From the Memoirs of Philip of Amancia

REMEMBERING ESMELLE

Now that my Lord Merlin sleeps peacefully beside his knowledge and his seven areas of the complexity of education, and while I still have the memories fresh in my mind, perhaps the time has come when I can finally talk about what happened, long ago in Miranda, about which I was always forbidden to speak. I don’t think my story could harm my master in any way now. He’s sleeping so soundly that none of us is certain whether he’s dead or resting, because every day that passes his white locks mingle more with the frost covering the bark of the old oak he went to lean against when he decided to retire in search of rest. It’s getting harder and harder now to tell where the human locks end and where the frost on the tree begins.

         Not even Noy the dog, whom we named that because we were never sure if he was the offspring of Ney or Norés, although it was quite clear that his mother was an enchanted dog who showed up in Miranda one day looking for love and affection, which she quickly found with the dogs in the house. Not even Noy, like I said, could tell the tree from the man, even though he had a keen sense of smell and had been raised by his master. Because as soon as she’d given birth, with the final contractions of labor, the mother dog’s spell was broken. Having regained her human appearance, she ran off down the road to Belvís, paying no attention to the weak whining of her pup nor to the painful howling of Ney and Norés who, gripped by Xosé do Cairo’s strong hand, couldn’t run off and romp with her like they had during the months she’d been under the spell.

         Also, as time went by, the dark garments my Lord Merlin was wearing that final day when he entered the forested mountains of Esmelle, turned gray and nut-brown, and nobody can tell them apart from the bark of an oak tree, and the fact is, even though sometimes it seems like I can see him breathing, he’s so motionless that a finch even made a nest where my master’s left elbow used to be and there it sits singing happily, unaware of its mistake.

         So now that he’s sleeping like this, and my poor Lady Guinevere has gone mad from so much tapestry embroidering and pays no attention when people talk to her and Marcelina died an old woman and even I can’t recall now how many years have passed since that Christmas when, cap in hand, I came to my Lord Merlin’s door, now that nobody can destroy my memories, it’s time I spoke here about the strange occurrence one stormy night that kept the whole house of Miranda in turmoil for weeks. It was such a serious matter that, like I said earlier, we were forbidden to speak about it for years – as if it had never happened – but it awoke such a profound curiosity in me that for the first time it occurred to me to think that my master had not been so wise and brave, nor my Lady Guinevere so sweet and gentle.

         It happened, as I was saying, on a night when even dogs don’t go out – although I never really understood why they describe cold and thundery nights like that, when dogs are animals whose company is so loving and warm. From the windows of the house of Miranda you could only see the wall of water pouring straight down, in buckets. There was nothing else. There was no horizon and you couldn’t even get a glimpse of the lights at Belvís Manor that were usually visible. The night was so dark and the rain so heavy that I don’t think even Luceiro, the miraculous umbrella of the Bishop of Paris, would be able to push those dense, dark shadows aside. You could only catch a glimpse of what was out there when a lightning bolt broke through the sky. Although it was better not to try because the landscape, which was usually so benevolent and familiar, had turned so phantasmagorical and ghostly.

         It was one of those bright flashes when I saw her for the first time. Her hair was blacker than the night and her skin was whiter than my Lady Guinevere’s. She appeared to be a creature from the netherworld, a being from the world of the dead, if not for her serious expression and clear, steady gaze, as if she were staring at me while heading toward the door of the house. The figure disappeared when the bolt flashed. And no matter how much I rubbed my eyes and searched for the silhouette from my position beside the window, the shadowy darkness and the rain blocked everything out again like a black curtain and only my nose was reflected in the glass, more like a mirror than ever because of the water.

         So there I was, trying to catch another glimpse of the solitary Lady and thinking about whether the image was real or a figment of my imagination, when Ney and Norés, who until that moment had been lying quietly beside the stove, perked up their ears and hurried docilely and joyfully to the door of the house, where they began to whimper softly as if begging for someone to open it so they could go out to greet the person they loved, like they did when they heard Xosé do Cairo return at night. They always liked to go meet him along the path and accompany him along the last few steps home. And my master looked at the dogs, puzzled, because neither Xosé do Cairo nor anybody else was away from home that night. Then he became even more puzzled, and all of us there were puzzled, when Cerís the cat got down from my Lady Guinevere’s lap where he was dozing and went over to the door too, then started to scratch it as if he wanted to make a hole to go through. I could see clearly that my master was arching his eyebrows and it looked like his breathing had grown tense.

         “Open the door, Philip,” he said with a carefully calm voice. “There’s someone outside who does not need to knock to be allowed to enter.

         So I slowly left my place by the window and although I was shaking from fear on the inside, I tried to carry out the order without showing it because I didn’t want to look like a scaredy cat, especially not in front of Manoeliña de Carlos, whom I’d pretty much impressed by then with my skill at spitting cherry stones.

         As I said, I went carefully to the door, but I didn’t need to touch it because when I was just a step away from it, it began to open slowly and without a sound from the hinges. And there she was, in the courtyard: the woman I’d seen from the window, walking in the storm.

         Yet it was as if it hadn’t been raining or anything, because the Lady was as dry as firewood beside the hearth. Her dark hair was shining and it was so black and sleek that it sparkled like water, even though it looked like no rain had fallen on it. What’s more, her dress, made of fine cloth, clung to the body of the recent arrival. It was because that was how it had been cut and sewn, not because the cloth was sticking to her figure.

         Then she spoke gently with me, as if she knew me, calling me by my name with that voice of hers, warm and solemn.

         “Thank you, Philip, for lighting my way, along the path to the house with your eyes.”

         I stood there, astonished and not moving, while the Lady went gracefully around me and entered the sitting room.

         “Welcome, Morgana.”

         The voice of Merlin, my master, sounded firm and gentle, as if the Lady’s arrival weren’t a surprise but instead something he was expecting. My mistress, Guinevere, didn’t react that way. She got up suddenly, letting the cloth she was embroidering with Sir Percival’s adventures, one she normally held with great care, fall to the floor.

         “You! Here! How dare you follow me to my final place of residence? Apparently all the evil you did wasn’t enough. Weren’t you satisfied with all you kept for yourself and your world of evil beings?”

         “Poor Guinevere,” responded the woman who had just arrived. And her soft voice sounded both affectionate and teasing. “Still so confused and silly.”

