Another King Arthur story ! But a different cycle, so no Viviana is this story.
Disclaimer: none of the characters you recognize (except for my rendition of Isolde and Morgaine) belong to me.
- 1 / Vengeance -
Since she was little, Morgaine loved riding, the rush of adrenaline and the feeling of power over the animal underneath her it procured. She urged her horse forward, her hair flying wildly in the wind, and she laughed in delight at the speed, longing for more. The only twinge of regret was that she was finally nearing her destination : Dunguaire castle, her home.
'Home.' Morgaine let the word roll off her tongue, tasting it. She grimaced, deciding that the sensation was unpleasant. She had not been in Ireland for fifteen years, though it only felt like yesterday that her father gave her away to a strange, unknown old woman.
It was a dark, stormy winter night, but the whole castle was awake, waiting for the Queen Isolde's deliverance. The childbirth was going to be difficult, and in his despair, the King had sent for a priestess, a midwife from Avalon. Little Morgaine was waiting with her sister, but shared none of Isolde's concern ; she already knew what was to come, and had braced herself for her mother's untimely death. While her older sister, a girl of already promising beauty, had recoiled in tears at the sight of the soaked, old and ugly woman who entered the room, Morgaine had looked up with curiosity to meet her eyes, her cold, calculating staring the priestess down.
Queen Isolde had died a few hours later of blood loss, her newborn son barely breathing. And the priestess spoke to the King : 'A life for a life, my Lord. My presence tonight comes with a price. And I will charge with your youngest daughter – she is of our blood, and belongs to the Goddess. We will take good care of her.' And the King's greed overcame his grief and his love for his wife, for he pondered that the departure of an unwanted second girl, so unpromising in the prospect of a future marriage with her plain looks and sharp tongue, was getting him rid of a substantial dowry, and he accepted. Little did he know that he had been cheated, for his son died an hour after the priestess' departure from Dunguaire. Morgaine had left with her, and the castle breathed with relief. She was an unsettling, estranged child, who always spoke the truth, no matter how painful. People avoided her, for strange things happened around little Morgaine, accidents, and even the death of Isolde's first nursemaid, whose heart stopped beating while she was leaning over her sleeping protégée with a pillow – the King would discover later that she had been promised a considerable amount of coin by a rival Lord for the death of his offspring. It may have been the fear of being discovered. It may have been little Morgaine, who lay in a crib nearby.
The priestess had taken her far over the sea, to an island in the marshes, perpetually hidden in fog. Avalon, the home of what was left of the Goddess' cult. Morgaine thought warmly of the place where she had discovered the taste of freedom. Green hills beyond the fog, surrounding the stone circle where the priestesses held their ceremonies. Her bed in the novices' house, and her books, her favourite place under the oak, beside a little stream. She missed Avalon, as she rode towards the stone castle on the hill.
The women of the cult had been kind to her at first, offering their comfort to a little orphan. Their surprise was great, and it was a most unpleasant one, when they noticed that she didn't show any grief over her loss, nor did she long for home like children are expected to. She never made friends, but didn't have enemies either, for all knew that she was a powerful ally, and someone whose anger, although rare, was not to be taken lightly. So she kept mostly to herself, learning to control the powers that grew stronger with time. She had discovered a whole new world, an universe of reading and learning, of dreaming and wandering in the woods alone, enjoying the one thing most women her age could never have : freedom.
Only once more had she been to Dunguaire, when the King had requested her presence for his second marriage. The events had shown him his mistake, and Morgaine had been sent back in a hurry, for her prophesising of the bride's death in childbirth (a prophecy proven true a year later) had rather put a damper on the cheery spirit of the feast.
She stormed over the heavy drawbridge and into the courtyard, dismounting quickly in a whirlwind of black skirts. The castle had not changed much over the years, she noted, with the exception of some new – and ugly – tapestries adorning the walls. She rolled her eyes. Poor Isolde had always shown as much taste for decoration as a colour-blind magpie.
She made her way easily through the crowd in the antechamber, for the people stepped aside hurriedly, avoiding fearfully the contact of the dark cloak that swirled behind her. Morgaine smiled in satisfaction. She fancied theatrical arrivals.
She brushed aside the two soldiers standing guard before the door of the Throne Room : 'Don't you touch me', she warned, smiling sweetly, 'Or I swear you won't live to regret it !' As the men drew back in fear, she pushed the doors open. 'Father !' she exclaimed, walking up the long alley. 'You asked for me ?'
The King, a fat, imposing man who held his land within an iron grip, shrank back in his throne. 'Morgaine !' he grimaced, his voice somewhat strained. 'We need your help.' He glanced around them. 'Leave us ! Now !' he gestured, chasing everyone away. When the heavy doors of the room had been closed, he continued : 'It is about your sister.' 'Why is it I'm not surprised ?' she sneered. 'What has she done, this time ?'
Isolde was pacing in front of the window, one hand on her swollen belly, glancing occasionally to her reflection in the glass, checking that her pregnancy didn't stain her perfect beauty. Morgaine would've snorted, but that would've been most undignified. She was supposed to listen to her sister's ranting, but her attention had faltered somewhere in the middle of the first sentence. As Isolde's high-pitched voice rose to new levels of volume, scorching Morgaine's ears, she forced herself to concentrate on the words.
