Morgawse, Queen of the North: A Medieval Fantasy Romance by Lavinia Collins

Author:Lavinia Collins [Collins, Lavinia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: THE BOOK FOLKS fantasy and historical fiction publishers
Published: 2016-09-25T22:00:00+00:00

I sat up late with Mordred, unwilling to go to sleep. I was surprised when Morgan opened the door in her nightdress without knocking. I opened my mouth to speak, but the sight of her stilled me. I had never before seen my sister Morgan afraid. Though she was seven years younger, it was always she who had been strong for me, and not the other way around. But this danger I had known, and survived, and for once I could be stronger for her, because now I was free. I stood as I saw her, and set Mordred in his crib. She stood in the doorway, her hand still on the latch, and with the blackness behind her in her white nightdress she looked like a ghost. She looked far younger like that than she had done the last time I had seen her, her hair plaited neatly, in her black wool nun’s dress. But she was a married woman now. With a child, too, I had heard.

I took her hand in mine and led her into the room so that I could shut and bolt the door. I understood – I had been that blank-faced stare; I had been that wordless sorrow, that paralysing fear. I had been in a man’s power more than once, and it was more than awful to see my sister – who had always been strong, who had always been clever, who had always seemed so outside of the sufferings of the world – like this. I took her face gently in my hands and kissed her on her forehead. She bent her head to mine, and I could see the tears already gathering in the corners of her eyes.

“Marriage as you described,” she whispered, in the words of her letter. When she began to cry in earnest, I held her against me, wrapping my arms tight around her, shushing her. If my sister Morgan, my sister the witch – if she was prey to all this as well, what hope was there for anyone? I was glad I did not have daughters, but sorry, too, that perhaps one day one or more of my sons would become such men. What model of a father had Lot been to them?

Thickly, against my shoulder, Morgan said, “I thought he would not try to hurt me in Camelot. I thought he would be ashamed to in a castle full of people.”

I hugged her tight against me, pushing back my own tears of sympathy for her. I had envied her easy life before, but I had not begrudged it her. I suspected that it was worse, even, for Morgan than it had been for me. There were traces of blue-black bruises on her wrists, only half-visible through the woad. Lot and I had grown cruel with one another. It hadn’t begun like this. I could not bear the thought of a man – some man, any man – like Lot climbing on top of my little sister, holding her down.

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