The High Queen
Far to the north, where Lot was king, the snow lay deep on the fells, and ‘even at midday there was often no more than a twilit fog. On the rare days when the sun shone, the men could get out for some hunting, but the women were imprisoned in the castle. Morgause, idly twirling her spindle—she hated spinning as much as ever, but the room was too dark for any finer work—felt an icy draft from the opened door and looked up. She said in mild reproof, “It is too cold for that, Morgaine, and you have been complaining of the cold all day; now would you turn us all into icicles?”
“I was not complaining,” said Morgaine. “Did I say a word? The room is as stuffy as a privy, and the smoke stinks. I want to breathe—no more!” She pushed the door shut and went back to the fire, rubbing her hands and shivering. “I have not once been warm since Midsummer.”
“I doubt that not at all,” said Morgause. “Your little passenger in there steals all the heat from your bones—he is warm and snug, and his mother shivers. It is always so.”
“At least Midwinter is now past, the light comes earlier and stays later,” said one of Morgause’s women. “And perhaps in another fortnight, you will have your babe with you ... .”
Morgaine did not answer but stood shivering near the fire, chafing her hands as if they ached. Morgause thought that the girl looked like her own ghost, her face sharpened and fined to deathly thinness, her hands bony as skeleton sticks contrasted with the huge bulging of her pregnant belly. There were great dark circles under her eyes, and the lids were red as if sore with long weeping; but in all the moons Morgaine had been in this house, Morgause had not seen the younger woman shed a single tear.
I would comfort her, but how can I, if she does not weep?
Morgaine was wearing an old gown of Morgause’s own, a faded and threadbare kirtle of dark blue, grotesquely too long. She looked clumsy, almost slatternly, and it exasperated Morgause that her kinswoman had not even troubled to take needle and thread and shorten the dress somewhat. Her ankles, too, were swollen so that they bulged over her shoe tops; that was from having only salt fish and coarse vegetables to eat at this time of year. They all needed fresh food, which was not easy to come by in this weather. Well, perhaps the men would have some luck at hunting and she could induce Morgaine to eat some of the fresh meat; after four pregnancies of her own, Morgause knew the near-starvation of late pregnancy. Once, she remembered, when she was pregnant with Gawaine, she had gone into the dairy and eaten some of the clay they kept for whitening it. An old midwife had told her that when a pregnant woman cannot keep herself from eating such strange things, it is the child that hungers and she should feed him whatever he wishes for. Maybe tomorrow there would be fresh herbs by the mountain stream—that was something every pregnant woman craved, especially in late winter like this. Morgaine’s beautiful dark hair was tangled, too, in a loose braid—it looked as if she hadn’t combed or rebraided it for weeks. She turned from the fire now, took down a comb that was kept on the shelf, picked up one, of Morgause’s little lapdogs and began combing it. Morgause thought, You would be better occupied at combing your own hair, but she held her peace; Morgaine had been so edgy lately that there was no speaking to her at all. It was natural enough, so near her time, she thought, watching the younger woman’s bony hands pulling the comb through the matted hair; the little dog yelped and whined, and Morgaine hushed him in a softer voice than, she ever used to anything human these days.
“It cannot be long now, Morgaine,” Morgause said gently. “By Candlemas, surely, you will be delivered.”
“It cannot be too soon for me.” Morgaine gave the dog a final pat and set him on the floor. “There, now you are decent to be among ladies, puppy ... how fine you are, with your hair all smooth!”
“I will make up the fire,” said one of the women, whose name was Beth, putting aside her spindle and thrusting the distaff into a basket of loose; wool. “The men will be home, surely—it is already dark.” She went over to the fire, tripped on a loose stick, and half fell on the hearth. “Gareth, you little wretch, will you clear away this rubbish?” She flung the stick into fire, and five-year-old Gareth, who had been pushing the sticks about prattling to them in an undertone, set up a howl of outrage—the sticks were his armies!
“Well, Gareth, it is night, and your armies must go to their tents,” said Morgause briskly. Pouting, the little boy pushed the array of small sticks into a corner, but one or two he put carefully into a fold of his tunic—they were thicker ones, which Morgaine, earlier that year, had carved into the crude likeness of men in helmets and armor, dyed with berry juice for their crimson tunics.
“Will you make me another Roman knight, Morgaine?”
“Not now, Gareth,” she said. “My hands ache with the cold. Tomorrow, perhaps.”
He came and scowled, standing at her knee, demanding, “When will I be old enough to go hunting with Father and Agravaine?”
“It will be a few years still, I suppose,” said Morgaine, smiling. “Not until you are tall enough not to be lost in a snowdrift!”
“I’m big!” he said, drawing himself up to his full height, “Look, when you’re sitting down I’m taller than you are, Morgaine!” He kicked restlessly at the chair. “There’s nothing to do in here!”
“Well,” said Morgaine, “I could always teach you to spin, and then you need not be idle.” She picked up Beth’s abandoned distaff and held it out to him, but he made a face and started back.
“I’m going to be a knight! Knights don’t have to spin!”
“That’s a pity,” Beth said sourly. “Perhaps they would not wear out so many cloaks and tunics if they knew what toil it is to spin them!”
“Yet there was a knight who did spin, so the tale says,” Morgaine said, holding out her arms to the little boy. “Come here. No, sit on the bench, Gareth, you are all too heavy now for me to hold you on my lap like a sucking babe. There was in the old days, before the Romans came, a knight named Achilles, and he was under a curse; an old sorceress told his mother that he would die in battle, and so she put him into skirts and hid him among the women, where he learned to spin and to weave and do all that was fitting for a maiden.”
“And did he die in battle?”
“He did indeed, for when the city of Troy was besieged, they called on all the knights and warriors to come and take it, and Achilles went with the rest, and he was the best of all the knights. It was told of him that he was offered a choice, he could live long in safety, then die an old man in his bed and be forgotten, or he could live a short life and die young with great glory, and he chose the glory; so men still tell of his story in the sagas. He fought with a knight in Troy called Hector—Ectorius, that is, in our tongue—“
“Was it that same sir Ectorius who fostered our king Arthur?” asked the little boy, wide-eyed.
“To be sure it was not, for it was many hundred years ago, but it might have been one of his forefathers.”
“When I am at court, and one of Arthur’s Companions,” said Gareth, his eyes round as saucers, “I will be the best fighter in war, and I will win all the prizes when there are games. What happened to Achilles?”
“I remember it not—it was long ago, at Uther’s court, I heard the tale,” Morgaine said, pressing her hands against her back as if it hurt her.
“Tell me about Arthur’s knights, Morgaine. You have really seen Lancelet, have you not? I saw him, that day at the King’s crowning—has he killed any dragons? Tell me, Morgaine—“
“Don’t plague her, Gareth, she’s not well,” said Morgause. “Run out to the kitchens and see if they can find you some bannock.”
The child looked sulky, but he took his carved knight out of his tunic and went off, talking to it in an undertone. “So, sir Lancelet, we will go out and we will kill all the dragons in the Lake. ...”
“That one, he talks only of war and fighting,” said Morgause impatiently, “and his precious Lancelet, as if it were not enough to have Gawaine away with Arthur at the wars! I hope that when Gareth is old enough, there will be peace in the land!”
“There will be peace,” Morgaine said absently, “but it will not matter, for he will die at the hands of his dearest friend—“
“What?” cried Morgause staring, but the younger woman’s eyes were vacant and unfocused; Morgause shook her gently and demanded, “Morgaine! Morgaine, are you ill?”
Morgaine blinked and shook her head. “I am sorry—what did you say to me?”
“What did I say to you? What, rather, did you say to me? “ Morgause demanded, but at the look of distress in Morgaine’s eyes, her skin prickled. She stroked the younger woman’s hand, dismissing the grim words as delirium. “I think you must have been dreaming with your eyes wide open.” She found that she did not want to think that Morgaine might have had’ a moment of the Sight. “You must care for yourself better, Morgaine, you hardly eat, you don’t sleep—“
“Food sickens me,” Morgaine said, sighing. “Would it were summer, that I might have some fruit ... last night I dreamed I ate of the apples of Avalon—“ Her voice trembled, and she lowered her head so that Morgause would not see the tears hanging from her lashes; but she clenched her hands and did not weep.
“We are all weary of salt fish and smoked bacon,” said Morgause, “but if Lot has had good hunting, you must eat some of the fresh meat. Morgaine, she thought, had been trained in Avalon to ignore hunger and thirst and fatigue; now, pregnant, when she should relax her austerities somewhat, she took pride in enduring everything without complaint.
