Chapter 5
Despite my success with the magpie matriarch and our incredible connection, I soon realized that whatever I had done to bring her back to life could not be quantified, because I could not make it happen again.
I tried, of course; I had more birds brought, performed the same ritual down to where I was standing and sometimes the same weather conditions, but every attempt failed exactly as before.
Feathered corpses were consigned to the fire, and I returned to the torture of an impasse I had sworn to give up, no closer to why resurrection had succeeded for a brief, transcendent moment before disappearing again.
By the time the leaves began to turn, I had spent every day held for ransom at my desk. However, relief arrived one red-gold afternoon, in the shape of Robin dashing up the stairs to my study, his face brighter than it had been in a long time.
“Sir Manassen of Gaul is here,” he announced. “Come from the Royal Court.”
I rose gratefully from my chair. “Good. Send him up.”
He left, and I noted his bouncing step with a wash of sadness. He was pleased for our guest’s presence because of his proximity to Accolon, yet Sir Manassen too would have to go again, leaving more wounds I did not know how to heal.
I sighed and stepped out from behind my messy desk as Sir Manassen’s tall, lean figure appeared in the doorway. He paused, regarding me uncertainly with his grey-brown eyes, then strode over and dropped to one knee, head bowed. I had to stifle a laugh.
“Get up,” I said lightly. “I’ve told you, formalities are quite unnecessary.”
He obeyed and allowed himself a reserved smile. “Lady Morgan, well met. It is good to be back in Belle Garde.”
“I’m pleased you are here,” I said, and he looked briefly surprised, as if he had forgotten we were no longer at odds.
Before Accolon’s death, our rare meetings had mainly involved bickering and dislike, but when we had last seen one another, Sir Manassen had officially sworn himself to me in secret alliance, and was on his way to Camelot’s Easter court with my letter of vengeance.
Those few months ago, I believed I had come through the darkest hours of my grief, before learning just how wrong I could be.
I wondered if time had been the fabled healer for him, or if he too had found his sorrow resurging in sudden, unexpected ways.
“I hope you are well?” he asked.
“In body, yes. In mind, I cannot say with any surety.” My candour immediately seemed too much, but I persisted. “And you, Sir Manassen?”
“I endure, my lady. This past year has been a confusion of feelings, most of which I never wished to experience. Thankfully, I am otherwise in good health.”
He did look it, in a certain way—he was always neat and in decent fettle by his own standards, but his riding garb was notably fine, boots polished conker-bright, his ash-brown hair and beard sharply trimmed, as if he had been barbered daily.
All unspoken requirements, I knew, of attending the Royal Court.
“Some wine?” I offered, gesturing to a jug recently brought. We would need it, I felt, to speak of everything to come.
“No, thank you,” he replied. “I never partake so soon after a long ride.”
I had forgotten about his strict habits, his carefulness. He was so unlike Accolon it often seemed impossible they were close cousins, and I could never imagine how they spent so many years travelling together as knights errant.
“You will stay to dine, though,” I countered. “I insist you accept some hospitality.”
He smiled in defeat. “It would be my honour,” he said, and the courteous tension between us dissipated.
I poured myself a goblet of Tressa’s apple wine and took a sip. “You needn’t have come to me directly,” I said. “Your wife must be eager to have you home.”
“Not so, Lady Morgan. My dear wife is visiting her mother some miles up-country and will not return for a fortnight. But I would have come to Belle Garde first in any case. It is my duty to bring you tidings from Camelot.”
I said nothing and drained my goblet.
“Are you not prepared to hear it?” he asked.
“I must listen regardless,” I said. “Though I’ve questioned whether I was right to involve you at all.”
Sir Manassen shook his head. “To kneel to you was my choice. You ask nothing of me that I am unwilling to do.”
I put my cup down and paced back towards my desk, casting my eyes across the chaos of strewn pages and quills I had left there. “What news, then?”
“The first thing you should know is that the High King has changed where he’s holding his Michaelmas court,” he began.
“From Carduel in the north to Caerleon. What’s more, he will be stopping to hunt the forests of your eastwards lordly neighbour, whose manor borders part of yours.