         My Lord Merlin intervened then, before Lady Guinevere could give her an angry reply. My master wanted to know if the woman named Morgana was hungry or wanted to warm herself by the fire, but the merry expression of the woman who’d arrived with the storm made it obvious that this unique woman did not need anything. So then he invited her to go up to his study with him, where they spent several hours behind the closed door. They talked and talked, until the rainy night gave way to a cool, rosy dawn.

From the Chronicles of Avalon

WHAT HAPPENED IN TINTAGEL

The clatter of the horses’ hooves as they enter the courtyard doesn’t scare the girl who’s playing by the steps. On the contrary, her black eyes sparkle in a thousand little smiles and her little mouth opens to cry out:

         “Daddy!”

         Then she ran, her little arms open wide, toward the one in front, the greatest of the knights that had just entered the castle, clutching his knee as soon as the man carrying his shield set a foot on the ground.

         The warrior barely pays attention to her; he only has eyes for the Lady of the castle, Lady Igrayne, who watches from the balcony, surprised.

         Without being brusque, but also without tenderness, without even looking at her, the man pushes the small child away. He ascends the steps in long strides until he reaches the landing where Lady Igrayne awaits.

         “My Lord! I was afraid you wouldn’t return from the battlefield!”

         “No battle could stop me from holding you in my arms again.”

         Then, leaving his shield and helmet on the ground, he picks the Lady up and heads into the castle with her.

         The girl with the dark hair, half stunned and half hurt by her father’s indifference, watches them disappear inside the solid, everlasting walls of Tintagel. She remains there for hours, standing, looking stupefied, staring at the door. She was so caught up in her own thoughts that she didn’t hear the voices of the maidservants calling her nor the hubbub of the knights’ conversations and their grooms in the patio of the fort.

         Some time later she would say that when the man she thought was her father embraced her mother, she thought she saw the shadow of a dragon cast over the castle walls, hovering near Lady Igrayne.

         When it was turning to dusk, the knight came out onto the patio again. He put on his helmet, took up his shield, and once more went past the little girl, without looking at her. He didn’t notice then that the little one’s eyes showed none of the joy she’d felt when he arrived, didn’t even see the surprise the child felt when she watched him go to her mother without the smallest caress for her. The little girl Morgana’s eyes now only showed doubt and questioning.

         The knight who looked like Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, mounted his horse and departed once more for the battlefield. The guards beside the castle door hailed him with respect. Little Morgana watched him until he disappeared in the distance. Then the dark doubt in the little one’s eyes turned to steely rage. She spat on the ground where the man he’d thought was her father had strode, and ran inside the castle, looking for Lady Igrayne.

         She found her in the bedroom. Still naked, lying in the bed where she’d spent the whole afternoon enjoying her man. Her long, white hands caressed her golden belly. Lady Igrayne knew that she had just conceived another baby in that meeting. Morgana also knew, as soon as her gaze met her mother’s. Lady Igrayne held out her hands and the black-haired child rested her little head on her mother’s fertilized belly. As Lady Igrayne’s fingers twirled the girl’s hair they resembled white doves among a flock of black swallows. Morgana just stayed there, not moving, fitting her breathing to the easy breath of her dozing mother. She shut her eyes tightly, trying to erase the man she’d seen in the patio from sight and memory. A cold shudder went down her spine and she buried her face deeper in the warm, soft belly of the Lady of Cornwall.

         The moment of rest for mother and daughter did not last long. Dawn had still not broken when the shouts and lamentations coming from the patio wrenched the two of them from the warm sleep they’d entered as they embraced.

         Lady Igrayne rose from the bed. She covered her naked body with a robe and went to look out the window. Bloody soldiers, their clothing in tatters, were bearing a lifeless body on their shoulders using a litter improvised from the shield that was decorated with the colors of Cornwall.

         “Lady! Mistress! We have suffered a great tragedy! Our beloved Lord. Heaven save us, noble Lady! The Lord of Cornwall is dead… He’s been killed! The enemy has defeated him! Now who will protect us all?”

         Lady Igrayne, stupefied and incredulous, came out into the cold dawn. Walking slowly and uneasily, she drew near the cadaver the soldiers had placed carefully on the ground. She knelt beside it and ran her white fingers through the bloody blond hair that covered the knight’s face. She stroked the stiff, bluish face of the man who had once been the handsome Lord of Cornwall. Duke Gorlois. Her husband. Her lover.

         Without tears, without a whimper, Lady Igrayne raised her eyes to the soldiers.

         “How can he be so cold?” she asked. “Only a few hours ago I felt him burning in my arms.”

         Without tears, without a whimper, Lady Igrayne tugged on the blanket that was around her and used it to cover the body of her beloved Lord.

         The soldiers looked at one another, frightened.

         “What are you saying, my Lady? It is impossible that he was with you this afternoon. Your pain must undoubtedly cause you to confuse the days and times. It was not yet noon when his banner fell and we couldn’t bring his body to you before because nobody could find it.”

         The Mistress of Tintagel looked at them oddly.

         “Please explain,” she begged them.

         “As soon as we saw his insignia fall, we ran to him. However, a thick white fog that appeared out of nowhere quickly covered the whole area. And even though we managed to grope around and find the bodies lying there, we couldn’t see who they were even when we were only inches away. None of us could make out even our own hands on our faces and we kept bumping into each other, like blind men packed together in a shed. It wasn’t until late in the evening when the fog lifted the same way it had come. Then we could see it was the body of our poor Lord of Cornwall, already chilled and stiff after all that time had passed.”

         Lady Igrayne listened in grave, calm silence to the soldier’s story. She said nothing for a few minutes. Her gaze looked cut off, as if she’d turned it inward on herself rather than letting it wander.

         When she spoke, she did so almost smiling and with a calm tone.

         “Well, I insist that Gorlois of Cornwall was with me this afternoon. And if such a dense fog sprang from the earth it was precisely so you wouldn’t be frightened by what was going to happen and what you would not understand. The fact is that my Lord the duke, after he’d fallen, defeated death for a while. And his spirit and flesh, accompanied by other knights who must also have died in battle, entered Tintagel in search of me before leaving for the beyond.”

