Free Hawk of May by Gillian Bradshaw Page A

Arthur or any whom Arthur supported, ever again!”
    Connall dropped his head. “It is so. We had no choice. It was surrender or die. And Arthur was not, after all, to be our king.”
    Morgawse moved as in pain and covered her face with her hands.
    Connall hesitated, then went on. “The rest of the warband had fled with the armies of the kings of Britain, and was caught with them. They were driven like cattle up the valley into the Dubhglas. There had been rains, and the river was high. It is swift there, too, and there was no crossing it, not in that press. They surrendered, they all surrendered—Arthur had given orders that no one was to kill the kings—and they swore the Threefold Oath of allegiance to Arthur. The next day he gave himself some Roman title and said there would be a council at Camlann. But he told Lot to take us and go home, or he would burn out our ships and have us killed. But he is keeping your son, Lady, for a hostage. He saw that Lot loved Agravain.
    â€œSo we went back to Gododdin at great speed. I went ahead, Lady, to bring you this news…”
    â€œArthur Pendragon,” whispered Morgawse, without moving. Her eyes were fixed on something infinitely far away. I shivered, for I knew that the hate she had borne for Uther had been conferred in double measure on Uther’s son. “Artorius, Insularis Draco, Augustus, Imperator Britanniarum. That is his Roman title, man. Arthur, Pendragon, High King of Britain. Arthur…” Morgawse dropped her hands, glared at Connall and beyond him. Her face was twisted with a fury and hatred beyond human comprehension. Hate was a black fire in her eyes, deep as the inner black ocean which I knew had swallowed her. “Arthur!” she screamed. “Arthur! Oh, this battle is yours, brother, but the war is not over, I swear, I, Morgawse, rightful and legitimate daughter of a High King! Death, death upon you, death upon your seed, that it will rise against you, for all your new gods and empire and sorceries. Death and eternal agony! Be secure now in your new power and glory, you whom Uther loved, but my curse will find you out and give you to damnation for ever, I swear the oath of my people, and may the earth swallow me, may the sky fall on me, may the sea overwhelm me if you do not die by your son’s hand!”
    Morgawse had risen and lifted her hands. To my eyes, darkness blazed in a corona about her, and she was more beautiful than ever any mortal woman was, and I was blinded by her darkness and beauty and worshipped her in terror with all my heart. Connall, as terrified as I, cringed, unable to mutter a prayer, staring at her with wide eyes. As the final syllables of the binding Threefold Oath fell on the shocked air, she remembered him, and turned on him. She was angry that he had seen her rage, angry as a goddess. But she laughed, and her control was back, veiling but not hiding the splendor beneath it.
    â€œSo, you believe that I am terrible,” she said. “You do not know how terrible, man, Connall of the Dalriada. Shall I show you?”
    He collapsed away from her, cringed towards the door. Morgawse’s hands rose and she wove a spell. My eyes saw it as the black strength came together like threads on a loom, into a strange pattern.
    â€œMy power makes no great show of warriors, as Lot’s does, or Arthur’s,” she whispered. “It is subtle, working in the dark, in the places beyond your sight, hidden in fear in your own mind. No man is free from me. No man, not even Arthur. Certainly not you, Dalriad…shall I show you, Connall?”
    He shook his head, licking his lips. His back was flat against the door, his fingers spread against it. The leather bolt was not fastened, but he was as incapable of opening it as if it had been locked with chains of steel. Morgawse approached him and, beside her, he seemed as pale and unreal as a ghost.
    â€œDo not, Mor Riga, Great