“You are priestess-trained, Morgaine, hardened to fasting, but yout child cannot endure hunger and thirst, and you are far too thin—“
“Don’t mock me!” Morgaine said angrily, gesturing at her enormously swollen belly.
“But your hands and face are like bare bone,” said Morgause. “You must not starve yourself like this, you have a child and you must consider him!”
“I will consider his welfare when he considers mine!” Morgaine said, rising abruptly, but Morgause took her hands and drew her down again. “Dear child, I know what you are going through, I have borne four children, remember? These last few days are worse than all the long months combined!”
“I should have had the sense to be rid of it while there was time!”
Morgause opened her mouth for a sharp answer, then sighed and said, “It’s too late to say you should have done so or so; ten days more will bring it to an end.” She took her own comb from her tunic folds and began to unravel Morgaine’s tangled braid.
“Let it be—“ said Morgaine restlessly, pulling her head away from the comb. “I will do it myself tomorrow. I have been too weary to think of it. But if you are sick of looking at me all bedraggled like this—well, give me the comb!”
“Sit still, lennavan,” said Morgause. “Don’t you remember, when you were a little girl at Tintagel, you used to cry for me to comb your hair because your nurse—what was her name? ... Now I remember: Gwennis, that was it—she used to pull your hair so, and you would say, ‘Let Aunt Morgause do it?’ “ She teased the comb through the tangles, smoothing out strand after strand, and stroked Morgaine’s head affectionately. “You have lovely hair.”
“Dark and coarse as a pony’s mane in winter!”
“No, fine as the wool of a black sheep, and shining like silk,” Morgause said, still stroking the dark strands. “Hold still, I will plait it for you ... . Always I have wished for a girl-child, so that I could dress her finely and plait her hair like this ... but the Goddess sent me only sons, and so you must just be my little daughter now when you need me ... .” She pulled the dark head against her breast, and Morgaine lay there, shaking with the tears she could not shed. “Ah, there, there, my little one, don’t cry, it won’t be long now, there, there ... you have not been taking good care of yourself, you need a mother’s care, my little girl ... .”
“It is only ... it is so dark here ... I long so for the sun ... .”
“In the summer we have more than our share of sunlight, it is light even to midnight,” said Morgause, “and so in winter we get so little.” Morgaine was still shaking with uncontrollable sobs, and Morgause held her close, rocking her gently. “There, little one, lennavan, there, I know how you feel …I bore Gawaine in the darkest time of winter. It was dark and stormy like this, and I was only sixteen years old then, and very frightened, I knew so little of bearing children. I wished then that I had stayed to be priestess at Avalon, or at Uther’s court, or anywhere but here. Lot was away at the wars, I hated my big body, I was sick all the time and my back hurt, and I was all alone with only strange women. Would you believe, all that winter, I kept my old doll secretly in my bed, and held her, and cried myself every night to sleep? Such a baby I was! You at least are a woman grown, Morgaine.”
Morgaine said, choking, “I know I am too old to be such a baby . ..” but still she clung to Morgause, while the older woman petted and stroked her hair.
“And now that same babe I bore even before I was a grown woman is away fighting with the Saxons,” she said, “and you, whom I held on my lap like a doll, you are to have a babe of your own. Ah, yes, I knew there was news I meant to tell you; the cook’s wife Marged has borne her child—no doubt that was why the porridge was so full of husks this morning—so there will be a wet nurse ready at hand for yours. Though indeed, when you see him, I doubt not you will want to suckle him yourself.”
Morgaine made a gesture of revulsion, and Morgause smiled. “So I felt myself, before each of my sons was born, but when I looked once on their faces, I felt I could never let them out of my arms.” She felt the younger woman flinch. “What is it, Morgaine?”
“My back aches; I have been sitting too long, that is all,” Morgaine said, rising restlessly and wandering around the room, her hands clasped at the small of her back. Morgause narrowed her eyes thoughtfully; yes, in the last few days the girl’s bulging belly was carried lower, it could not be long now. She should have the women’s hall filled with fresh straw and speak to the midwives to be at hand for the lying-in.
LOT’S MEN HAD FOUND a deer on the hills; skinned and cleaned, the smell roasting over the great fire filled the whole of the castle, and even Morgaine did not refuse a slice of the raw liver, dripping blood—by custom this food was saved for such of the women as were with child.
Morgause could see her grimace with revulsion, as she herself had done when such things were given to her in her own pregnancies, but Morgaine, as Morgause had done, sucked at ft with avidity, her body demanding the nourishment even as her mind revolted. Later, though, when the meat was cooked and carvers were slicing it and carrying it around, she gestured refusal. Morgause took a slice of meat and laid it on Morgaine’s dish.
“Eat it,” she commanded. “No, Morgaine, I will be obeyed, you cannot starve yourself and your child this way.”
“I cannot,” said Morgaine in a low voice. “I will be sick—put it by and I will try to eat it later.”
“What is wrong?”
Morgaine lowered her head and muttered, “I cannot eat—the meat of deer—I ate it at Beltane when—and now the very smell sickens me—“ And this child was gotten at Beltane at the ritual fires. What is it that troubles her so? That memory should be a pleasant one, Morgause thought, smiling at the memory of the Beltane license. She wondered if the girl had fallen into the hands of some particularly brutish man and had undergone something like rape—that would account for her rage and despair at this pregnancy. Still, done was done, and Morgaine was old enough to know that not all men were brutes, even if she had once fallen into the hands of one who was neither gentle nor skilled with women.
Morgause took a slice of oatcake and sopped it in the meat juice in the dish. “Eat this, then—you will get the good of the meat so,” she said, “and I have made you some tea with the hips of roses; it is sour and will taste good to you. I remember how I craved sour things when I was breeding.”
Morgaine ate obediently, and it seemed to Morgause that a little color came into her face. She made a face at the sourness of the drink, but drank it down thirstily nonetheless. “I do not like it,” she said, “but how strange, I cannot stop drinking it.”
“Your child craves it,” said Morgause seriously. “Babes in the womb know what is good for them, and they demand it of us.”
Lot, sitting at his ease between two of his huntsmen, smiled amiably at his sister-in-law. “An old skinny animal, but a good dinner for late winter,” he said, “and I’m just as glad we didn’t get a breeding doe. We saw two or three of them, but I told my men to let them be, and even called off the dogs—I want the deer to drop their fawns in peace, and I could see that time is near, so many of them were heavy.” He yawned, taking up small Gareth, whose face was greasy and shining with the meat. “Soon you’ll be big enough to go hunting with us,” he said. “You and the little Duke of Cornwall, no doubt.”
“Who is the Duke of Cornwall, Father?” Gareth asked.
“Why, the babe Morgaine carries,” Lot replied, smiling, and Gareth stared at Morgaine. “I don t see any baby. Where is your baby, Morgaine?”
Morgaine chuckled uneasily. “Next month at this time I shall show him to you.”
“Will the spring maiden bring it to you?”
“You could say so,” Morgaine said, smiling despite herself.
“How can a baby be a duke?”
“My father was Duke of Cornwall. I am his only child in marriage. When Arthur came to reign, he gave Tintagel back to Igraine; it will pass from her to me and to my sons, if I have any.”
Morgause, looking at the young woman, thought: Her son stands nearer the throne than my own Gawaine. I am full sister to Igraine, and Viviane but her half-sister, so Gawaine is nearer kin than Lancelet. But Morgaine’s son will be Arthur’s nephew. I wonder if Morgaine has thought of that?
“Certainly, then, Morgaine, your son is Duke of Cornwall—“
“Or Duchess,” said Morgaine, smiling again.
“No, I can tell by the way you carry, low and broad, that it will be a son,” said Morgause. “I have borne four, and I have watched my women through pregnancies ... .” She grinned maliciously at Lot and said, “My husband takes very seriously that old writing which says that a king should be father to his people!”
Lot said good-naturedly, “I think it only right for my true-born sons’ by my queen to have many foster-brothers; bare is back, they say, without brother, and my sons are many ... . Come, kinswoman, will you take the harp and sing for us?”
Morgaine pushed aside the remnant of gravy-soaked oatcake. “I haves,’ eaten too much for singing,” she said, frowning, and began to pace the hall again, and Morgause again saw her hands pressed to her back. Gareth came; and tugged at her skirt.
“Sing to me. Sing me that song about the dragon, Morgaine.”