         Then as she spoke, Lady Igrayne grasped the dead man’s hand and set it over her naked belly. After that she placed her red lips on the purplish mouth of her deceased lover and, without tears, without a whimper, with serene majesty, she stood and went inside the castle. She came out later, dressed now in widow’s apparel, accompanied by her daughter. The two of them washed and perfumed the body of the deceased. They did this without weeping, without a whimper, with wise, skilled hands. Saying not a word, they arranged the corpse under the horrified gaze of the soldiers, who needed to let many days pass before all those who’d been there in Tintagel with Lady Igrayne could confirm what the Lady had told them and could finally believe what the Lady of Cornwall, now a widow, had affirmed.

         The months passed slowly for the Lady of Tintagel.

         The days, which at first were tinged with the pain and sadness caused by the loss of her lover, became easier as she felt the last gift her dead husband had left her growing inside her body. Twice she almost lost the child she was carrying in her womb because of the pain and anguish that weighed heavily on her and wouldn’t let in the air the little baby, conceived by magic, needed to grow. Twice she managed to hold the fetus back thanks to her steady nerves and to her extensive knowledge of medicinal herbs. The moon had gone through seven cycles since the last visit that the Lord of Cornwall, somewhere between living and dead, had paid to her. The baby was now out of danger. Lady Igrayne sensed it was now complete, able to survive even if she gave birth ahead of time. Lady Igrayne constantly rubbed her swollen belly. Every time she felt a stretching of her belly, with every kick she felt inside of her, her heart’s sadness was healed a little more.

         The nights were darker. Neither her hard, round belly nor the warmth of little Morgana, who slept beside her now, could free her from her sombre, sad thoughts. During the long, shadowy hours the longing for Gorlois’ body hit her hard again, when the certainty that she’d never share with him the laughter and embraces led her to the brink of desperation. It was also when night came that the anguish over the future which was awaiting them returned. After the Duke of Cornwall’s death, Lady Igrayne expected that his victor, his killer, would come back to claim what had been won on the battlefield.

That morning little Morgana was the first one to discover the arrival of the new Lord. Even before she opened her eyes, a shiver ran down her spine. Clear in her mind, the same distinct shadow of a dragon that she’d seen the day her father died. She huddled closer to her mother, anxious for that warm lap, and stiffened. She knew that as soon as Lady Igrayne awoke, peace for both of them was going to end. The warm, heavy skins that covered their bed were a shelter against the advancing dawn that seemed to be very dark.

         Despite the little girl’s wishes, the Lady of Tintagel soon awoke. The sounds of the horses’ hooves clopping on the castle stones broke her sleep and with her daughter still clinging to her, she looked out the window to see what was going on. A group of knights decked out in the enemy’s colors was dismounting. Among them, the reddest, the tallest, and the strongest, was King Uther Pendragon: the victor, the murderer. And next to him, a friendly, beloved face: Merlin, whom Lady Igrayne had known from childhood. The wise sage seems to have authority over those people, the group of invaders who have come to collect their due. Nevertheless, the druid’s face has a worried expression. The people in the castle are moving about nervously, not sure how to treat the recent arrivals who’ve come striding in, like big loping bears. Uther crosses the patio and ascends the stairs that lead to the living quarters without waiting to be invited. Some of his men follow him; others stand guard on the paved path. Merlin looks up and his eyes meet Lady Igrayne’s as she stands by the window. He doesn’t need to speak. His eyes tell her to come down.

         In the bedroom Morgana tries to keep her from going. Convince her not to go to meet the intruders. Lady Igrayne calms her, nothing to do now that the die has been cast. She knows how to conduct herself as a person whose blood carries a mixture of the Cornwall lineage and the fays. She quickly puts on a loose skirt above her protruding belly and goes down to the main room. It isn’t Uther but rather Merlin who meets her at the foot of the stairs.

         “Igrayne,” the wizard says to her, “your destiny is going to change today, and with yours the entire future of Britain will also change.”

         The Lady fixes her dark blue eyes on him while she tries to guess the answer to the enigma. It wasn’t so long ago that she played with her sisters trying to guess the riddles that Merlin used to stimulate their sharp minds. But today the wizard’s eyes are opaque.

         “My Lady!” Uther comes toward her. His stride is more relaxed and agile than his immense body would lead one to think. “It has been a good while that I should have come by your home, but out of deference to your state I didn’t want to upset you during the months when your pregnancy was still not in full bloom as it is now.”

         Lady Igrayne ironically thanks him for this deference. “It is quite considerate,” she tells him, “which is odd, seeing as how you weren’t concerned about ending the life of the father of the babe that is growing inside me.” Uther looks at her belly, looks to one side, toward Merlin, then looks back at her, staring into her eyes.

         “I’m sorry, my Lady, that you are still so confused and mistaken. But the child you have in your belly is not from the seed of the departed Lord of Cornwall but instead he carries the blood of my father and my grandfather, the Pendragon lineage.”

         “You are out of your mind, Uther,” the Lady manages to say. “By right of war and conquest, the castle of Tintagel and all the land surrounding it are yours. The servants, the cattle, the harvest and everything that until now has been the property of Duke Gorlois and his house. But his son? No victory can ever conquer the blood line, my Lord. So even though he might be dispossessed of everything, even though he might be a beggar or a simple vassal, the child that is growing inside me will proudly bear the name of his father.”

         “And the name of his father is the one I’ve come today to give him.”

         “So many battles, so much scent of blood has stolen your sanity and taken every bit of reason from you. You offend me, Pendragon, and you offend the name of a noble who is dead. If Gorlois had been the victor in a battle it would have been cause for pride and celebration, but to try to steal his child is simply a sign of madness.”

         “Lady Igrayne,” Uther broke in, “I know full well that you are mistaken and this is beyond your comprehension. But just as certain as it is that Gorlois died by my sword is that the child you are carrying will bear the Pendragon name.”

         “Sir, I think I’m beginning to understand you. Perhaps my good Merlin, friend and teacher whom I so greatly admire, convinced you not to leave the son of the house of Cornwall without an inheritance. I understand, since you want to offer a refuge to this orphan who has yet to be born and give him your surnames and the name of your lineage. Perhaps you made a promise to my husband as he was dying? If that was the case, I release you of that debt. Because even if the house of Cornwall and its lands may now enter your possession, my children also have rights through their mother and Avalon will not be an unpleasant land for them. Tomorrow I shall leave this place, because this is now your house.”

