The King Stag
At this season in Lothian, it seemed the sun hardly went to rest; queen Morgause wakened as the light began to steal through the hangings, yet it was so early the gulls were hardly astir. But there was already light enough to make out the hairy, well-muscled body of the young man who slept at her side ... a privilege he had enjoyed most of the winter. He had been one of Lot’s esquires, and had cast longing eyes on the queen even before Lot’s death. And in the deathly darkness of this winter past, it was too much to ask that she should sleep alone in the king’s cold chamber.
It was not that Lot had been so good a king, she thought, slotting her eyes against the growing light. But his reign had been long—he had reigned since before Uther Pendragon took the throne, and his people were used to him; there were people well into their middle years who had known no other king. He had been on the throne, she thought, when young Lochlann was born ... for that matter, so had she. But that thought was less comfortable, and she flinched away from it.
Gawaine would have succeeded his father, but Gawaine had hardly visited his native land since Arthur’s crowning, and the people did not know him. Here in Lothian, the Tribes were quite content, since there was peace in the land, to be ruled by their queen, with her son Agravaine at hand should they need a leader in war. From time out of mind, a queen had ruled over the people, as a Goddess had ruled over the Gods, and they were content to have it so.
But Gawaine had not left Arthur’s side ... not even when Lancelet had come north before Beltane—he said, to see that the lighthouses had been put in order on the coast so that ships would not be driven on to the rocks. But Morgause supposed, rather, that he came so that Arthur’s eyes could see what went on in Lothian, whether there was anyone there at odds with the rule of the High King.
She had heard, then, of Igraine’s death—before that, word had not come north to Lothian. She and Igraine had not been friends when she was younger; she had always envied her older sister her beauty, and had never forgiven her that Viviane had chosen her for Other Pendragon; she would have made a better High Queen than that ninny, so pliant and pious and loving. And when all was said and done, when the lamp was out, one man was not so different from any other, and all of them were ridiculously easy to manage, foolishly dependent on that thing a woman could offer to them. She had ruled well behind Lot’s throne; she would have done better yet with Uther, for she would not have become so stupidly entangled with the priests.
Yet when she heard of Igraine’s death she had mourned her sincerely and wished she had made the time to ride to Tintagel before she died. She had so few woman friends now ... .
Her waiting-women had mostly been chosen by Lot for their beauty or their availability to the king, and he cared most for such women as did not think very much or talk very intelligently; she was, he said once, quite enough in that line. He took her counsel in all things and respected her wit, but when she had borne him four royal sons, he went back to what he naturally preferred for his bed—pretty women with little of sense. Morgause had never begrudged him his pleasures and was just as well pleased to be spared further childbearing. And if she craved babes to play with, there was her fosterling Gwydion, and Lot’s women had always been breeding —Gwydion had playmates enough of royal blood!
Lochlann stirred at her side, muttered, and sleepily drew her into his arms, and she gave over thinking for the moment. She had missed him— while Lancelet was at court she had sent Lochlann to sleep among the young men. Though for all the difference it had made to Lancelet, she might have kept Lochlann in her bed, or slept with the house dog! Well, he was here again; Lot had never begrudged her amusement, any more than she had begrudged him his women.
But when the excitement had subsided, and Lochlann had trundled down the stairs to the privy outside, Morgause thought suddenly that she missed Lot. Not that he had ever been particularly good at this kind of sport ... he had been old when she married him. But when that was done, he could talk with her intelligently, and she found that she missed the years when they would wake together, and lie in bed and talk of all that was to be done or what befell in the kingdom, or all of Britain.
By the time Lochlann came back, the sun was already strengthening and the air was alive with the crying of gulls. She could hear small sounds down the stairs, and somewhere there was a smell of bannock baking. She pulled him to her for a quick kiss and said, “You must be off, my dear. I want you out of here before Gwydion comes—he is a big boy now, he is beginning to notice things.”
