Chapter 4
Nevertheless, I had not lied about starting work. It was all I could do.
As with any study, I proceeded in a methodical fashion.
First, I drew together my notes from my year at Merlin’s—the formulae I had kept hidden from him, and the knowledge I had later transcribed from memory.
Next, I began reading, though it meant revisiting the sorcerer’s lair in my mind; the memory of my younger self, wounded but still fighting, learning of resurrection as Merlin’s obsessive presence loomed.
My need for survival, and the guilt it still brought.
Still, I pushed on, making preparations for practical experiment.
I asked the huntsman to bring me any perished birds he came across, or hunted and deemed unsuitable for the kitchens.
Upon receiving his initial delivery, I felt my spirit rise for the first time in over a year. Here, I knew what I was doing.
I took a hawk-struck wood pigeon with a definitive heartsong and followed my old ways with precision—the same preparations, incantation and drops of blood from my own finger that had brought me past success.
But my formula failed to make the bird’s nerves twitch, much less return it to life.
Next, I picked up a song thrush, a smaller creature with no injuries to speak of. Again it remained a corpse.
It got no better from there. Bird after bird, I tried to no avail.
I tested my methods, tweaked the formula, read my notes again and made additions and amendments, then struck through them when they failed to change anything.
I turned to the manuscripts I had retrieved from Merlin’s, but the sight of his script only conjured his droning voice in my head.
Look at what you’ve become, my Morgan of Wonders, he jeered. A marvel no more, without her teacher.
The harder I pushed, the louder his voice became and the more pervasive his criticism, a sneering Greek chorus to my inability.
One day, I put a goldfinch in a wooden box with feathers and sage, an exact recreation of one of my earliest triumphs, and held the vessel to my chest as I chanted.
The lid never rattled. Upon my seventh failed attempt, I threw the box into the fire with a crash.
Watching your failures burn now? mocked the sorcerer. Face the truth—resurrection has slipped from your grasp. There are no more miracles in you.
“For the love of God, be quiet!” I cried, then realized what I’d done. I had spoken aloud to this entity long dead, my errors recreating Merlin inside my mind in a way so real, it was as if he had sprung to life again. The thought snatched my breath away.
Clutching my chest, I staggered out onto the balcony.
It was not the first time I had been overwhelmed by this scorching panic, pinned by the grief that left me breathless, but I had learned to manage myself—to find my way outside, seek cool air.
This time, it wasn’t enough. My legs buckled and I crumpled onto the stones, dizzy and gasping.
A small weight thudded against my chest, and I looked down to see Accolon’s Gaulish coin on its chain, winking in the sunlight.
Gripping the gold disc in my palm, I let its tangible presence anchor my senses: to the warm stones underneath my body; the sweet scents of late summer and the blue of a morning sky; the music of water from the river, in the air, in my veins.
My breaths steadied, the heat of panic fading from my blood. “It’s all right,” I told myself, squeezing the coin harder. “I’m here. Still here.”
I rose and steadied myself against the balustrade.
Below, the household was going about its day, its routines comforting and unfailing, bringing clarity to my whirring mind.
Belle Garde was healing, and for everyone’s sake, I could not risk my weaknesses becoming known.
My only choice was to find a new way, accept my work was flawed and stop with the madness of dead birds.
More than that, I had to show the world that all was well.
My eyes drifted across the river, and found a familiar sight. Whether I was strong enough or not, it was time.
*
It was strange to see the joust meadow up close. As I reached the river, I tried not to look at the painted boundary, the quintain, the large black horse waiting patiently by the lance stand, as if Accolon would be along any moment to run drills.
Robin stood before the carnedd as he did every day, his brief vigil that put my coward’s heart to shame. I forced one foot in front of the other until I stood beside him.
“Lady Morgan,” he said formally. “I’m glad you’ve come.”
“I would have been sooner,” I said. “But I’ve been so busy, it’s—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “There’s no excuse, Robin. I could have come, and I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” he replied. “I understand.”
“You shouldn’t have to understand. I should be stronger, better, for you.”