         “You are so proud and stubborn that you don’t want to understand.” Uther went up to Lady Igrayne and took one of her white hands between his big, hairy bear paws. “You don’t have to leave tomorrow nor ever because my wish is for you to continue being the Lady of this house.”

         “What are you insinuating?”

         “I’m not insinuating. I’m affirming that I want to make you my wife.”

         “Are you offering marriage out of pity for an orphan?”

         “Lady, the child you carry in your belly is not an orphan but rather a child conceived out of wedlock, my illegitimate child, whom I want to make legitimate and give him the surnames and coat of arms he deserves.”

         An astonished murmur spread through the room. Courtesans and servants of Tintagel were shocked by Pendragon’s words.

         “You’re lying, you foul-mouth,” spat Lady Igrayne, pulling back the hand Uther held in his own. “You cast doubt on my virtue and the loyalty I always showed to Gorlois. A bastard child in my belly! Perhaps in your most lustful dreams.” The Lady let out a sharp laugh. “But not in real life, satyr. In my life there has never been any man but Gorlois in my bed and embrace. It wasn’t enough that you killed such a noble man, and now you come to sully his name and his honor. You can have the house and property. I’ll leave right away. I don’t need to take anything from here except the clothes on my back and I’m not going to put up with this disgusting game a minute longer.”

         Lady Igrayne had already turned her back to Uther and his men and was angrily heading toward the stairs, ready to get little Morgana and leave Tintagel forever, when an even, authoritative voice echoed through the room.

         “Igrayne, for your own good, for the good of the child you carry in your belly and for the future of our beloved Britain, listen to what Uther has to tell you.”

         “Listen to him?” Lady Igrayne angrily turns toward Merlin. “Isn’t what I’ve heard enough already? And you, old friend, did you hear what I heard? Maybe you didn’t notice the idiotic things that were just uttered in this room. How can you, my friend, my teacher, my mentor, loved by Gorlois as well, always happily welcomed in Tintagel and all of Cornwall, ask me to heed this rat and his insults? Shouldn’t you be offended as well, if not for the honor of this person you saw grow up, at least for the memory of her fallen partner? Merlin, my good Merlin. Your advice was always appreciated and your opinion respected, but don’t ask me to stand here, indifferent, while this bastard hurls his poisonous lies at me and the babe that my poor Gorlois left me as a final gift and only consolation.”

         “It’s because of the love I have for you that I insist you listen to Uther. Let the king and new Lord of this castle explain his reasons and believe me that although your virtues will not be questioned, because nobody would ever say you were unfaithful to the Lord of Cornwall, your future and your life must, in fact, be linked from now on to the Pendragon name.”

From Merlin’s Conscience

IGRAYNE

Igrayne, Igrayne. Oh, how that name torments me still! How many times I have thought of her bewildered face that day, the confused expression with which she questioned me, without daring to distrust me!

         I loved her like a younger sister and yet I didn’t hesitate to make her the first victim of my ambitious strategy. And now this proud, dark-haired woman comes to accuse me of all the evil that began at that moment. How can I explain to the baby girl I rocked in my arms to the lullaby of the ancient sages that her mother’s situation was only the first of a long litany of sacrifices that I believed were necessary? How can I justify my betrayals given the unpleasant memory of the past? How can I make the heiress of so much suffering understand that I too feel every deception like a still throbbing wound?

         Yet she doesn’t want any excuses or weeping. She only wants explanations. Her dark eyes are fixed on me, without anger or rage. The only thing visible in them is the urgent need to know, the need to understand in order to be able to comprehend the reasons for her ruined childhood, the maze of conspiracies and intrigues to which she was subjected, the destruction of all she loved, in a word. Her gaze, which reveals no fury, makes me uncomfortable. She forces me to remember what I’ve been trying to let die in my memory for so many years. Yet at the same time, I feel tenderness toward her. In the dark gleam of her eyes I can still see the chestnut sweetness of her mother, Igrayne. Once more it’s Igrayne, the worst of my demons.

         I can see her standing there again. Straight-backed, in the middle of the room, with her bulging belly and her hair still mussed from sleeping, trying to understand why I, her wise friend, respected counselor, am forcing her to believe the arguments of her enemy. I can still hear her innocent question: “How can my poor little babe, my still unborn child, be the son of a man I’m meeting for the first time?” I don’t need to try hard to remember her arguments on her behalf. “Everyone who resides in this house knows that since the war began I never went beyond the walls of Tintagel,” she said, “and no Pendragon was ever received in this castle until this morning.”

         Igrayne insisted on this, her arguments based on logic and her own memory, trying to convince me how wrong I was to believe Uther’s story. “It’s just your doubt at my words that frightens me, old friend. I’m only putting up with this whole show so you’ll come to your senses.”

         I don’t have to try very hard to recall the proud gesture with which she turned to Uther and asked him to come tell her, with deeds and facts, the evidence for his infamy. Immediately, I also remember the mocking expression, the ironic smile flickering on her face when Pendragon, arrogant, began to describe the supposed secrets of her body that would show the truth of his words. The golden glow of her pubis, the odd shape of the birthmark that covered one of her white buttocks, the small scar on her inner thigh, her pink nipples… all things that cited in public that way would make any woman blush, noble or not, because they were certain proof of intimacy. Not the Lady of Tintagel though, not one of the daughters of Avalon. Despite the unfortunate situation, I was proud of her as she proudly responded to Uther’s words. “You’re a poor peasant if you think you’re going to defeat me with those worthless words!” She laughed in his face and triumphantly began to explain how every morning, no matter whether there was a chill wind or frost on the ground, she’d go nude down to the stream that ran at the base of the castle. From the time she was very young she’d participated in the rituals of Belvís in which all the youths danced naked through the forest. Igrayne was laughing as she explained to Uther that she, together with the rest of the women of Tintagel, would remove their clothing every summer solstice evening and would go to bathe in the nine waves of fertility. “But there’s still more,” she added proudly. It wasn’t just once in a while that the joy of seeing her husband arrive safe and sound after a battle made her leap out of bed and, without bothering to dress, go down to the patio to dress herself in his embraces and kisses, which were the only garments her body and soul needed. The residents of Tintagel who were in the room nodded silently. They had all seen their Lady naked more than once and any of them could tell Uther the features of her body that he had so confidently described; Pendragon himself could have seen her in the forest or by the sea. There was nothing about those details that served as proof of carnal intimacy with the Lady of Tintagel.