Lochlann chuckled. “That one, he has been noticing everything since he was out of his nurse’s arms. While Lancelet was here he noticed every move he made—even at Beltane. But I do not think you have to worry —he’s not old enough to think of that.”
“I’m not so certain,” Morgause said, and patted his cheek. Gwydion’s way was to do nothing until he was sure he would not be laughed at as too young. Self-possessed as he was, he could never bear to be told he was too young for anything—even when he was four years old he had flown into a rage at being told he could not go birds-nesting on the cliffs, and had nearly fallen to his death trying to keep up with the older boys. She remembered that occasion, and other similar ones, when she had told him never to do so or so again, and he had set his small dark face and told her, “Aye, but I shall, and you cannot stop me.” Her only reply to that had had to be, “You shall not, or I will myself beat you.” Not that it mattered whether she beat him or not—it only made him more defiant, unless she was prepared to beat him insensible; and once, losing her temper, she had frightened herself with how hard she had struck the harmless child. None of her own sons, even the strong-willed Gareth, had ever been so defiant. Gwydion took his own way and did what he would, and so as he got older she had taken to subtler methods: “You shall not, or I shall have your nurse take off your breeks and beat you with a heather switch before all the house folk as if you were a babe of four or five.” That had been effective, for a time—very conscious of his dignity was young Gwydion. But now he did as he would and there was no stopping him; it would have taken a harsh man to thrash him as hard as was needful, and he had a way of making anyone who offended him sorry for it, soon or late.
She supposed that he would be more vulnerable when he began to care what the maidens thought of him. Fairy-born he was and dark, like Morgaine, but handsome enough, even as Lancelet was handsome. And it might be that his outward indifference to the maidens would be the same as Lancelet’s. She thought about that for a moment, knowing the sting of humiliation. Lancelet ... there was the handsomest man she had seen in many a long year, and she had made it clear to him that even the queen was not beyond his reach ... but Lancelet had professed not to understand, had meticulously called her “Aunt” early and late—one would have thought from Lancelet’s manner that she was elderly indeed, Viviane’s twin, not young enough to be Viviane’s daughter!
She had begun taking her breakfast in bed while she talked with her women about what must be done that day. While she lingered, propped up on the cushions—they had brought her some of the fresh hot bannock, and there was, at this time of year, plenty of butter from the dairy—Gwydion came into the room.
“Good morning, foster-mother,” he said. “I have been out and brought you some berries. And there is cream in the pantry. If you want it, I will run down and fetch it for you.”
She looked at the berries, dew-fresh in a wooden bowl. “That was thoughtful of you, foster-son,” she said, and sat up in bed to take him close in a great hug. When he was only a little younger he had crawled in beside her into the blankets at such occasions, while she fed him hot bannock and honey, and in winter snuggled him into her furs, like any pampered youngest; she missed the feel of the small warm body burrowing against her, but she supposed he was really too old now.
He straightened himself, smoothing his hair into place—he hated to be mussed. Like Morgaine, who had always been a tidy little thing.
“You are out early, my love,” she said, “and you did all this just for your old foster-mother? No, I do not want any cream. You do not want me fat as the old sow, do you?”
He tilted his head to one side like a small precise bird and looked, considering, at Morgause. “It wouldn’t matter,” he said. “You would still be beautiful even if you were fat. There are women at this court—Mara, for instance—she is no bigger than you, but all the other women, and the men, call her Fat Mara. But somehow you do not look as big as you are, because when anyone looks at you, all they see is that you are beautiful. So have the cream if you want it, foster-mother.”
So precise an answer for a child! But after all he was beginning to grow into a man. Though he would be like Agravaine, never very tall—one of the Old People, a throwback. And of course, next to the giant Gareth he would always look like a child, even when he was twenty! He had washed his face and brushed his hair very carefully; yes, and it had been trimmed freshly too.
