THE CURSE OF EXCALIBUR: a gripping Arthurian fantasy (THE MORGAN TRILOGY Book 2) by Lavinia Collins Page A
Authors: Lavinia Collins
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Properly, and up close. She seemed to have three women who were with her every day, two Breton, one English. There was no way that I could turn myself to the shape of the Breton women, for then I would be stuck if anyone spoke to me, or if I was expected to speak, in the Queen’s own language. After a couple of days, I got used to their patterns of movement, their comings and goings, and I thought I could take the English girl’s place to have a better look at the Queen. I avoided Uriens, spending the nights with Morgawse, dreading the time – which would be soon – when I would be sent back to Gore with him. I could not hide from him so easily there. I avoided Kay as well. He did not come back for Morgawse again, nor did she seem to expect it. She never mentioned him again.
I stopped the English girl at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the Queen’s rooms. She seemed afraid of me, flustered by the sight of my woaded face and strange clothes. She was a simpleton. I sent her to the village market to buy some things. She would be gone all day. I waited until I was sure that Uriens was out of my room, and I snuck away from there one of my plain woollen dresses. I found an empty room, and changed into it, and then closed my eyes and imagined myself as the dull-witted English maid: the mousey hair, the soft, pretty features. When I opened my eyes and peered into the window pane to look for my reflection, I seemed to have done it successfully.
The girl had been fetching water when I had sent her on my errand, and had been too flustered to finish the job. I picked up the heavy bucket, walking slowly with it and sloshing it all over my feet and legs, looking through all the open doors until I came to the very top of the stairs. My mother's old room. The Queen’s chamber. I tried the door, and it opened. I felt a flutter of excitement. I would finally see this woman up close for myself, see what she was really like. I might hear, too, what she truly thought of Arthur.
When I stepped through the door, I could hear the two other women chattering in Breton with the Queen. The room was filled with the bright light of the spring morning, and the sound of laugher not just from the Breton maids, but the Queen herself. Her laugh was low and soft; reserved, shy almost, though I did not think from her striding through the courtyard in her hunting clothes that she could be shy. The curtains on her bed were pulled right back, and she was sat up in bed, holding the sheet against her front; but her back was bare, and I could see her pale skin, white as milk against the dark red of the hair that spilled free and wild down her back. I could see now why it had captured Gawain’s attention. I should have liked to grab a handful of it, too, though I was sure not for the same purpose as Gawain.
Her eyes still a little foggy with sleep, though it was past prime, she was talking with her women in Breton. I could not understand what she was saying, but I recognised among her words Arthur’s name. The elder Breton woman appeared to be asking her something, and in response, she stuck out her bottom lip and puffed out a breath that made the coils of hair resting on her forehead rise and fall in a little dance. She was annoyed.
“What is wrong?” I asked, suddenly. I expected the older Breton woman to scold me, but she did not.
“Oh, Margery, I did not see you there. Is that water for the bath? Come and put it in the tub.” I stepped forward with it. I dipped my hand into it tentatively. It was not as hot as it had been when I had taken it off the other girl, but I thought on the warm spring day it was hot enough. There was already some water in the tub that was steaming, so I thought it would do. I poured it in, and as I did, to my surprise the younger Breton woman, who was little as a bird with bright, pretty eyes and a sweet, girlish face, answered my question with a wicked little giggle.
“Guinevere is complaining that she has
I stopped the English girl at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the Queen’s rooms. She seemed afraid of me, flustered by the sight of my woaded face and strange clothes. She was a simpleton. I sent her to the village market to buy some things. She would be gone all day. I waited until I was sure that Uriens was out of my room, and I snuck away from there one of my plain woollen dresses. I found an empty room, and changed into it, and then closed my eyes and imagined myself as the dull-witted English maid: the mousey hair, the soft, pretty features. When I opened my eyes and peered into the window pane to look for my reflection, I seemed to have done it successfully.
The girl had been fetching water when I had sent her on my errand, and had been too flustered to finish the job. I picked up the heavy bucket, walking slowly with it and sloshing it all over my feet and legs, looking through all the open doors until I came to the very top of the stairs. My mother's old room. The Queen’s chamber. I tried the door, and it opened. I felt a flutter of excitement. I would finally see this woman up close for myself, see what she was really like. I might hear, too, what she truly thought of Arthur.
When I stepped through the door, I could hear the two other women chattering in Breton with the Queen. The room was filled with the bright light of the spring morning, and the sound of laugher not just from the Breton maids, but the Queen herself. Her laugh was low and soft; reserved, shy almost, though I did not think from her striding through the courtyard in her hunting clothes that she could be shy. The curtains on her bed were pulled right back, and she was sat up in bed, holding the sheet against her front; but her back was bare, and I could see her pale skin, white as milk against the dark red of the hair that spilled free and wild down her back. I could see now why it had captured Gawain’s attention. I should have liked to grab a handful of it, too, though I was sure not for the same purpose as Gawain.
Her eyes still a little foggy with sleep, though it was past prime, she was talking with her women in Breton. I could not understand what she was saying, but I recognised among her words Arthur’s name. The elder Breton woman appeared to be asking her something, and in response, she stuck out her bottom lip and puffed out a breath that made the coils of hair resting on her forehead rise and fall in a little dance. She was annoyed.
“What is wrong?” I asked, suddenly. I expected the older Breton woman to scold me, but she did not.
“Oh, Margery, I did not see you there. Is that water for the bath? Come and put it in the tub.” I stepped forward with it. I dipped my hand into it tentatively. It was not as hot as it had been when I had taken it off the other girl, but I thought on the warm spring day it was hot enough. There was already some water in the tub that was steaming, so I thought it would do. I poured it in, and as I did, to my surprise the younger Breton woman, who was little as a bird with bright, pretty eyes and a sweet, girlish face, answered my question with a wicked little giggle.
“Guinevere is complaining that she has
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