'I want Tristan to suffer for what he did to me !' screeched her sister, her elegant hands balled into fists, her beautiful face contorted with unrepressed rage. Morgaine blinked. 'You want me to torture him ?' 'Torture him, gut him, gut them all if necessary ! But he must suffer !' screamed Isolde. 'Tsk tsk, sister !' Morgaine's lips curled into a sardonic smile. 'You shouldn't get so worked up, in your… state', she drawled. Isolde snatched a chandelier and hurled it at her, but the priestess dodged it easily, laughing. 'Oh come off it ! You want me to kill a man because you couldn't keep your skirts down ? Because he behaved like a man ?' 'I hate you !!' shrieked her sister ; she didn't look so stunning anymore, her silky hair a mess, her face blotchy and swollen. Morgaine was enjoying the sight thoroughly, for it was the main reason why she drove Isolde to hysterics.
'Morgaine', growled her father from his seat in the corner of the room. 'This is a disgrace to our family, and a stain on your sister's honour that must be avenged.' Morgaine burst out laughing, and covered her mouth with a hand when she caught her father's menacing stare. 'Sorry', she waved her hand. 'Please, continue !'
'This man, this… Tristan, he has insulted us. Because of him we have lost our dignity.' 'You mean you have lost the gold Marc accepted to pay for an untouched bride', she corrected, and his father rose from his seat. 'You… I am your father !' he bellowed, 'You owe me respect !' She raised an eyebrow, and the lights of the torches seemed to diminish, the temperature dropped several degrees. The King shrank back into the throne. 'Respect', she repeated, with cold steel in her voice. 'Respect, dear father, is earned. And you have never done something for it.' She looked around, to see Isolde huddled in a corner, livid with fear, an interesting change of colour from the blotchy red he wore before, thought Morgaine, amused. She raised her hands in a mock gesture of surrender. 'Fine', she conceded, 'I will do as you wish. Tristan will soon regret the day he crossed my dear sister's path. But' - she raised a finger – 'This little… help… will come with a price.' The King nodded. 'What is it that you want ? For I will not give you the crown !' She rolled her eyes. 'As if I care about your pitiful kingdom… No. I want you to make me an orphan.' Her father clutched the armrests of his throne and drew back even more, as if he wanted to melt into the seat, and she laughed merrily, clapping her hands together. 'No no no…' she said. 'I do not wish your death. I only want you to give up your rights on me. To make me a free woman.'
The land of Britain lay once again before Morgaine. She glanced one last time behind her, to the blue horizon where lay Ireland, so far away. A land she would never see again, if she succeeded in her mission. She smiled unpleasantly. Soon, she would be a free woman.
Mounting her black stallion, she nudged his flanks and took off in the direction of the South, towards Camboglanna.
The sun was setting over the dusty road when she saw a man waving to her, motioning her over. Pulling on the reins, she stopped and looked down at him, raising an eyebrow. 'My Lady… Please, my wife is about to have our child… There is no one around to help her, please…' She sighed. Every hour of delay separated her from her freedom. But the obligation to assist any woman in need of help was a part of the oath she had taken upon becoming a priestess ; it was also the only part she felt compelled to respect. 'Lead me to your wife.'
The man, whose name was Brady, lived with his wife Eva in a small cabin in the woods. Morgaine descended swiftly, throwing him the reins, and he eyed the steed and the richly embroidered saddle with evident envy. Morgaine repressed a sneer of disgust as a dirty hand caressed her belongings longingly ; but there were more pressing matters at hand than establishing hierarchy with some farmer.
Inside the house, the woman lay on a small mattress on the floor, clutching her rounded belly, her face contorted with pain. She was panting, and Morgaine saw that she was already far in labour. Tucking up her sleeves, she turned towards Brady : 'Fetch me hot water and clean cloth.' 'Er… I'm sorry, my Lady…' he stammered, 'But the cloth… we have nothing, except the clothes we're wearing.' She grimaced, thinking of all the little, crawly beasts that probably lived in his garbs – and got a fleeting urge to claw her eyes out. She sighed again, took off her cloak and proceeded to rip it into strips, swearing under her breath. Her favourite cloak. Rip. Her best cloak. Rip. Rip. Her darkest, blackest cloak. Sigh. Once the water was boiling in a small cauldron, she ushered the man out, and went to kneel beside Eva. She laid her hand on the woman's swollen belly and knew it would be a long, long night.
'Push !' Morgaine commanded, holding Eva's sweaty hand and tucking up her dress. 'Push !' she encouraged again, and Eva obeyed, contracting her abdomen, panting with the pain. In an ultimate effort, she squeezed the priestess' hand and screamed. Morgaine took the newborn carefully, severing the umbilical chord with the short retractable blade she carried in her left sleeve and ligaturing both ends. 'Here, it is a boy', she said, wrapping the baby in what was left of her beautiful cloak and handing it to the mother. 'He's beautiful', whispered Eva, taking her son with unsure hands, fearing he might break. 'Thank you so much… For everything' she added, looking up. Her smile of gratitude was cold, and her pupils widened suddenly.
Morgaine dodged the blow instinctively, but Brady came back at her, brandishing a rusty axe. 'Kill her, Brady ! Kill her !' screamed his wife, clutching her wailing son to her chest. He launched again at the priestess, but she reached out and touched his chest briefly. This was enough. The axe fell from Brady's hands as he clawed at his chest, tearing clothes and skin, trying to restart his frozen, still heart. Finally, death reached him and he fell to the floor. 'No !!' shrieked his wife.
'Why did you do this ? Was it my possessions that you wanted ?' asked Morgaine in disbelief. She shook her head reproachingly. 'This death is on you. Now, you are a widow…'
She washed calmly Eva's blood from her hands and gathered her belongings, while Eva tried to crawl to where her husband's lifeless body lay, leaving a crimson trail on the wooden boards. 'You should rest', remarked Morgaine and exited the house. Her job here was done. Mounting her horse, she glanced back briefly, listening to the wails of sorrow coming from inside.
Then she nudged her horse forward. She still had a long journey before her.