Chapter 25
I returned to my valley in the bare dawn, free of the glamour but aching, still wearing the weight of my lies like a cloak of steel.
Heavy with tiredness, I went to my bedchamber and lay down, but sleep would not come. My head was full of Yvain, every guilt and regret, things I should have said and done—on the road, in the past—pressing upon my soul.
In turn came visions of my disaster in the court, and a conclusion I never imagined possible. The emerald ring was my one move to secure my vengeance, and now it was gone, leaving me with a moody and unpredictable prisoner, admittedly fascinating, but more of a distraction than perhaps was wise.
The thought of Lancelot made me rise from the bed, circling the room to burn off the restlessness pricking at my body.
First of all, I needed keep away from him.
He was never going to confess, and our potential had turned to ruins, defied by the knightly vows he wore like a hair shirt.
All he could offer me now was temptation and wasted time.
What’s more, Midsummer’s Eve was approaching, along with Belle Garde’s annual feast, our most beloved celebration because it had been Accolon’s favourite.
After that would be the anniversary of his death and his birthday revel, all occasions that deserved my full attention.
With instant certainty I knew—du Lac could not be here for any of it.
Even so, the thought of simply releasing him was a battle my stubborn heart could not lose.
I had kidnapped Camelot’s champion knight for a purpose, and just because my revenge had failed, it didn’t mean he shouldn’t be of use.
There had always been one guaranteed way for eminent knights to earn their keep.
A jug of fresh water had been left for me, so I grabbed it and marched up to my study.
Sweeping aside the Hecate tapestries, I retrieved the silver bowl and carried everything out onto the balcony.
The water reflected the rising morning as I poured, lively in the light and awaiting my request. I leaned over the settling surface.
“Ninianne,” I murmured. Then, firmer, “Ninianne.”
Immediately, the liquid began to pulse from its centre in concentric circles, as if struck by a constant raindrop. It did not take long before the reflection changed from the sky above me to a large, pale-stone room, arched ceilings dappled with coloured light.
“Morgan?” came her low, enrapturing voice. “Is that you?”
She did not come into view, but her presence resonated through the water. I could sense her broken concentration beneath the continuing scratch of a quill; she was deep in study, and for a moment I wanted to ask what she was working on.
“Of course,” I replied. “How many enchanted silver bowls do you have out there?”
She ignored my sarcasm. “I never expected you to use it. I am pleased.”
“Save your satisfaction,” I said. “I bring difficult news. I have your son.”
The quill scratching stopped and her face appeared, shocked and gleaming. “What do you mean?”
“Sir Lancelot is my prisoner, with no hope of rescue. I will give him only to you.”
She paused to study my expression, her green eyes glittering, then settled on belief. “It will take me a while to get there,” she said. “I am across the sea. I need your word that nothing will happen to him.”
“You are in no position to make demands of me,” I replied. “This is a ransom. If you want Lancelot back, unharmed and in all his glory, you must bring me the Shroud of Tithonus. Soon—before Midsummer. I won’t wait indefinitely.”
“Morgan, I’ve told you before,” she began. “I don’t have—”
“This is not a discussion,” I cut in. “Farewell, Ninianne.”
In the midst of her protests, I lifted the silver bowl and poured the water over the balcony. Her pleas echoed, then dissipated, flying away on the wind.
*
In truth, I didn’t know if Ninianne could get the Shroud; I was relying on a suspicion that had scratched at me with little proof for years. However, if anything would bring her to my door, it would be her son.
The thought brought a vision of Yvain, of his good humour and generosity, which had allowed me to learn of him, his troubles and hopes, as we rode side by side.
In an effort to ward off my sadness, I sent for a fresh horse and retrieved a large gyrfalcon from the mews, intending to disappear for a few hours flying.
I was leashing the bird to my saddlebow on the front green when Alys happened upon me.
“You are back—thank goodness,” she said breathlessly. She was drawn and dark-eyed, as if she hadn’t slept. “There’s a problem with Sir Lancelot.”
