La Vie de Mordred

By Brooke Foye

The castle was bustling as usual. Servants scurried from room to room, building to building performing their duties. Non moved as swiftly as Guinevere. The 16 year old launched herself from the top of the stairs. Sweeping her arms out to the side, she seemed to fly as the heavy leather jacket she wore fanned out like wings behind her. She landed in a roll and stood. Dirt clung to her trousers and boots, but she paid no mind as she raced across the castle.

“Hey!” A servant carrying a basket of linens cried.

“Sorry!” Guinevere called back, but she kept going. She ran through the gardens, past the kitchen and finally began the long sprint across the second floor overlooking the courtyard. It was here that she barreled straight into Lancelot as he came forth from a conjoining hall. He caught and steddied her with ease, taking her by the upper arms.

“Guin.” He smiled. The brightness in his eyes a telltale sign he was genuinely gladdened at her presence. “Have you seen her ladyship, Duchess Morgause?”

Guinevere blinked; one eye hidden behind long white hair. “Oh uhh…” She pulled herself free from his grip and moved past him. “She’s a, with Arthur. In the gardens.” She lied, moving swiftly down the balcony. “But they asked that they not be disturbed!” At that she turned and dashed off before he could question further. She ran down nearly a dozen more stairs before coming to the door she seeked. It was on the third floor of the North spire of the castle. The door was wood held in place with iron bolts. The inscription on the front was plain enough to read.

Merlin;

Head of Magical Investigation

Royal Advisor in Magical and Demonic Affairs

Honored Advisor to the King

She didn’t bother knocking. She threw open the door and promptly bent over to place her hands on her knees, wheezing for breath. Merlin looked up from one of his many wooden tables covered in books, bottles, and other instruments. He was a plain enough man. White hair tousled down to his chin which was encrusted with more wiry hair. He wore messed clothes of greys and browns. His eyes were blots of ink, worn and as stubbornly dark as the writing in his books. Wells into the void, some called them. “Guinevere, whatever is it my child?” He asked, staring puzzled at his granddaughter.

“She’s, she’s pregnant!” Guinevere gasped.

Merlin’s face fell. “The father…?”

“Arthur.” She sat down on an empty chair next to one of the three tall windows that lit the room. Though light did little when inch upon dusty inch of must clouded the room. Guinevere could taste it all on her tongue and throat.

“So,” Merlin pondered aloud, handing Guin a glass of water. “Young Morgause is pregnant.”

Guinevere finished the glass in a single swallow. “Yes. With her brother’s child.”

“Half-brother.” Merlin corrected. “Though regardless it is a fact we must continue to keep secret from the two of them. Where are they now?”

“In bed with each other, where else?” Guinevere scoffed. Ever since Duchess Morgause’s arrival from France she’d been at the royals’ beck and call. Three months of guarding secret rendezvous and redirecting servants who asked too many questions just so the budding couple could spend time alone. Not that there was any real point until now. No one knew of their relation, so a matchup would’ve been perfectly acceptable. But with an illegitimate child on the way? There were bound to be inquiries and complications. If Arthur wasn’t declared the father Morgause would undergo strict punishment, maybe even have to give up the baby. But Arthur -chivalrous and too loyal for his own good Arthur- would confess to being the child’s father and most likely be ruined for it.

“Do you know for sure?” Merlin asked. “She is indeed pregnant?”

“She spilled about four meals worth of food from last night’s banquet out the window before breakfast. Then she threw breakfast back into the bowl. What more proof do we need?”

“Perhaps she is dying?” Merlin said, almost hopefully. “If we call it the plague we can send her into isolation until the baby is born.”

Guinevere considered this. “It could work. No doubt Arthur would insist on helping and keep her in the castle. A locked room maybe? Or an entire section of the castle? Lancelot could keep guard. He’d keep the secret I’m sure.”

But Merlin shook his head. “Word travels through a castle like water through an ocean, whether words are uttered or not. No. We can not keep her here.”

Guinevere could feel the bruises setting in from her bumping stone pillars and walls. “The summer palace is the second worst place. Too many things could go wrong.”

