For the sake of Camelot

[aritoella]

по-английски я написала не из снобизма и не из желания показать что я такая умная - вон, иностранный язык выучила - просто в окончательной редакции мне это надо было сдавать в университете, что и определило выбор языка

очень надеюсь на отзывы и критику

For the sake of Camelot

A woman cuts onion. Why? Obvious answer: she cooks dinner for her husband, master, lord. Why would a noble woman cut onion?  It is no business for a noble woman. Neither is treasuring cobwebs, nail cuttings, grey moth, toadstools, or even mandrake roots. But if she does, what could it mean?
The answer is simple: every ingredient has its significance. Onion is for tears, cobwebs for trap, toadstools for aversion, nail cuttings for filth, and grey moth is the key one. It is the common lot. Only what is mandrake for?

Chop-chop-chop. A knife hovered, ringing, singing. Slim fingers, high-born hands, participated in an improper occupation.
Lady Morgause was cutting an onion. And she did not cry. Sometimes a woman cuts onion to mask her tears. Moraguse did it to bring them forth. None came.
When a storm is coming, there is tension in the air. The sooner rain bursts, the less harm it will bring. If clouds are left to brood, to gather in them dark and malicious power, it will most certainly end in thunder and lightnings, death and destruction, cloven oaks and murdered men, those whom the Great Oak sheltered…
Morgause knew it. Still, the bloodthirsty ancient gods would not let her get away with her cheating.
“Arthur,” she moaned. “Not you. Only not you. Why were you so cruel?”
She should have expected it, though. Only… she had hoped that after reaching a sort of understanding with the elder sister during the knight tournament and after Morgan talked to Arthur all would be as it ought to have been.
Sharp steel whistled in Morgause’s swift hand as the shining onion shell was being squashed into smelly mesh. She mused that her life had been likewise squashed between the wheels of public opinion, social codes, and conveniences – above all, torn by the teeth of the new religion – after Arthur abandoned her. Like any woman, Morgause was prone to dramatization.
She wanted to be drunk, but had no wish to drink. She craved to share her grief, but had no one to share it with. A tiny mountain-ash twig with bright berries, which was stuck in her decollete, was shaking convulsively, but Morgause would not be able to cry.
She had realized those things when sitting by a fire in Camelot’s yard. It was the after-tournament feast. She lifted to her lips a crystal goblet of ruby liquid. It emanated a rich cherry perfume, and Morgause forced herself to dip her lips in the liquor.

Earlier the same evening… A tournament, out of which Mordred, her son, came second… A conversation with Morgan, which had reassured Morgause in her sister’s intention to support Mordred’s rights to the throne.
Strips of thoughts streamed through Morgause’s mind: “The root mor means sea and death. So are we – a trio of outcasts who deny the new faith, the new order, the new reason introduced by Arthur. The sea is dangerous. Foes come from over the sea. The sea brings storm. But it is also the primeval power. It is the womb of life, wherefrom arrived the tribe of Danu, our predecessors.” They were allies, Morgause believed then. They were to overcome the new but already senile-weak order of Arthur. They would force the sick king to recognize his lawful heir.

That evening, when the champion of jousts was announced, Arthur received visitors, as was his habit. Morgan was the first to talk to the king; they whispered for a while, but Morgause did not question her afterwards.
Morgause transgressed the rules of courtly behaviour too often to be at ease in Arthur’s castle. When she met courtiers, she acutely felt that her own
Nobility was fake, not more than a pretence. She had long ago comprehended that in accordance with the new religion, Christianity was its name, the stamp of incest marked only her – not Arthur, the man whom she once found so attractive, and not Mordred, the fruit of their passion. The guilty one was always a woman.
Every time she entered the circle of nobles, Morgause apprehended their reprobation with every inch of her shapely body.
Arthur was going to terminate his audience, as he did times and times hitherto, before Morgause would dare approach him. Shivering, she would remain as if frozen at the farthest end of the hall to contemplate her brother rise heavily from his high throne and to pass to his chamber.
Arthur was heading slowly to the door when Morgause’s voice, high-pitched with anxiety, called him back:
“May I ask thy audience, my king?”
He turned, looked at her – slowly, as though not recognising – and answered:
“Yes, you may.”
The king returned to his seat, and his sister came up to him.
Morgause raised her eyes, searchingly, to the dark face overshadowed by a massive crown. Rubies shimmered mysteriously in the ruddy gold. Fiery tongues flying from the furnace and undulating torchlight returned some of the colours and firmness to the pale and haggard countenance of the king.
“Speak, sister.”
Morgause obeyed the command and commenced expanding on the situation in Camelot, on the inability of sir Kay to govern, on the urgency of announcing an heir. There had recently been a grave dug in the centre of the town by a mad prophet. The grave was for the king.
“People are restless, Arthur. They need a ruler.”
“Kay’s the seneschal,” said Arthur, bored. “And after my death Gawain, my nephew, will be the king.”
Morgause swayed at this news, as if struck. Arthur had a son, after all. She spoke hastily about the merits of Mordred, who, as everyone agreed, was the most suitable candidate…
Arthur checked her angrily. Mordred had lately committed such and such failures in the etiquette.
“That is how you have raised your son, sister,” he concluded, a mean smile passing his waxy lips.
“Arthur,” cried Morgause, unable to restrain herself, “Mordred is your son, not only mine!”
In the interplay of flames and darkness, Morgause saw Arthur’s expression slacken. His silvery head bent sank, as if under the weight of the crown, onto his hands, once so strong and gentle, shaking almost like Morgause herself. The king muttered something indistinct, reiterating the names of Lancelot and Guinevere, who were loathsome adulterers and traitors in his sister’s opinion.
Morgause could not support the sight of her beloved… brother stumbling to the abyss of insanity. This haggard, confounded stare and shattered, mumbling voice moved her to horror and pity. If her dear younger brother was already an old man, what an old crag must she had been…
To escape the enticing nightmare, Morgause demanded bluntly:
“You must make Mordred, your son, the ruler.”
The delirious, sagging face of Arthur hardened. His eyes glared with long-abandoned, menacing power.
“You don’t tell me what to do, sister. The audience is over.”
For a split second, Morgause admired the miraculous resurrection. She fell to her knees and pleaded for her last chance, the last chance of her life:
“Arthur, please! Remembered that I loved you!”
He sounded composed, firm as rock, when ordering:
“Take her away.”

