Mordred’s Version

By Beric Norman

The Arthurian Legend is Britain’s version of Greek Tragedy. Incest, adultery, murder and intrigue abound, and most of the famous heroes are flawed.

The collapse of the Round Table is usually blamed on King Arthur’s wayward Queen Guinevere and her illicit love for the king’s best friend, Sir Lancelot. But in this enthralling new telling of the story Beric Norman shows that Camelot was doomed from the outset: The victorious young Arthur was seduced by his enemy’s wife, not knowing that she was also his sister! Trying to avert the terrible consequence predicted by Merlin, he was led to the brink of a dreadful crime.

Mordred, the son of that incestuous affair, is traditionally regarded as the villain of the piece. ‘Mordred’s Version’ puts the record straight.

Drawing on Malory, Geoffrey of Monmouth, Chrétien de Troyes, numerous modern sources and the author’s lively imagination, this is a racy, refreshing and revealing re-interpretation of a great fable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amolibros
• Release date: Oct 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781908557612

Beric Norman

Beric Norman has written several books on psychological topics (depression, memory disorders) and a number of plays and reviews including The Pilgrim’s Progress, The Anatomy of Melancholy, Christmas Carroll, The Memory Clinic and a musical, The Madness of King Arthur. His clinical study of Ebenezer Scrooge ‘Mr E S’ and a discussion of the psychiatry of nursery rhymes have featured on Radio 4. An academic psychiatrist, he has also been an actor with London’s Tower Theatre Company for more than twenty years. Mordred’s Version is his first published novel.

Book preview

Mordred’s Version

by Beric Norman

Published electronically by Amolibros at Smashwords 2013

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

About the Author

Notices

Dedication

Preface

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Igraine

Chapter Two

Sir Ector

Part Two

Chapter Three

The Sword in the Stone

Chapter Four

King Lot’s Rebellion

Chapter Five

Sisters

Chapter Six

The Queen from the North

Chapter Seven

The Round Up

Chapter Eight

King Leodegrance’s Daughter

Chapter Nine

The Knight with the Crooked Face

Chapter Ten

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

Chapter Eleven

Getting to Know You

Part Three

Chapter Twelve

The Lost Prince

Chapter Thirteen

Find the Heir!

Chapter Fourteen

The Green Knight

Chapter Fifteen

Gawaine’s New Brother

Chapter Sixteen

Gawaine’s Ordeal

Chapter Seventeen

A Princess in Hot Water

Chapter Eighteen

The Queen is Not Amused

Chapter Nineteen

Confrontation

Chapter Twenty

Le Chevalier Mal Fet

Chapter Twenty-one

Call to Camelot

Chapter Twenty-two

A Stepson for Guinevere

Chapter Twenty-three

The End of an Affair

Chapter Twenty-four

Jaclyn’s Little Sister

Chapter Twenty-five

The Oik

Chapter Twenty-six

My Hero!

Chapter Twenty-seven

Consummation

Chapter Twenty-eight

Treachery

Chapter Twenty-nine

Comeuppance

Chapter Thirty

Death of a Princess

Chapter Thirty-one

The Horror! The Horror!

Chapter Thirty-two

Father and Son

Chapter Thirty-three

Morgan’s Game

Part Four

Chapter Thirty-four

Galahad

Chapter Thirty-five

The Grail Quest

Chapter Thirty-six

Long Live the Prince!

Chapter Thirty-seven

Caught!

Chapter Thirty-eight

The Fatal Rescue

Chapter Thirty-nine

Siege!

Chapter Forty

The Villain of the Piece!

Chapter Forty-one

A Woman Scorned

Chapter Forty-two

Gawaine’s Going

Chapter Forty-three

Confusions

Chapter Forty-four

The Wicked Day of Destiny

Chapter Forty-five

Farewell For Ever

Chapter Forty-six

Lancelot’s Last Journey

Author’s Note

The Arthurian Legend is Britain’s version of Greek Tragedy. Incest, adultery, murder and intrigue abound, and most of the famous heroes are flawed.

The collapse of the Round Table is usually blamed on King Arthur’s wayward Queen Guinevere and her illicit love for the king’s best friend, Sir Lancelot. But in this enthralling new telling of the story Beric Norman shows that Camelot was doomed from the outset: The victorious young Arthur was seduced by his enemy’s wife, not knowing that she was also his sister! Trying to avert the terrible consequence predicted by Merlin, he was led to the brink of a dreadful crime.

Mordred, the son of that incestuous affair, is traditionally regarded as the villain of the piece. ‘Mordred’s Version’ puts the record straight.

Drawing on Malory, Geoffrey of Monmouth, Chrétien de Troyes, numerous modern sources and the author’s lively imagination, this is a racy, refreshing and revealing re-interpretation of a great fable.

About the Author

Beric Norman has written several books on psychological topics (depression, memory disorders) and a number of plays and reviews including The Pilgrim’s Progress, The Anatomy of Melancholy, Christmas Carroll, The Memory Clinic and a musical, The Madness of King Arthur. His clinical study of Ebenezer Scrooge ‘Mr E S’ and a discussion of the psychiatry of nursery rhymes have featured on Radio 4. An academic psychiatrist, he has also been an actor with London’s Tower Theatre Company for more than twenty years. Mordred’s Version is his first published novel.