I sounded more fretful than comforting, but he let me put my arm around him, and we looked at the carnedd together.
The sight of the flat grey stones, balanced expertly, rising from the land, was soothing in a way I didn’t expect; the certainty that this monument would still be here, long after all of us were gone.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “The perfect tribute and place. You should be proud.”
Robin shrugged. “I’m not sure what it means, anymore. When I was seeking the right stones, I felt there was a purpose. But now…it’s just a pile of pebbles.”
“It’s not the stones,” I said, “but the will in your heart to remember Accolon and how he made you feel. It is the greatest honour you could give him.”
Again came the guilt that I had not offered Robin any touchstone of rest-in-peace. What right did I have to tell him how he should feel, when I could barely govern myself?
I dropped my arm from him so he would not feel me shudder. “I see you every day, practising the joust,” I managed. “I’m glad.”
“Sir Accolon always said daily tilt practice was the reason he was so good,” he said. “That is why I come. And to honour him, of course.”
“Is jousting still what you wish to do? Competitions, travelling abroad as he did?”
He regarded me with a childlike anguish. “I cannot think of it. Belle Garde needs me. You need me, Lady Morgan—you said so.”
“I know, Robin. And I do,” I said, but it was not enough to stop his tears, already rolling down his freckled cheeks. Bravely, he did not look away.
“I’m afraid,” he said. “I’m terrified that if I think too much on other things, or stray too far from here, I will forget him.”
I put my arms about him again, containing our rising grief. “It’s all right,” I soothed him. “We will never forget—we cannot. You and I can stay here in Belle Garde, within our memories, forever.”
He nodded and looked consoled, which brought me relief even as I knew I had been selfish. I could not tell him that he could move beyond his sorrow, that there was an entire world open to him outside of Belle Garde that he should explore. I did not know how.
I released him from our embrace and gestured to his horse. “Sir Accolon would say I should not be taking up your practise time,” I said. “The tilt field awaits.”
We shared a sad smile, then I left him alone, making my way back across the bridge. As I re-entered the house, I spotted Alys in the dining hall with Sir Ceredig: lists in hand, counting plate, checking on the bolts of Parisian blue fabric piled on the tables for Accolon’s banquet.
She caught my observation and raised a tentative hand, her face hopeful, as if I might suddenly walk in and be able to participate.
I lingered for a heartbeat, then did the only thing I could—climbed the many steps to my study, with its piles of dead-end notes and voices of my past, the trap of failure I could not escape.
More than a year since Accolon’s death, weeks since I had been to Merlin’s, and I had achieved nothing. Staggering to my desk, I pressed my fists against the wood and shut my eyes until lights flashed in their darkness.
A patter of water broke through my mood, becoming insistent, along with the noisy complaints of several magpies flapping about the balcony doorway. I looked up as a sudden rain splashed across darkened windows, the pleasant light from moments ago replaced by a miserable pall of grey.
“It’s only rain,” I scolded the magpies. “We see enough of it.”
They ignored me, amidst anxious caws and batting wings.
Exasperated, I went to shoo them, when I caught sight of the lidded basket the huntsman used to bring me perished birds, over on the worktable.
Now I had decided to give up, I wanted none of it, but a sparkling trill reached my senses: a definitive heartsong, surprisingly clear at such a distance.
As ever, my curiosity defeated my reluctance.
I strode over to the basket, lifted the lid and peered inside.
Only one bird lay there—a large magpie, immediately recognizable.
She was one of the original females when I had first come to the valley, now the leader of the descendent flock.
She was glossy and whole, resplendent in new feathers, but quite dead.
Her condition seemed perfect, not a mark of violence or illness apparent, but when I took her into my hands her black head lolled. Somehow, she had broken her neck.
I stared hopelessly at her. Outside, the calls of her flock grew in intensity, as if the other magpies knew she was near.
It made sense now, why they cried and raged: their matriarch was dead, and there was no good reason why.
She did everything for the flock—led them, raised her own broods with her mate, cared for others and defended their territory with skill and vigour.
If they did not have her, what might befall those left behind?