         Poor Igrayne. Her triumph did not last long! Furious at the Lady’s arrogance, when he’d expected to silence her with his descriptions, the arrogant Pendragon didn’t hesitate to brag about other details that were indeed more revealing and difficult to explain if the Lady and the knight had not slept together: her gulping little laugh before reaching orgasm, the place where she most liked to be fondled, the places where her skin required slow caresses and where her body demanded the most fiery passion, the way she sucked and kissed, the reddish tinge of her eyes when she was all wet… none of these things a man who had not bedded her could possibly know.

         Despite the fact that the morning was pleasant and hearty fires warmed the room, the room turned icy. Everyone went silent, astonished by the revelations detailed by Pendragon without any decorum whatsoever. Nobody moved. The residents of Tintagel had difficulty breathing and held their breath waiting for an explanation from the Lady that would alleviate the horror they felt. All eyes rested on Igrayne. Uther’s expression and that of his soldiers was arrogant. The looks on the faces of the courtesans and vassals was one of fear. Everyone’s but mine, because I didn’t even dare look at her, because I felt so guilty. Time had stopped and only the sound of Igrayne’s body as she hit the floor broke the silence of the condemnation that reigned in the hall after Uther’s pronouncement.

         Suddenly a dark shadow like a small, black specter, emerged from the stairway. Little Morgana spat at Pendragon’s feet and hugged her unconscious mother. I reached them just as Igrayne was coming around. I don’t need to search in my memory to recall her expression. The same one that haunts me at night, that rises up out of the shadows, that torments my dreams as it perches on my pillow. Igrayne looked at me and I knew immediately that she had figured out I’d betrayed her. She still didn’t know the details of the ruse I’d devised to manage to have Uther impregnate her, but she was sure that it was my shadow that had staged the ambush. Still, the worst part was there was no reproach or rage in her eyes. From the dark blue pupils of her dark brown eyes she looked steadily at me with the resignation of a wounded deer, with the sad and almost crazy sweetness of a prey that has been cornered. I could only glimpse the beginning of a question that was never asked deep within the blue pupils. Igrayne wanted to know why I had chosen her uterus to begin my battle.

Only a few days after that shameful morning, Igrayne gave birth to Arthur, the boy in my plans, the hope for Britain. The whims of nature had chosen a fragile and battered mother to give birth to a strong, firm baby, despite only having been seven months in gestation. Arthur arrived in the world yelling with a force that showed his lungs’ strength and the determination with which his life was beginning. The baby’s vitality underscored his mother’s fragility, so weak and broken as she was by the betrayal that she’d agreed to marry king Uther without even demanding justification for the deception whose victim she had been. Igrayne, once proud and full of life, became a weak, distant being who didn’t care about anything except for the care of the child she had just borne. But she didn’t even notice her daughter anymore, because, if the truth be told, little Morgana was left alone in a corner of her mind where the Lady had decided to bury all her memories prior to the birth of Arthur. And her madness was so great that if the sharp expression she had when she realized she was lost still haunts me from the shadows and deep inside me, the memory of that sluggish, empty expression that she had from that moment on is no less painful to me. Only a being like Uther, made brutish by a thousand battles, could be incapable of seeing that the body he embraced at night was no longer a woman or anything, really. Even little Morgana knew that the body he embraced at night was no longer her mother and although at first she sought solace in her, she soon looked after her instead and it was the girl who combed Igrayne’s blond locks when Igrayne spent hours singing lullabies with little Arthur in her arms. It was such a good thing that the girl didn’t harbor ill feelings toward her half-brother. On the contrary, even though she knew that within the boy beat the secret that had robbed her of both mother and father, Morgana always took care of the little fellow, cuddling and loving him, as if she knew all he had was her affection, since his mother was so absent and his step-father, the person who symbolized all that was hate and blame, was a man who was not prone to tenderness. As for me, I always knew that little girl would some day take on the shape of my memories because even then Morgana, endowed with an intelligence that was unusual in such a young child, did not conceal the contempt she felt for me.

From the Chronicles of Avalon

THE DRUIDS’ COUNCIL

The news of what had happened in Tintagel didn’t take long to spread throughout the kingdom, sprinkling all the regions of Britain either with foul rumors about the horror of the new queen, or with legends concerning the birth of a prince with magical powers.

         Avalon was not the place where the unfolding of the events was followed with the least interest. The Druids’ Council spent years studying the news that arrived from the ancient fortress, once the residence of the unfortunate Duke of Cornwall and now transformed into the Royal Court of Pendragon. Although many of the rumors that came from beyond the mists were damning and bore unsettling portents for the future of Britain, the Council had its own network of informants who provided reliable reports, based on what was really happening inside the old walls of the castle. Wise masters carefully analyzed each bit of information and discussed every news item to determine the moment Avalon should intervene. On several occasions the majority of the Council thought the moment to act had arrived and each time the decision to act was postponed due to the strong will of the Supreme Teacher.

         Aware that the mediation of the learned assembly would create new wounds in her sister’s already broken spirit, the leader of the druids kept putting off the decision. Of course there were those who saw in Vivian’s delay strategy a certain fear of confronting Merlin, but as the wise one never appeared to put her interests or preferences over Avalon’s and Britain’s needs, they didn’t express their doubts and while they waited for the pronouncement, they prepared to face the inevitable break.

         Just a few weeks before Arthur’s seventh birthday, Vivian herself informed the Council of the urgent need to act. The assembly gathered in the oak grove on the island and listened in silence to the latest news that had been provided by spies and informants. It was believed that Merlin, who until then had only visited the court of Uther with a certain amount of regularity, would take advantage of the festival that was to be celebrated in honor of the little prince, to demand that Pendragon assign Arthur’s care to him. It was a secret known by few in Britain, but which people in Avalon were aware of, because in exchange for his help in deceiving Lady Igrayne, the cagey wizard had gotten the king to promise to give up the child conceived during that union whenever he chose. Skilled strategist, experienced warrior and one of the least nefarious of the kings that Britain had had in recent decades, Uther was, in the long run, a man who was guided more by his appetites than by his feelings. Seduced by the beauty of Lady Igrayne and desirous of possessing the greatest treasure of his enemy throughout many years, he was thinking only of the exquisite body of the Lady of Tintagel, without ever stopping to ask whether some day, when he was old, he might miss her son. Thus he had promised, and now Merlin was going to hold him to that promise.