“It is too long for tonight—you must be away to your bed,” she said, but she went to the corner, took up the small harp that stood there, and sat on a bench. She plucked a few notes at random, bent to adjust one of the’ strings, then broke into a rowdy drinking song of the armies.
Lot joined in the chorus, as did his men, their raucous voices ringing up to the smoky beams:
“The Saxons came in dark of night,
With all the folk asleep,
They killed off all the women, for—
They’d rather rape the sheep!”
“You never learned that song in Avalon, kinswoman,” Lot said, grinning, as Morgaine rose to replace the harp.
“Sing again,” Gareth teased, but she shook her head.
“I am too short of breath now for singing,” she said. She put the harp down and took up her spindle, but after a moment or two put it aside and-j once more began pacing the hall.
“What ails you, girl?” Lot asked. “You’re restless as a caged bear!”
“My back aches with sitting,” she said, “and that meat my aunt would have me eat has given me a bellyache after all.” She held her hands again to her back and bent over suddenly as if with a cramp; then, suddenly, she gave a startled cry, and Morgause, watching, saw the too-long kirtle turn dark and wet, soaking her to the knees.
“Oh, Morgaine, you’ve wet yourself,” Gareth cried out. “You’re too big to wet your clothes—my nurse would beat me for that!”
“Hush, Gareth!” Morgause said sharply, and hurried to Morgaine, who stood bent over, her face crimson with astonishment and shame.
“It’s all right, Morgaine,” she said, taking her by the arm. “Does it hurt you here—and here? I thought as much. You are in labor, that is all, didn’t you know?” But how should the girl know? It was her first, and she was never one for listening to women’s gossip, so she would not know the signs. For much of this day she must have been feeling the first pains. She called Beth and said, “Take the Duchess of Cornwall to the women’s hall and call Megan and Branwen. And take down her hair; she must have nothing knotted or bound about her or her clothing.” She added, stroking Morgaine’s hair, “I would that I had known this sooner this day when I braided your hair—I will come down soon and stay with you, Morgaine.”
She watched the girl go out, leaning heavily on the nurse’s arm. She said to Lot, “I must go and stay with her. It is her first time, and she will be frightened, poor girl.”
“There’s no hurry,” Lot said idly. “If it’s her first, she’ll be in labor all this night, and you’ll have time to hold her hand.” He gave his wife a good-natured smile. “You are quick to bring our Gawaine’s rival into the world!”
“What do you mean?” she asked, low.
“Only this—that Arthur and Morgaine were born of one womb, and her son stands nearer the throne than ours.”
“Arthur is young,” Morgause said coldly, “and has time enough to father a dozen sons. Why should you think he has need of an heir?”
Lot shrugged. “Fate is fickle,” he said. “Arthur bears a charmed life in battle—and I doubt not that the Lady of the Lake had something to do with that, damn her—and Gawaine is all too loyal to his king. But fate may turn away from Arthur, and if that day should come, I would like to know that Gawaine stood closest to the throne. Think well, Morgause; the life of an infant is uncertain. You might do well to beseech your Goddess that the little Duke of Cornwall should not draw a second breath.”
“How could I do that to Morgaine? She is like my own daughter!”
Lot chucked his wife affectionately under the chin. He said, “You are a loving mother, Morgause, and I wouldn’t have you otherwise. But I doubt if Morgaine is so eager to have a child in her arms. I have heard her say that she wished she had cast forth her child—“
“She was ill and weary,” said Morgause angrily. “Do you think I did not say as much, when I was weary of dragging around a great belly? Any woman says such things in the last few moons of her pregnancy.”
“Still, if Morgaine’s child should be born without breath, I do not think she would grieve overmuch. Nor—this is what I am saying—should you.”
Morgause defended her kinswoman: “She is good to our Gareth, has made him toys and playthings and told him tales. I am sure she will be just as good a mother to her own.”
“Yet, it is not to our interest or our son’s that Morgaine should think of her son as Arthur’s heir.” He put his arm around his wife, “Look sweeting, you and I have four sons, and no doubt when they’re all grown they’ll be at one another’s throats—Lothian is not so big a kingdom as all that! But if Gawaine were High King, then there would be kingdom enough for them all.”
She nodded slowly. Lot had no love for Arthur, as he had had none for Uther; but she had not thought him quite so ruthless as this. “Are you asking me to kill her child as it comes forth?”
“She is our kinswoman and my guest,” Lot said, “and thus sacred, I would not invoke the curse of a kinslayer. I said only—the lives of newborn babes are frail, unless they are very carefully tended, and if Morgaine has a difficult time of it, it might be well that none has leisure to tend the babe.”
Morgause set her teeth and turned away from Lot. “I must go my to kinswoman.”
Behind her Lot smiled. “Think well on what I have said, my wife.”
Down in the little hall, a fire had been lighted for the women; a kettle of gruel was boiling on the hearth, for it would be a long night. Fresh straw had been spread. Morgause had forgotten, as women happy with their children do, the dread of birth, but the sight of the fresh straw made her teeth clench and a shudder go down her back. Morgaine had been put into a loose shift, and her hair, unbound, was hanging loose down her back; she was walking up and down in the room, leaning on Megan’s arm. It all had the air of a festival, and so indeed it was for the other women. Morgause went up to her kinswoman and took her arm.
“Come now, you can walk with me a bit, and Megan can go and prepare the swaddlings for your child,” she said. Morgaine looked at her and Morgause thought the younger woman’s eyes were like those of a wild animal in a snare, awaiting the hunter’s hand which will cut its throat.
“Will it be long, Aunt?”
“Now, now, you must not think ahead,” said Morgause tenderly “Think, if you must, that you have been in labor most of this day, so it will go all the faster now.” But to herself she thought, It will not be easy for her, she is so small, and she is reluctant to bear this child; no doubt there is a long hard night ahead of her ... .
And then she remembered that Morgaine had the Sight, and that it was useless to lie to her. She patted Morgaine’s pale cheek. “No matter, child, we will take good care of you. It is always long with a first child—they are loath to leave their snug nest—but we will do all we can. Did anyone bring a cat into the room?”
“A cat? Yes, she is there, but why, Aunt?” Morgaine asked.
“Because, little one, if you have seen a cat kittening, you know that the cat bears her children purring, not crying out in pain, and so perhaps her pleasure in bearing will help you to feel the pains less,” Morgause said, stroking the small furry creature. “It is a form of birth magic that perhaps you do not know in Avalon. Yes, you may sit down now, and rest for a little, and hold the cat in your lap.” She watched Morgaine stroking the cat in a moment of respite, but then she doubled over again with the sharp cramps, and Morgause urged her to get up again and keep walking. “As long as you can bear it—it goes quicker so,” she said.
“I am so tired, so tired ... ” Morgaine said, moaning a little.
You will be more tired before this is over, Morgause thought, but she only came and put her arms around the younger woman. “Here. Lean on me, child ... .”
“You are so like my mother ...” Morgaine said, clinging to Morgause, her face contorted as if she were about to cry. “I wish my mother were here ... ” and then she bit her lip as if she regretted her moment of weakness, and began slowly walking, walking up and down the crowded room.
The hours dragged slowly by. Some of the women slept, but there were plenty to take their turn in walking with Morgaine, who grew more and more frightened and pale as time wore on. The sun rose, and still the midwives had not said Morgaine might lie down in the straw, though she was so weary that she stumbled and could hardly put one foot before another. One moment she said she was cold and clutched her warm fur cloak about her; another time she thrust it from her, saying that she was burning up. Again and again she retched and vomited, at last bringing up nothing but green bile; but she could not seem to stop retching, though they forced her to drink hot herb drinks, which she gulped down thirstily. But then she would begin retching again, and Morgause, watching her, her mind full of what Lot had said, wondered if it would make any difference what she did or did not do ... it might well be that Morgaine could not survive this birth.
At last she could walk no more, and they let her lie down, gasping and biting her lips against the recurrent pains; Morgause knelt beside her, holding her hand as the hours wore on. A long time past noon, Morgause asked her quietly, “Was he—the child’s father—much bigger than you? Sometimes when a baby takes so long to be born, it means the child takes after his father and is too big for the mother.”
She wondered, as she had wondered before, who was this child’s father? She had seen Morgaine looking on Lancelet at Arthur’s crowning; if Morgaine had gotten herself with child by Lancelet, that might well explain why Viviane had been so angered that poor Morgaine had had to flee from Avalon.... In all of these months, Morgaine had said nothing of her reasons for leaving the temple, and of her child, no more than that it was gotten at Beltane fires. Viviane was so tender of Morgaine, she would not have allowed her to bear a child to just anyone ... .