“How nice you look, my love,” she said, as his small fingers swooped precisely to appropriate a berry from the dish. “Did you cut your hair yourself?”
“No,” he said, “I made the steward do it; I said I was tired of looking like the house dog. Lot was always clean-trimmed and clean-shaven, and so was Lancelet all the time he stayed here. I like to look like a gentleman.”
“And so you always do, my dear,” she said, looking at the small dark hand holding the berry. It was bramble-scratched and the knuckles grimed and grubby like any active boy’s hand, but she noted, too, that he had scrubbed it long and hard and that the nails were not dirty and broken but carefully pared short. “But why have you put on your holiday tunic this morning?”
“Did I put on my holiday tunic?” he asked, his small dark face innocent. “Yes, I suppose I did. Well—“ He paused, and she knew that whatever his reason, and of course he would have a good one, she would never know it. At last he said calmly, “I soaked my other one in the dew picking your berries, madam.” Then, suddenly, he said, “I thought I should hate sir Lancelet, Mother. Gareth talked of him early and late as if he were a God,” and Morgause remembered that, though he would not weep before her, Gwydion had been heartbroken when Gareth had gone south to King Arthur’s court. Morgause had missed him too—Gareth had been the only person alive who had real influence with Gwydion and could make him do as he would with only a light word. Since Gareth had gone there was no one alive to whose counsel Gwydion would listen.
“I thought he would be a fool full of his own importance,” Gwydion said, “but he is nothing of the sort. He told me more about lighthouses than even Lot knew, I think. And he said when I was older I should come to Arthur’s court and be made a knight, if I was good and honorable.” His deep-set dark eyes considered that. “All the women said I look like him— and they asked, and I was angry that I did not know how to answer them. Foster-mother”—he leaned forward, his dark, soft hair falling loose over his forehead, lending the composed small face an unusual vulnerability— “tell me true—is Lancelet my father? I thought that might be why Gareth was so fond of him ... .”
And you are not the first to ask that question, my love, she thought, stroking the boy’s soft hair. The unusual childishness in his face as he asked made her voice gentler than usual.
“No, my little one. Of all the men in the kingdom, Lancelet could not be your father—I made it my business to ask. All that year you were begotten, Lancelet was in Less Britain, fighting at the side of his father, King Ban. I thought so too, but you look like him because Lancelet is your mother’s nephew, as he is mine.”
Gwydion surveyed her skeptically, and Morgause could almost read his thoughts; that she had told him exactly what she would have told him if she had known Lancelet was his father. He said at last, “Perhaps one day I shall go to Avalon, rather than to Arthur’s court. Does my mother dwell now in Avalon, foster-mother?”
“I know not.” Morgause frowned ... once again, this oddly adult foster-son of hers had led her on to speak to him as if he were a grown man; he did that so often. It came to her that now Lot was gone, Gwydion was the only person in this household with whom she spoke from time to time as one adult to another! Oh, yes, Lochlann was man enough in bed at night, but he never had much more to say than one of the shepherds or even the housemaids!
“Go out now, Gwydion my love, I am going to be dressed—“
“Why should I go?” he asked. “I have known well enough what you look like, ever since I was five years old.”
“But you are older now,” she said, with that old sense of helplessness. “It is not fitting you should be here while I dress,”
“Do you care that much what is fitting, foster-mother?” he said ingenuously, his eyes resting on the depression in the cushion where Lochlann had lain, and Morgause felt the sudden upward rush of frustration and wrath—he could entangle her in these arguments as if he were a grown man and a Druid! She said sharply, “I need not account to you for my doings, Gwydion!”
“Did I say you must?” His eyes were all injured innocence. “But if I am older, then I will need to know more about women than I did when I was a baby, will I not? I want to stay and talk.”
“Oh, stay, stay if you want to,” she said, “but turn your back, I’ll not have you staring at me, sir Impudence!” Obediently he turned away, but as she rose and signalled her woman to bring her gown, he said, “No, put on your blue gown, foster-mother, the new one from the looms, and your saffron cloak.”