Who else? I thought tiredly. There never seemed to be any escaping him.
“What’s he done now?” I asked.
“He’s stopped eating.”
No one noticed at first, she explained—he was sly about it, throwing his meals into the underground channel that led from the lodge’s privy, or into the fire. Once it was discovered, he simply declined food outright, leaving it to fester in its hatch until someone took it away again.
“It’s a protest, or a play for sympathy,” I said. “Tell the kitchen to keep sending food. He’ll eat when he’s hungry.”
“It’s more than that,” she said. “Since you left, he hasn’t taken wine or water.”
I stopped still. “No liquid at all?”
She shook her head, toying anxiously with her braid. We both knew what it meant: Lancelot was determined to die.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “He is dedicated to his knightly vows, not to mention God-fearing. He would not meet his end this way.”
There were many shameful ways for knights to perish, and they were desperate to avoid them all, but self-destruction was by far the worst, a mortal sin regarded as an act of utmost cowardice. Lancelot had many faults, but lack of bravery had never been one of them.
“Five days, Morgan,” Alys said. “I don’t know how much longer he can—”
In my chest, my tired heart started to pound. I thought of Yvain, his love for his brother-in-arms, the friend he missed, and new guilt hit me like a winter flood.
“It’s all right,” I told her, easing up into the saddle behind the falcon. “I’ll fix it.”
The morning sky was afire as I rode to the lodge—an ominous portent, so the shepherds said. Leaving the hooded falcon dozing on my saddlebow, I retrieved an ignored wine jug from the hatch, filled it with fresh well water and let myself into Lancelot’s prison.
The large chamber was dark and stuffy. I opened the shutters with a gesture, filling the room with brightness and fresh air.
Unusually, my captive was not stalking the room, or glowering at me over his chessboard, but still in bed.
Or at least, he was a lumpen form lying on it, in his shirt and breeches.
I could tell by his breaths that he wasn’t asleep.
I strode across and put the pitcher on a side table, then stood over the so-called best knight of the world.
“Lancelot,” I said, “are you really going to let yourself die like this?”
Slowly, the jumble of limbs turned, sunken eyes squinting into the light. Heat came off him in waves, the body’s urgent response to preserve its remaining water. A dark scruff of beard shadowed his jaw.
“My lady, please,” he croaked. “Leave me alone, I beg of you.”
“Do not try to get around me with politeness,” I said. “It’s beneath us both.”
My voice was not harsh but held a hint of challenge, and Lancelot stirred at the sound, his bloodshot eyes igniting. I lifted the water jug and poured a gobletful. The liquid’s song drew his attention, but when I held out the cup, he looked away.
“You need to drink,” I said.
“No,” he croaked. “It is futile—everything. A day or so more, and I will be no trouble to you. All I ask is for you to send my body to the nearest holy place, so I can be buried in the name of Christ.”
His self-indulgence lit a fire in my gut. “Damn you,” I cursed. “If you think I’m going to let Camelot’s best knight die on my land, and take the blame for something else not my doing, then you are mistaken. End your life anywhere else, but not at Belle Garde.”
Unexpectedly, he moved, hoisting himself up onto his elbows to better stare me down. “I’ll do what I want,” he growled. “You cannot watch me every moment.”
If I could provoke him into argument, perhaps there was hope.
“I will if that’s what it takes,” I replied. “I’ll lay hands and heal you if I have to.”
He managed a scoff through cracked lips. “I’d rather you cut off my head.”
The fierceness on his face brought me a healer’s satisfaction. Somehow, I had goaded him back to life. I held out the cup.
“Then drink,” I said.
We glared at one another like two feuding bulls, but in the end, my threat prevailed.
Lancelot propped himself up on an elbow and took the goblet, sipping slowly, the relief of refreshment closing his eyes.
I let my senses follow the water as it ran down his gullet and into the tributaries of his body.
“Good,” I couldn’t help but say.