But if Morgaine, rebelling against her chosen destiny, had taken Lancelet for lover, or had seduced him into the Beltane grove, then it might explain why Viviane’s chosen priestess, her successor as Lady of the Lake, fled from Avalon.
But Morgaine said only, “I did not see his face; he came to me as the Horned One,” and Morgause knew, with her own faint trace of the Sight, that the younger woman was lying. Why?
THE HOURS DRAGGED BY. Once Morgause went into the main hall, where Lot’s men were playing at knucklebones. Lot sat watching, one of Morgause’s younger waiting-women on his lap and his hand playing casually with her breasts; as Morgause came in, the woman looked up apprehensively and started to slide from his knees, but Morgause shrugged. “Stay where you are; we have no need of you among the midwives, and tonight at least I shall be with my kinswoman and have no leisure to argue with you over a place in his bed. Tomorrow it might be another matter.” The young woman bent her head, blushing. Lot said, “How goes it with Morgaine, sweeting?”
“Not well,” Morgause said. “It was never so hard for me.” Then she cried out in a rage, “Did you ill-wish my kinswoman that she might never rise from childbed?”
Lot shook his head. “You have the charms and magic in this kingdom, lady. I wish Morgaine no ill. God knows, that would be grievous waste of a pretty woman—and Morgaine’s handsome enough, for all her sharp tongue! Though that she comes by honest enough from your side of the family, does she not, sweeting, and it adds salt to the dish ... .”
Morgause smiled affectionately at her husband. Whatever pretty toys he might choose for his bed—and the girl on his lap was just one more of them—she knew that she suited him well.
“Where is Morgaine, Mother?” Gareth asked. “She said that today she would carve me another knight to play with!”
“She is sick, little son.” Morgause drew a long breath, the weight of anxiety settling over her again.
“She will be well soon,” Lot said, “and then you will have a little cousin to play with. He shall be your foster-brother and your friend—we have a saying that kin ties last for three generations and foster ties for seven, and since Morgaine’s son will be both to you, he will be more than your own brother.”
“I will be glad to have a friend,” said Gareth. “Agravaine mocks me and calls me a silly baby, saying I am too old for wooden knights!”
“Well, Morgaine’s son will be your friend, when he is grown a bit,” said Morgause. “At first he will be like a puppy with his eyes not open, but in a year or two he will be old enough to play with you. But the Goddess hears the prayers of little children, son, so you must pray to the Goddess that she will hear you and bring Morgaine a strong son and health, and not come to her as the Death-crone—“ and suddenly she began to cry. With astonishment, Gareth watched his mother weep, and Lot said, “As bad as that, sweetheart?”
Morgause nodded. But there was no need to frighten the child. She wiped her eyes with her kirtle.
Gareth looked upward and said, “Please, dear Goddess, bring my cousin Morgaine a strong son, so we can grow up and be knights together.”
Against her will, Morgause laughed and stroked the chubby cheek. “Such a prayer I am sure the Goddess will hear. Now I must go back to Morgaine.”
But she felt Lot’s eyes on her as she left the hall, and remembered what he had said to her earlier—that it might be better for them all if Morgaine’s son did not survive.
I shall be content if Morgaine comes alive through this, she thought, and almost for the first time, she regretted that she had learned so little of the great magics of Avalon, now, when she needed some charm or spell that could ease this struggle for Morgaine. It had gone so hard, so frightfully hard with the girl, her own childbed had been nothing to this ... .
She came back into the women’s hall. The midwives had Morgaine kneeling upright in the straw now, to help the child slip from the womb; but she was slumping between them like a lifeless thing, so that two of them had to hold her upright. She was crying out now in gasps, then biting her lip against the cries, trying to be brave. Morgause went and knelt before Morgaine in the blood-flecked straw; she held out her hands, and Morgaine gripped them, looking at Morgause almost without recognition.
“Mother!” she cried out. “Mother, I knew you would come—“
Then her face convulsed again and she flung back her head, her mouth squared with unvoiced screams. Megan said, “Hold her, my lady—no, behind her like that, hold her upright—“ and Morgause, gripping Morgaine beneath the arms, felt the girl shaking, retching, sobbing as she fought and struggled, blindly, to get away from them. She was no longer capable of; helping them or even letting them do what they must, but screamed aloud when they touched her. Morgause shut her eyes, unwilling to see, holding Morgaine’s frail convulsing body with all her strength. She screamed again, “Mother! Mother!” but Morgaine did not know whether she was calling ‘1 on Igraine or on the Goddess. Then she slumped backward into Morgaine’s arms, all but unconscious; there was the sharp smell of blood in the room, and Megan held up something dark and shrivelled-looking.
“Look, lady Morgaine,” she said, “you have a fine son—“ then she bent over him, breathing into the little mouth. There was a sharp, outraged sound, the cry of a newborn shrieking with fury at the cold world into which he had come.
But Morgaine lay collapsed in Morgause’s arms, utterly exhausted, and could not even open her eyes to look at her child.
THE BABE HAD BEEN washed and swaddled; Morgaine had swallowed a cup of hot milk with honey in it, and herbs against the bleeding, and now she lay drowsing, weary, not even stirring as Morgause bent to kiss her lightly on the brow.
She would live and heal, though Morgause had never seen a woman struggle so hard, and yet live, with a living child. And the midwife said that after all they had had to do to deliver this one alive, it was unlikely Morgaine would ever bear another. Which, Morgause thought, was just as well. She realized now that her own birthings, which had not been easy, had been nothing to this.
She picked up the swaddled child, looking down at the small features. He seemed to be breathing well enough, though sometimes, when a child did not cry at once and it was necessary to breathe into his mouth, the breathing would fail again later and he would die. But he was a healthy pink, even the tiny nails rosy. Dark hair, perfectly straight, dark, fine down on the small arms and legs—yes, this one was fairy-born, like Morgaine herself. It might indeed be Lancelet’s son, and so doubly near to Arthur’s throne.
The child should be given to a wet nurse at once ... and then Morgause hesitated. No doubt, when she was a little rested, Morgaine would want to hold and suckle her child; it always happened that way, no matter how difficult the birth. And the harder the birth, the more joy the mother seemed to have in nursing her babe; the worse the struggle, the more was the love and delight when the babe was actually put to her breast.
And then she thought, against her will, of Lot’s words. If I want to see Gawaine on the throne, this child stands in his way. She had not wanted to listen when Lot said it, but with the child actually in her hands, she could not help thinking it would not be so evil a thing if this child were overlaid by his nurse, or too weak to take suck. And if Morgaine had never held him or suckled him, she would not feel as much grief; if it was the will of the Goddess that he should not live ...
I want only to spare her sorrow ... .
Morgaine’s child, probably by Lancelet, both of the old royal line of Avalon ... should harm come to Arthur, the people would accept this child for his throne.
But she was not even sure it was Lancelet’s child.
And although Morgause had borne four sons, Morgaine was the little girl she had petted and cared for like a doll, carried in her arms; she had brushed her hair and washed her and brought her gifts. Could she do this to Morgaine’s own child? Who was to say Arthur would not have a dozen sons by his queen, whoever she was?
But Lancelet’s son ... yes, Lancelet’s son she could abandon to death without a qualm. Lancelet was no closer kin to Arthur than Gawaine, yet Arthur preferred him, turned to Lancelet in everything. Just as she herself had always stood in Viviane’s shadow, the unregarded sister, passed over for High Queen—she had never forgiven Viviane that she had chosen Igraine for Uther—just so, the loyal Gawaine would always stand in the shadow of the more flamboyant Lancelet. If Lancelet had played with Morgaine or dishonored her, all the more reason to hate him.
For there was no reason Morgaine should bear Lancelet’s bastard child in secrecy and sorrow. Did Viviane think her precious son too good for Morgaine, perhaps? Morgause had seen that the girl wept in secret all during these long months; was she sick with love and abandonment?
Viviane, damn her, uses lives like knucklebones to be cast in play! She flung Igraine into Uther’s arms without thought for Gorlois, she claimed Morgaine for Avalon; will she make wreck of Morgaine’s life too?
If she could only be sure it was Lancelet’s child!
As she had regretted, when Morgaine was in labor, that she had not enough magic to ease the birth, so now she regretted how little she knew of magic. She had not, when she dwelt in Avalon, had the interest nor the persistence to study the Druid lore. But still, as Viviane’s fosterling, she had learned one thing and another from the priestesses, who had petted and spoilt her; offhand and good-naturedly, as one indulges a child, they had shown her certain simple spells and magics.
