Within its walls, Morgan le Fay ruled as sole overlord, as she had from the time when she was eight years old. It was a lonely life. Since the day that Uther had taken the castle and Gorlois had died, there had been an aura of ill-luck surrounding Tintagel’s walls like the grey sea-mist. When Igraine died and her newborn son vanished, the curse was complete. No one went to Tintagel if they could avoid it. Morgan told herself she didn’t mind, but it wasn’t true. She hated the loneliness, the isolation, the way her own servants—the few that remained—turned away from the sight of her disfigured face. But there was no remedy for any of these things. No man would willingly marry Cornwall’s cursed and ugly daughter. If only her father had lived to defeat Uther! Gorlois had been the true king of Britain, the rightful heir to the throne. Royal blood ran in Morgan’s veins; she should have been a princess instead of a lonely and forgotten outcast.