         It was the moment Avalon had feared, the one that would force the group of druids to give up its terrain of non-engagement, devoted to study and acquiring knowledge, to take a stand on the matter and line up in that combat in which the future of Britain would be decided. For decades they’d been aware of the unavoidable confrontation and the events of recent years had only confirmed the certainty that the ultimate war was drawing near and would take place not only on the battlefield. Merlin had taken bold steps. It was time to stave off his ambitions or at least place their activities on an equal footing. With broken heart, noble Vivian urged the assembly to overcome its fear and reluctance and begin the fight in defense of the spirit of Avalon. She herself would take the first steps with which the Company of Druids would reveal its intentions to the world. The price would be enormous but the price of passivity would be greater; it wasn’t only Britain but rather its whole vision of the world that was at stake. Even so, the druid warned, once their goal became public, it would be impossible to go back. Thus the assembly had to ponder its decision well. If the new regime triumphed, Avalon could be tolerated as an unequal entity, a bearable anomaly, as long as it remained outside the battle.

         “We can die as we now live, ending our days on this beloved island, forever devoted to knowledge,” explained the wise one. “But if we participate in the struggle, if we openly defend our beliefs and then lose, we will be destroyed.”

         The Council was quick and unanimous in its response. Avalon was only the nectar that nourished a larger project. They hadn’t chosen that life out of their desire for knowledge or their personal curiosity. They hadn’t become druids to calm their desire for learning. Either the world would need to change following the path drawn up in Avalon or it wasn’t worth living. That was how definitive the sentence of the assembly was. Their faces, usually friendly, had jaws clenched with a determined expression, and their eyes, normally characterized by an air of calm, glowed, burning and angry.

         There was nothing to add. Vivian left for Tintagel while the crowd of healers and astronomers, alchemists, mathematicians and philosophers, went back with renewed vigor to their tasks of broadening and spreading their wisdom, also focused now on carefully analyzing events. The sages and teachers of highest rank and dignity deliberated in councils and conferences as to the best way to sketch out their strategy, while disciples and apprentices applied themselves to translating the documents that contained the philosophy of Avalon into simple, common language. These were then carefully copied for distribution in all Britain.

         The head druid’s journey to her sister’s dwelling was full of anxiety and uncertainty. Accustomed to doubting everything as a way of achieving knowledge, Vivian’s decisions were not free of questioning and scruples. She was certain her position was correct and that the proposals Avalon put forth were well meant, but the wise woman was not one to avoid thinking about the great harm they were about to cause and that would begin precisely with the persons she loved most. Her younger sister, Igrayne, transformed into a broken toy by Merlin’s trickery, would also be the first victim of Avalon’s strategy. Then she thought about Arthur and Morgana, unable to find a way to save them from the pain that was about to be inflicted on them. She feared for herself as well. For years she had tried to avoid a confrontation with Merlin. She hadn’t seen him since the wizard had left Avalon. Yet, as hard as she had tried to get rid of the pleasant memories from the days when they’d enjoyed the same concerns, the memory of the wise man’s gray eyes still throbbed warmly in a remote part of her soul. The same day she saw him disappear into the mists that blanketed the island, Vivian knew their next meeting would be fatal. Her conviction that the dire omen would come true shad only grown in recent years, as people informed her of the travels and doings of the one who had been her loyal friend and beloved companion.

         All these thoughts and the fears they caused accompanied the leader of Avalon until the stones of the courtyard at Tintagel clattered beneath her horse’s hooves. Her presence along the way was noticed by sentinels and guards, so her arrival at the castle was not unexpected. The whole royal family came out to greet such an illustrious visitor at the castle entry, while servants and pages dressed in formal attire came forth to attend the Lady and take care of her steed. Vivian had traveled alone – even in those times of unrest the colors of Avalon were still a symbol of authority that nobody dared offend. Also, the presence in a house of a member of the Druids’ Council was a cause for celebration for its inhabitants. Thus, the great teacher was received not only because of the deference owed her because she was the sister of the queen, but also with the pomp and circumstance due to the highest ranking authorities.     

         All of that pomp was ignored by the wise woman. Her perceptive eyes searched for a sign of expression in the almost stiff face of her sister, focused for a moment on the intelligent gaze of little Morgana, passed quickly over the arrogant face of Pendragon, abruptly noticed the tenacious expression of little Arthur, until she discovered the gray, penetrating light in Merlin’s gaze. The enemy had arrived ahead of her. Vivian couldn’t waste any time. She had to know how much of an advantage he had on her.

         “My dear sister-in-law! What an honor and what joy to welcome you to this house!”

         Uther came forward to receive her at the foot of the great stairway. Just like anyone who saw the king on rare occasions, Vivian was always surprised by how agile the movements of such a heavy person could be. She replied politely to the monarch’s greeting and, struggling with the goose bumps that she felt on her skin at knowing Merlin’s gaze was on her, she quickly went up the steps to hug Igrayne.

         “Sister!” She clutched her forcefully against her body, until the queen let out a weak sob. “Courage, sister!” she whispered. “Your suffering will not be in vain.”

         She rubbed little Arthur’s hair affectionately and firmly clasped the little hand the girl Morgana put in hers. She stubbornly avoided Merlin’s eyes, only giving him a cold greeting with a toss of her chin.

         The castle hall was also decorated, not only to receive Vivian but also because preparations had begun for the celebration of the young prince’s seventh birthday. It was a clear, cool day, and light filtered in through the narrow windows, casting whimsical, fleeting shapes on the floor that competed with the ones created by the flames from the two fireplaces.

         “Naturally the great teacher of Avalon will need to freshen up and rest after such a long journey.” Merlin spoke, and king Uther immediately gestured to the servants to get ready to accompany the guest to her quarters.

         “Naturally the teacher of Avalon has brought her own tongue.” Vivian didn’t want to give Merlin another opportunity to be alone with Uther and Igrayne and increase the advantage he must surely have had. “And besides, I’m in the house of my family, so I don’t need anybody from outside to act like a steward or master of ceremonies.”