Notices

Copyright © Beric Norman 2005

First published in 2005 by Crawford Redfern, 8 Palmers Hill, Epping Essex CM16 6SG

Published electronically by Amolibros 2013 | http://www.amolibros.com

The right of Beric Norman to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This book production has been managed by Amolibros | http://www.amolibros.com

Cover design Martin Faulkner

Dedication

To MARK and MARCUS

Mordred’s Version: King Arthur’s Dishonour

Preface

Since boyhood I’ve been intrigued by the part played by Mordred in the Arthurian legend – the illegitimate son whose malevolence finally shattered the Round Table.

Reading Malory’s Le Morte Darthur more recently, I was struck by the similarity of the Mordred story to that of Oedipus, and felt that a case could, and perhaps should, be made for Mordred a a victim of fate rather than ‘the villain of the piece’.

I don’t claim that this is original. Nancy Springer’s I Am Mordred stimulated me, and to her I owe much of my Nimue and the role of the Raven. From T H White’s The Once and Future King I borrowed Arthur’s tactics in the battle with King Lot and the Cockney Sir Meliagaunt, from the Lerner and Loewe musical Camelot (based on White’s story) the very French Lancelot, and dozens of other modern variations on the Arthurian theme have had their influence.

This novel began with a play, The Madness of King Arthur, with songs (music by my piano teacher, Mark Brown) which took shape in a ‘platform performance’ at London’s Tower Theatre, Canonbury, with a cast from the company’s recent production of The Winter’s Tale in the Bois de Boulogne and my own group of readers, Speakeasy. Frustration over the difficulty in giving (as yet) the play a wider audience led me to re-write it as a novel.

This taught me how laborious it can be to put into words alone feelings and ideas already aptly expressed in a song. On the other hand, I was able to expand the plot and flesh out some of the characters.

Marcus Toulmin-Rothe, our original Lancelot, not only read the first draft but corrected my French, while the Austrian member of our family, Liz Netolitsky, helped me with the German: any residual errors are, of course, mine alone! My thanks also go to Jane Tatam of Amolibros for her expert guidance and encouragement.

BN

September 2004

Prologue

A huge shape loomed out of the mist. ‘Mordred?’

The mist swirled to reveal a spare, spent figure standing bemused by a mound of corpses. ‘Father?’

‘Son!’ King Arthur lumbered towards the slim youth as though to embrace him. Then a spear appeared in his hand, and raising it high above his head he thrust it through the lad’s midriff with all his might. Mordred gasped and writhed, blood spurting from the side of his mouth. At first he seemed astonished. Then with dedicated resolve he pulled himself up the shaft of the spear towards his father, who stood, nodding gravely as if inviting the next move. It came when Mordred’s heavy sword crashed against the side of his head.

From the battlefield, among a flurry of crows, there came a grating chorus: ‘A father shall kill his son, and a son his father! Caw, Caw, Caw!’

*

‘Merlin!’

The old man stirred reluctantly.

‘Merlin!’

‘All right, all right, Wart, I’m coming!’ The old man gathered his frayed robe about him and stumbled sleepily the few steps down to the boy’s chamber. Young Arthur sat up in bed, tousled and wide-eyed. ‘What is it, lad?’

‘Oh Merlin, I’ve had such an awful dream!’

Merlin pushed Arthur aside as he found a place beside him on his rumpled bed and held him close. The boy quivered like a captive bird.

‘Merlin, there’d been a terrible battle—bodies everywhere, lying in heaps—’ He wept, unable to continue.

Merlin held him tight, stroking his damp forehead and patting his back gently. ‘And then?’

Arthur drew a deep, shuddering breath. ‘There seemed to be only two knights left, and I thought they’d comfort each other—they seemed to be father and son. I wanted them to so much, because all around them it was so horrible, and they both looked so sad and lonely. But instead—oh Merlin, I think they killed each other!’ He sobbed despairingly. Merlin tightened his grip.

‘There, there, boy,’ he soothed him in his soft Welsh lilt, ‘it was only a dream, after all: a nightmare.’

‘You don’t think it could be a—a prophecy?’

Merlin gave a little laugh. ‘More like indigestion! Did you eat cheese last thing?’

Arthur wiped away a tear with the heel of his hand. ‘I didn’t eat anything! Father David whipped me and sent me to bed because I hadn’t done my Greek homework properly.’

‘Ah well, that explains it, see? You were hungry and you didn’t sleep comfortably, I shouldn’t wonder!’

The boy smiled through his tears: ‘Well, he did lay it on rather!’ He touched his striped bottom carefully.

‘No more than you deserved, I expect!’ All the same, he’d have a word with Sir Ector’s exacting priest who seemed a little too fond of the cane, for all his ‘this will hurt me more than it does you’ piety! ‘What was the homework about?’

‘Oh, boring old Greek tragedy.’ Arthur lay back and yawned. ‘Aeschylus, Sophocles whatever. There’s this chap with a bad foot, Oedipus, who answers the riddle of the Sphinx and marries the Queen of Thebes, so then he’s the King of Thebes, only it turns out he’s killed her husband who’s—and there’d been a prophecy, and now there’s a plague and—oh, I’ll tell you the rest in the morning.’

Merlin pulled the furs over the sleeping boy, his mind racing with memories and premonitions. He climbed past his bedroom to the battlements and looked out on a clear February sky. The old moon was streaked by the early dawn, like blood.

