The Prince and the Pilgrim (21 page)

Morgan, of course, knew what she was about. When Alexander woke next morning she was already far from the castle, out hunting with her knights, and watched as always by the King’s guards. Nor did he see her that evening. She had a headache, said Peter, but she would be better tomorrow, and if the prince would meet her in the morning at about the third hour, they could perhaps ride out together …?

The cordial she sent him that night tasted different, with a kind of pungency lacing the
sweetness
, but somehow heavy, promising sleep. The promise was a false one. When the page had seen him to bed, doused the candle and left him, Alexander spent a distressed and wakeful night full of the torments of unsatisfied love, and of wondering, even nervous, anticipation of the morning’s meeting.

Even after the restless night, Alexander felt more normally alert next morning than for many a day. He rose early, and went down as soon as he dared, to await Morgan in the courtyard.

She kept him waiting, of course, but at length she came, alone save for the guards who accompanied her on all her ventures outside the walls. She was dressed in green, with a grass-green mantle lined with tawny silk, and a cap of the same silk with a russet plume of feathers that curled down to brush her cheek. She looked every bit as lovely as she had in the hall of feasting, or in the hushed peace of his sick-chamber. He kissed her hand, lingering over it a shade too long, then threw her up to the saddle of her pretty sorrel mare, mounted his own big chestnut, and followed her out across the wooden bridge.

She knew the country well, so he left it to her to choose which way they should go. His horse was very fresh, so she led him at a good gallop along the river-side, almost to the place where he had taken his fall, then turned uphill into a forest track which perforce they took at a gentler pace. In a while the trees thinned and they rode out into the sunshine of a sheltered upland valley where
the
horses could once more go side by side. Morgan slowed her mare to a walk and Alexander let his chestnut range alongside.

They were followed all the while by the four guards, and from time to time Morgan glanced over her shoulder with a rather appealing show of apprehension. They watched her constantly, she told him, and reported every move back to her brother Arthur. She was afraid of them – she confessed it prettily – afraid that soon, bored by the monotony of their task in this remote spot so far from their own people, they might send some sort of lying report to Arthur, who would give orders for her to be taken back to Caer Eidyn in the bleak north, or sent to the strictly guarded prison (so she called it) of Castell Aur in the Welsh hills. And there, it was hinted, Alexander would see her no more. Unless, of course, he would help her to escape the punishment, so unjust and harsh, that the High King had meted out to her …?

But here she drew blank. However besotted Alexander was, he could not be brought to an open criticism of the High King. To him, throughout his young life, Arthur and Camelot had represented all that was good and right. Nor – with the knowledge of the state that the queen kept here in the Dark Tower, the luxury of her apartments, the food and service that was offered her, with her “court” and her “councils” and the freedom of her rides abroad, guarded though they were – nor, with all this in mind, could Alexander be brought to see the queen as a pathetic and maltreated prisoner. So he listened, sympathised, swore eternal devotion – as yet he dared not say
love
– but shied away from any talk of “rescue” or even of any attempt to shake off the watchers. She, in her turn, evaded any direct replies to his tentative questions about the reasons for Arthur’s stern decree. He was young enough to be able, with Morgan’s lovely eyes looking into his, and her hand resting on his knee as their horses paced side by side, to believe at one and the same time that Arthur had punished her rightly for a breach of faith, and that she, a sadly ill-used lady, had only been led into trouble by a lover’s treachery. A lover who, praise God and thanks to Arthur, was now dead.

Morgan, of course, saw this very clearly, and saw that, however deep in love the young fool was, she had no hope of adding him to the “court” that held council in the private chamber of the east tower. These young men, some of whom had been (still were from time to time) her lovers, were all men who for one reason or another had no love for Arthur. Throughout the country, mainly among the younger outland Celts, was a growing dissatisfaction with the “King’s peace”, by which was meant the centralisation of government and the peaceful enforcement of law and order. Reared by custom and tradition as fighting men, they despised the “old men’s talking-shop” of the Round Hall at Camelot, and longed for action, even for the “glory” of war.

For these young rebels the court that Morgan held, here and at Castell Aur, was a handy and pleasant centre for hatching plots for Arthur’s discomfiture or their own advancement. They were not aware that Arthur knew all about it, and chose
to
allow it. In killing his sister’s lover and holding his sister a captive (however silken her chains) he knew that her household could become a centre of disaffection, and herself even a focus for rebellion. But his adviser, since Merlin’s latest disappearance into his tower of crystal, was a woman, wiser in the ways of women than ever Merlin could have been. “Leave Morgan her state and her lovers,” Nimuë had said, “and let her plot in peace, where you can watch her doing it.” Arthur had followed her advice, so Morgan kept her little train of dissidents, and occupied her time with busy – and so far harmless – plotting against her brother.

Now, balked by Alexander’s stubborn loyalty, she abandoned the attempt to add him to her court. She came very near to relinquishing her plan to lead him to her bed, but she had another scheme afoot, where someone like Alexander, so patently honest, might succeed where others of her train had failed. Besides, it was time she had a new lover, and he was handsome, and young, and more than ready for it, so –

So she changed her tactics, admitted some fault with a pretty show of remorse, spoke with affectionate respect of Arthur, and begged Alexander to forget what she had said in a moment of despair, and to tell her, instead, of himself and his hopes for the future. To which end she made him help her dismount, and they sat together in a sunlit hollow sheltered by flowering gorse-bushes, while the King’s men, stolidly patient, and laying quiet bets on the result of the day’s outing, waited within sight but out of hearing.