Well, now she would use them. She shut the doors of the chamber and lighted a new fire; she clipped three hairs from the silky down on the child’s head, and bending over the sleeping Morgaine, cut a few of her hairs too. She pricked the child’s finger with her bodkin, rocking him after to hush the fitful squalling; then, casting secret herbs on the fire with the hairs and blood, she whispered a word she had been taught, and stared into the flames. And caught her breath in silence as the flames swirled, died, and for a moment a face looked out at her—a young face, crowned with fair hair and shadowed by antlers casting a darkness over the blue eyes that were like Uther’s ... .
Morgaine had spoken truth when she said he had come to her as the Horned God; yet she had lied. .. . Morgause should have known; they had made the Great Marriage for Arthur, then, before his crowning. Had Viviane planned this too, a child that should be born of the two royal lines? There was a small sound behind her and she looked up, to see that Morgaine had struggled to her feet and was standing there, clinging to the bed frame, her face white as death.
Her lips hardly moved; only her dark eyes, sunken deep in her head with suffering, flickered from the fire to the sorcerous things on the floor before the hearth. “Morgause,” she said, “swear to me—if you love me, swear to me—that you will speak nothing of this to Lot or to any other! Swear it, or I will curse you with all the curses I know!”
Morgause laid the child in the cradle and turned to Morgaine, taking her arm and leading her back to the bed.
“Come, lie down, rest, little one—we must talk about this. Arthur! Why? Was it Viviane’s doing?”
Morgaine repeated, even more agitated, “Swear to say nothing! Swear never to speak of it again! Swear it! Swear it!” Her eyes glittered wildly. Morgause, looking at her, was afraid she would work herself into a fever. “Morgaine, child—“
“Swear! Or I curse you by wind and fire, sea and stone—“ “No!” Morgause interrupted her, taking her hands to try to calm her. “See, I swear it, I swear.”
She had not wanted to swear. She thought, I should have refused, I should talk of this with Lot ... but it was too late, now she had sworn ... and Morgause had no wish to be cursed by a priestess of Avalon.
“Lie still, now,” she said quietly. “You must sleep, Morgaine.” The younger woman closed her eyes, and Morgause sat petting her hand and thinking. Gawaine is Arthur’s man, whatever happens. Lot would get no good from Gawaine on the throne. This—no matter how many sons Arthur may have, this is his first Arthur was reared Christian and makes much of being king over Christians; he would think this child of incest his shame. It is just as well to know some evil secret of a king. Even of Lot, though I love him well, I have made it my business to know certain details of his sins and lecheries.
The cradled child woke and squalled. Morgaine, as all mothers when a child cries, opened her eyes at the sound. She was almost too weak to move, but she whispered, “My baby—is that my baby? Morgause, I want to hold my baby.”
Morgause bent and started to put the swaddled bundle into her arms. Then she hesitated; if Morgaine once held the child, she would wish to suckle him, she would love him, she would concern herself about his welfare. But if he was put to a wet nurse before she ever looked on his face ... well, then, she would not feel anything much for him, and he would be truly the child of his foster-parents. It was just as well to have Arthur’s firstborn son, the son he dared not acknowledge, feel the highest loyalty to Lot and Morgause as his truest parents; that Lot’s sons should be his brothers, rather than any sons Arthur might have when he should marry.
Tears were sliding weakly down Morgaine’s face. She begged, “Give me my baby, Morgause, let me hold my baby, I want him—“
Morgause said tenderly but relentlessly, “No, Morgaine; you are not strong enough to hold him and suckle him, and”—she groped quickly for a lie which the girl, unskilled in midwifery, would believe—“if you hold him even once, he will not suck from his wet nurse’s breasts, so he must be given to her right away. You can hold him when you are a little stronger and he is feeding well.” And, though Morgaine began to cry and held out her arms, sobbing, Morgause carried the child out of the room. Now, she thought, this will be Lot’s fosterling, and we will always have a weapon against the High King. And now I have made certain that Morgaine, when she is well enough, will care little for him and be content to leave him to me.
Gwenhwyfar, daughter of King Leodegranz, sat on the high wall of the enclosed garden, clinging to the stones with both hands and watching the horses in the paddock below.
Behind her was the sweet smell of kitchen herbs and pot herbs, the still-room herbs her father’s wife used to make medicines and simples. The garden was one of her favorite places, perhaps the only outdoor place Gwenhwyfar really liked. She felt safer indoors, as a rule, or when securely enclosed—the walls around the kitchen garden made it nearly as safe as inside the castle. Up here, on top of the wall, she could see out over the valley, and there was so much of it, stretching farther than the eye could see ... . Gwenhwyfar turned her look back to the safety of the garden for a moment, for her hands were beginning to tingle with the numbness again, and her breath felt tight in her throat. Here, right on the very wall which enclosed her own garden, here it was safe; if she began to feel the strangling panic again she could turn and slide down the wall arid be safe again inside the garden.
Her father’s wife, Alienor, had asked her once in exasperation, when she said something like this, “Safe from what, child? The Saxons never come so far west as this. Where we are on the hill, we could see them three leagues off if they should come—it’s the long view we have here that makes us safe, in heaven’s name!”
Gwenhwyfar could never explain. Put like that it sounded sensible. How could she tell the sensible, practical Alienor that it was the very weight of all that sky and the wide lands which frightened her? There was nothing to be frightened of, and it was foolish to be frightened.
But that did not stop her from gasping and breathing hard and feeling the numbness rising up from her belly into her throat, her sweating hands losing all feeling. They were all exasperated with her—the house priest telling her that there was nothing out there but God’s good green lands, her father shouting that he’d have none of that womanish nonsense in his house —and so she had learned never to whisper it aloud. Only in the convent had anyone understood. Oh, the dear convent where she had felt as snug as a mouse in her hole, and never, never having to go out of doors at all, except into the enclosed cloister garden. She would like to be back there, but now she was a woman grown, and her stepmother had little children and needed Gwenhwyfar.
The thought of marrying made her afraid, too. But then she should have her own house where she could do as she would and she would be the mistress; no one would dare to make fun of her!
Down below, the horses were running, but Gwenhwyfar’s eyes were focused on the slender man in red, with dark curls shading his tanned brow, who moved among them. As swift he was as the horses themselves; she could well understand the name his Saxon foes gave him: Elf-arrow. Someone had whispered to her that he himself had fairy blood. Lancelet of the Lake, he called himself, and she had seen him in the magical Lake, that dreadful day when she had been lost, in the company of the terrible fairy woman.
Lancelet had caught the horse he wanted; one or two of her father’s men shouted a warning, and Gwenhwyfar drew a breath of terror, herself wanting to cry out in dismay; that horse not even the king rode, only one or two of his best trainers. Lancelet, laughing, gestured disdain of their warning; he let the trainer come and hold the horse while he strapped the saddle on it. She could just hear his laughing voice.
“What good would it do to ride a lady’s palfrey, which anyone could ride with a bridle of plaited straw? I want you to see—with leathers fitted like this, I can control the fiercest horse you have, and make him into a battle steed! Here, this way—“ He gave a tug to a buckle somewhere under the horse, then swung himself up one-handed. The horse reared up; Gwenhwyfar watched with her mouth open as he leaned into it, forcing the horse down and under control, making it walk sedately. The spirited animal fidgeted, stepping sideways, and Lancelet gestured for one of the king’s foot soldiers to give him a long pike.
“Now see—“ he shouted. “Supposing that bale of straw there is a Saxon coming at me with one of those great blunt swords of theirs ... ” and he let the horse go, pounding hard across the paddock; the other horses scattered as he came sweeping down on the straw bale and impaling it on the long pike, then snatching his sword from its scabbard as he whirled, checking the horse in mid gallop, swinging the sword about him in great circles. Even the king stepped back as he thundered toward them. He brought the animal to a full stop before the king, slid off and bowed.
“My lord! I ask for leave to train horses and men, so that you may lead them into battle when the Saxons come again, to defeat them as he did at Celidon Wood last summer. We have had victories, but one day there will be a mighty battle which will decide for all time whether Saxon or Roman will rule this land. We are training all the horses we can get, but yours are better than those we can buy or breed.”
“I have not sworn allegiance to Arthur,” her father said. “Uther was another matter; he was a tried soldier and Ambrosius’ man. Arthur is little more than a boy—“
“You still believe that, after the battles he has won?” Lancelet asked. “He has held his throne now for more than a year, he is your High King, sir. Whether you have sworn or not, every battle he fights against the Saxons protects you, too. Horses and men—that is little enough to ask.”