Oedipus Rex! Arthur, King of Britain—were the gods revealing their purpose? Was this to be the end of the Pendragons, to whom he’d devoted himself ever since he’d helped Uther to become king? Would this be the final retribution for the great sin that had brought poor, innocent little Wart into the world?

He braced himself, waving away the constellation of Orion the Hunter, now disappearing into daylight. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it!’

Part One

Chapter One

Igraine

On a hot summer’s night twelve years beforehand, in the great hall of his castle in Cambria, Pendragon, King Uther Pendragon was entranced. The wife of his prickly vassal Duke Gorlois of Cornwall was dancing with her husband. As she floated, shimmered and twirled, his mouth went dry.

‘Merlin!’

‘My lord?’

‘What do you know of this lady—Igraine?’

His minister paused while he considered his reply. ‘She is the daughter of Amlawwd Wledig—’

‘Come again?’

‘—of the Royal House of Dumnonia, I understand. Men call her passing fair—’

‘I can see that, you fool!’

Merlin continued, seemingly unruffled (though there would be a price to be exacted for that insult!) ‘—passing wise—’

‘Huh!’ the king snorted, impatiently.

‘—and the loyal wife of Gorlois of Tintagel, mother of two daughters though no sons as yet.’

‘Loyal, eh?’

‘Gorlois makes sure of that!’

The king brooded while his eyes were held by the exquisite Igraine, who dipped and spun in the shadow of her swart, squat, balefully bearded husband. He must have her, there was no doubt about that! His flesh stirred as he scanned her high, full bosom and glimpsed her legs beneath the dark blue gown that flowed to the floor from the swell of her perfect hips. It had been far too long since a woman of such quality had shared his bed. The husband might be a problem, however—

He rose and strode towards the couple. Merlin held back but watched keenly. ‘Duke Gorlois—’

‘Sire?’ Gorlois stopped dancing at once and inclined his head.

Igraine curtseyed, looking up modestly. Uther caught his breath at the wonder of her violet eyes and moist lips, their sensuality subdued to a demure smile.

‘I should like to dance with the Lady Igraine before we go into dinner.’

Gorlois flinched, and for the moment stood his ground. Then with an ill grace he gave way, half throwing his wife’s hand into his host’s and stepping back, glowering. ‘That is your right, lord.’

Uther seized the woman’s hand, then almost let it go when she squeezed his in return. He looked at her face for some further signal, but there was none: it was beautiful, incredibly beautiful, but her expression was quite blank. He led her on to the floor and they took some stately steps together.

‘Lady Igraine, you are very welcome to Caerleon.’

‘Thank you, lord king.’ Her voice was thrillingly low.

‘I—I trust you will enjoy your stay in this part of Wales,’ he stammered.

She laughed—a lovely, throaty chuckle which made him tingle. ‘Is this Wales, then? I’ve always been hopeless at geography! And no one has spoken to me in Welsh so far—not even in a Welsh accent!’

‘Then you haven’t met my minister, Merlin?’

Her eyes sparkled. ‘Merlin the magician? No, I haven’t. Will you introduce me?’

‘Perhaps. Later. There are things I need to discuss with you first.’

She raised an eyebrow and his heart leapt. ‘My lord?’

He swallowed. ‘I swear before the gods, lady, I have never met a woman lovelier than you!’

She smiled as the music swirled her away from him, then swung her back. ‘Why, my lord, should you flatter me?’ she asked softly. ‘What do you seek from my husband?’

‘Nothing that he would gladly give me!’ he answered hoarsely.

Her wide-eyed stare was irresistible. ‘My lord, what can you mean?’

He held her close as they paced together to the music. ‘I must lie with you!’ he growled.

Somehow she twisted herself away from him. He pulled her back, roughly. ‘Did you hear me?’

She nodded. ‘Lord, I did. But—I have a husband. And, as you have said, I think he would not gladly give me to you!’

From the corner of his eye he could see Gorlois, ever watchful, glowering. ‘I think not either,’ he agreed, as they paced the length of the hall. ‘Nevertheless, I must have you!’

She shrugged delicately. ‘I would not wish to displease my king, but, as you see, my lord and master is ever watchful!’ The dance carried them to the far end of the hall. ‘What do you suggest?’

The catch in her voice made his heart leap. He held her close. ‘Tomorrow morning there is to be a hunt.’

‘Ay, my lord: and I shall stay here with the other women.’

‘Good. Then I shall find a means of coming to you while your husband continues the chase.’ He looked down at her sternly. ‘Be sure that you are here for me!’

She smiled and his heart missed a beat. She curtseyed deeply as the dance ended, and he thrilled to the glimpse of her breasts. Gorlois, at a distance, fidgeted angrily. ‘Be sure, lord king, that you do not disappoint me!’ she whispered.

*

Uther hastened back from the hunt in the early afternoon, hot and straining with lust. His horse was lame and Merlin, who had seen before they set out that a stone was pushed into the poor creature’s hoof, continued the chase. Gorlois, out of sight when the king turned back, was presumed to be close to the quarry—a fine stag which the master of the hunt had driven down from the foothills at early light.

Uther strode to his apartments. The bedding was cast aside, as it had been when he rose that morning, and the bed was empty. Well, of course, she would hardly be so brazen as to come to his chamber while he was away! Chiding himself for his presumption, he strode through the corridors to the guests’ lodgings: they too were empty.