“And now you will be giving me advice on what I should wear? What’s this, what’s this?”
“I like to see you dressed like a fine lady and a queen,” he said, persuasively. “And tell them to dress your hair high with your gold coil, will you not, foster-mother? To please me?”
“Why, you would have me fine as a Midsummer feast, so that I should sit and card wool in all my best gear—my women would laugh, child!”
“Let them laugh,” Gwydion coaxed. “Will you not dress in your finest to please me? And who knows what may happen before the day is done? You might be glad of it.”
Morgause, laughing, gave way. “Oh, as you wish—if you will have it that I dress myself for a festival, let it be so ... we will have our own festival here, then! And now I suppose the kitchen must bake honey cakes for this imaginary festival—“
A child, after all, she thought, he thinks in this way to tease for sweets. But then, he brought me berries, why not? “Well, Gwydion, shall I have them bake a honey cake for supper?”
He turned around. Her gown was still unlaced, and she saw his eyes linger for a moment on her white breasts. Not such a child, then. But he said, “I am always happy to have a honey cake, but perhaps there will be some fish to bake, too, for dinner.”
“If we are to have fish,” she said, “you will have to change your tunic again and go fishing for it yourself. The men are busy with the sowing.”
He answered quickly, “I will ask Lochlann to go—it will be like a holiday for him. He deserves one, doesn’t he, foster-mother, you are pleased with him, aren’t you?”
Idiotic! Morgause thought. I will not blush before a boy his age! “If you would like to send Lochlann fishing, love, do so. He can be spared today, I suppose.”
And she thought, she would like well to know what was really in Gwydion’s mind, with his holiday tunic and his insistence that she should wear her finest gown and provide a good dinner. She called her housekeeper and said, “Master Gwydion would like a honey cake. See to it.”
“He shall have his cake,” said the housekeeper, with an indulgent look at the boy. “Look at his sweet face, like one of those angels, he is.”
Angel. That is the last thing I would call him, thought Morgause; but she directed her woman to do her hair up with the gold coil. She would probably never learn what was on Gwydion’s mind.
The day wore slowly along in its accustomed way. Morgause had wondered at times whether Gwydion had the Sight, but he had never shown any of the signs, and when once she asked him point-blank he had acted as if he did not know what she was talking about. And if he had, she thought, at least once she would have caught him bragging of it.
Ah, well. For some obscure child’s reason, Gwydion had wanted a festival and had coaxed her into it. No doubt, with Gareth gone, he was lonely all the time—he had little in common with Lot’s other sons. Nor did he have Gareth’s passion for arms and knightly things, nor so far as she could tell, Morgaine’s gift for music, though his voice was clear, and sometimes he would bring out a little set of pipes like those the shepherd lads played and make strange, mournful-sounding music. But it was not a passion as it had been with Morgaine, who would have sat happy all day at her harp if she could.
Still, he had a quick and retentive mind. For three years, Lot had sent for a learned priest from Iona to dwell in their house and teach the boy to read; he had said the priest was to teach Gareth too while he was about it, but Gareth had no mind to his book. He struggled obediently with letters and Latin, but no more than Gawaine—nor Morgause herself, for that matter—could he keep his mind fixed on written symbols or the mysterious tongue of those old Romans. Agravaine was quick enough—he kept all the tallies and accounts of the estate, he had a gift for numbering things; but Gwydion soaked up every bit of learning, it seemed, as quickly as it was put before him. Within a year he could read as well as the priest himself and speak in Latin as if he were one of those old Caesars reborn, so that for the first time Morgause wondered might there not be something, after all, in what the Druids said—that we were reborn again and again, learning more and more in each life.