Merlin stroked the tuffs of wispy hair he called a beard. “This requires great consideration. However in the meantime we must find a way to keep the secret, even from Lancelot until the time is right.” He moved to a small cabinet and pulled a scarlet glass bottle from it. With a flick of the wrist the cork was gone, and he began ingesting the fermented substance.

“Funny.” Guinevere frowned. “How ‘consideration’ always turns to wine in your mind.”

The door, having been left open, cracked on its hinges as another servant walked in. She was small and wiry, with frizzy red hair put in a hurried bun. Nivian, handmaiden to Dutchess Morgause. “Miss Guinevere, his highness King Arthur requests your presence in his chambers. He didn’t tell me why.”

Guin gave her grandfather a look, though he didn’t notice. He was too preoccupied with staring at Nivian. The wine bottle in his hand slipped onto the table as he gave her a big smile. “Why hello, Nivian, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Guin was left to role her eyes and flick him in the temple. “You claim to be in love yet you hear not a word when she speaks.” She moved to the doorway and beckoned Nivian to follow. “Let us find out what the lovebirds want.” She wasn’t worried about the girl discovering Morgause in Arthur’s bed. The both of them had been standing guard together for the last three secret picnics.

“I should accompany you.” Merlin said quickly. “Just in case the young prince is in need of medical attention.”

Nivian frowned. Merlin was not subtle when it came to flirting, if one could call it that. Guinevere gave her a reassuring look. If she was sure of one thing, it was that work could always swallow the wizard whole. The second they got to Arthur’s chambers he would be so preoccupied with the situation that Nivian would simply fade into the background.

Despite fifteen minutes it had taken Guinevere to sprint from Arthur’s rooms to Merlin’s study, it took the group nearly half an hour to walk back. It seemed even Arthur understood the secrecy for such a situation, because not a single servant was sent to find them in the time it took to reach his rooms. Not even Lancelot had been summoned.

Arthur’s rooms were a grand statement as expected of a king, even if he was only fifteen when he was crowned. The foyer was all satin curtains and velvet furniture, with the stone floors washed to perfection. His dining room was rarely used, so instead of food the oak table was covered with weapons that he had never bothered to put away. His actual bedroom was the second largest room in the castle, next to the throne room. Silk blankets and feather pillows, a table and chairs inlaid with gold.

The king himself, all of 18, was pacing between his mahogany desk and his bed, where lay a girl of 16. She was a very pretty girl, in a sense. Long golden hair was sprawled out over the pillows and high cheekbones, glossy brown eyes like pools of ale stared at the king with loving interest. A French woman if there ever was one. She’d been modest enough to cover herself with a blanket, but a long leg stuck out, draped over the side of the mattress. Arthur stopped when he spotted the trio, his shoulders slumping as he let out a sigh of relief. “It took you long enough.” He chided. He was shirtless, toned and tan. His hair was blonde like the girls, but that was the only resemblance they shared. His eyes were a crystalite blue and small shadows of freckles dotted his face.

“Would’ve been here sooner if you’d done this in her bed.” Guinevere retorted. Her hands found a place on her hips. “Or would you prefer we’d stopped for breakfast first?”

Arthur waved the topic away. “All right all right, what’s happening with her?” He gestured to Morgause. “How sick is she?” Merlin walked over and examined her eyes and ran a hand over her stomach.

“It seems Guinevere’s diagnosis was correct. You are indead pregnant, my dear.” Morgause's eyes widened in near horror. Tears pricked her eyes. “I am going to die.” Arthur put a hand on her knee, looking to Merlin for help, but Morgause went on. “I am going to die and turn to dust on my ancestors’ graves.”

Nivian hurried to her mistress’s side, coming the long hair with her fingers. “Do not worry, m'lady. For all his faults, Merlin is a great wizard and can surely save you.”

“Can you do that, Master Merlin?” The mother-to-be asked. The tear now nothing but a hint of shine on her eyes. Merlin nodded dumbly. That had been the closest Nivian had ever come to giving him a compliment. Guinevere had to bludgeon him in the ribs with her elbow for him to come back to his senses. “Yes. Yes of course. I have a plan.”

