Chapter 20—The Potion Maker
The Lady Morgana wandered the shops lining the walls of the inner courtyard. The sunshine warmed the top of her head, a welcome relief from the chill shade cast by the three-story stone bastions. Colourful canopies draped the various stalls, providing shelter from the sun’s rays as it climbed to its zenith.
A thin man with a sharp nose hawked his wares, screaming for her attention. “Milady! A pretty necklace, for a pretty woman? Made from the finest copper links imported all the way from Northumbria!”
Morgana glanced at the man and shook her head, pushing past the stall. The fine blush silk dress which graced her figure, screamed of wealth and the merchant’s sharp eyes could spy a deep pocket, if nothing else. As she passed to the next stall, her eyes fell on an alabaster carved bowl containing a shimmering liquid. Morgana dipped her fingers into the cool, rose-coloured depths, marveling at the way the silky water clung to her skin. Bottles with wax seals were arranged in a semicircle around the bowl. To the right, several wooden goblets were lined up. Behind them, a tall bottle rested on the table’s surface. An elderly lady stood behind the display, smiling in welcome. In her wrinkled hand, she clutched the curved head of an unusual cane.
“Would my lady be interested in a tonic for good health? Guaranteed to preserve your lovely countenance.”
The grizzle-haired woman picked up a wooden chalice, in which swam the same pinkish liquid, and held it out to Morgana. Morgana shook her head, refusing the offering. The woman lowered the cup and placed it back on the table, her eyes clear and keen for one of such great age.
“Or perhaps you have more refined tastes? Come. Step inside, where we can speak privately.” She motioned toward the squat entrance to a small wooden hut. Hobbling to the door, she grasped the handle and pulled. It squawked on rusty hinges. “Come,” she said.
Morgana hesitated. The woman was bent with age, the dragging cane clutched in her left-hand evidence of her waning vitality, yet she beckoned Morgana with a commanding tone that brooked any refusal. Perhaps the tonic she offered had something to do with her reaching such an advanced age and perhaps not. Smiling slightly, Morgana indulged the old crone and stepped into the dimly lit interior. Warmth flooded her face, chasing away the shivers. A cheery fire danced above a stone hearth, casting a flickering light around the small room. The walls were lined with shelves, on which stood every shape and size of bottle available in Camelot. Wax seals melted over the tops prevented any of the concoctions escaping their vessels. Around the neck of each bottle hung a chalkboard tag listing the contents. Tucked into a shadowy recess was a straw stuffed mattress piled high with blankets.
“Warm yourself by my fire,” the old woman invited, gesturing to the blazing hearth.
Morgana walked over to the fireplace and held out her hands, turning them in the heat rising from the flames.
“I could not help but notice that milady’s brow is drawn tighter than a banker’s purse. You have a great worry pressing on your soul. Speak with poor Gretta? How may I serve you?”
She peered at Morgana with strikingly clear emerald eyes. Morgana tilted her head. Her eyes begged to belong to a youthful face, not this rumpled old woman.
Puzzled, Morgana walked around the small shop, reading the tags. “I am not sure. I just felt the urge to shop today. I needed to get away from the castle.” She picked up a curvy bottle filled with a light blue potion, admiring how it shimmered like sunshine on the sea.
“Yes, there is much tension in the citadel today. And grief. Please, give me your hand.”
Morgana replaced the potion on the shelf, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
The old woman twitched her fingers with impatience. “Gretta does not bite, milady. I only wish to help.”
Morgana placed her fingers in the gnarled hand. Gretta grasped her wrist and flipped it over, gazing down at Morgana’s upturned palm. She slid her fingers down the firm flesh, tracing the lines trapped by the soft folds. “You have no need of beauty potions. Your aura sings of youth and vigour. Yet see this?” She tapped a short line that was swallowed by the pad of flesh leading to her index finger. “Your destiny is being choked by another. She stands in the way of your future endeavours. She will swallow you whole, as a snake does its prey.”
Morgana snatched her hand away, alarmed. “What? How dare you say that. What are you doing?”
“I am helping you, Morgana. Listen to my words.”
“Who are you?”
“One who wishes to help you. Is that not why you came to Gretta?”
Morgana shook her head. “I…I do not know why I am here. I think I should leave.”
“You came here to ask for help in defeating your rivals.” Gretta’s back and gnarled hands straightened, the old woman sloughing away like wax before a flame. She grew in Morgana’s eyes until she was as tall as Morgana, all signs of age vanishing. In its place, a middle-aged woman stood, chestnut hair liberally streaked with grey. Twin emerald orbs peered at Morgana over a patrician nose. Even her voice smoothed. “Gretta would be saddened if you rejected her help,” she said, her voice rich and melodious.
Morgana stumbled back from the woman. “You are a witch!”
Gretta shook her head. “I am a woman, who is blessed with magic,” she corrected. “The proper term is sorceress. I mean you no harm, Morgana. In fact, I can help you. We are not so different, you and I.”
“How?” said Morgana, in a suspicious voice.
Gretta swayed as she sauntered over to a glass-faced cupboard and reached for a dusty bottle with a faded red wax seal. She blew gently on the surface. Dust clouded the air as she returned to Morgana’s side. “You wish to stand at Arthur’s side as the future queen of Camelot. Is it not so?”