         The druid employed a special irony by underlining Merlin’s role as a person who was not one of the family. She knew that blood ties would matter little when it came to Uther’s willingness to keep his word, but she still clung to the hope of reaching her sister’s sleeping heart.

From the Memoirs of Philip of Amancia

A FOREIGNER IN MIRANDA

Yet like I told you, it wasn’t until the sun had risen completely, because all the roosters in the area had crowed some time earlier and the sun was drying off the grasses in the meadows that had been thoroughly dampened by the evening storm, when my Lord Merlin and the Lady he called Morgana came out of my master’s study. And it was as if instead of spending the whole night talking they’d both slept well in a soft bed, because neither looked tired and the Lady’s face seemed even more radiant and fresh than when she arrived, if that were possible.      

         My Lord Merlin summoned me and ordered me to be ready at any moment of the day to serve the strange Lady, because he had to go out on an errand his friend had asked him to do. The friend was an abbot in Armenteira who was worried about a blackbird. Every day at noon it got into the monastery’s chapel and started to chirp as soon as he announced the start of the one o’clock Mass, and he said the singing was so sad and melodious that the parishioners all preferred to listen to the bird rather than the teachings of our Lord. They even forgot to take communion because they were in such ecstasy. My master informed me then that he would be gone all day untangling that riddle, but he’d return at dusk, since the side road had become narrow and rutted but would still be good enough to ride back quickly.

         Then he called Marcelina to give her instructions about the room where the noble Lady was to be lodged and also to warn her that this time she was not to complain at all about the Lady’s presence in the house to passersby on the Belvís Road, because this was a matter of great importance, a secret, and if anybody were to see the Lady and ask, well, the visitor could not be forbidden to stroll about as she wished through the fields of Miranda. People should be told that she was an old friend of Lady Guinevere’s who’d come from Britain to spend a few days with her. Because of their age and rank they were similar and nobody would think it odd that after the Lady had been in Miranda so long, one of her house should come to visit her. Lord Merlin also indicated that if any of the neighbors became too curious, since they were all used to Marcelina’s gossiping and silliness, they could be told she was a noble woman related to Amadís of Gaul and the knight Tristan who had come to bring news of the latter to Lady Guinevere so she could embroider them on the tapestry she spent every evening preparing. There was more: before leaving for Armenteira, my master gathered all of us servants in the house to advise us to be patient with Lady Guinevere, because even though she and the Lady who was visiting had known each other for a long time, it was also true that the last time they’d seen each other they’d gotten into a fight and for that reason Lady Guinevere might be a bit sensitive and ruffled.

         Just before departing, when Xosé do Cairo had already helped him mount his steed Turpin, he called for me again and with a secretive tone he asked me not to leave the guest’s side even for a moment, except when the Lady retired to rest in her room. The truth was that it was important to keep her occupied and as far as possible to avoid her having contact with Lady Guinevere. My master said he knew the mysterious Lady had liked me by the way she tolerated my company so well and he’d also noticed the Lady had fascinated me and how I looked at her with so much interest and nothing would happen if I missed a day playing the cherry pit game with Manoeliña de Carlos. And although I was a bit ashamed that my master knew about my games and the pride I felt at showing off for Manoeliña how far I could spit the fruit pits, I still felt proud that Lord Merlin trusted me to tend to such an important Lady and I think I even blushed a little when he said the Lady had noticed me and how my company was not unpleasant.

         My master left to resolve the mystery of the blackbird at Armenteira and I did as he had ordered, not leaving Lady Morgana’s side for even a moment. She turned out to be friendly and kind and knew how to imitate the speech of all the animals we met. And I only felt uncomfortable with her once in a while, and that happened when she asked what my Lord Merlin was doing in the land of Miranda, wanting to know who visited him or what Lady Guinevere talked about when she wasn’t embroidering. But when she noticed that made me uneasy, the Lady told me not to worry. Laughing at her own questions, she soon made me forget my embarrassment, wrapping me in her joyful, high-pitched laugh and drawing me into the countless games she invented. Even though I was accustomed through my work in Lord Merlin’s house to the most incredible and astonishing things, nobody had ever taught me to do the opposite and transform common, everyday things into marvelous events like Lady Morgana did. For that day was full of battles against dragons, assaults on fortified castles and ferocious fights with the warriors of the dark from which my new friend and I always emerged triumphant.

         That day was so happy and I was so caught up with my Lady Morgana that for a while I forgot my master’s orders. So when we returned to the house, when the sky was already showing shades of pink and orange, I noted the smell of Marcelina’s broth and immediately felt starved, with all the hunger that had been accumulating during the day, because we’d only eaten a piece of cheese I’d had in my pocket. I ran to the kitchen, leaving Lady Morgana in the room without noticing that Lady Guinevere was there as well with her silken gloves of fine mesh, embroidering the tapestry that always kept her so busy. It was the frightened meow of Cerís the cat, who fled from the room because of the tension that was growing there, that made me remember Lord Merlin’s warning. I retraced my steps just in time to hear Lady Morgana’s even voice.

         “What a lovely tapestry and what a sad tale it tells! The unhappy love of Tristan and Isolde.”

         Lady Morgana went over to the chair where Lady Guinevere was still embroidering, taking advantage of the last rays of the afternoon sun, and crouched down to see the work from a closer position.

         “So much detail, so much love in every stitch! It’s obvious, my Lady, with all the affection and feeling in your embroidery, that it almost seems like it’s your own story. But now that I’m looking at it from a clear angle,” she added with an overly kind voice, “what you’re embroidering reminds me a lot of the sad story of other unfortunate lovers whose misfortune I shared.”

         It would have seemed that Lady Morgana was praising the skilled handiwork in order to be friendly with my Lady if it hadn’t been for the insincerity in her voice and the anger that showed in Lady Guinevere’s eyes, which were usually appeasing and calm.

         “You perverse pagan whore!” I was dumbstruck, because I’d never heard nor imagined such words from Lady Guinevere’s mouth and I was so terrified that I could only pretend to cough so as to break the flow of hate that had formed between the two women. Then Lady Morgana started to laugh and threw her head back in a gesture as if trying to play down the importance of what had just happened.

         “Dear Philip! What a well-timed cough. Your Lord must have you well trained. Come on, let’s go to the kitchen to have some of Marcelina’s broth. I’m hungry after a day of so much activity.”