Arthur finally sat down, rubbing an absent minded hand over Morgause’s belly. Guinevere herself leaned against a bedpost with her arms folded in judgement, staring at Morgause's belly and he subsequent hand that lay upon it. She had never had a child before, nor did she ever see herself with one. The entire ideal of a baby and actions of making one were something she’d sworn against years ago. Nor would she ever marry for that matter. She would serve only her king until the day he died. That was her purpose, nothing more.

“I will take Lady Morgause to stay at Avalon where she will be safe until the baby is born.” Merlin decided. Where he had come up with Avolon even he did not know. It was a secluded island nearly four days journey from the edge of Camelot, which itself was nearly a week’s ride away. The island was said to be home to witches. Nine in fact. They lived and studied magic in the strongest sisterhood ever known. No place could’ve been safer for Morgause. “We’ll say she has fallen ill.” Merlin continued. “And that to heal her I need special herbs from the shore of Avalon. In the cover of the retrieval party Morgause will slip out unnoticed. Then, after the baby is born, she will come back under the dark of night. No one shall be the wiser.”

“What about the baby?” Morgause demanded. “If I am to live I must have my child.” Guinevere’s first thought was that she would have to give it up. The thought broke her heart. To be abandoned was a terrible fate, regardless of circumstance. But that’s when another thought struck her. “Nine months is an absurd time to be sick. People may assume her dead by then.”

Merlin had an answer for everything. “The witch sisters on Avalon have many spells. Excellerating child birth would be simple.”

“What about my child?” Morgause insisted. “I will not do anything before I am sure my baby is safe.”

Arthur -who’d remained surprisingly silent up until now, mostly likely because he was still in shock- finally spoke. “The child will live here, with me and you.”

“Your majesty.” Merlin warned. “I’m afraid a sudden child in the castle would raise too many-.”

“I will not throw a child out on the streets.” Arthur said. “Especially my own.”

“Oh Arthur!” Morgause cried. She threw her arms around the king and kissed his cheek. Guinevere decided then that it was time to leave. No doubt Arthur would discuss which knights he would be taking to Avalon later, but for now food sounded marvelous.

The kitchen was separate from the castle, just a few yards from the servant’s chambers. There were nearly a dozen bakers working at a time. Making bread, pastries, and endless plates of food for the knights. Most of which were staying for the tournament that afternoon. Guinevere weaved around people towards a basket of bread rolls. She was finally within reach when the basket was snatched away. Elaine, formerly of Shallot, was holding the basket out of reach with a smirk. “Stealing from the kitchens, Guinevere? Does Arthur not feed his pet?”

Guinevere folded her arms. “Pet? I am his servant. I take care of him, which more than I can say for you.” At first Guin had thought this a clever comeback, but the look on Elaine’s face said otherwise. She set the basket down on a far table, never taking her eyes from Guin’s face.

“Perhaps if you had given more care to Lancelot he would not have run away.”

“He hasn’t run away.”

Elaine laughed. The sickly sweet tune flooding Guinevere’s ears made her lose her appetite. “Oh course he has. I am the woman he ran to.” Her hand rested softly on her tummy as the smug look stayed cemented on her face. Guinevere understood, and she was furious. Elaine’s smile grew as Guinevere's face darkened, but it was not for the reason that Elaine so thought.

It was no secret that Eliane had fancied Lancelot for years, but like Guinevere, he had taken an oath of celibacy. The baby now growing in Eliane’s womb was proof of that broken oath.

Guinevere marched off. She planned to confront Lancelot about this. For perhaps it was a lie, maybe, just maybe, Lancelot had held his honor. Though Guin doubted it. There was no denying that Eliane was pretty. And pretty girls can often break even the strongest of boys. Down the hall, around the ballroom, and over yet another of the many bridges crossing over a courtyard. She knew where the knights stayed. The north wing with the tallest tower of the palace. Tallest only because of the long stick tied to the top by a strip of linen. It was easily the messiest area in the castle. Half-finished bowls of fruit and filthy socks that had never made down to the laundry. There were nearly 20 living there in all. Each beefier and denser than the last.