Morgana shifted her shoulders, grimacing. “There are many young women of nobility in Camelot here for the naming ceremony. I am sure all of them have designs to win the prince’s heart. Arthur doesn’t know I exist. He sees only Guinevere.”
Gretta patted her cheek. “Come now, what does this Guinevere have, that you do not?” Her eyes raked Morgana’s slender form. “You have all the right attributes. Sometimes men need a nudge to be pointed in the right direction.” She waggled the potion bottle in front of Morgana’s eyes. The red liquid shimmered as it sloshed over the interior of the glass.
Morgana’s lips twitched into a smirk. “A love potion?”
Gretta frowned. “This is no love potion, girl. That silliness is left for the charlatans who run those shams. No, this is much more powerful. This, my dear, is a Rabie Potion. Like a true love potion, it works with the mind of the drinker to make them open to suggestion, but that is where the comparison ends. The longer the potion is in their system, the greater the potency as it will grow in strength every day. Consume the potion for a week, and the effects are permanent. The drinker’s mind and feelings are enslaved to the giver of the potion, and they will go from a mild infatuation to a frenzied need to please, compelled to do your bidding.” She caught Morgana’s open-mouthed stare and smiled. “Who needs love when you can have total control?”
Morgana took the bottle from Gretta’s hand, turning it over in her own. The contents flashed liquid fire, refracting the dancing flames in the hearth. “You mean,” she said slowly, “if I give this to Arthur, he will not only fall in love with me, but do everything I ever ask of him, for the rest of his life? He will be mine to command?”
Gretta smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling, but there was no humour in the gaze. Her eyes were the hard cold of stone. “Yes.”
“Arthur has a taster. It would never get to him without passing through someone else first. A pity, that.” She handed the bottle back to Gretta.
“I wondered if you would figure it out.” Gretta wandered over to the wall of potions, her eyes wandering over the selection. “What else do you desire, Morgana?”
“Other than to be queen?” She walked over to join Gretta at her side, puzzled gaze studying her profile. “Power, I suppose. Influence. If I cannot be a queen, I want to command the woman who is.”
Gretta’s lips twitched as she turned to face Morgana. “A better choice by far. Guinevere does not have tasters.”
The creeping smile that crawled over Morgana’s face was a matching, calculating, chill. “Controlling the queen will leave me free to pursue my own desires without having to be bound to the throne and the limitations that come with being queen.” Her smile widened to match that of Gretta’s. “I will take it.”
“This potion will heighten Guinevere’s bond of friendship with you. In time, she will come to see you as her sole companion. Arthur will cease to exist in her mind. Your desires will be all that she cares about. There is one more thing, Morgana. To activate the potion requires the use of magic.”
“I can learn how to do that?” said Morgana, frowning.
“Child, you are born to magic. You did not know?”
Morgana’s frown deepened. “No, I was not. There are no witches in my family.”
“Sorceress, child. Witches are charlatans. I can feel your power, standing beside you. Any true sorceress would be able to sense your magic. It rolls off of you in waves. Tell me, you have never experienced the flush of power that comes from using magic? Never experienced strange or unexplainable events? A fall, perhaps, that could have been fatal but you walked away from, uninjured? Or obtaining something you desperately wanted, just when if seemed as though you would surely fail?”
Morgana traced the line on the palm of her hand, pressing a finger into the terminus of the line that Gretta had read. Her eyes drifted as a memory floated to the surface of her mind. “There was this one time. I was playing down by the river one spring, tossing sticks into the fast-flowing water, when suddenly the bank gave way under my feet and I fell in. The shock of the cold sucked the breath from my lungs and I went under. As the current tumbled me in the water, I thought I was going to drown. I couldn’t see up from down. I panicked trying to fight my way to the surface, with my eyes closed. Then suddenly I was standing back on the shore.” Morgana shook her head, frowning. “I was just a child. I thought I had just forgotten how I had climbed out of the water, with the shock of it all.”
“A normal child would have drowned, Morgana. But your panic made you reach for the magic at the core of your being. Self-preservation was all the impetus you needed to bring your latent talents to the fore.”
“I do not know what to do. I know nothing of magic.”
“Do you wish to learn? It is a dangerous training to commit to while the church holds sway in Camelot. They hunt people like you and me. Witches they call us, in their ignorance. Being of a noble house will not save you from the stake, if they discover your abilities. You will burn like the most common peasant. Know this for true.” Gretta’s eyes narrowed, studying Morgana’s reaction to her words.
Expressions flitted across the smooth face, tiny frowns replaced by a twist of the lips, quirking into a smile. Her shoulders firmed and her back straightened with determination. Lifting her chin, the clouds of worry in her eyes vanished.
“Yes. I would like to learn,” she said.
Gretta nodded. “Come. I will teach you.” Gretta lowered a wooden bar into two metal brackets, barring the door to the storefront, then took Morgana’s hand. She drew her to the back of the shop, pushing aside a heavy drape, and leading her into a dimly lit storage room. On the back wall was a nondescript door. Gretta waved a hand at a torch resting in a bracket and it burst into flame. She tugged open the door, revealing a stone staircase curving away into the dark depths below. Gretta lit a second torch and handed it to Morgana.
Morgana’s eyes widened as moist stale air, stirred her curls. An odour like an open grave, assailed her nose. She swallowed past the hard lump of fear that was securely lodged in her throat.
“And my name is Nimue, not Gretta.”