Le Fay

Book 2: The Morgan le Fay series

by Sophie Keetch

Genres: Fantasy; Arthurian; General Fiction; Feminist; Historical Fiction; Medieval

Synopsis

"A very real, passionate retelling of Morgan le Fay's story, with detail about political and magical lives, and the women who are such a vital part of the tale." —Tamora Pierce, #1 New York Times bestselling author

From the author of Morgan Is My Name comes the second installment in the Morgan le Fay trilogy, a feminist retelling of the story of the formidable and misunderstood villainess of Arthurian legend, Morgan le Fay.

Having escaped an unhappy marriage, Morgan finds herself in Camelot—the city of dreams and peace. Her brother, King Arthur, treats her as a valued advisor and Morgan finally has recognition befitting her intelligence within his trusted circle, despite a longstanding conflict with Queen Guinevere.

But Morgan’s life is not without complications. Between a vengeful husband determined to snatch their son away, the strict ideals of court life and a jealous rival for Arthur’s attentions in the sorcerer Merlin, gaining true power and freedom is a greater challenge than Morgan envisioned. And when a face from her past arrives at Camelot, bringing old memories and new desires, the future that she has planned becomes fraught with danger.

Morgan must break the shackles of expectation to seek true happiness. But at the risk of destroying everything she’s worked so hard to gain, what is she willing to sacrifice for control over her life?

Release date: July 16, 2024

Publisher: Random House Canada

Print pages: 464

Sample

Unlike Tintagel and her insistent, roaring sea, there was little to wake a person in Camelot. The castle stood proud and encircled in glittering pale gold, rings of high battlements protecting all within from the slightest disturbance.
     Silence reigned throughout the chambers, gardens and air, songbirds chased away by falconers on the orders of a Queen who preferred to rest undisturbed. Even the earliest bells rang softer through the cathedral’s spires, confined to church cloisters and servants’ halls, sounding at a distance for most castle sleepers. Beyond the walls, rolling hills dense with woodland cocooned the city in a warm embrace beneath a canopy of sky that rarely strayed from peace.
     But in the distance, if I listened carefully enough, my ear would catch it, amid the flowering meadows and in the forest’s swaying boughs; among the tall reeds beside the rivers, shimmering across the surface of the water: a chorus of wild birdsong, crystalline, defiant and free.