Leodegranz nodded. “This is no place to discuss the strategy of a kingdom, sir Lancelet. I have seen what you can do with the horse. He is yours, my guest.”
Lancelet bowed low and thanked King Leodegranz formally, but Gwenhwyfar saw his eyes shine like those of a delighted boy. Gwenhwyfar wondered how old he was.
“Come within my hall,” her father said, “we will drink together, and I will make you an offer.”
Gwenhwyfar slid down from the wall and ran through the garden to the kitchens, where her father’s wife was supervising the baking women. “Madam, my father will be coming in with the High King’s emissary, Lancelet; they will want food and drink.”
Alienor gave her a startled glance. “Thank you, Gwenhwyfar. Go and make yourself tidy and you may serve the wine. I am far too busy.”
Gwenhwyfar ran to her room, pulled her best gown on over the simple kirtle she wore, and hung a string of coral beads about her neck. She unbraided her fair hair and let it fall, rippled from the tight braiding. Then she put on the little gold maiden’s circlet she wore, and went down, composing her steps and moving lightly; she knew the blue gown became her as no other color, no matter how costly, could do.
She fetched a bronze basin, filled it with warmed water from the kettle hanging near the fire, and strewed rose leaves in it; she came into the hall as her father and Lancelet were entering. She set down her basin, took their cloaks and hung them on the peg, then came and offered them the warmed, scented water to wash their hands. Lancelet smiled, and she knew he had recognized her.
“Did we not meet on the Isle of the Priests, lady?”
“You have met my daughter, sir?”
Lancelet nodded, and Gwenhwyfar said, in her shyest little voice—she had found, long ago, that it displeased her father if she spoke out boldly ‘ —“Father, he showed me the way to my convent door when I was lost.”
Leodegranz smiled at her indulgently. “My little featherhead, if she goes three steps from her own doorway, she is lost. Well, sir Lancelet, what do you think of my horses?”
“I have told you—they are better than any we can buy or breed,” he said. “We have some from the Moorish realms down in Spain, and we have bred them with the highland ponies, so we have horses that are sturdy and can endure our climate, but are swift and brave. But we need more. We can breed only so many. You have more than enough, and I can show you how to train them so you can lead them into battle—“
“No,” the king interrupted, “I am an old man. I have no desire to learn new battle methods. I have been four times married, but all my former wives bore only sickly girls who die before they are weaned, sometimes before they are baptized. I have daughters; when the eldest marries, her husband will lead my men into battle, and can train them as he will. Tell your High King to come here, and we will discuss the matter.”
Lancelet said, a little stiffly, “I am my lord Arthur’s cousin and his captain, sire, but even I do not tell him to come and go.”
“Beseech him, then, to come to an old man who does not want to ride out from his own fireside,” the king said, a little wryly. “If he will not come for me, perhaps he will come to know how I will dispose of my horses and the armed men to ride them.”
Lancelet bowed. “No doubt he will.”
“Enough of this, then; pour us some wine, daughter,” the king said, and Gwenhwyfar came shyly and poured wine into their cups. “Now run along, my girl, so that my guest and I may talk together.”
Gwenhwyfar, dismissed, waited in the garden until a servant came out and called for the lord Lancelet’s horse and armor. The horse he had ridden here and the horse her father had given him were brought to the door, and she watched from the shadow of the wall until she saw him ride away; then she stepped out and stood waiting. Her heart pounded—would he think her too bold? But he saw her and smiled, and the smile seized her very heart.
“Are you not afraid of that great fierce horse?”
Lancelet shook his head. “My lady, I do not believe the horse was ever foaled that I cannot ride.”
She said, almost whispering, “Is it true that you control horses with your magic?”
He threw back his head with a ringing laugh. “By no means, lady; I have no magic. I like horses and I understand their ways and the way their minds work—that is all. Do I look to you like a sorcerer?”
“But—they say you have fairy blood,” she said, and his laughter grew grave. He said, “My mother was indeed one of the old race who ruled this land before the Roman people ever came here, or even the northern Tribesmen. She is priestess on the Isle of Avalon, and a very wise woman.”
“I can see that you would not want to speak ill of your mother,” Gwenhwyfar said, “but the sisters on Ynis Witrin said that the women of Avalon were evil witches and served the devils ... .”
He shook his head, still grave. “Not so,” he said. “I do not know my mother well; I was fostered elsewhere. I fear her, as much as I love. But I can tell you she is no evil woman. She brought my lord Arthur to the throne, and gave him his sword to stand against the Saxons—does that sound so evil to you? As for her magic—it is only the ignorant among them who say she is a sorceress. I think it well that a woman should be wise.”
Gwenhwyfar hung her head. “I am not wise; I am very stupid. Even among the sisters, I learned only enough to read my way through the mass book, which they said was all I needed of learning, and then such things as women learn—cookery and herbs and simples and the binding of wounds—“
“For me, all that would be a greater mystery than the training of horses, which you think magic,” Lancelet said, with his wide smile. Then he leaned down from his horse and touched her cheek. “If God is good and the Saxons hold off a few moons yet, I will see you again, when I come here in the High King’s train. Say a prayer for me, lady.”
He rode away, and Gwenhwyfar stood watching, her heart pounding, but this time the sensation was almost pleasant. He would come again, he wanted to come again. And her father had said she should be married to someone who could lead horses and men into battle; who better than the High King’s cousin and his captain of horse? Was he thinking, then, to marry her to Lancelet? She felt herself blush with delight and happiness. For the first time she felt pretty and bold and brave.
But inside the hall, her father said, “A handsome man, this Elf-arrow, and good with horses, but far too handsome to be reckoned more than that.”
Gwenhwyfar said, surprised at her own boldness, “If the High King has made him his first of captains, he must be the best of fighters!”
Leodegranz shrugged. “The King’s cousin, he could hardly be left without some post in his armies. Has he tried to win your heart—or,” he added, with the scowl that frightened her, “your maidenhead?”
She felt herself blushing again and was hopelessly angry at herself. “No, he is an honorable man, and what he has said to me is no more than he could have said in your presence, Father.”
“Well, don’t get any ideas into that featherhead of yours,” Leodegranz said gruffly. “You can look higher than that one. He’s no more than one of King Ban’s bastards by God-knows-who, some damsel of Avalon!”
“His mother is the Lady of Avalon, the great High Priestess of the Old People—and he is himself a king’s son—“
“Ban of Benwick! Ban has half a dozen legitimate sons,” said her father. “Why marry a king’s captain? If all goes as I plan, you’ll wed the High King himself!”
Gwenhwyfar shrank away, saying, “I’d be afraid to be the High Queen!”
“You’re afraid of everything, anyway,” her father said brutally. “That’s why you need a man to take care of you, and better the King than the King’s captain!” He saw her mouth trembling and said, genial again, “There, there, my girl, don’t cry. You must trust me to know what’s best for you. That’s what I’m here for, to look after you and make a good marriage with a trusty man to look after my pretty little featherhead.”
If he had raged at her, Gwenhwyfar could have held on to her rebellion. But how, she thought wildly, can I complain of the best of fathers, who has only my own welfare at heart?
On a day in early spring, in the year following Arthur’s crowning, the lady Igraine sat in her cloister, bent over a set of embroidered altar linens. All her life she had loved this fine work, but as a young girl, and later, married to Gorlois, she had been kept busy—like all women—with the weaving and spinning and sewing of clothes for her household. As Uther’s queen, with a household of servants, she had been able to spend her time on fine broideries and weaving of borders and ribbons in silk; and here in the nunnery she put her skill to good use. Otherwise, she thought a little ruefully, it would be for her as it was with so many of the nuns, the weaving only of the dark plain woolen dresses which all of them, including Igraine herself, wore, or the smooth, but boring, white linens for veils and coifs and altar cloths. Only two or three of the sisters could weave with silks or do fine embroidering, and of them Igraine was the cleverest.
She was a little troubled. Again, as she sat down at her frame this morning, she thought she heard the cry, and jerked around before she could stop herself; it seemed to her that somewhere Morgaine cried out “Mother!” and the cry was one of agony and despair. But the cloister was quiet and empty around her, and after a moment Igraine made the sign of the cross and sat down again to her work.
