretended to be ill.
Mordred’s absence was like a burn, scorching her face and blistering across her soul. Guilt swam through her blood; at least, Lamorna imagined it was guilt. She wasn’t sure what she should be feeling.
She had gotten what she wanted, but at what cost?
He knew what she’d done. She was certain of it.
Mordred was the ghost of a future that instinct told her would never be. But he was also a reflection of the darkness that lived in her, darkness she did not know or understand until she met him. Did she hate him for being the catalyst that changed her life?
Lamorna swallowed. She didn’t, and that terrified her because what else would she do to hold onto him?
Anything. She would do anything. She already had, and in doing so, was certain she had lost him.
‘Are you going to jump?’ Mordred’s voice was cold and accusing. Lamorna didn’t argue.
‘Are you going to push me?’ She did not turn around to look at him, keeping her eyes on the ground. His footsteps echoed, each step as sharp as a knife cutting through flesh. She turned, catching a glimpse of the pain in his eyes before his hand shot out and curled around her throat.
She held his eyes, unable to look away.
‘I should throw you to your death for what you have done,’ he hissed. ‘But I won’t.’
Lamorna frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Why? Lamorna, I should be asking you that question. Why did you do it? I don’t understand. Everything else you’ve done, everything you’ve helped me do, it all had a purpose. But this? This makes no sense!’
She said nothing.
His fingers tightened. ‘You need to answer me.’
‘Because I was scared!’ she managed. ‘Scared you wouldn’t choose me.’
‘Choose you?’ Mordred repeated. ‘What are you…’ His expression shifted to one of utter disbelief, then despair.
His fingers fell away from her throat. ‘Oh, Lamorna. I sometimes forget how little you know of how things work. There was never any choice. I thought you knew that. I have never lied when I said I loved you.’
‘I won’t share you,’ Lamorna said. She wanted to sound firm, resolute, but her voice wobbled. ‘I won’t.’
‘I can see that,’ he murmured. ‘You failed though.’
‘Did I?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps it was a warning.’
The corners of Mordred’s lips curled. ‘I should not find your deviousness appealing, but I do. What does that say about me?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
He reached towards her – she tensed as his fingers found her throat again, but this time he stroked her skin gently. An apology, one she wasn’t sure she deserved. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had someone go to such lengths for me before.’
‘You haven’t?’ she asked as his fingers found their way into her hair. He stepped closer. If he wanted to, he could kiss her.
‘He is my friend, Lamorna,’ Mordred said.
‘I love him, but I love you, possibly more than I should.’ He sighed and rested his forehead against hers.
All she wanted was for him to kiss her. She pushed herself closer, a sense of urgency flooding her, a barbed panic that told her if he didn’t kiss her now, he never would again.
He took her hand and placed it on his lower belly, slowly dragging it down so she could feel the hard length of him.
Lamorna closed her fingers around him through the fabric of his pants, making him groan.
A shudder passed through her at the power of her action – at how much power she had over him.
It was intoxicating, more than it had been before, and it filled her with blazing heat.
But she knew it would not be enough. Elaine had seen what was coming.
He kissed her deeply, his lips firm, his tongue in her mouth, drinking her in.
With the barren waste of Camlann Plain behind her, Lamorna dropped to her knees, one of Mordred’s hands in her hair, the other braced on the stones at her back as she freed him from his pants and closed her mouth over him.