‘Where is she?’ he bellowed, beside himself. A maidservant came running and fell on her knees before him. Enraged by her frightened stare, he raised his hand to cuff her.

‘My lord, forgive me, what can I tell you?’ She crouched trembling at his feet.

With an effort he held back the blow. ‘Where is the Lady Igraine?’ he demanded between gritted teeth.

‘Sire, she departed two hours hence!’

He suppressed a howl. ‘Alone?’

‘No, my lord: with her husband!’

‘Damnation!’ he cursed himself. ‘I should have had him watched from the moment the hunt started, but I could only think of her!’ Aloud he asked, ‘And when will they return?’

‘My lord,’ the frightened girl whimpered, ‘I think they mean not to come back here. Duke Gorlois was bound for Cornwall!’

‘Aaaaagh!’ Uther was convulsed by an agony of longing and frustration.

‘He left this letter.’ Still on her knees, the girl scuttled to the window seat, picked up the paper and offered it to him, recoiling as he snatched it from her hand.

‘Be gone!’ he roared. She fled thankfully: the king’s rages were notorious. ‘He is wonderly wroth!’ she told the other servants, who did their best to keep out of his way.

Uther’s chagrin was intensified by his inability to read. He would have to await Merlin’s return. But whatever was in the letter, by hook or by crook, come Hell or high water, he would have Igraine!

*

They were encamped outside Gorlois’ castle Terrabil, a fortress looming awesomely over its high rock on the northern coast of Cornwall. Behind its sheer walls rising hundreds of feet, it seemed, from the crag, the Duke scoffed at Uther and his army. From time to time he appeared on the battlements, defying them to do their worst.

The army was bewildered by a lack of leadership. They had marched from Caerleon at a furious pace, arriving at the castle in less than a week, but now what? The king seemed not to know what to do and had taken to his litter, where he raved in a feverish delirium.

‘I suppose we were sent for that I should be dishonoured.’ The phrase from Igraine’s letter, read to him by Merlin, echoed through his head again and again. How could she, after giving him such encouragement during the dance, the hand squeeze, the ‘do not disappoint me!’ at the end! How dare she, the jade! But perhaps they had not been her words: perhaps Gorlois, who had given them such black looks all through dinner, forced her to write them? But then again—she was married, he had sought to seduce her—where was the honour in that? Well, he would make atonement—but only after he had had her! Oh, where was Merlin?

‘Sire!’ He turned, startled, to find the magician at his side, without his robes, dressed as a yeoman.

‘Ah, there you are. And where have you been?’

Merlin put a finger to the side of his long nose. ‘Reconnaissance, reconnoitring, scrutinizing, spying out the land! You won’t get far in a war without a bit of intelligence, now, will you?’

‘And what have you discovered?’ the king demanded, with a touch of petulance.

‘I have discovered that the lady Igraine is not here at all!’

‘What!’ Uther struggled to his feet, so agitated that he wanted to clutch his adviser by the throat and squeeze a better answer from him. ‘Then where has he hidden her, that damned rebel of a husband? I’ll have him on the rack, I’ll put hot irons to his flesh till he screams for mercy, I’ll—’ He collapsed back on the litter, shaking and shuddering.

Merlin shook his head. ‘Steady on, boyo! Old Merlin has an answer for everything, you know!’ He brought a stool close to the litter and felt the king’s pulse. ‘Tsk, tsk,’ he muttered, ‘as I thought, far too fast and thready. Nearly everything, anyway, so why don’t you tell me all about it?’

Uther groaned. ‘Oh Merlin, I’m unmanned by desire! I’m so sick with anger and longing for Igraine that I shall never be whole! She must be a witch!’

Merlin chuckled. ‘No more of a witch, I’ll swear, than any beautiful woman. But the answer to your problem is simple: you must enjoy her and, if you wish, keep her!’

‘Simple indeed!’ Uther spat. ‘How shall I enjoy her if I don’t know where she is?’

‘But I know,’ Merlin answered blandly. ‘She is with her two daughters in Gorlois’ other castle of Tintagel, four leagues from here!’

Uther stared at him, hollow-eyed. ‘Tintagel! But the only approach is by a high bridge between two cliffs, too narrow for more than one man at a time to pass!’

‘You’re well informed then, lord king,’ said Merlin approvingly. ‘But this small difficulty need not check us.’

‘Not check us?’ Uther repeated, almost afraid of hoping.

‘Not check us!’ Merlin repeated, firmly. ‘If you will leave it to me, you shall have her this very night!’

‘But h–how?’ Uther begged hoarsely, his dry tongue almost clinging to the roof of his mouth.

‘Tonight,’ Merlin declared, ‘you shall lie with the lady Igraine in the castle of Tintagel!’

‘Oh yes!!’ Uther shouted, in an ecstasy of anticipation. Then he dropped his voice. ‘But how?’

‘You shall be so like the duke her husband that she shall not know you for who you are!’

‘But how may that be?’ His voice shook as he wavered in disbelief.’

‘Because I shall make it so,’ said Merlin firmly. ‘And from your union she shall conceive a son!’

‘A son?’ Uther wondered. ‘From our first encounter?’

Merlin nodded, rubbing his hands, bright-eyed. ‘So it is decreed. But that child is to be mine.’

