Free I, Morgana by Felicity Pulman
Authors: Felicity Pulman
suffering in our own world.
I have also returned to the world of the Druids. I’m beginning to think that the seed of Arthur’s destruction may lie in this world, for it is similar to our own in appearance and in almost everything else except that in this Otherworld it is the Druids who have the power over the hearts and minds of the people. I spend more and more time there, where I am known and revered as the daughter of an Otherworld king. I am learning high magic from the Druids while plotting how to take my revenge on Arthur and Merlin. Several years pass by while I bide my time, and learn what I can, and wait for my hour of triumph.
*
When word comes to the priory that a great battle has been waged against the invaders from across the sea, and that Arthur’s army is camped close by, I know it is time for me to act. I have learned not only how to shape-shift into other creatures but also how to take on the appearance of someone else. It has been a great source of amusement trying out various personae in the places where I am known. I have become an old crone, a young boy, a priest (with a most unholy tongue!) and a juggler. With this last, I’d thought to entertain the sisters with some songs and juggling tricks, but there was such consternation to find an unexpected stranger in their midst that I found myself quickly bundled outside the gate, and had to fly back inside disguised as a swallow.
Now the time for experiments and playing is over. This time I assume the guise of a young woman, beautiful enough to tempt Arthur to abandon his troops and follow me to the Otherworld of the Druids, where people are ruled by a man they call Myrddin. Before I leave the priory, I inspect my reflection in the blood-dark water of my scrying pool. I am content with what I see: a slim, shapely form clad in a silken gown the color of the ocean. My eyes sparkle with desire; my red lips invite temptation; my hair gleams like a river in the moonlight. I know that I have made myself irresistible to all men and, briefly and fiercely, I wish I could always stay as young and beautiful as I am today. But I suspect, if Merlin’s book is to be believed, that my transformation can last no longer than a year and a day.
I cast a final lingering glance at my reflection, but I cannot see myself. Instead I hear the shouts of battle and the screams of the dying, while a barge, clad in the black of deep mourning, sails slowly upriver. Before I can decipher any more, the vision has vanished and the water becomes still.
I feel uneasy, but shrug away my misgivings, anxious to be gone.
I have chosen the night of Samhain for my revenge on Arthur. It is the night when hearth fires are doused and homes abandoned. The night when the dead walk and no one is safe. The night when, in this Otherworld I have come to know, a new fire is lit for fortune in the year ahead. It is the night when stones are cast to tell who will live and who will die. This is what the Druids believe, and this is what I’d have Arthur believe too.
When I reach Arthur’s camp I am shocked to see the toll the battle has taken on his troops; young men look old before their time, their eyes betraying the horrors they’ve witnessed. The stench of spilled blood mingles with the scent of their cooking fires. An uneasy quiet pervades, broken only by the jingling harness of a restless steed and the occasional muttered oath. Confident that I can take care of myself if necessary, I walk among the men. I use my skills and what limited resources are available to help the injured, giving relief where I may, for their wounds are terrible. As I minister to them, I indulge in flirtatious banter in the hope of easing the burden of their memories. But it is Arthur’s attention I am after. Soon enough, he joins the growing band of warriors ringed around me, each of them hopeful of catching my favor for the night.
He is a grown man of twenty-one summers now, tall and come into his strength,
I have also returned to the world of the Druids. I’m beginning to think that the seed of Arthur’s destruction may lie in this world, for it is similar to our own in appearance and in almost everything else except that in this Otherworld it is the Druids who have the power over the hearts and minds of the people. I spend more and more time there, where I am known and revered as the daughter of an Otherworld king. I am learning high magic from the Druids while plotting how to take my revenge on Arthur and Merlin. Several years pass by while I bide my time, and learn what I can, and wait for my hour of triumph.
*
When word comes to the priory that a great battle has been waged against the invaders from across the sea, and that Arthur’s army is camped close by, I know it is time for me to act. I have learned not only how to shape-shift into other creatures but also how to take on the appearance of someone else. It has been a great source of amusement trying out various personae in the places where I am known. I have become an old crone, a young boy, a priest (with a most unholy tongue!) and a juggler. With this last, I’d thought to entertain the sisters with some songs and juggling tricks, but there was such consternation to find an unexpected stranger in their midst that I found myself quickly bundled outside the gate, and had to fly back inside disguised as a swallow.
Now the time for experiments and playing is over. This time I assume the guise of a young woman, beautiful enough to tempt Arthur to abandon his troops and follow me to the Otherworld of the Druids, where people are ruled by a man they call Myrddin. Before I leave the priory, I inspect my reflection in the blood-dark water of my scrying pool. I am content with what I see: a slim, shapely form clad in a silken gown the color of the ocean. My eyes sparkle with desire; my red lips invite temptation; my hair gleams like a river in the moonlight. I know that I have made myself irresistible to all men and, briefly and fiercely, I wish I could always stay as young and beautiful as I am today. But I suspect, if Merlin’s book is to be believed, that my transformation can last no longer than a year and a day.
I cast a final lingering glance at my reflection, but I cannot see myself. Instead I hear the shouts of battle and the screams of the dying, while a barge, clad in the black of deep mourning, sails slowly upriver. Before I can decipher any more, the vision has vanished and the water becomes still.
I feel uneasy, but shrug away my misgivings, anxious to be gone.
I have chosen the night of Samhain for my revenge on Arthur. It is the night when hearth fires are doused and homes abandoned. The night when the dead walk and no one is safe. The night when, in this Otherworld I have come to know, a new fire is lit for fortune in the year ahead. It is the night when stones are cast to tell who will live and who will die. This is what the Druids believe, and this is what I’d have Arthur believe too.
When I reach Arthur’s camp I am shocked to see the toll the battle has taken on his troops; young men look old before their time, their eyes betraying the horrors they’ve witnessed. The stench of spilled blood mingles with the scent of their cooking fires. An uneasy quiet pervades, broken only by the jingling harness of a restless steed and the occasional muttered oath. Confident that I can take care of myself if necessary, I walk among the men. I use my skills and what limited resources are available to help the injured, giving relief where I may, for their wounds are terrible. As I minister to them, I indulge in flirtatious banter in the hope of easing the burden of their memories. But it is Arthur’s attention I am after. Soon enough, he joins the growing band of warriors ringed around me, each of them hopeful of catching my favor for the night.
He is a grown man of twenty-one summers now, tall and come into his strength,