His eyes snapped open, severe but already clearer. He thrust the empty goblet back at me. “It’s just delaying what is inevitable.”
“You might defy God, but you won’t defeat Morgan le Fay,” I retorted. “And I will not bear the responsibility of letting you die.”
“It is not your choice.”
Pushing both fists into the mattress, Lancelot tried to force himself to his feet, but the exertion was too much and he collapsed forwards, breathing hard.
I caught his shoulders to stay his fall, and his afflictions flew to me in unison: an aching, shrunken stomach, organs strained to their limit, a relentless, devastating thirst. The cup of water had barely begun to relieve what he had visited upon himself. His entire body was made from pain.
I eased him back against the pillows. “If you won’t let me heal you, we need something more.”
His response was a glower, so I returned to the jug and passed my hand over the rim, asking the element to gain in potency, as Ninianne had once done for me at Merlin’s. The water quivered, clarifying until its goodness glittered through the liquid like diamonds.
“What are you doing?” Lancelot asked.
“This water will restore your strength,” I said, pouring another cupful. “Your fairy mother taught me this trick, so that should prove I’m not here to harm you.”
Invoking Ninianne gave him pause. He rolled his eyes and took the goblet. “You’ll do whatever you wish; you always have,” he said, after several refreshing gulps. “You are the most disloyal and treacherous woman in all Britain.”
Insults; this was more like it.
“Only Britain?” I said carelessly.
He scowled between sips. “Perhaps who has ever lived.”
“And you are the ‘Flower of All Knighthood,’ ” I said. “Yet unable to withstand the slightest of my provocations.”
He glared at me, then leaned over and swiped the jug from my hands. Briskly, he refilled his own cup and drank with a furrowed brow. Again I sensed the crystal liquid flowing through him, his strength returning with every drop.
“Why do you, of all people, care about keeping me alive?” he asked. “What do you want from this?”
The question struck me, mainly because I had little idea how to respond.
I wanted Lancelot gone from Belle Garde, and Ninianne was on her way, but my ransom plans had brought no satisfaction, nor cured the restlessness that still scratched beneath my surface.
When I tried again to capture the feeling, it flew out of my reach.
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “Perhaps nothing, anymore.”
“Everyone wants something,” he said. “Even if it is impossible, or an act of faith.”
His words resonated within me, the revelation sudden as a peregrine dive. What I wanted was not to perform my own act of faith, but to answer one.
I simply do not believe her capable of so much maleficence, in the way it is claimed, Yvain had told the damsel. Is that wrong of me?
My own son had offered the only faith I needed—his belief that I was better than how the world painted Morgan le Fay.
All I wanted was for Yvain not to be wrong, and for me to deserve such a blessing.
And what my son most wished for was to be restored in the eyes of the court.
Lancelot did not need to be ransomed; he needed to be found.
“What if I let you go?” I said suddenly. “With conditions, of course.”
Lancelot’s face leapt to surprise. “If you think you will get me to tell you—”
I held up my hand. “No more will I ask who you love. But say I will release you from my custody now, if you swear me a different oath. All you must do is stay away from the Royal Court until Christmastide, take the exact route I give you on the Cymri roads and travel directly to your own castle in the northeast. Would you agree?”
Lancelot studied me again, suspicion writ across his face, gaunt but with his colour returning. His inner strength was almost restored.
“No,” he said slowly. “I would not.”
It hit me like a joust strike. “It’s barely half a year. You don’t want to be free?”
“Not on those terms.”
There had never been a refusal so absurd. “Then you will rot,” I said, incredulous.
With an insouciance I did not know he had, Lancelot shrugged. “So be it.”
I stepped back, regarding him in disbelief. His gaze met mine, cool and serious, as if he sensed the chaos in me and refused to let it entangle him.
We stayed that way for what felt like an age, a true stalemate in the great chess game that had started the moment we met. Something needed to change.
I sighed. “This is getting us nowhere. Come with me.”