‘So!’ Merlin seemed so certain that there would be an encounter to produce this offspring that Uther felt immensely cheered. His malaise departed, ousted by a surge of lusty vigour. He was even able to tease his counsellor. ‘So, Merlin, are you getting broody in your old age? Can you not father a son of our own? I could find you a wench!’

Merlin gave him a withering look. ‘That is not my purpose.’

‘Then you may keep your purpose to yourself, old friend!’ cried the jubilant Uther. ‘What do I care for the fruit after the plucking?’

‘Very well.’ Everything was turning out so exactly as he had planned that Merlin thought it very well indeed! ‘In an hour I shall return, with a potion and some clothing. Then you and I shall go alone to Tintagel, where you shall have your way with her as Duke Gorlois, while I, your faithful knight Sir Jordans, shall stand by—at a discreet distance, of course. But remember, sire, however delightful her bed we must be away by morning!’

*

High above the pounding sea, greedy to reclaim the precarious castle of Tintagel, Igraine could not sleep. She had slept little most nights since her lord Gorlois had rushed her back to Cornwall from that dire visit to Caerleon.

Under his fierce interrogation in their bedroom after the banquet she had confessed Uther’s proposal. The frantic ride home allowed no rest. Once they reached the castle their daughters Morgause and Morgan raced to meet them, but the elder, Morgause, retreated rapidly when she saw her father’s mood. Little Morgan clung to her mother’s arm as Gorlois rushed her up to their room, but whimpered when her father turned on her with a face like midnight.

‘C-can’t I stay with you and Mummy for a little while?’ she pleaded. ‘You’ve been away such a long time!’ The little face puckered with yearning.

‘Sweetheart, I know it’s been a long time and we’ve missed you so much, but Daddy’s very tired and he’s got a lot to think about and it’s awfully late.’ Her voice shook a little as she tried to control her panic.

Gorlois tightened his grip on her arm and looked down on the child with ferocious impatience. ‘Run off to bed now, there’s a good girl, and we’ll have a lovely talk about everything over breakfast.’

‘But Mummy—’

Gorlois’ terrible scowl checked her protest. ‘Go, child, if you know what’s good for you!’ he growled.

‘You—won’t hurt Mummy, will you?’ The little girl felt compelled to seek this reassurance, however futile.

Igraine’s heart melted; for the moment her compassion overcame her dread. ‘Of course he won’t, darling! We’re both terribly tired, that’s all. Now off you go or you’ll wake up before you’re asleep!’ She bent down to kiss her small daughter and hug her with her free arm: Gorlois still clung relentlessly to the other.

The little girl trotted obediently off till she reached a turn in the corridor, then peeped back just as the bedroom door closed behind her with a bang. The grating of a bolt being pushed home confirmed that she would see no more of her parents that night. She hurried along the dimly lit passage and down a short flight of stairs to the room she shared with her older sister.

‘I wouldn’t like to be in our mother’s shoes tonight!’ Morgause muttered, with a shiver, and Morgan turned away from her and wept.

In their bedroom Gorlois swung his wife round, shook her by the shoulders till she was dizzy, then flung her on the bed. ‘Slut!

Despite her fear she struggled to her feet and faced him with a show of dignity. ‘I am no slut, milord. When King Uther sought to dishonour me I told you as soon as I could and urged you to be gone from his castle with all speed. I have felt your dreadful anger all the terrible ride home, but it is Uther alone who deserves it. I am innocent!’

His glare was unrelenting as he stepped forward and cuffed her back on to the bed.

‘D’you think I’m blind? I saw how you moved and swayed while you danced together. I heard you gurgle and giggle together when he whispered to you at the banquet. If I hadn’t brought you straight home you’d be wallowing in his filthy bed right now! Well, my lady, I have you safely at home and I’m going to punish you!’

Igraine rubbed her smarting cheek as she stared up at him. ‘W—what are you going to do?’

He grunted as he took off his belt. ‘I’m going to give you the thrashing that you deserve!’

More than two months later the memory of that terrible beating was with her still. She had had the occasional blow from Gorlois before, but took it resignedly as most wives’ lot. While her father never struck her, her mother had whipped her often for her supposed waywardness, even up to a month before her marriage. Bu never before had she been so thoroughly flogged and humiliated—stripped naked and struck repeatedly with that belt for what seemed half an hour or more, till her back, buttocks and thighs were raw and bleeding. Yet throughout the ordeal she had not begged for mercy, nor even cried out, but pressed her face into a pillow, soon soaked with her tears. When he was finished Gorlois flung the belt from him, turned her over like a piece of meat, pulled her legs apart and thrust himself into her: she was there to be used. He came within half a minute, rolled off her and snored like a pig till first light. Then he woke with a start, hawked and spat, dressed in a rush and left without a word.

Since then she had not seen him, but her loyal chatelain Sir Jordans had told her of King Uther’s demand that he return her to Caerleon within forty days, his bold defiance, Uther’s swift march and the siege which now kept Gorlois behind Terrabil’s high walls.

She gave up all hopes of further repose that night. She rose, stood her candle by a long mirror, dropped her shift and yet again examined her back as best she could. Happily there was no scarring, the wheals were fading and the huge bruises receding.