         Then she bowed comically and teasingly to Lady Guinevere, who remained in the living room without saying a word, but I could definitely tell she was on the verge of tears and, confused, I followed Lady Morgana into the kitchen, where Manoeliña de Carlos was staring at me with a irritated expression. However, I didn’t pay any attention to her because I was pretty taken up with trying to figure out what had just happened and trying to make sense of it so I could explain it to my Lord Merlin when he asked me. But it turned out that when he returned, my master had to go first to the living room and hear about that odd scene from Lady Guinevere, so when he entered the kitchen he didn’t ask me anything nor try to find out anything and he only asked Marcelina to serve him a little broth. He must have had supper in Armenteira, where his friend the abbot had offered him fancy dishes and exquisite wines because he’d been so happy after Lord Merlin broke the spell of the singing blackbird who was none other than a lass from the village who’d fallen in love with the sexton and been transformed into a bird because of the suffering he’d caused her. Then Lord Merlin and Lady Morgana went into my master’s study again, closing the door, and I went to bed, thinking about the strange power of love that makes young women turn into blackbirds and unfortunate knights become the main characters of stories that are embroidered on fine cloth.

From the Chronicles of Avalon

HOW ARTHUR’S FUTURE IS DECIDED

“You can’t allow it, Igrayne.” Vivian held her sister’s hands in her own. Her sister didn’t appear to hear and her gaze was lost in the battle between the bright orange hues and the dark blue that painted the sunset. “Some day you’ll have to react, step out of that dream you’ve submerged yourself in to escape the pain and face the enemies that threaten your family and our world.”

         “My world died with Gorlois.” The Lady of Tintagel’s voice sounded weary and forlorn. “And I don’t know what you’re referring to when you speak of my family, sister. Whom do I have to save? Where do my loyalties lie? With Uther, my husband and king, Lord of these lands and father of my son? Or with you? Tell me, dear sister, where were you when Pendragon made me his? Where were you when the pain destroyed my sanity? What family are you speaking of, Vivian? You who only have allegiance to Avalon?”

         “Damn you, Igrayne!” Vivian was growing impatient. “You have children to care for. Are you going to let Merlin tear little Arthur from your arms?”

         “He isn’t so little anymore and it’s not in my power to keep him with me. I know you, Vivian, and I know that despite the affection you might have for me, my feelings are not the reason for your concern and anxiousness. If it’s not Merlin, it will be you who takes Arthur away to make him the next leader of the cause of Avalon. Just because it looks like I’m not paying attention to your arguments and I seem absent during the conversation doesn’t mean that I’m an idiot, Vivian. I know full well I’ve already lost the boy.”

         “Igrayne, Igrayne, don’t be unfair. I am not Merlin and although it’s true that I need Arthur in this battle for the future of our world, it’s also true that you travel in my heart. In Avalon there will always be a place for you, my sister. You won’t have to be separated from your son. On the contrary, you can watch him grow up free and wise. Come, Igrayne, it’s in your hands to put an end to all this inanity. Let’s correct, here and now, the evil that has been done and let’s work for the future we want.”

         “What do we want? Who wants it?” Igrayne’s voice was getting louder. It was taking on a new confidence. “Why think about the future, when what one wants is the past? No, Vivian, I’m sorry but this is your battle. It’s you against Merlin. Don’t look to me for alliances and peace accords. I lost my war a long time ago. I wish you luck, sister. Do what you must do, but don’t deny me the right to withdraw from the world after a defeat like the one I must now suffer.”

         Vivian could not hide her disappointment at her sister’s position. She’d always believed she could count on Igrayne’s help, if not out of loyalty to the beliefs of Avalon, at least because of the desire for revenge against Merlin and Uther. The druid saw how one of the main elements of her plan was vanishing into thin air. Without the queen’s support she would have to confront Merlin face to face.

         The wise woman did not want to take the first step. She preferred to wait until the wizard acted and showed his cards. However, the manifest passivity of Igrayne toward the conflict forced her to change her strategy. Merlin could come to an agreement with Uther as to the day of departure without anyone else knowing, when it was too late. The only thing she was certain of was that the departure would not take place before the celebration of the boy’s birthday. Vivian had to act without delay, even with the risk that her haste could have an undesirable effect. Time was working against her because the matter had to be resolved before the nobles who had been invited to the celebration started arriving at the castle. The publicity surrounding the confrontation only favored Merlin and he already had a big enough advantage.

         Measuring every word with care, the wise woman began to weave her web. With apparent innocence, in sight of everyone so as not to create suspicion, she began to take advantage of the moments when Arthur was present to tell beautiful stories of past times when the ancient gods sometimes demanded harsh sacrifices from those who lived in Britain, who were often laughed at thanks to the astuteness and wisdom of the druids of Avalon. The little prince listened, enthralled. Little Morgana also showed great interest in the legends their aunt recounted for them in a soft, melodious voice. The descriptions were so beautiful and well organized that the two children felt they were part of the story and even rough Uther was drawn into the narrative. Wise Vivian let stories of increasing enchantment fall on the ears of her nephew. Sometimes she even sought the participation of Merlin. The druid abandoned the initial air of coy indifference she’d shown with the wizard to now pretend a certain complicity with him, at times speaking to him with a soft voice and an innocent expression.

         “Do you remember, Merlin, how that story went that you used to tell me about the way the wise ones of Avalon ended the supposed spell of the Morrígna, which forced the chieftain and people of Cameliard to plow their lands without stopping, only to see how all the furrows would close up behind them?”

         Or she invited him to participate in the conversation, making him the main character of the story.

         “Do you remember that you were the one who deciphered the relationship between the flight of birds and the proximity of thunderstorms, unmasking the trickery of the ancient priests who used their knowledge to make us believe in magic and their powers?”

         Merlin looked at her intensely. He knew the druid’s change in attitude was not an accident and tried to discover the ploys that were being forged in Vivian’s head. He knew her astuteness and tenacity well enough not to think her new behavior, so kind, sophisticated, and intimate, was not related to her desire to achieve the goals that had brought her to Tintagel. He would gladly have avoided participating in that game and at first tried to free himself from the wise woman’s astute maneuvers with scant monosyllables. But he soon realized it was useless. Vivian’s scheme was so well planned that it was Arthur himself who reacted to his evasive answers with insistent questions.

Text © Heirs of Begoña Caamaño

Translation © Kathleen March