Chapter 11
The first thing I did when I reached the house was write a letter to my sister.
My middle sister, to be exact—my prudent, even-handed Elaine, Queen of Garlot.
Her country was of the same reserved attitude as herself, with an easy alliance to Arthur and modest ambitions of only keeping its own peace.
For this reason, since I had been run out of Camelot, I had not sought contact with Elaine, so as not to taint her contented and carefully balanced existence with my she-devil reputation.
But Ninianne’s news had struck differently, bringing a fervent yearning that, out of necessity, I had long tried to keep buried.
Arthur’s decade-old Royal Decree had prevented me from contacting Yvain by threatening his knightly future, but during my final catastrophic trip to Camelot six years ago, I had looked into my son’s hurt, angry face and chosen to leave him to his happy and successful life, now fully in motion.
Yet Elaine was my sister, and my son was in her household. I was more a woman of free will than Fate, but some signs could not be ignored.
I drafted my message on a wax tablet a hundred times before I committed it to parchment.
E, it said, I have heard that something precious of mine is in your hands. Due to my mistakes and the world’s cruel ways, I have not heard news of what I cherish for many years, but it has never left my mind. I will not ask for more, but all I wish to hear is—how does my treasure fare? M
For caution’s sake, I did not sign my letter in full and added a magnanimous afterthought. Burn this note and do not reply if contact is of any risk to you. I will understand.
Then another postscript, less careful but deeply felt: I cannot bear to cause any pain. He should not know I ask about him.
I sent the letter by fast horse messenger, and never let myself expect a response.
It was too much to ask of my sensible sister, and she would be right not to indulge me.
So determined was I to pre-empt my disappointment that when Alys entered the study a fortnight later, idly holding out a sleek folded packet to me, I did not make the connection.
“What’s this?” I said, glancing at the red wax bearing the image of a heron.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “It says your name, but I don’t recognize the seal.”
Nor did I, so I tore it open and unfolded the letter—good, expensive parchment, covered with a hand that was legible but belonged to no scribe.
My eyes went directly to the neat, upright signature at the end.
The first and last letters of the name were emphasized, a trait I recognized even through the long halls of time.
“Elaine,” I gasped.
She had replied and even signed her name, the heron seal—not Garlot’s standard but her personal arms, a symbol of nobility and patience. In other words, Elaine to her core.
Morgan, the letter said. You always were so dramatic.
I will not hide or pretend I do not have sisters.
You have every right to ask about your beloved one, and I am sorry that this is the only way you can.
If I had known they were keeping him from you in private as well as in public, I would have sought to change it earlier.
It was her calm voice, as clear as if she were standing in our old nursery chamber, sighing over some careless act of mine. Tears welled up, but I held them back so Alys would not see and took the letter out onto the balcony.
Your son is strong, healthy and full of life, it went on.
Quick of mind and body, with an easy nature and good humour, which brings us much amusement.
He excels at his knightly training—quick-witted at lessons, adept at the courtly requirements—and charms every tutor.
Skilled with sword and horse, I am told.
Handsome, of course, but without vanity.
Sometimes his expressions remind me of Father.
He has your eyes. And your boldness, occasionally. His sense of loyalty is strong, and he fights for what he believes is right. When something matters to him, he is not afraid to speak the truth—as he sees it—to authority.
A tear fell and splashed on the parchment, then another.
Every day I had ached with the effort of trying to envision my growing child, and Elaine had anticipated exactly what I wanted to hear.
Suddenly, my mind’s eye could see Yvain, sense him, understand him.
In a few brief words I knew my son again.
Even if I had never been told, my sister wrote, for those reasons, I would have known he was yours.
*
I wrote back, still cautious but hopeful, and Elaine replied again at once, until our network of messengers were retained solely for our correspondence, and letters flew back and forth as quickly as their fast horses would allow.
Our replies grew longer; I asked more, shared more, hungry for every word of Yvain and eager to tell my sister my own truths.
We spoke upon our interests, family memories, our lives since we were in Cornwall.
I told her of my time at Camelot, Belle Garde, even my breach with our brother, with the caveat I was not seeking for her to take sides.
However, on the story of my marriage, Elaine was not without opinion.
I met your erstwhile husband not long ago, she told me. Despite his good looks and superior airs, he is surprisingly unimpressive. I see why you chose to run as far away as you could. Knowing you as I do, I assume he bored you to tears.
She made me laugh, she made me cry, but I lived for every one of her words.
Meanwhile, Arthur’s war in the north had begun.
Belle Garde grew quiet: no knights came seeking to capture me, though the infirmary continued to gather patients and renown.
As promised, I didn’t send storms, birds or any other disruption as Arthur led his army up-country, less out of obedience than the thought of my son, training hard in Garlot; what Ninianne had given me that could be taken away.