He is such a son as should make his father proud, Morgause thought. And Arthur has no son at all by his queen. One day—yes, one day, I shall have a secret to tell Arthur, and then I can hold the King’s conscience in my hand. The thought amused her vastly. She was surprised Morgaine had never used that hold she had on Arthur—she could have forced him to negotiate a marriage for her with the richest of his subject kings, could have had jewels, or power ... but Morgaine cared nothing for such things, only for her harp and for the nonsense the Druids talked. At least she, Morgause, would make better use of this unexpected power thrust into her hand.
She sat in her hall, dressed in her unaccustomed finery, carding the wool from the spring shearing, and making decisions: Gwydion must have a new cloak—he grew so fast, his old one was about his knees already and no good to him in the winter cold, and no doubt he would grow faster yet this year. Should she, perhaps, give him Agravaine’s cloak, cut down a little, and make a new one for Agravaine? Gwydion, in his saffron holiday tunic, came and sniffed appreciatively as the scent of the honey cake, rich with spices, began to drift through the room, but he did not hang about to tease that it should be cut and that he should have a slice early, as he would have done only a few months ago. At midday he said, “Mother, I will have a piece of bread and cheese in my hand and I will be off to walk the boundaries —Agravaine said I should go and see if all the fences are in good order.”
“Not in your holiday shoes,” said Morgause.
“Certainly not. I will go barefoot,” Gwydion said, unfastening his sandals and leaving them beside her near the hearth; he tucked up his tunic through his belt so that it was well above his knees, took up a stout stick, and was off, while Morgause frowned after him—this was not a task Gwydion ever took upon himself, no matter what Agravaine wanted! What was with the lad this day?
Lochlann came back after midday with a fine large fish, so heavy Morgause could not lift if, she surveyed it with pleasure—it would feed everyone who ate at the high table and there would be cold baked fish for three days. Cleaned, scented with herbs, it lay ready for the baking oven when Gwydion came in, his feet and hands scrubbed clean, his hair combed, and slipped his feet into his sandals again. He looked at the fish and smiled.
“Yes, indeed, it will be like a festival,” he said with satisfaction.
“Have you done walking all the fences, foster-brother?” Agravaine asked, coming in from one of the barns where he had been doctoring a sick pony.
“I have, and they are mostly in good order,” said Gwydion, “but at the very top of the north fells where we had the ewes last fall, there is a great hole in the fences where all the stones have fallen down. You must send men to fix it before you put any sheep to pasture there, and as for goats, they’d be away before you could speak to them!”
“You went all the way up there alone?” Morgause frowned at him in dismay. “You are not a goat—you could have fallen and broken a leg in the ravine and no one would have known for days! I have told you and told you, if you go up on the fells, take one of the shepherd lads with you!”
“I had my reasons for going alone,” retorted Gwydion, with that stubborn set of his mouth, “and I saw what I wanted to see.”
“What could you possibly see that would be worth risking some injury and lying there all alone for days?” demanded Agravaine crossly.
“I have never fallen yet,” Gwydion said, “and if I did, it is I who would suffer for it. What is it to you, if I take my own risks?”
“I am your elder brother and ruler in this house,” said Agravaine, “and you will show me some respect or I will knock it into you!”
“Perhaps if you knocked your head open, you could shove some sense inside it,” Gwydion said pertly, “for sure, it will never grow there on its own—“
“You wretched little—“
“Aye, say it,” Gwydion shouted, “mock me with my birth, you—I do not know my father’s name, but I know who fathered you, and between the two I would rather be in my situation!”
Agravaine took a heavy step toward him, but Morgause quickly rose and thrust Gwydion behind her. “Don’t tease the boy, Agravaine.”
“If he always runs to hide behind your skirts, Mother, is it any wonder I cannot teach him to obey?” demanded Agravaine.
“It would take a better man than you to teach me that,” Gwydion said, and Morgause drew back at the bitterness in his voice.
“Hush, hush, child—don’t speak so to your brother,” she admonished, and Gwydion said, “I am sorry, Agravaine—I should not have been rude to you.”
