Chapter 48
“King Arthur is dead?”
It sounded just as unlikely in my repetition as it had in Sir Mordred’s voice. I stared at him in horror, though the accompanying feeling wasn’t quite the kick to the gut I would have expected.
“Where—when?” I asked. “How did it happen?”
For a heartbeat, he looked taken aback, then quickly arranged his face to solemnity. “In battle, I believe. One of Sir Lancelot’s faction, perhaps du Lac himself, struck the blow. Details are scant—all that has been confirmed is that the High King has perished.”
His vagueness was strange—one did not just make the most important declaration to befall any kingdom without precise information.
Nor did he follow with Long Live the King, but of course there wasn’t one—no children or named heirs, no obvious knight to step into the breach, Lancelot having been pinned to infamy by Sir Mordred’s own brother.
What Agravaine did was too meticulous, too faultlessly executed, to have come from his mind alone.
Yvain’s words flew back to me as I looked at my youngest nephew, keen-eyed and swathed in expensive silks, then at the cabal of helmed, anonymous guards behind him.
“This is a terrible shock,” I said carefully. “You had better come in so we can discuss it. Your men, however, must leave my land and wait for you beyond the boundary.”
He smirked. “Do not worry, Aunt Morgan. They won’t do any harm without my explicit word.”
“They couldn’t draw their swords before I turned them into a pile of ashes,” I replied. “But you wanted this news kept quiet for now, and the presence of armed men might cause alarm—speculation. Dismiss them, and we may speak.”
I left him to consider and swept away, into the entrance hall.
I strode directly to the fireplace and extended my hands, under the pretence of warming them.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I turned inwards, reaching into my depths, where I found the ancient power of Tintagel’s sea, fierce and blue, foaming white at its edges.
To see it roiling was enough, but a reply came instantly: a sharp gust of breeze, pulling a wave into a muscular curve.
It rose, cresting high and controlled, then the wind slammed the salt water into the rocky cliffside.
My brother had answered me, his presence strong as ever.
What my instinct had known was true—Arthur was alive.
In turn, it followed that Sir Mordred was the strategist behind Camelot’s chaos with his brother Agravaine, and he had certainly parlayed the aftermath into his power advantage. But what did it mean, his bringing this spurious announcement to my door?
“My men are gone, as you prefer.” The voice was sudden, looming at my shoulder. I spun around to face my nephew once again. “Truly, I am sorry to be the one who has to bring you such dreadful news,” he added. “It is not how I wished us to meet again.”
He cast sorrowful eyes down at me, his face painted into a convincing sympathy. Sir Mordred was good at pretending.
So too would I have to be. The protective charms had permitted him entry, but he could not be trusted beyond the severity of the lie he had just told.
“Nor I,” I replied. “This is so unexpected—I need to sit down.” I made a show of composing myself and gestured to the reception room door. “We will have privacy here.”
Mordred bowed and followed me into the room. I sat in a fireside chair, but he padded the room like a black-and-gold wolf. When he had investigated every corner, he swept back and settled his wiry frame into the seat across from me.
“I must say, you are taking the news rather well,” he commented. “The lack of tears, no falling to your knees in prayer.”
I conjured a burst of flame amidst the unlit kindling in the hearth. “How could you form expectations of my reaction? You hardly know me.”
Sir Mordred smiled, his demeanour smooth and cool as a looking glass, an arresting expression that reminded me of Morgause. The burgeoning flames cut his profile out in shadow, his hair a golden crown.
“Maybe, dear aunt, but what I do know is impressive. You have done much with your life, despite challenges and condemnation. My mother told me of you, the last time we met. She said you were clever, a survivor, unfailingly loyal to those close to you.”
“I am loyal to whoever I deem worthy,” I replied. “Though I’m pleased my sister thought so highly of me. She was a shrewd, strong woman who knew exactly who she was, and I always admired her for it.”
Sir Mordred nodded into the fire. “In truth, I barely knew her. Our only conversations were when I was already a man, unfortunately few. As you probably know, King Lot believed me a bastard and I was sent away, so she did not raise me as she did my brothers. I didn’t even know I had siblings until I was grown and knighted. ”
“I’m sorry that was what happened,” I said. “Above all things, I know what your mother’s children meant to her. To lose you would have broken her heart.”