Moreover, I wouldn’t have compromised Elaine for anything.
Such as it was, I tried to direct my attention towards other things.
I wrote, I read; Alys, Tressa and I finally decided to call our manuscript on women’s afflictions finished, then immediately began a second volume.
I no longer tried to raise dead birds, but I did quietly study my resurrection formula, refining it with the Shroud of Tithonus in mind.
One day, I even saddled up Phénix and set out for the cave where Ninianne had ended the Age of Merlin, putting my cheek to the sword-scarred stone that blocked the entrance to his tomb.
“What say you now, you pile of bones?” I demanded, but for once the sorcerer’s voice was silent, and no thrill of vitality answered. If the Shroud of Tithonus had ever been there, then it was dust, along with Merlin himself. A victory and a defeat, all at once.
Soon after, the news came. Following two years of failed treaties and hard-fought battles, Arthur’s war was over.
The war of Saxon Rock has finally been won, Elaine wrote.
My husband and eldest son, and most of our knights, have returned safe and well.
An agreement was made with the rebelling faction, and the High King declared victory and a new peace in the name of Camelot.
From what we hear, dissatisfaction with the Crown has quietened, and a sense of unity has been restored throughout the kingdom.
Much of this I had already gleaned from the knights out questing again, some who ended up at Belle Garde’s infirmary or dining hall, or occasionally beneath candlelit bedsheets with my restless self.
My instinct was to return to my former campaign, to disrupt the celebratory tournaments, banquets and hunts that were being thrown by the Royal Court at a near-constant rate, but Elaine’s next missive gave me pause.
I am sad to say that your son is due to leave us, she wrote.
Now the war is over, he will go to Camelot and squire for King Arthur for a while, a great honour ahead of his knighthood when he reaches eighteen.
His time here has been a pleasure, and I will miss him, as much as I will miss sharing his progress with you.
Be assured that I will make every effort to hear of him and keep bringing you news.
So for Yvain, my son, rushing towards his knightly future with unfathomable speed, I left Arthur and his court in peace, revelling and carefree, amidst what they were now calling Camelot’s Golden Age.
*
Two years, more training—which my sister kept diligent track of—and many letters later, the day finally came.
Your son was knighted today by King Arthur, at Camelot, Elaine said. Myself and my husband were in attendance, and all were made proud. Yvain stood tall and handsome and took his oaths with admirable grace. There was a great feast and much celebration.
Upon seeing it in matter-of-fact black ink, I did not know what was more torturous: the parts of the ceremony that I could picture—Camelot’s Throne Room, my brother in his kingly robes, regal and serious—or the aspects my mind’s eye would not provide.
What Yvain wore to receive the accolade, whether he trembled to stand before so many people; my son’s face, changed from boy to man in ways I could barely imagine.
However, my sister had more, an uncertainty creeping into her usually steady hand. Now, I must make a confession, she wrote. I pray to God what I have done does not cause trouble between us. Before we left Camelot, Yvain asked me of his mother. Of you.
My heart lurched with a hope too painful, as my mind provided every possible disaster such an action could bring. I forced myself to read on.
There were questions—where you reside, how you live, who you are as a sister and woman.
I did not have time for much thought, so for the first time in my life, I took the risk and spoke of you, the truth from my heart.
He is a man now, old enough to know beyond what he has been told.
I do not regret it, Morgan, even if you are angry with me.
I gazed at her letter in wonder. For my sake, Elaine had defied me and her own careful nature, her love and bravery humbling in its quiet power.
Never has there been a sister of such wisdom and selfless grace, I wrote back. You have done more for my life than I knew how to do myself.
Then, my own leap of faith, the kind I had long not trusted myself to make.
I ask only one last thing. If you speak to my son, explain where Belle Garde is and how best to reach it. Tell him that he is welcome here, and I will always be waiting.
But Yvain never came; of course he didn’t. Six months after his knighthood, in the bleak hollow of winter, the only arrival was more news from my sister, her tone apologetic.
Three months ago, Yvain swore fealty to his uncle as a knight of Camelot and joined the Royal Court officially. Word has it, he has donned the plain white silks and been inducted into the Order of Queen’s Knights.
I stared at the parchment. To imagine Yvain serving Guinevere, obeying her, protecting her, burned through every shred of hope I had let build within me over the past few years.
Camelot, as ever, was winning: much as I had tried, no one had been punished for Accolon’s death, not a soul shamed for the lies and wrongs thrown upon my name.
I stood by as the realm’s unity continued to strengthen and the kingdom returned to peace, while my son was stolen from me all over again. Arthur did not even send his men to bring me to justice anymore. I was beneath my brother’s notice.
It was the first and last time I ever threw one of Elaine’s letters into the fire.