She felt no deep resentment against Gorlois. As the father of her two lovely girls she loved him a little, at least, and despite the thrashing she had some sympathy with his jealousy. Had she found Uther attractive? Perhaps, a little. Had she flirted with him? No more than was wise, to avoid offending their liege lord. But what good was that now, when they were at war? How could they win? Gorlois was brave and resolute and both Terrabil and Tintagel were impregnable, but they could not sustain a siege forever. Already rations were meagre and her daughters complained of hunger.

There was a tremendous crash. She started as the bedroom door burst open: Gorlois stood on the threshold, staring hungrily. He flung his surcoat from him and his blue and gold robe glittered in the flickering light of a flaming torch. The torchbearer was Sir Jordans, who stood attentive but with gaze lowered, avoiding her nakedness.

‘My lord!’ Igraine sank to her knees in a deep curtsey. ‘I am so happy to see you, but we have made no preparation!’

‘None is needed. My visit is short, but I had to see you!’ His voice was urgent, and oddly strained.

She summoned a smile, despite her bewilderment. ‘Well, here I am: what is your pleasure?’ They had not made love now for two months, but his arrival from Terrabil, in time of war, was utterly mysterious.

Gorlois dismissed Jordans with a growl, pointing to the door he had closed behind them. The knight clicked his heels, and turned to open it. As he did so a small whirlwind swept through the gap and made straight for Gorlois, clinging to his knees.

‘Daddy, daddy!’

‘Morgan, sweetheart!’ Though fiercely loyal to her the child adored her father, and she did not want her rebuffed. Gorlois picked her up, gave her a strange look and put her outside the door with Jordans. She whimpered a little, but gave the knight her small hand and allowed him to take her back to her room.

Gorlois locked the door and nodded towards the bed. Trembling a little she moved there and lay waiting for whatever might befall. She was to be further astonished. Usually the most brisk and perfunctory of lovers, Gorlois came to her trembling with desire. His lips brushed hers in a delicate kiss. He drew in his breath as if he had tasted a fine wine, then kissed her gently, lovingly again. ‘Oh my sweet love, I’ve longed so much for this moment!’

Never before had he spoken to her like this! She lifted her head to see his face better. ‘Oh, don’t leave me!’ he begged, and held her close like a child in need. He was her husband, of course, but why so changed? Could he actually be feeling guilty about his violence when they had last met? Oh, how wonderful if it were so! She clung to him. ‘My dear lord, I’m so happy to have you back with me like this!’

For a moment his body became rigid. Had she said the wrong thing? But he had come to her in the greatest danger—how could he not want to be told how she loved him for it? After some seconds, though, he kissed her again, with such warmth and tenderness that they both relaxed. He stroked her breasts lightly, and his lips found her nipples, and teased them with his tongue and teeth. He put his hands to her buttocks, exclaiming as he felt the ridges from her beating, ‘Oh no!’ He massaged the welts till the pain in the bruised flesh was turned into exquisite pleasure. She moaned softly, ‘How I have missed you, my dearest husband!’

Again his lovemaking came to a halt as if her words had thrown him off course. ‘Silence, my love, I beg you!’ he whispered. One hand moved down to her knee, then inexorably along her thigh to the hair between her legs, played there briefly, then dipped and probed till his fingers had found her sex, and caressed her to the brink of ecstasy.

When at long last he raised himself and thrust ever more deeply into her she felt a rapture quite unknown to her before. When the flood of joy and fulfilment began to ebb she gripped him fiercely and sighed, ‘Oh my dearest darling, I have never known such delight!’ His response was to stiffen and take her yet again.

As she lay in his arms he basked in the thrill of his achievement: she had been so utterly deceived! And the deception had brought them both such bliss. He was filled with pride and deep longing. By the gods, he must have her again—and again and again! And she kept from him, for the time being, her certainty that she had conceived.

Outside the bedroom door, locked out and desolate, little Morgan, who had stolen away from her bed, wept bitterly.

*

There was a sharp rap at the door. ‘My lord, it’s time to depart!’ Jordans’ harsh reminder ended their idyll.

Igraine, waking reluctantly from the sleep of the deeply satisfied, clung to her bedmate. ‘Not yet, my lord, it cannot be daybreak!’

He smiled down at her, freeing himself from her embrace. ‘Alas, my love, the battle is not yet done, and my men need me.’ He kissed her even more fiercely than before. ‘But be sure that I shall be back very soon; I could not bear to be away from you for long!’

This was so unlike his usual offhand farewells that, even after such a night, she scanned him with some misgiving. Could this be some strange game he was playing, to add to her punishment for her supposed dalliance with Uther? What, after all, could have brought him so suddenly and romantically to her bed in the midst of a siege? True, the ‘nightly debt’ had not been paid for far too long, but never before had he shown such ardour.

The bedroom door creaked open and little Morgan crept in. The lowering figure of Jordans stood behind her. ‘I found her curled up by your door.’

The child was pale, tremulous and wide-eyed. ‘Yes, Mummy and Daddy, I’ve been outside all night!’

‘Then you’re a very naughty girl!’ Igraine scolded her gently. ‘You’ll get a spanking very soon if you’re not careful!’

Uther, almost dressed by now, nodded, pulled the child across his knee and gave her behind a pat. Then he turned back to Igraine, hugged her warmly and made a brisk exit, Jordans following at his heels.

Morgan snuggled into bed with her mother. ‘He will be back very soon, won’t he?’ she pleaded.