“Yes, well, she did attempt to explain it,” he replied. “It seemed to pain her, even though my upbringing was as pleasant and uneventful as any boy could wish for. And she at least told me of my true father, though I suspect he considers me a grave mistake.”
“That is unfortunate,” I said, and he shrugged.
“Regrets have no purpose,” he said. “There is only what can be done next. Such as at this very moment—a strong plan is required to marshal the kingdom through its grief and bring about the change that is needed.”
The switch of subject was quick, and intriguing. “If the King is dead, won’t stability in the realm be key?” I asked.
“It is questionable what stability there is left, after the rupture between King Arthur and Sir Lancelot. Things are already in turmoil.”
“A rupture that you caused,” I said. “From what I hear, you have done quite enough, bringing this turmoil about.”
His eyes flashed—he had not expected me to have guessed his part in things. “An odd moral judgment to make, Aunt Morgan,” he said, less smooth. “Tell me, for how many years did you try to expose the treason at the heart of Camelot?”
“I will not lie, but my only purpose back then was vengeance,” I said. “What was your reason, Sir Mordred?”
“What I achieved was bringing the nation the truth,” he said.
“Since the Grail Quest, most of Camelot has known what was going on behind the Queen’s bedchamber door, given the way she and her knight behaved around one another.
Except the King, of course. His partiality for them was never going to allow him to believe it without undeniable proof. ”
It gave me no pleasure to hear that everything I warned Ninianne of had come true. Clearly, only Arthur’s stubborn faith had kept Camelot from imploding sooner.
“So, King Arthur was made a cuckold and a fool,” Mordred continued. “Everyone knew, but no one dared speak of it, fearing their own position. Camelot’s concept of loyalty had become so twisted it was strangling the kingdom. The treason had to be brought to light.”
“A noble cause,” I said drily. “How pleased you must be to subsequently find yourself in charge.”
My nephew recoiled slightly, as if offended.
“That’s not quite fair. I have suffered much loss, and sacrificed many things to walk the righteous path.
Three of my brothers have been killed at Sir Lancelot’s hand, and Gawain in his warlike ways risks the same.
King Arthur has fallen. But from terrible tragedy can spring great potential—indeed it must. What the Seven Realms need now is fast, decisive action. Leadership.”
“So it may be,” I said in a bored voice. “Though I do not see how any of this pertains to me. I have been Enemy to the Crown for a quarter century. I have no armed men, no political connections or standing in the Court. I never cared for the systems of power.”
“Exactly, Lady Morgan.” In a sudden jolt, he sat upright from his louche position.
“Your grievances are well known. The kingdom’s rules sent you into exile, turned your son against you and destroyed your reputation.
They let my mother—your sister—suffer an unjust death and did nothing to punish it.
We share a common interest in all that Camelot has wrought upon us. ”
I looked at him askance. “Our paths have not been easy, but you are a Knight of the Round Table, nephew to the High King himself. Before he went to war, Arthur put you in charge of the entire realm. Does that mean nothing?”
“Of course,” he said. “King Arthur showed great faith in me, and now it is time for me to answer that call to action.” He leaned towards me, steepling his fingers like a priest intoning at Mass.
“Camelot has long been resistant to change. These recent disruptions are more dents in a crown that has been of dubious authority for years. This is an opportunity to address the careless idealism that has made this nation weak, and turn its focus to strength, better control and true unification. I want you to be part of the new world we must create.”
A coup, I thought. That’s all this is. Just as Yvain said.
A grab at power no different from the many others my brother had defeated over the years. Except now, the Crown’s forces were split and warring in Benoic, and his proxy was telling the kingdom he had been slain. Arthur did not know how much things had changed in his own Throne Room.
I made no reply, unsure what was safe to say next. Sir Mordred watched me think, keen to my every reaction. “I hope I have not overstepped my bounds, Lady Morgan,” he said carefully. “Or that I am not too bold, speaking to you this way.”
He distracted like a master thief, his every word part obfuscation.
A chill of unease crept between my shoulder blades, but this was an opportunity, a point of suspension in our conversation so far.
Assuming me to be of the same mind, Sir Mordred was overconfident—or as men often did, he just liked to hear his own voice.
It was time to push him and see how much he would give.