[aritoella]

A narrow strip of steel glistened. The blade had been dipped into a boiling cauldron of sticky brownish broth. A green-gloved hand snatched the dagger out of its hiding, and it bit the king in the neck. The handle remained sticking elegantly out of the opening in the gold-embroidered collar.

Thud! The knife had scratched a part of nail and flesh. Morgause started, awoken from her vision. A purple drop expanded on the mother-of-pearl onion curve.
“Still, what is mandrake for?” whistled in her head the unanswered question.
The pain reached her. First, in the finger; then, in the bosom.
“No,” she waved her hand dismissively, the blood flying around in miniscule splashes. “When Arthur ordered me out, I left. I left, lest I would be taken by those unworthy hands, in front of the court, to be dragged shamefully out. Like a rejected whore. Harlot that I am in the eyes of the noble hypocrites. Next, I walked among the fires, where sat maidens, knights, and, a little away, the lower folk. I… what was it?.. I wanted to weep on a sympathising shoulder, probably. And get drunk.”
Yes, she wandered, turning here and there, but saw nobody. There were base people, these prim ladies, court pretenders. None of them could help her. Neither could any of the merry folk of doubtful lineage and pre-occupation, whose company she used to enjoy so much.
Morgause spotted Mordred, and her heart fell. Her son was courting a stately maiden in an elaborate crimson garment.
She sighed, strangled down the upcoming hysterics and joined a circle of decent men, most of them poor knights. They offered Morgause a drink, and she accepted a gobletful of murky wine.
The beauty of cherry-tinted reflections – meeting the scarlet flames and separated from them by transparent carved walls held her transfixed. Carefully, she carried the vessel up and touched the brim with her lips. The good wine tasted nauseous to her. Determined, Morgause swallowed it in a gulp. And felt no effect whatsoever from it.

“What is it for?” Morgause tried painfully to remember, staring at a smelly pile of onion. “Help Goddess, what is mandrake for?”
The blood from her hard pressed finger had spread, making the onion shell shine of amethyst.
“Thud!” thundered on Morgause a sudden understanding. “Mandrake is for murder.”
Once again, she saw a rivulet of pale crimson trickle from the jugular recess under Arthur’s neck and disappear under his royal surcoat.
“I didn’t do it!” screamed Morgause. “Arthur cannot be killed as long as he has the Excalibur with its magic scabbard. Camelot may be falling apart, but the king cannot be wounded!”
Morgause trembled as she shoved the ingredients into a cauldron. The twig of ash rowan fell there, too, but she did not notice it.
She would steal the magic scabbard. Arthur must be killed. Mordred would be king.
For the sake of Camelot.

She believed it indeed. Do you?

[Лэмира]

Понравилось. Стиль выдержан, атмосфера создана. Страшно становится. А между тем полно мелких глюков, характерных для тех, кто пишет на чужом языке.

But if she does, what could it mean?
Simple: every ingredient has its significance.

Не хватает чего-то. Английский не так толерантен к неполным предложениям, как русский. The answer is simple?

Why a noble woman cuts onion?

Why does a noble woman cut onions

participated in an improper occupation

Коряво. Виден подстрочник.

Прочитайте вслух и вставляйте артикль the везде, где его не хватает. Там много таких мест.

She mused that her life had been likewise squashed between the wheels of public opinion, social codes, and conveniences – above all, torn by the teeth of the new religion – after Arthur abandoned her

conveniences -может, conventions?

Morgause digressed the rules of courtly behaviour

transgressed

Lancelot and Guinevere, who were loathly adulterers and traitors for his sister’s opinion.

loathesome, in ... opinion

Что-то меня переглючило -- кто старшая сестра? А то мне казалось, что  Morgause?

[aritoella]

спасибо большое за замеченные глюки - большинство из них действительно были глюками, которые каким-то непостижимым образом закрались в эту версию. ососбое спаисбо за transgressed - именно это слово я искала и не нашла . вообще-то глюки встречаются и когда человек пишет на родном языке, иногда их бывает даже больше
насчёт participated in an improper occupation - подстрочника там не было, я просто постаралась сделать фразу максимально формализованной, до неестественности.
неполные предложения в современной английской литературе живут и здравствуют, по крайней мере, в книгах Надин Гордимер эллиптических предложений едва ли не больше, чем обычных, но ваше замечание я обдумаю.

предложение, куда мне советовали вставить the прочитала вслух, но не догадалась, куда же вставить артикли. вообще-то это у меня с этим бывают проблемы, так что не уверена.

ещё раз спасибо вам.

ЗЫ: я была уверена, что Моргана - старшая сестра, а Моргауза - младшая из сестёр. теперь я начала в этом сомневаться, но не думаю, что это столь существенно, ведь прототип у обеих один. если кто-то просветит меня по этому вопросу, буду благодарна.