Chapter 40 #2
She sighed. “I am not perfect, Morgan. My instincts are powerful, but they are natural, not unassailable, and are at the mercy of my surroundings just as anyone else’s.
I was in a panic, hurrying to reach King Arthur.
There was so much noise and violence—the King was bleeding, determined to fight to the death but failing. I was overwhelmed.”
I could not argue with her. After all, I knew what it was for one’s innermost senses to fail.
When I had gone to St. Stephen’s cathedral to see Accolon’s body on his dreadful altar—when I took his heart and swore to avenge him against Camelot’s wrongs—there had been too much despair roaring in my blood to discern his powerful heartsong.
“I believe you,” I said tiredly. “But if he was so upset about Accolon, why did Arthur declare to me and the court that he acted purposefully?”
“I cannot say, beyond that he rightfully believed himself betrayed,” Ninianne said.
“I was not privy to his thoughts thereafter and had no involvement in the bier or his message, but I did not disagree. You and he had been at odds for years. You kept the scabbard, a powerful object that could easily be used against him. He told me that once, you threatened to lay waste to his court and said you could run the kingdom without breaking stride.”
There was no lie in Ninianne’s words. This country deserves better, I had told him, that day in the hawthorn grove. Arthur took threats about as well as I did, with his kingdom’s welfare his tenderest spot, yet I had chosen to throw that spear.
“I still don’t see how it was enough to damn me,” I said stubbornly. “We could have grieved this together, unravelled Merlin’s lies, maybe even repaired things. Why could he not have been honest?”
“That is a question for King Arthur, not me,” Ninianne said. “But you and he have always been the same—stubborn, unrepentant, thinking yourselves correct. Yet I have always believed there is the potential to resolve this, if one of you takes the first step.”
I shook my head. “It will not be me. Arthur has known the truth of Accolon’s death all along and has chosen not to put things right. If my brother ever wishes to speak to me, he knows where I am.”
“I would not have expected anything different,” she said with a smile. A distinct ease had come into her tone, new calm settling between us. Ninianne was letting herself understand who I was, and accepting me anyway.
“I prefer us like this,” I said quietly. “I never enjoyed us being at odds, not able to speak candidly or share our knowledge these past years.”
“Nor have I,” she said with a sigh. Ninianne’s eyes flicked to mine and rested there, and we fell into a contemplative silence.
“Did you let him go?” she said suddenly. “Lancelot.”
“No—he escaped,” I replied. “Broke the bars on his window, took his horse and rode off. As he could have done at any time during his eighteen-month stay. Then, one day, something finally pulled him away.”
“What?” she asked, and I offered her a sceptical look.
“You know full well, Ninianne. Camelot pulled him back. Love did. For Guinevere and Arthur he broke loose, one or both of them. There is nowhere else his heart wants to go.”
For a moment, she looked set to argue, then put a hand to her forehead and groaned. “By the goddess, why could he not have stayed where he was, away from his distractions? Better he be safe there than in Camelot with… ”
She expelled a long, guilty breath, more revealing than a thousand words.
“You knew,” I said. “All along. At our last meeting, you insisted there was no proof of Lancelot and Guinevere being lovers, or treasonous, then distracted me by speaking of Avalon and the loss of magic. You knew and were complicit in the lie.”
“No, it did not happen that way,” she protested, then gathered herself.
“When you told me you were not the betrayal prophecy, I believed you and it changed things. Every day since, I have felt destiny’s threat hanging over my son.
When Lancelot is apart from Guinevere, the danger is small.
Now he has returned…if he stays with the Royal Court, it will end in disaster.
My only choice is to try to prevent it.”
“How will you do that?” I asked.
“A quest,” she declared. “I will arrange an urgent endeavour to separate Lancelot and the Queen.”
“It seems a temporary solution at best,” I said. “He has been away from the court a long time. How do you know he will agree to leave again?”
“It must be something important,” she replied. “Godly, glorious. Difficult and lengthy. There is an object I know of—holy and protected. Worthy of his attention. I will ask him to seek this treasure in front of the court. For honour alone he will accept.”
Her matter-of-fact tone struck me with unease. “What about Arthur?” I asked. “Are you still loyal to him?”
Her light glittered with affront. “Of course. As I always have been.”
“In that case, if you believe the prophecy—that Arthur’s life is at risk from this betrayal—doesn’t he have a right to know? Who chooses what’s best for the realm?”
“I am thinking about what is best,” she snapped. “What is right for my son will be right for the kingdom. There is nothing else.”
I could have taken my own offence, but there was more at stake than what I felt, or wanted for myself.
Yet again, Arthur was not in control of his destiny, and for once, the thought of Camelot crumbling around him did not bring me satisfaction.
Whatever the game, every player deserved to be in full possession of the rules.
“Ninianne, wait,” I said. “You’re not being fair.”
Before I could go on, her image blurred to nothing, and I realized she had thrown the water from the bowl.