THE CURSE OF EXCALIBUR: a gripping Arthurian fantasy (THE MORGAN TRILOGY Book 2) by Lavinia Collins Page B
Authors: Lavinia Collins
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not had enough sleep.” I realised that until now I had not known the Queen’s name. It was a strange, foreign-sounding name, but I thought it pretty.
The elder woman clicked her tongue at the girl, but her look was indulgent. These women all seemed very close; I would not have spoken to any serving women I had known like that, nor let them giggle about me in front of them, but Guinevere was smiling slightly to herself. She yawned and stretched her arms up over her head, and I was shocked to see that she let go of the sheet, and let it fall down around her waist. It was as though she was unaware of her own nakedness. Her hair fell over her breasts, which were small but full, and a soft, pale pink at the nipple, which I saw when she scooped her hair back with one hand as she stepped from the bed to get in the bath.
She slipped into the bath water, splashing a little as she got in, letting her hair trail out the back of the bath and sinking back into it with a murmur of pleasure, closing her eyes.
The young maid said something to her in Breton, and a slight smile played about Guinevere’s lips in response, though she did not open her eyes. The elder women clicked her tongue.
“ English , Marie,” the older woman scolded. “It is not fair for Margery.”
I sat beside the young woman, Marie, next to the bath. No one seemed to mind. The older woman sat at its foot in a chair, sewing carefully at something. She was attractive still, about of an age with Morgawse, I thought, or a little older. Dark, dark, black hair and pale skin, with sharp blue eyes.
The young girl, Marie, looked a little flustered at being scolded.
“Sorry Margery. I was just saying that I am amazed that Guinevere can spend so long in bed, and get so little sleep.”
She looked embarrassed to say it to me, as though Margery were a prude, or that she was only used to teasing the Queen in Breton. Without opening her eyes, Guinevere lifted a hand in the bath to splash Marie with some of the water. Marie squealed.
The older woman made a shushing noise.
“Margery doesn’t want to hear your crude jokes, Marie.”
Suddenly, without warning, Guinevere slipped down in the bath, sloshing water out of the sides, to dunk her hair through the water. When she came back up from the water, she pushed the hair back off her face, and flashed her slight, reserved little smile at me and Marie, pulling her knees up close and wrapping her arms around them. The water dripped from her thick hair onto the wooden floorboards with a soft tapping noise.
There was still something childlike about her, though she had obviously grown to womanhood. Marie had begun to comb through her wet hair, and Guinevere wrinkled her small, pointed nose with discomfort every time Marie tugged at a knot.
“Marie, you will tear out all my hair,” she said, half-laughing. I realised that this was the first thing that she had said. Her voice was soft and low, reserved without being shy, like her manner, and rich with her Breton accent.
“ I am not the one who tangles it up,” Marie quipped with a smile. Guinevere splashed her again.
“ Marie ,” the older woman scolded, glancing warily at me. Were they afraid that I would tell someone how they talked? Or was Margery truly as shy and prudish as they acted as though she was? I had heard my sister talk far more candidly. But they were talking about it as though it were something happy, and Guinevere still wore her half-smile of secret amusement.
It suddenly felt painfully unfair that I was so unhappily married, and yet Arthur had summoned a woman whose family he had slaughtered to be his wife, and they had found some kind of tentative new-married happiness. I could not believe that she would have wanted Arthur as much as he wanted her, and yet there was no hint in anything anyone said that he had been forceful with her. Had I misunderstood so much? Had my own experience of marriage made me believe that everyone was unhappy?
“Where
The elder woman clicked her tongue at the girl, but her look was indulgent. These women all seemed very close; I would not have spoken to any serving women I had known like that, nor let them giggle about me in front of them, but Guinevere was smiling slightly to herself. She yawned and stretched her arms up over her head, and I was shocked to see that she let go of the sheet, and let it fall down around her waist. It was as though she was unaware of her own nakedness. Her hair fell over her breasts, which were small but full, and a soft, pale pink at the nipple, which I saw when she scooped her hair back with one hand as she stepped from the bed to get in the bath.
She slipped into the bath water, splashing a little as she got in, letting her hair trail out the back of the bath and sinking back into it with a murmur of pleasure, closing her eyes.
The young maid said something to her in Breton, and a slight smile played about Guinevere’s lips in response, though she did not open her eyes. The elder women clicked her tongue.
“ English , Marie,” the older woman scolded. “It is not fair for Margery.”
I sat beside the young woman, Marie, next to the bath. No one seemed to mind. The older woman sat at its foot in a chair, sewing carefully at something. She was attractive still, about of an age with Morgawse, I thought, or a little older. Dark, dark, black hair and pale skin, with sharp blue eyes.
The young girl, Marie, looked a little flustered at being scolded.
“Sorry Margery. I was just saying that I am amazed that Guinevere can spend so long in bed, and get so little sleep.”
She looked embarrassed to say it to me, as though Margery were a prude, or that she was only used to teasing the Queen in Breton. Without opening her eyes, Guinevere lifted a hand in the bath to splash Marie with some of the water. Marie squealed.
The older woman made a shushing noise.
“Margery doesn’t want to hear your crude jokes, Marie.”
Suddenly, without warning, Guinevere slipped down in the bath, sloshing water out of the sides, to dunk her hair through the water. When she came back up from the water, she pushed the hair back off her face, and flashed her slight, reserved little smile at me and Marie, pulling her knees up close and wrapping her arms around them. The water dripped from her thick hair onto the wooden floorboards with a soft tapping noise.
There was still something childlike about her, though she had obviously grown to womanhood. Marie had begun to comb through her wet hair, and Guinevere wrinkled her small, pointed nose with discomfort every time Marie tugged at a knot.
“Marie, you will tear out all my hair,” she said, half-laughing. I realised that this was the first thing that she had said. Her voice was soft and low, reserved without being shy, like her manner, and rich with her Breton accent.
“ I am not the one who tangles it up,” Marie quipped with a smile. Guinevere splashed her again.
“ Marie ,” the older woman scolded, glancing warily at me. Were they afraid that I would tell someone how they talked? Or was Margery truly as shy and prudish as they acted as though she was? I had heard my sister talk far more candidly. But they were talking about it as though it were something happy, and Guinevere still wore her half-smile of secret amusement.
It suddenly felt painfully unfair that I was so unhappily married, and yet Arthur had summoned a woman whose family he had slaughtered to be his wife, and they had found some kind of tentative new-married happiness. I could not believe that she would have wanted Arthur as much as he wanted her, and yet there was no hint in anything anyone said that he had been forceful with her. Had I misunderstood so much? Had my own experience of marriage made me believe that everyone was unhappy?
“Where
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