Very soon, King Arthur will be riding along your boundaries. ”
Of course, Caerleon was one of Arthur’s important courts and the closest royal palace to the valley, but my brother always gave my land a wide margin when travelling there. To my knowledge, there had never been fewer than three Welsh leagues between us.
“He has not come so close in years,” I said. “Nor can he touch a blade of grass in Belle Garde.” I slammed a hand down my desk, rattling a row of ink bottles. “Why in Lucifer’s name would he do this?”
My loss of composure brought immediate regret. “I apologize,” I said, turning back to Sir Manassen. “How was his reception of you? Given your relation to Accolon.”
“Unexpected,” he replied. “The King called for me in private and took pains to assure me my loyalty was not in question. Neither, he said, was Accolon’s reputation marked with any treason.”
Again my anger flared. “How dare he even suggest such a thing.”
He nodded, lip curling as if the memory bore a bitter taste.
“Our exchange wasn’t without questions, however.
Given he now knows about you and Accolon, I had to confess I never saw my cousin during those years as I claimed, but was covertly seeking him.
Which wasn’t untrue. The King didn’t mention you, only alluded to painful, complicated reasons for why things happened as they did, but said he would not detract from my deep loss.
In that way, he seemed reluctant to excuse anything he had done. ”
“If he is affecting regret, then that makes it worse.” I sighed, my vehemence dissolving with my breath. “Not that it could be any worse.”
Sir Manassen hung his head, exhaling hard in agreement. Nothing that Arthur or anyone could say had the power to change the agony of our loss. The sheer emptiness and depth of our shared abyss just was.
I leaned back against my desk and he did the same, made weary by memory. At length, I asked, “What then?”
“The King assured me his sentiments on my loyalty and courage would be shared by the court, and asked for my view on Accolon’s memorial tomb.”
“He’s building him a tomb? After everything—” I cut myself off, squeezing my eyes against a surge of tears until they receded. “The Devil take him,” I concluded.
“Quite,” Sir Manassen replied. “He said the tomb in St. Stephen’s cathedral will be lavish, a monument of great respect.
I gave the plans a cursory nod, though Accolon’s body should not even be there, he…
” His voice caught, thick with more feeling than he had ever let slip in my presence. “My cousin should be here, with you.”
Without thinking, I put my hand out and gripped his forearm. His eyebrows twitched up and I was certain I had gone too far in our brief time as allies, then his face relaxed into a sad smile that spoke of pure understanding. In this strange, tragic circumstance, we were eternally bonded.
“Arthur cannot erase what he’s done with carved marble and a special Mass,” I said. “The world may forget, but we won’t.”
Unexpectedly, he reached up and put a firm hand over mine. “No, we will not.”
We stayed that way for a long moment, then broke contact, surprised at ourselves but fortified. Suddenly, I couldn’t bear to delay knowledge any longer.
“My message,” I said. “Did you deliver it?”
Manassen nodded. “I read your letter aloud as written, before the entire court. When I finished, the High King asked for the parchment and studied it for a long time.”
I could see it clearly: Arthur in Camelot’s Throne Room, absorbing the fiery force of my words, as I had heard his cold voice through the herald sent to declare Accolon’s death.
I had lain awake imagining my brother’s reaction, the shock and fear I wanted to evoke.
Though he must have known I was alive after he saw me turned to stone, I still hoped it shook him to hear Morgan le Fay speak.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Not a word. Then the Queen asked for the letter and he gave it to her to read.”
My hackles rose at the mention of Guinevere invading the moment. “And?”
Sir Manassen regarded me directly, his stillness pronounced. “She…laughed.”
It was as if I had not heard it. “She what?”
“When she finished reading, the Queen laughed, as if someone had said something humorous,” he replied. “She said, ‘My lord, what do we have to fear from this letter? It is lies, the ravings of a desperate, traitorous woman. Queen Morgan of Gore is nothing to Camelot.’ ”
My throat felt hard and hot. “What did my brother do?”
“The High King considered her, then swiftly stood, declaring it was right for his lady wife to laugh, to show that Camelot will not fear anything, even in the wake of betrayal and corruption. But he looked solemn as the grave. He took back the letter, thanked me and swept out of the hall. The Queen was shocked but recovered herself, made some jesting comment and laughed again.” He shook his head grimly. “The court followed, of course.”