First there was Sir Gawain, the dullest of the bunch. He wouldn’t fight in tournaments or for anything other than a war really. The cruelest had to be Sir Dinadan, a born prankster and trouble maker. Guin couldn't count how many times she awaken to a snake under her pillow or horse dung in the king’s shoes. The next was Percival, easily the most honorable. He loved his wife Condwiramurs very much. Guinevere attributed his skills and charm to having been raised by a knight. The wandering knight Gamered. Out of all the options, it was Galehaut who greeted her at the door. He was taller than most knights. Actually he was taller than everyone due to his Giant heritage. A former king of 30 cities, Galehaut gave the term gentle giant a run for its money. He was tough and brave and never afraid of a fight, but he was also the kindest of the knights. He also had a relationship with Lancelot that rivaled that of Guinevere’s.

“Why if it isn’t our young mistress, Guinevere.” He beckoned her in with a smile worthy of lighting the heavens. “To what may we owe this pleasure?”

“I was actually looking for Lance.” She explained.

“Oh, is he in a bit of trouble perhaps? I should let you know that whatever he did, he felt very put out this morning and is ready to learn whatever lesson you plan on teaching him.”

Guinevere put her hands on her hips. “Good. Because I plan to. Where is he?”

She must have looked very amusing. Standing there in her tiny glory next to the eight foot half-giant. Galehaut laughed. “I should fear to be him now, but even more so to be me after he discovers mine aiding in this matter. He is training in the tourni arena with Sir Feirefiz.”

Guinnevera thanked him and was on her way again, the anger boiling in her stomach being all the fuel she needed to keep going. The tourni arena was outside the palace by a fair meter or so. A large oval sand pit surrounded by wooden seats and a viewers box for those related to the king. A long stretch of wood was placed down the middle for jousting. Two men on horses were currently practicing. One on a black horse, wearing silver armor and a red phoenix feather in his helmet. The other on a brown horse with gem encrusted armor of rich sapphire and pearl. Guinevere watched as the two men barreled at each other at top speed, long poles piosed at each other to strike. Balls of linen and hay were tied to the ends to blunt the tips. As they collided, the man in silver armor went tumbling off his steed and fell to the ground. The other knight took care not to trample him with his horse.

Laughing, the men removed their helmets. The second man in the jeweled armor was Prince Feirefiz. Half brother of Percival, his skin was blotched with the same pale hue as Percy, but the rest was a deep rich brown akin to his mother’s back in Africa. “You are off your game old fellow.” He joked. “Or should I say, off your horse?”

Lancelot sat up, coughing and laughing. The blackness of his hair shown with sweat. With his smile all the rage came back to Guinevere. “Lance!” Both the men looked up, Lancelot shrinking down into his armor.

Feirefiz, greatly oblivious to the situation, waved with a smile. “Hello Guinevere! What brings you here?”

Guinevere gave the knight a small smile before returning her glare to Lancelot. “I am here because this fool’s choices two women in this palace are with child.” Lance’s head snapped up, staring at Guinevere's stomach. “You’re…”

“Not me!” She snapped. “Elaine! She’s been flaunting her pregnancy she received from you.”

“Elaine? But I never...oh.” Lancelot's face fell. Then, slowly, in front of Guinevere’s very eyes his face turned to fury, then confusion. “Who else?”

“What?”

Lancelot stood up, looking Guin in the eye in full seriousness. “You said two woman were made to be pregnant. Elaine is one, who else?” Feirefiz looked very interested to know the answer, as was Lance. Guinevere looked from one man to the other. Should she tell them? Unlike the news with Eliane, she did not think it was her secret to tell. However Lancelot was the Duchess's guard, surely he would be notified of his lady’s condition. Feirefiz was loyal to the king, she couldn’t imagine him telling another soul if the king commanded him.

She answered at last. “Morgause, she is with child.”

Not soon after a servant came to summon all three of them to the king’s chambers. A meeting was held with Morgause, Arthur, Merlin, Guinevere, and several knights. The plan was set, and in two months time Morgause was resting well on the hills of Avalon. The baby she bore was smaller than any other before, so much so that a legion of healing spells were placed on the baby at birth. He was blessed with his father’s hair and his mother’s eyes. He was named Mordred. For all his size and sweetness, his mother did not survive the magic birth. Nivian wept for days, but brought the child back with high spirits. Arthur was devastated, but declared to the kingdom that Morgause had not received the potion in time. He also declared the palace’s newest resident, a nephew from a distant place, Mordred. How Merlin had convinced Arthur not to cry out his sins for all to hear was in itself a miracle.