Still ... resolutely she banished the temptation. Long ago she had renounced the Sight as the work of the fiend; with sorcery she would have no doings. She did not believe Viviane was evil in herself, but the Old Gods of Avalon were certainly allied to the Devil or they could not maintain their force in a Christian land. And she had given her daughter to those Old Gods. Late last summer Viviane had sent her a message saying, If Morgaine is with you, tell her that all is well. Troubled, Igraine had sent a reply that she had not seen Morgaine since Arthur’s crowning; she had thought her still safe at Avalon. The Mother Superior of the convent had been dismayed at the thought of a messenger from Avalon to one of her ladies; even when Igraine explained that it was a message from her sister, the lady had still been displeased and said firmly that there could be no coming and going, even of messages, with that ungodly place.
Igraine, then, had been deeply troubled—if Morgaine had left Avalon, she must have quarrelled with Viviane. It was unheard of for a sworn priestess of the highest rank to leave the Island except upon the business of Avalon. For Morgaine to leave without the knowledge or permission of the Lady was so unprecedented that it made her blood run cold. Where could she have gone? Had she run away with some paramour, was she living a lawless life without the rites either of Avalon or the church? Had she gone to Morgause? Was she lying somewhere dead? Nevertheless, although she prayed continually for her daughter, Igraine had resolutely refused the constant temptation to use the Sight.
Still, much of this winter, it seemed that Morgaine had walked at her side; not the pale, somber priestess she had seen at the crowning, but the little girl who had been the only comfort, those desperate, lonely years in Cornwall, of the frightened child-wife, child-mother she had been. Little Morgaine, in a saffron gown and ribbons, a solemn child, dark-eyed in her crimson cloak; Morgaine with her little brother in her arms—her two children sleeping, dark head and golden close together on the one pillow. How often, she wondered, had she neglected Morgaine after she had come to her beloved Uther, and had borne him a son and heir to his kingdom? Morgaine had not been happy at Uther’s court, nor had she ever had much love for Uther. And it was for that reason, as much as from Viviane’s entreaty, that she had let Morgaine go to be fostered at Avalon.
Only now she felt guilty; had she not been overquick to send her daughter away, so that she might give all her thought to Uther and his children? Against her will, an old saying of Avalon rang in Igraine’s mind: the Goddess does not shower her gifts on those who reject them ... in sending her own children away, one to fosterage (for his own safety, she reminded herself, remembering Arthur lying white as death after the fall from the stallion) and the other to Avalon—in sending them away, had she herself sown the seed of loss? Was the Goddess unwilling to give her another child when she had let the first go so willingly? She had discussed this with her confessor, more than once, and he had reassured her that it was just as well to send Arthur away, every boy must go for fostering sooner or later; but, he said, she should not have sent Morgaine to Avalon. If the child was unhappy in Uther’s court, she should have been sent to school in a nunnery somewhere.
She had thought, after hearing that Morgaine was not in Avalon, of sending a messenger to King Lot’s court, to find out if she was there; but then the winter settled in in earnest, and every day was a new battle against cold, chilblains, the vicious dampness everywhere; even the sisters went hungry in the depths of winter, sharing what food they had with beggars and peasants.
And once in the hard weeks of winter, she thought she heard Morgaine’s voice, crying—crying out for her in anguish: “Mother! Mother!” Morgaine, alone and terrified—Morgaine dying? Where, ah God, where? Her fingers clenched the cross which, like all the sisters of the convent, she wore at her belt. Lord Jesus, keep and guard her, Mary, Mother divine, even if she is a sinner and a sorceress ... pity her, Jesus, as you pitied the dame of Magdala who was worse than she ... .
In dismay, she realized that a tear had dripped down on the fine work she was doing; it might spot the work. She wiped her eyes with her linen veil and held the embroidery frame further away, narrowing her eyes to see better—ah, she was getting old, her sight blurred a little from time to time; or was it tears that blurred her vision?
She bent resolutely over her embroidery again, but Morgaine’s face seemed again to be before her, and she could hear in her imagination that despairing shriek, as if Morgaine’s soul were being torn from her body. She herself had cried out like that, for the mother she could hardly remember, when Morgaine was born ... did all women in childbirth cry out for their mothers? Terror gripped her. Morgaine in that desperate winter, giving birth somewhere ... Morgause had made some such jest at Arthur’s crowning, saying Morgaine was as squeamish with her food as a breeding woman. Against her will, Igraine found herself counting on her fingers; yes, if it had been so with her, Morgaine would have borne her child in the dead of winter. And now, even in that soft spring, she seemed to hear again that cry; she longed to go to her daughter, but where, where?
There was a step behind her and a tentative cough, and one of the young girls fostered in the nunnery said, “Lady, there are visitors for you in the outer room; one of them is a churchman, the Archbishop himself!”
Igraine put her embroidery aside. After all, it was not spotted; all the tears women shed, they leave no mark on the world, she thought in bitterness. “Why does the Archbishop, of all men living, wish to see me?”
“He did not tell me, lady, and I do not think he told the Mother Superior either,” said the little girl, not at all unwilling to gossip for a minute, “but did you not send gifts to the church there at the time of the High King’s crowning?”
Igraine had, but she did not think the Archbishop would have come here to speak of a past charity. Perhaps he wanted something more. Priests were seldom greedy for themselves but all priests, especially those from rich churches, were greedy for silver and gold for their altars.
“Who are the others?” she asked, knowing that the young girl was eager to talk.
“Lady, I do not know, but I do know that the Mother Superior wanted to forbid one of them, because”—her eyes grew wide—“he is a wizard and sorcerer, so she said, and a Druid!”
Igraine rose. “It is the Merlin of Britain, for he is my father, and he is no wizard, child, but a scholar trained in the crafts of the wise. Even the church fathers say that the Druids are good and noble men, and worship with them in harmony, since they acknowledge God in all things, and Christ as one of many prophets of God.”
The little girl dropped a small curtsey, acknowledging correction, as Igraine put away the embroidery work and adjusted her veil smoothly around her face.
When she came into the outer room, she saw not only the Merlin and a strange, austere man in the dark dress which churchmen were beginning to adopt to set them off from seculars, but a third man she hardly recognized, even when he turned; for a moment it was as if she looked into Other’s face.
“Gwydion!” she exclaimed, then, quickly amending, “Arthur. Forgive me; I forgot.” She would have knelt before the High King but he reached out quickly and prevented her.
“Mother, never kneel in my presence. I forbid it.”
Igraine bowed to the Merlin and to the dour, austere-looking Archbishop.
“This is my mother, Uther’s queen,” Arthur said, and the Archbishop responded, stretching his lips in what Igraine supposed was meant for a smile. “But now she has a higher honor than royalty, in that she is a bride of Christ.”
Hardly a bride, Igraine thought, simply a widow who has taken refuge in his house. But she did not say so, and bowed her head.
Arthur said, “Lady, this is Patricius, Archbishop of the Isle of the Priests, now called Glastonbury, who has newly come there.”
“Aye, by God’s will,” the Archbishop said, “having lately driven out all the evil magicians from Ireland, I am come to drive them forth from all Christian lands. I found in Glastonbury a corrupt lot of priests, tolerating among them even the common worship with the Druids, at which our Lord who died for us would have wept tears of blood!”
Taliesin the Merlin said in his soft voice, “Why, then, you would be harsher than Christ himself, brother? For he, I seem to remember, was greatly chided that he consorted with outcasts and sinners and even tax collectors, and such ladies as the Magdalen, when they would have had him a Nazarite like to John the Baptizer. And at last, even when he hung dying on his cross, he did promise the thief that that same night he would join him in Paradise—no?”
“I think too many people presume to read the divine Scriptures, and fall into just such errors as this,” said Patricius sternly. “Those who presume on their learning will learn, I trust, to listen to their priests for the true interpretations.”
The Merlin smiled gently. “I cannot join you in that wish, brother. I am dedicated to the belief that it is God’s will that all men should strive for wisdom in themselves, not look to it from some other. Babes, perhaps, must have their food chewed for them by a nurse, but men may drink and eat of wisdom for themselves.”
“Come, come!” Arthur interrupted with a smile. “I will have no controversies between my two dearest councillors. Lord Merlin’s wisdom is indispensable to me; he set me on my throne.”
“Sir,” said the Archbishop, “God set you there.”
“With the help of the Merlin,” said Arthur, “and I pledged to him I would listen to his counsel always. Would you have me forsworn, Father Patricius?” He spoke the name with the North country accent of the lands where he had been fostered. “Come, Mother, sit down and let us talk.”
“First let me send for wine to refresh you after your long ride here.”