‘Very soon, sweetheart.’

*

Minutes later, it seemed, there was another rap on the door. Igraine started. Morgan was still cradled in her right arm. ‘What is it?’

‘Ill tidings, my lady!’

‘Jordans?’ She struggled into wakefulness. ‘But you’ve only just left! What can have happened?’

‘May I enter?’ He did not wait for a reply, but strode into the chamber. His long face was ravaged, and his cloak spattered with mud and blood. He fell on his knees before her. ‘Oh my lady—Lord Gorlois is dead!’

‘Dead? What do you mean?’ She sought his distraught features in vain. ‘But that’s impossible! He was here with me moments ago!’

The warrior shook his head and spoke quietly and deliberately. ‘That is not possible, my lady. He died in my arms but three hours since!’

Igraine left her bed, leaving Morgan, as she thought, asleep. Again Jordans averted his gaze from her nakedness. Ignoring his embarrassment she seized his shoulders and looked wildly into his eyes. ‘But dear Sir Jordans, this is madness! He spent the night with me and has only just left. And you were with him!’

The knight shook his head again. ‘Alas, lady, you must have been dreaming!’

‘But Morgan saw him too. Wake up, child!’

The dozing girl yawned, stretched and rubbed the sleepy dust from her eyes. ‘What is it, Mummy?’ Then she saw Jordans and ran to him. ‘Why, is Daddy back already?’ Then she saw his stricken face. ‘You look so sad. Ha–has something happened to Daddy?’

He crouched beside her. ‘Little lady, your poor father was slain by King Uther’s men!’

‘Were they waiting for him when you left us, then?’ For the moment curiosity outweighed her distress.

‘Not here: it was when he left Castle Terrabil.’

‘But he was here with us: we did see him, didn’t we, Mummy?’

Morgan returned to her mother’s arms. Igraine clasped her to her. ‘You see, Jordans, there must be some terrible mistake!’

He drew himself up, his dark eyes fixed on her pleading face. ‘Alas, there is no mistake. It was rumoured in the castle that Uther had broken camp to come this way, and Lord Gorlois rode out in a frenzy before I could gather a troop together. He was ambushed not a mile from the castle. We found him sorely wounded by a dozen arrows and as many spear thrusts. When I called his name the ruffians gave a great shout and ran off to bring the news to their king. I raised my lord’s head and wiped the blood from his eyes: he whispered your name, my lady, before his spirit departed.’ This last detail was his invention, but he felt it was what she would wish to hear.

Mother and daughter, astonished and dismayed, hung on his every word. ‘Then you were truly not here last night and this morning?’ Igraine asked faintly?

‘Lady, I was not. Until now I have not seen Tintagel since this doleful affray began.’

Igraine subsided on to the bed, eyes closed, breathing painfully. Then she struggled to collect herself. ‘I see. And where is my husband now?’

‘I ordered my men to take him back to Terrabil before I rode on here.’

‘And what will happen now?’

He shrugged. ‘We are in Uther’s hands.’ Igraine shivered and Morgan gave her a frightened look. ‘Perhaps he will be merciful, but shall I seek a boat? It may be possible to find sanctuary for you and your daughters.’

‘No, I shall stay until the king sends for me: too much blood has been shed in this matter already. Jordans, you were ever my husband’s good knight and I know that you will stand by me. But I pray you, leave us now.’

Jordans inclined his head. ‘I shall remain here in the castle. Send for me when I am needed.’

Morgan stared at her mother round-eyed as the door closed behind him. ‘Mummy,’ she whispered, awed and excited, ‘we were bewitched!’

*

For three weeks Igraine and her daughters mourned undisturbed. Jordans brought an escort to take them to Terrabil for Gorlois’ funeral. It was a quiet, discreet occasion, unfitting, she thought, for so proud a man. Uther and his men kept away. She studied her husband’s tormented features before the coffin was sealed, but they told her nothing. This was the man who had brought her such joy three hours after his death! Had his spirit come for her? Could she have conceived by a ghost? There must have been witchcraft—but why? She kept these questions to herself while she attempted to console her children.

Morgause, a tall tawny twelve-year-old whose swelling figure already stimulated some ribald speculation among the soldiery, paced and raced through the castle as if possessed. At the funeral she could barely keep still and once back in Tintagel she would not settle.

‘Ah, me da’s gone? Dead and buried, gone to his long home, isn’t it?’ She chose to affect the accent of her Welsh nurse. ‘No one to take care of us now, is there? No one to see I don’t get up to no mischief, see?’

‘We’ll all be taken good care of, darling. Don’t get into such a state about it. King Uther—’

‘Oh yes, King Uther!’ Morgause tossed her wild mane and rolled her eyes. ‘No friend of our da’s, was he? It’ll be exile, prison or execution! Perhaps rape first, if we’re lucky!’

Morgan whimpered and clung to her mother’s skirts. Igraine held her close, stroking her brow. ‘Morgause, you will not frighten your little sister with your nonsense! Why don’t you get on with your embroidery, or practise your lute?’

‘Can’t I take my horse for a little ride, then? He needs exercise and it’s a fine day.’ She looked defiantly at the lowering sky. ‘Or it will be when it stops raining!’