 
1

For a while I had risen with the dawn.
     Despite Camelot’s cultivated peace, my sleep had never been easy, but in the weeks since May Day I had been driven from my bed ever earlier as the pleasant warmth of early summer built dramatically into heat, gaining day upon day until the air hung thick and breezeless within castle walls.
     One morning on the cusp of Pentecost, I awoke in the grip of a feverish dream that slipped away the moment my eyes flew open. Stirred and restless, I kicked off the cloying sheets and pulled on a robe, walking through my reception chamber and out onto my ter­race to greet the cloudless morning, sun already climbing towards another blazing day.
     The flagstones were warm underfoot as I made my way to the balconied edge and sat on the wide balustrade, taking in the view of Camelot’s high walls and the green faraway hills. Below, a secluded grove of castle gardens descended in stepped layers, cropped grass and flowered borders shaded by quince and plum trees, beginning to fruit with midsummer’s sudden advance. All around me, only quiet and heat.
     A close, whispering flutter cut into the stillness, and a lone magpie alighted beside me in a whir of light and dark.
     “Good morning,” I greeted it. “Aren’t you a rare sight?”
     The bird hopped closer, flight feathers iridescent in the sun— shades of blue-black and green edged with flashes of violet, like a dancing night sky. It regarded me with a keen inquisitiveness, and I looked down to see the gold coin I wore, glinting with my move­ments on its long, slim chain.
     I laughed and lifted the pendant aloft, the magpie following its gleam. “Of course, the shining thing. No doubt you would steal it away, if you could.”
     “The Prioress at St. Brigid’s used to say magpies were unholy.”
     I looked up as Alys appeared on the terrace, dressed in cornflower linen, her hair freshly braided in her usual fishtail plait. In her hand she held a pair of gardening shears.
     The bird cawed in protest and flew off, landing a few feet away on a wooden arbour. Alys cast critical eyes over the terrace, along the potted rows of herb shrubs, fruiting bushes and medicinal flowers she had planted and nurtured, before taking her shears to a crowd of stiff blue irises.
     I slipped off the balustrade and went to her. “I remember. She used to refuse to look the Abbess’s pet magpie in the eye. She and our Queen would have rather got along.”
     Alys smiled, snipping with care. “Speaking of which—our day. The Queen’s ladies are due in St. Stephen’s to hear Mass with Her Highness at halfway Terce, then this afternoon in attendance. Hopefully she will allow us to sit outdoors, lest we melt.”
     “Fascinating as that sounds,” I said, “I will not be there. I have a meeting with Sir Kay about the tournament.”
     “You’ve been little in her presence these past few weeks,” Alys said. “It’s been commented upon. She’s not pleased.”
     “Guinevere will take any excuse to disapprove of me,” I said. “If she still chooses to hold a grudge for what happened a year ago, so be it, but I’ll not beg for her approval. The Pentecost tournament is Camelot’s first, and of huge importance. I can hardly deny meetings with the Seneschal.”
     Not that I was inclined to try; I held a particular amity with Sir Kay, Arthur’s prickly brother, who ran the Royal Household, an alli­ance I valued and trusted more than most.
     “Besides,” I went on, “how does the Queen think things get done? Given Arthur has seen fit to dash out of Camelot during his busiest court of the year.”
     “The King’s absence has unsettled the solar,” Alys said. “There’s been nothing but speculation. The ladies claim even Her Highness doesn’t know where he’s gone.”
     I shrugged. “This court’s gossip could fuel the winter fires in every royal palace from Cornwall to Orkney. Though it’s a relief not to be the subject for once.”
     “Here you both are.” A fair-headed figure in a striped surcoat emerged from the nearby doorway: Tressa, smiling and distracted by a disruption at the back of her skirts. “Lady Morgan, I have someone to see you. Now where did—ah!”
     A small body sprung out, slipping expertly past Tressa and barrel­ling towards me.
     “Mama!” Yvain cried.
     I swooped down and captured my son of almost two years in my arms, swinging his ever-growing frame up onto my hip. He was pleasantly hot, like a spring sunbeam, and smelled of fresh dried linen and honeyed milk. As he laughed, I inhaled deeply of him, the sweet musk of baby sleep clinging to his dark-gold curls.
     Impatient of my caresses, Yvain pushed himself back and studied me. “Mama,” he said,      serious this time, “I love you. I love horses.”
     “I know, dearest one,” I said. “Uncle Arthur has promised to take you to the stables to meet his bravest steeds. But tonight, Mama will tell you a story about a flying horse, and I love you more than all the stars in the sky.”
     My son offered me a charming grin. In many ways, he favoured his father—the facial symmetry that would one day be handsome, his burnished colouring, the easy cheer he was already harnessing into confidence—but his eyes were all mine, the deep blue I shared with my own father before me. Yvain was all of us, and entirely himself.
     “What will you do today, my precious eyas?” I asked him. “Riding, archery, slaying dragons?”
     “Yes,” he said enthusiastically.
     “I’m sure he wishes as much,” Tressa said. “He’s determined to sit a pony by himself this summer. Today yields nothing so demanding. The day nurse says breakfast, then a walk to see the swans and, if he’s willing, a midday nap.”
     Yvain looked unimpressed at the notion, twisting to get down. He ran to Alys, who offered him a cut iris, but he demurred, attempt­ing instead to grab her shears. She put the blades out of reach and pulled her fierce leopard face at him, and he roared back.
Tressa laughed, tousling his curls as he ran off. “Bright as gold in a stream. Just like his lady mother.”
     Alys slipped an arm about Tressa’s waist and kissed her, placing the bunch of irises in her hands. They shared a loving smile that filled me with happiness, and played a note of yearning that I tried to ignore. The magpie, still watching us, gave an impatient rasp.
     Alys regarded it in consideration. “Where I’m from, a magpie signals the arrival of an unexpected guest. I don’t suppose there’s any word from the invitation?”
     I glanced at my son, busy chasing an elusive butterfly. “No word yet, but between the offer to ride in the joust and Yvain’s second birthday, we have to assume he will come.”
     “Encouraging his presence feels all wrong, given the circumstances.”
     “Arthur had to invite him, one King to another,” I said. “But you may speak his name freely—he doesn’t deserve so much power.”
     “You know what they say, my lady,” Tressa said. “Dare not men­tion the Devil, lest he appear.”