Chapter Four: Subterfuge

The dim orange flame from the torch, jammed into the nearby sconce, flickered miserably in the dank chill of the dungeon. The meagre light it cast reflected off of the moisture trickling down the rough hewn walls. Well-trodden straw matted with dirt and filth littered the floor and Lamrieth huddled in the corner, her cloak wrapped tightly about her. Stout, solid manacles clamped around her ankles and wrists shackling her to the thick iron ring embedded deep into the wall.

The heavy foot-fall of the dungeon guard came toward her cell and Lamrieth closed her eyes. She forced herself to take long, measured breaths to feign sleep. There was a pause as the guard peered into her cell, then, satisfied that all was well, she heard him continue on his way.

It had been mid-morning when she had first been dragged here and twelve long hours had slowly inched past. Lamrieth however, had used the time wisely and had carefully studied the patterns of the guard's shifts and movements around the dungeons. Four hours into the night watch and she knew that she had every detail committed to memory. The next stage of her plan needed absolute accuracy and impeccable timing if it was going to succeed.

Waiting for the guard to round the corner, she heard him begin to descend the steps leading to the lower levels and counted out another minute, patiently biding her time. Creeping from the corner, careful not to allow her chains to make a sound, Lamrieth peered through the bars toward the two guards left at the entrance way of the dungeon. Their backs were to her and they were hunched over a table, engrossed in a crude game of chance with a pair of dice.

Convinced that the coast was clear, Lamrieth sat back and closed her eyes. The makeup of her very being lost its rigid structure and she melted from our world into the world of shadows, pouring out of the shackles and slipping across the cell and through the bars in one fluid movement. Her shadow passed quickly down the passageway and passed the unsuspecting guards, re-materialising again in the dim entranceway to the dungeon. She took a few deep breaths to ready herself for this next task; it would take all of her concentration to effect the next part of her charade and she just hoped that she could make it convincing enough.

The edges of her body began to blur and shift as once more she altered the physical composition of her appearance and clothing. Black cloak was replaced with rich red and her previously dead straight hair was now a tell-tale raven-black, hanging in loose curls down her back. The dark hazel of her eyes adopted a green glow and pale white skin contrasted the darkness of her hair.

Keeping close to the wall, Lamrieth stole down the dungeon steps toward the unsuspecting guards until she was right behind them. Taking hold of an empty stool she deftly swung it high and brought it crashing down on the head of one of the guards. He crumpled over instantly and the second guard jumped up in surprise. Lamrieth turned to him, making sure that the hood of her red cloak slipped back slightly revealing her face.

"My Lady?" spluttered the guard in disbelief, before he too slumped to the floor, the stool reduced to little more than fire wood at the blow.

Wasting no time, Lamrieth allowed her features to dissolve back to her own likeness as she reached out for the keys bound to the guard's belt. The subterfuge was not needed now.

Hurrying back down the passageway, she quickly slipped the key into the lock and re-entered her cell. She had no fear that the third guard would return, by her calculations it would take him another thirty minutes to complete his rounds, but time was of the essence.

Selecting a smaller key from the guard's collection, she opened the lock to each of her discarded manacles - leaving the key jutting out of the last one. From her left boot she pulled a short dagger and quickly tore a small length of red material from her cloak, winding it carefully around a nail sticking out from the doorway to the cell.

Lamrieth surveyed her handiwork and was satisfied that everything was in order. In the next moment she was gone, nothing more than a strange perception of a darkening in the recesses of the room that wove its way up the dungeon steps and out into the cold night air.

But the night was not over yet and she had one more task to accomplish before she could retire for some well-earned rest.

Slipping in and out of the shadows, Lamrieth systematically searched the bed chambers of the entire royal wing of the castle until she finally found what she was looking for. There, bathed in the pale moonlight, lay the prone figure of the Lady Morgana sleeping fitfully in her grand four poster bed.

Taking her dagger once more in hand, she eased open the door to Morgana's wardrobe and ran her fingers over the many fine gowns within. Selecting the rich royal-red cloak she had seen the King's ward wear in the market place, she was pleased to see that it matched the colour she had created in her own cloak perfectly. With the dagger, she quietly cut another small length from the bottom hem, concealing the bit of cloth in her tunic.

Leaving the cloak hung on the door; Lamrieth stole noiselessly up to the sleeping figure of Morgana and crept weightlessly over the bed until her lips were inches from the other woman's ear. She tilted her head and pondered the fitful sleep of her subject, watching Morgana's eyes roll erratically in their sockets and waited for her to settle before whispering softly to her.

"The execution is in a few hours…" she breathed, her words swirling upon the air and echoing quietly around the chamber, "You do not want to witness such bloodshed…"

Morgana's eyes fluttered open for a second and then she was still once more, her lips forming the word 'bloodshed' in mimicry of Lamrieth.

"You have not much time… you must leave the castle now so that you are far away on the hills by daybreak."

"Daybreak… far away," muttered Morgana, writhing on the bed under the words of her intruder.

"Leave now… leave now… no time to lose!" repeated Lamrieth, her words growing in urgency and skipping all around Morgana's head. With one last gasp of breath Morgana's eyes opened in shock, her pupils struggling to focus in the darkness of her room. She sat up slowly peering into the gloom but there was nothing to be seen, except perhaps a dark shadow moving in the corner but Morgana dismissed that without a second thought as a trick of the light.

Throwing back the covers and climbing out of the bed, she stood in the middle of her chambers and struggled to remember what it was that had woken her. She could remember nothing of her dreams except the image of the sorcerer woman from the court yesterday.

"The execution is in a few hours," she whispered suddenly, "I… I have no wish to witness such… such bloodshed."

Morgana paused, frowning, as an odd sense of déjà vu settled over her. The red colouring of her cloak in the dim moonlight caught her eye and with a sudden resolve the Lady swept across the room to her wardrobe. Selecting a simply grey tunic and riding slacks Morgana quickly cast off her night gown, shivering in the cold of the night and pulled her selected items on. Pushing her feet into stout leather boots she lastly tied her cloak around her shoulders, pulling the hood over her head for warmth.

Slipping from her chambers, Morgana walked quietly but purposefully down the stairwell and left the castle unchallenged, even as the peel of the warning bells began to sound. Her mind was fixed only on her need to be free from the palace grounds in time to avoid witnessing the execution at dawn, so she hurried on toward the stables. She could hear the shouts of guards and the sound of their feet pounding the streets nearby but all she could think of was the face of the poor wretch to face the block in just a few hours and she could not bear the thought of being a spectator to it. So on she hurried with nothing but this singular thought in mind.

She had not gone more than two steps inside the stable doors when a voice cried out behind her, stopping her in her tracks.

"You there! Halt I say!"

Morgana turned around in confusion, surprise flashing across her features as she faced a small band of swords all pointed at her chest.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded in wonder.

"My Lady, we have no wish to hurt you but we have orders to bring you before the King," replied one of guards taking a step towards her.

"On whose authority? And on what grounds!?" Morgana cried impetuously.

"On my authority, Morgana," said Arthur quietly, stepping to the front of the guards and looking Morgana squarely in the eye. She frowned in confusion at the look of sad resignation on his face and shook her head in bewilderment.

"Your authority?" she repeated.

"Oh Morgana," sighed the Prince, signalling with a small flick of his wrist for his men to restrain her, "What have you done?"

*****