‘Be sensible, my love,’ her mother pleaded. ‘King Uther’s men are all around, Jordans says, and if they see you they’ll—’

‘Ravish me!’ the girl exclaimed triumphantly. ‘See, you know it and I know it! Well, let’s get it over with, I say!’ She waggled her hips saucily as she swept out of the room.

Igraine smiled uncertainly at Morgan. ‘You mustn’t let her upset you. She’s just highly strung!’

‘Oversexed, you mean!’ Morgan answered tartly.

There were times when Igraine didn’t know what to make of her younger daughter—so clinging, yet so precocious.

‘Mummy, I’ll always be your special daughter, won’t I?’ Morgan continued, changing tack disconcertingly.

‘Of course, my darling!’ Her mother stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.

They were startled by a firm knock on the door. ‘Jordans, my lady, with a messenger from the king!’

Igraine gulped, braced herself and stood Morgan before her, her hands on her shoulders. ‘Enter.’

The door creaked open. Jordans entered but stood aside with some deference as a tall, spare figure trailing a purple cloak stepped into the room. ‘Lord Merlin!’ he announced.

Igraine had barely glimpsed the famous Druid and magician during her fateful visit to Caerleon, and was a little surprised to find him apparently human. A shock of white hair sprouted behind a bald brow, the nose was large and hooked, the lips thin, the chin rather weak. But his eyes were remarkable—a very light, glittering green.

He gave a curt bow. When he saw Morgan he raised an eyebrow. ‘Remove the child!’ he ordered, gesturing to Jordans.

Morgan flushed and glared at him. ‘I’ll remove myself, thank you!’ She marched to the door with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘And don’t you dare hurt my mummy!’ she warned, as she stalked out.

‘Lady, I bring you good news!’

Igraine inclined her head and motioned him to a seat before the smouldering fire, before taking another on the opposite side of the hearth.

‘All the barons have begged King Uther to make a treaty with you, which is no more than his own wish.’ He looked round the room as if making an inventory, then, almost as an afterthought, continued: ‘And my lord is a lusty knight and wifeless, while you, my lady, are without a husband now.’

Igraine flared. ‘Your king has seen to that!’

Merlin put the tips of his long, twig-like fingers together. ‘Look you,’ he suggested, gently ‘why not let bygones be bygones? You have had time to grieve—’

‘Three weeks!’ Igraine broke in, bitterly. ‘Three weeks after sixteen years of marriage: longer than my whole life beforehand!’

Merlin sighed. ‘Sad, indeed. But your husband was a warlord who fought with his king and paid the price, alas! But few others have died for his rebellion, thanks to King Uther’s mercy and your knight Sir Jordans’ good sense in not pursuing a hopeless cause.’

Jordans shifted uneasily at the unwelcome compliment, but he had no need to avoid Igraine’s eye. She knew well that with Gorlois’ death all had been lost.

Merlin leaned forward. A last flicker or two from the dying fire danced in his strange green eyes. ‘The barons said to my lord the king that the Lady Igraine is passing fair, and it were great joy to them all if it might please him to make her his queen. And, my lady, it rejoices me to tell you that King Uther has assented right joyfully, and I am to bring you in all haste to his castle of Pendragon in Caerleon once more, where you shall be married with great mirth and joy!’ He sat back with a self-satisfied smirk.

Igraine was stunned, but what else should she have expected? Uther had gone to war out of his frustrated lust, and the only wonder was that he had waited as long as he had since the victory, and was prepared to make her his queen instead of just taking and raping her. Gorlois, never a comfortable vassal, had been ripe for a quarrel but it would never have become fatal save for their shameless dalliance on the dance floor.

She blushed deeply as she recalled how she had played up to him! How right had been Gorlois’ fury, and how richly, she now confessed to herself, she had deserved her beating! And now Gorlois was dead and Uther would have her—unless she played the virtuous widow and leapt to her death from the battlements, her unsullied body broken to pieces on the savage rocks and swallowed up by the hungry sea! But what then would become of Morgause, and her strange little Morgan?

She rose with all the grace and dignity at her command. ‘Lord Merlin, your king does me great honour. I shall be ready to depart within the hour.’

Merlin rose also, then dropped before her on one knee and took her hand: ‘My lady, my queen, King Uther and all the land shall rejoice!’

Alone, moments later, she went to the window and placed her burning brow against the chilly stone as she tried to compose herself. The view of sea, sky and crags seemed oddly remote and unfamiliar. She turned back to the room and tried to study every detail of the furnishing and stone work which she was about to leave so soon, probably forever. But her emotions overwhelmed her: a flood of feeling surged up from her lower depths like a fountain, making her twist and writhe till she was left moaning and gasping for breath.

She was sick with desire!

*

Three months later Queen Igraine slowly woke up and stretched like a cat. She luxuriated in the goosefeather bed in her chamber in Pendragon Castle. She had enjoyed another night of deep, refreshing sleep after another bout of glorious lovemaking. The fire ignited by Gorlois or his ghost on his mysterious, magical last visit to her bed was kept glowing and incandescent by her nightly congress with Uther: he could never have enough of her, nor she of him. She was in thrall and abandoned to sensuous passion and nothing else—her new position as queen, her new home in Caerleon, not even her two daughters who had joined her there two weeks after her hasty marriage—seemed very real or to matter much. What a whore she had become!

She smiled and opened her eyes. Uther, standing at the bedside, looked down, smiling too. ‘Good morning, my queen.’ He took her hand and kissed her fingers