As he grew, Mordred quickly found a friend in young Galahad. A son of Elaine. The woman in question was berated by many a man for lying about her night with Lancelot, (though all in the palace knew it to not be a lie) now an honored knight of the round table. Nevertheless the boys grew in brotherhood. They were taught from the same tutor, ate at the same table, and lived in the same wing. They were happy.

It was many moons before Mordred grew distant. Usually such a happy child, he stopped playing until dusk, stopped leaving the castle at dawn to play in the streets with Galahad. He just stopped.

It was Guinevere he finally confided in. The woman who had become like an adopted mother to both boys. Mordred had magic. And he was terrified. Small sparks would fly from his fingertips at random moments, food would float off the table and hit the dog. “What of father?” He asked. “He will hate me.” Arthur had blamed magic for killing Morgause, so it was magic that he despised. Guinevere held the boy’s trembling hands in her own. “Your father could never hate you, Mordred. He is only a grieving man.” She leaned down to look into the child’s face. “I will make you a promise. I will teach you magic, as will Merlin, and we will keep the secret of magic for as long as you wish.” This seemed to quell the boy’s tears for a time.

Galahad quickly grew independent and strong. He became a knight, one of the bravest in the world in fact. Outshining that of his father with ease. He was happy and loved. “I’ve slain a beast!” He would cry, running through the halls of the palace. “I’ve slain a wonderful beast for dinner!”

It was long before disaster struck.

Magic does not always fade. Nor so does emotion. Morgause, in her death, was full of both. And when her corpse was buried in a place of honor overlooking Camelot, it did not fade either. The monster which crawled from the depths of hell was not the Morgause that once was. Her hair had turned black as a raven's wing with eyes that bled without bleeding. She came down from the mountain. She summoned the dead to walk amongst her, and the ravenous birds followed as a black legion of death. Her righteous fury burned through the countryside like a plague. She was now Morgan, Morgan le Fey.

Despite the evil that had consumed her, Arthur new the face and body anywhere. It was the woman he once loved, and now he had to slay her. Many fell in the battle that ensued. Knights and peasants alike. Mordred, long burdened with secret magic, fled for fear of both his father and mother.

Merlin called for great dragons to rain forth destruction on the advancing evil, but even a half demon could not stop a creature of Avalon. In his desperation, he forged a blade of tremendous power from the scraps of Caliburn; the blade of Arthur’s youth. Bathing it in dragon’s flame and quenching it in the rivers of Avalon, Excalibur was forged. Wielding the great sword, Arthur cut down many of his enemies. He fought for Camelot, no, for Britain. Formerly waring people's united under his banner, Albion. He spent years fighting, the ever loyal Guinevere and Merlin by his side. When the fatal day came for Arthur to vanquish his former love.

The sounds of war were disastrous. Dragons raged against the undead, as so did what mortals remained. A demonesses power is strong, but not unstoppable. Housed between two cliffs, Arthur plunged Excalibur into Morgan's shriveled heart. He was victorious, but only for a moment. From the shadows, a long spear plunged into the king’s chest. He fell to his knees, blood trickling out through his chainmail.

Guinevere, dressed for battle and armed with the only her magic, charged the attacker. The black knight raised his own sword in anticipation. With a wail of inhuman power, Guinevere summoned Excalibur to her hands and did battle. Their blades clashed with the ferocity of ten armies. Then, with a movement guided more with blind rage tan precision, Guinevere sank the blade into the black knight’s heart. His body slumped against hers, and they locked eyes. The knight was much lighter than expected, his armor much too big for him, as was his helmet, which fell to the ground with a clang.

Thousands of images swam through Guinevere’s mind at that moment. A young woman, scared for her life. A small boy, too small to reach his chair. The same boy devouring every book in the library, demanding she teach him every language he knew. A young man, now a sorcerer to rival that of herself, running away in the dead of night. The final image, one blurred by tears and anguish, was of the young man he had become, dying on her sword. His father’s sword. Mordred.