They saw a charming picture: the queen, sitting
on
Alexander’s outspread cloak with her green-and-tawny silk and velvet spread gracefully round her, and the young man lying at her feet, his gaze on her face. He talked; it is to be supposed (since he could hardly tell her the truth about himself and his journey to Drustan’s castle and thence to Camelot) that his talk dealt mainly with his present hopes of love. So he talked, while she smiled and listened with a pretty air of attention, but the watchers saw, when Alexander looked away, that she yawned. Soon after that her hand went out to him, and he snatched it eagerly to his lips. She leaned forward then, smiling still, and said something that brought him swiftly to his feet with both hands held out to help her rise. She let him pull her up into his arms and kiss her, long and passionately, before he lifted her to the saddle.

There was really no need for the watchers to hear what was said. They knew. They had seen or heard it all before. The lady had whistled yet another young fool to her bed, and the fool would go, and be fooled still further, and in time, perhaps, would learn the price he would have to pay for his folly.

It was about a month later that Alexander learned the price. A wonderful month for him, the most wonderful of his young life – or so he honestly believed. At Queen Morgan’s side all day, lying with her at night, seeing himself preferred above all the others of her small court, the days and
nights
passed like a dream of pleasure, so that reality, when it broke in, of swimming senses and headaches and, though he would not admit this even to himself, an overwhelming desire for solitude and a night or so of uninterrupted sleep, was forgotten as soon as realised. Or rather, as soon as his mistress, with some delicately drugged wine in a golden goblet, and the caresses of soft lips and practised fingers, chose to make him forget. Then he would drown again in desire, thinking it love, and vow everything to her service who wrapped him in those sweet silken strands, as a spider wraps a fly.

Then one day there was a disturbance at the castle gate, and a horseman rode in on a blown horse, asking for Queen Morgan. He was muddied and exhausted, and looked so wild that a page ran to the chamber where the queen and Alexander breakfasted together, and rapped sharply on the door.

Morgan, still abed, and languid on the pillows, did no more than raise her brows, but Alexander, who found himself irritable these days, shouted angrily: “Who is it? Don’t you know better than to disturb the queen?”

“My lord, it’s for the queen. It’s Count Ferlas. He’s back, and he must see her. My lord, is she awake?”

“How could she sleep through such a clamour? Go and tell him to wait!”

But Morgan, thrusting him aside with an urgent arm, pushed herself up in the bed, calling out: “Gregory? Send Count Ferlas here! Send him here
at
once!” And flinging the covers back, she leaped out of bed. “Alexander, my robe!”

“But, lady, here?”

“Where else? I must see the man! Give me my robe, unless you want me to receive him naked!”

He began to stammer something. To him the royal chamber, beautifully appointed with tapestries and silken hangings, with windows now full of the morning sunlight and overlooking river and forest – this was his bower of delight, a place sacred to their love, to memories he would, he swore, never forget.

There was a hurried trampling of feet in the corridor outside. Alexander snatched up his own bedgown and flung it on, as another knock came at the door. Queen Morgan, girding a robe round her without haste, called out a summons, and the newly arrived Count Ferlas, followed by the queen’s waiting-women and a couple of pages, came into the room.

The count was a burly, powerful-looking young man, but as he went to his knee before the queen it could be seen that he was exhausted.

She gave him her hand to kiss, waved the women and boys back, and said, sharply: “What news?”

“There is none. I failed, and came back empty-handed.”

“Empty-handed? You found no trace of it?”

“None. We asked everywhere, but no one seemed to know anything about it, except the usual talk about magic, and whether Merlin had –”

“Never mind that! Did you see her? Have speech?”

“No. We were told she’d gone south. So then we went, as you directed us –”

She silenced him with a hasty gesture. “Not here. Leave it. Later. You failed, so what does it matter where you went?” She was silent herself for a few moments, staring unseeingly across the room, the pretty teeth savaging her underlip. Then, as if shrugging away the disaster, whatever it was, she turned back to the kneeling man.

“So, we must try again, it seems. What of the other matter I sent Madoc to pursue? Did your brother Julian go to Bannog Dun to see him?”

“No, madam. That is what I was going to tell you. There was no need. Madoc came to see us in Luguvallium. It seems he’s already in possession, and well dug in. He bade us tell you that all was well, and the business should be settled soon.”

“Well, I suppose that’s something to the good. I’ll talk with Julian later. I take it he came back with you? Where is he?”

“Madam, he’s dead.”

Alexander, hovering near, but for once ignored, glanced at her in surprise as she said, merely: “So? How?”

“By enchantment. Or so I think. As we rode away from Luguvallium he complained of sickness and pain in the side, and that night he fell into a fever, and in three days he was dead.”

Alexander, stung to pity by the weary grief in the man’s face, looked to see the queen signal him to rise from his knees, or at least order one of the servants to pour wine for him, but she did neither.
She
sat down on the bed’s edge, chin on fist, brows knitted, looking at none of them, deep in thought.

The prince went to the side table, poured a goblet of the wine that stood there, and would have carried it himself to the kneeling man, but at that she roused herself, saying sharply: “No! Not that! Count Ferlas, we must talk further. In the upper chamber, you know it, in half an hour. Go now, all of you except my women, and let me dress. Go!”

The count rose, bowed and went, followed by the pages. Alexander started to speak, but she cut him off with the same curt voice and gesture. “I said all. Did you not hear? All but the women. Leave me now!” Then as he still stood, flushed and beginning to be angry, she seemed to recollect herself. She went up to him and, pulling his head down, kissed him. “There. Forgive me, my love. I must talk with the man. He was my messenger, and has news for me, grave news, I fear. I will tell you about it later.”