She gave them what they were looking for. She spoke little to anyone but Alexander, leaning towards him and letting her sleeve, and sometimes her hand, brush against his. Finally she lifted her wine-cup and pledged him in sight of them all, kissing the rim of the goblet and then handing it to him to drink from. Alexander, dazzled and slightly the worse for the rich food and wine after the long abstinence enforced by his sickness, never saw the looks – one or two sullen, but mostly smiling – that went between the knights of Morgan’s household, looks which could be translated, very easily, by those who knew her:

“Your turn now?” the smiles said. “Then make the most of it, young cockerel! Crow while you can!”

She did not come to his chamber that night. The boy Peter came as usual to help him to bed, bearing the familiar flagon of cordial sent by the queen. Still weaker than he had supposed, and with his senses half swimming with the wine and the excitements of the feast, Alexander drained the goblet obediently, and got into bed. Peter snuffed the candle and left him.

Alexander lay for a little while, watching the door and listening – though the queen moved as lightly as the fay they called her, and he would only know of her presence in the dark by her touch and the fragrance that went with her. But the drug overtook him before even the smell of the snuffed candle had died away, and he slept.

Morgan, of course, knew what she was about. When Alexander woke next morning she was already far from the castle, out hunting with her knights, and watched as always by the King’s guards. Nor did he see her that evening. She had a headache, said Peter, but she would be better tomorrow, and if the prince would meet her in the morning at about the third hour, they could perhaps ride out together …?

The cordial she sent him that night tasted different, with a kind of pungency lacing the sweetness, but somehow heavy, promising sleep. The promise was a false one. When the page had seen him to bed, doused the candle and left him, Alexander spent a distressed and wakeful night full of the torments of unsatisfied love, and of wondering, even nervous, anticipation of the morning’s meeting.

25

Even after the restless night, Alexander felt more normally alert next morning than for many a day. He rose early, and went down as soon as he dared, to await Morgan in the courtyard.

She kept him waiting, of course, but at length she came, alone save for the guards who accompanied her on all her ventures outside the walls. She was dressed in green, with a grass-green mantle lined with tawny silk, and a cap of the same silk with a russet plume of feathers that curled down to brush her cheek. She looked every bit as lovely as she had in the hall of feasting, or in the hushed peace of his sick-chamber. He kissed her hand, lingering over it a shade too long, then threw her up to the saddle of her pretty sorrel mare, mounted his own big chestnut, and followed her out across the wooden bridge.