“Thank you, Mother, and if you will, send some, too, to Cai and Gawaine, who rode hither with me. They would not have me come unguarded. They insist on doing for me the service of chamberlains and grooms, as if I could not lift a hand for myself. I can do for myself as well as any soldier, with only the help of an ordinary groom or two, but they will not have it—“
“Your Companions shall have the best,” Igraine said, and went to give orders for food and wine to be served the strangers and all their retinue. Wine was brought for the guests, and Igraine poured it.
“How is it with you, my son?” Looking him over, he seemed ten years older than the slightly built boy who had been crowned last summer. He had grown, it seemed, half a hand’s span, and his shoulders were broader. There was a red seam on his face; it was already drawing cleanly together, God be praised ... well, no soldier could escape a wound or two.
“As you see, Mother, I have been fighting, but God has spared me,” he said. “And now I come here on a peaceful mission. But how is it with you here?”
She smiled. “Oh, nothing happens here,” she said. “But I had word from Avalon that Morgaine had left the Island. Is she at your court?”
He shook his head. “Why, no, Mother, I’ve hardly a court worth the name,” he said. “Cai keeps my castle—I had to force it on him, he’d rather ride with me to war, but I bade him stay and keep my house secure. And two or three of Father’s old knights, too old to ride, are there with their wives and youngest sons. Morgaine’s at the court of Lot—Gawaine told me as much when his brother came south to fight in my armies, young Agravaine. He said Morgaine had come to attend on his mother; he’d only seen her a time or two, but she was well and seemed in good spirits; she plays on the harp for Morgause, and keeps the keys of her spice cupboard. I gather Agravaine was quite charmed with her.” A look of pain passed over his face, and Igraine wondered at it but said nothing.
“God be thanked that Morgaine is safe among kindred. I have been frightened for her.” This was not the time, certainly not with churchmen present, to inquire whether Morgaine had borne a child. “When did Agravaine come south?”
“It was early in the fall, was it not, Lord Merlin?”
“I believe it was.”
Then Agravaine would have known nothing; she herself had seen Morgaine and never guessed. If indeed it had been so with Morgaine, and not a fantasy born of her own imaginings.
“Well, Mother, I came to speak of women’s affairs, at that—it seems I should be married. I have no heir but Gawaine—“
“I like not that,” Igraine said. “Lot has been waiting for that all these many years. Don’t trust his son behind you.”
Arthur’s eyes blazed with anger. “Even you shall not speak so of my cousin Gawaine, Mother! He is my sworn Companion, and I love him as the brother I never had, even as I love Lancelet! If Gawaine wished for my throne, he need only have relaxed his vigilance for five minutes, and I would have a split neck, not this slash on my face, and Gawaine would be High King! I would trust him with life and honor!”
Igraine was amazed at his vehemence. “Then I am glad you have so loyal and trusty a follower, my son.” She added, with a caustic smile, “That must be a grief indeed to Lot, that his sons love you so well!”
“I know not what I have done that they should wish me so well, but they do, for which I consider myself blessed.”
“Aye,” Taliesin said, “Gawaine will be staunch and loyal to death, Arthur, and beyond if God wills.”
The Archbishop said austerely, “Man cannot presume to know God’s will—“
Taliesin ignored him and said, “More trusty even than Lancelet, Arthur, though it grieves me to say so.”
Arthur smiled, and Igraine thought, with a pang at heart, he has all of Uther’s charm, he too can inspire great loyalty in his followers! How like his father he is! Arthur said, “Come, I will chide even you, Lord Merlin, if you speak so of my dearest friend. Lancelet too I would trust with my life and my honor.”
Merlin said, with a sigh, “Oh, yes, with your life you may trust him, I am sure. ... I am not sure he will not break in the final test, but certainly he loves you well and would guard your life beyond his own.”
Patricius said, “Certainly Gawaine is a good Christian, but I am not so sure about Lancelet. A time will come, I trust, when all these folk who call themselves Christian and are not may be revealed as the demon worshippers they are in truth. Whosoever will not accept the authority of Holy Church about the will of God are even as Christ says—‘Ye who are not for me are against me.’ Yet all over Britain there are those who are little better than pagans. In Tara I dealt with these, when I lighted the Paschal fires for Easter on one of their unholy hills, and the king’s Druids could not stand against me. Yet even in the hallowed Isle of Glastonbury, where the sainted Joseph of Arimathea walked, I find the very priests worshipping a sacred well! This is heathendom! I will close it if I must appeal to the Bishop of Rome himself!”
Arthur smiled and said, “I cannot imagine that the Bishop of Rome would have the slightest idea what is going on in Britain.”
Taliesin said gently, “Father Patricius, you would do a great disservice to the people of this land if you close their sacred well. It is a gift from God—“
“It is a part of pagan worship.” The eyes of the Archbishop glowed with the austere fire of the fanatic.
“It comes from God,” the old Druid insisted, “because there is nothing in this universe which does not come from God, and simple people need simple signs and symbols. If they worship God in the waters which flow from his bounty, how is that evil?”
“God cannot be worshipped in symbols which are made by man—“
“There you are in total agreement with me, my brother,” said the Merlin, “for a part of the Druid wisdom lies in the saying that God, who is beyond all, cannot be worshipped in any dwelling made by human hands, but only under his own sky. And yet you build churches and deck them richly with gold and silver. Wherefore, then, is the evil in drinking from the sacred springs which God has made and blessed with vision and healing?”
“The Devil gives you your knowledge of such things,” Patricius said sternly, and Taliesin laughed.
“Ah, but God makes doubts and the Devil too, and in the end of time they will all come to him and obey his will.”
Arthur interrupted, before Patricius could answer, “Good fathers, we came here not to argue theology!”
“True,” said Igraine, relieved. “We were speaking of Gawaine, and Morgause’s other son—Agravaine, is it? And of your marriage.”
“Pity,” Arthur said, “that since Lot’s sons love me well, and Lot—I doubt it not—is eager to have his household heir with me to the High Kingship, that Morgause has not a daughter, so that I could be his son-in-law and he would know that his daughter’s son was my heir.”
“That would suit well,” Taliesin said, “for you are both of the royal line of Avalon.”
Patricius frowned. “Is not Morgause your mother’s sister, my lord Arthur? To wed with her daughter would be little better than bedding your own sister!”
Arthur looked troubled. Igraine said, “I agree; even if Morgause had a daughter, it is not even to be thought of.”
Arthur said, plaintively, “I should find it easy to be fond of a sister of Gawaine. The idea of marrying a stranger doesn’t please me all that much, and I wouldn’t think the girl would be pleased either!”
“It happens to every woman,” Igraine said, and was surprised to hear herself—was she still bitter over what was so long past? “Marriages must be arranged by those with wiser heads than any young maiden could have.”
Arthur sighed. He said, “King Leodegranz has offered me his daughter —I forget her name—and has offered, too, that her dowry shall be a hundred of his best men, all armed and—hear this, Mother—each with the good horses he breeds, so that Lancelet may train them. This was one of the secrets of the Caesars, that their best cohorts fought on horseback; before them, none but the Scythians ever used horses except to move supplies and sometimes for riders to send messages. If I had four hundred men who could fight as cavalry—well, Mother, I could drive the Saxons back to their shores yelping like their own hounds!”
Igraine laughed. “That hardly seems reason to marry, my son. Horses can be bought, and men hired.”
“But,” Arthur said, “Leodegranz is of no mind to sell. I think he has it in his mind that in return for this dowry—and it is a kingly dowry, doubt not—he would like it well to be bound by kinship’s ties to the High King. Not that he is the only one, but he has offered more than any other will offer.
“What I wished to ask you, Mother—I am unwilling to send any ordinary messenger to tell the king that I’ll take his daughter and he should bundle her up like a package and send her to my court. Would you go and give my answer to the king, and escort her to my court?”
Igraine started to nod her agreement, then remembered that she had taken vows in this place. “Can you not send one of your trusty men, Gawaine or Lancelet?”
“Gawaine is a wencher. I am not so sure I want him within reach of my bride,” Arthur said, laughing. “Let it be Lancelet.”
The Merlin said somberly, “Igraine, I feel you should go.”
“Why, Grandfather,” Arthur said, “has Lancelet such charms that you fear my bride will love him instead?”
Taliesin sighed. Igraine said quickly, “I will go, if the abbess of this place gives me leave.” The Mother Superior, she thought, could not refuse her leave to attend her son’s wedding. And she realized that after years of being a queen, it was not easy to sit quietly behind walls and await tidings of the great events moving in the land. That was, perhaps, every woman’s lot, but she would avoid it as long as she could.