He smiled up, his eyes big and lovely under dark lashes, the picture of a contrite child. Agravaine grumbled, “I am only thinking of your welfare, you young rascal—do you think I want you to break every bone in your body? And why would you take it into your head to climb the fells alone?”
“Well,” said Gwydion, “otherwise you would not have known of the hole in the fences, and you might have pastured sheep there or even goats, and lost all of them. And I never tear my clothes—do I, Mother?”
Morgause chuckled, for it was true—Gwydion was easy on his clothes. There were some boys like that. Gareth had only to put on a tunic and it was crumpled, stained, and dirty before he had worn it an hour, while Gwydion had climbed the high fells in his saffron holiday tunic and it looked as if he had that moment taken it from the washing-woman. Gwydion looked at Agravaine in his working smock and said, “But you are not fit to sit at table with Mother in her fine clothes. Go and put on your fine tunic, brother. Would you sit down to dinner in your old smock like a farmer?"
"I won't be ruled by a young knave like you," Agravaine growled, but he did go off toward his chamber, and Gwydion smiled with secret satisfaction. He said, "Agravaine should have a wife, Mother. He is bad-tempered as a bull in spring, and besides, you should not have to weave his clothes and mend them."
Morgause was amused. "No doubt you are right. But I want no other queen beneath this roof. No house is big enough for the rule of two women."
"Then you should find him a wife who is not too well-born and very stupid," said Gwydion, "so that she will be glad you can tell her what to do, because she will be afraid of making a mistake among gentlefolk. The daughter of Niall would be about right—she is very pretty, and Niall's folk are rich but not too rich, because so many of their cattle and sheep died in the bad winter six years ago. She would have a good dowry, because Niall is afraid she will not marry. The girl had the measles when she was six years old, and her eyesight is not good, and she is not too broad in the wit, either. She can spin and weave well enough, but she has neither the eyesight nor the cleverness for much more, so she will not mind much if Agravaine keeps her always breeding."
"Well, well, well, what a statesman you are already," said Morgause caustically. "Agravaine should appoint you one of his councillors, you are so wise." But she thought, aye, he is right, I will speak to Niall tomorrow.
"He could do worse," said Gwydion seriously, "but I shall not be here for that, Mother. I meant to tell you, when I went up on the fells, I saw —no, but here is Donil the hunter, he can tell you." And indeed, the big hunter was already coming into the hall, bending low before Morgause.
"My lady," he said, "there are riders on the road, nearing the great house—a sedan chair draped like the Avalon barge, and with them a hunchbacked man with a harp, and servants in the garb of Avalon. They will be here in half an hour."
Avalon! Then Morgause saw Gwydion's secret smile and knew that he had been ready for this. But he has never spoken of having the Sight! What child would not brag of it, if he did? And suddenly, the thought that he could conceal it, enjoy it yet more that his knowledge was secret, seemed uncanny to her, so that for a moment she shrank away, almost afraid of her foster-son. And she knew he saw it, and was not displeased.
All he said was, "Now isn't it lucky that we have a honey cake, and baked fish, and that we have all dressed in our best clothing, so we may do honor to Avalon, Mother?"
“Yes,” Morgause said, staring at her foster-son. “Very lucky indeed, Gwydion.”
AS SHE stood in the front yard to welcome the riders, she found herself remembering a day when Viviane and Taliesin had come to the faraway castle of Tintagel. Taliesin, she supposed, was long past such journeys, even if he was still alive. She would have heard if he had died. And Viviane rode no longer in boots and breeches like a man, travelling at speed, a law unto herself.
Gwydion stood quietly at her side. In his saffron tunic, his dark hair neatly combed from his face, he looked very like Lancelet.
“Who are these visitors, Mother?”
“I suppose it is the Lady of the Lake,” Morgause said, “and the Merlin of Britain, the Messenger of the Gods.”
“You told me my own mother was a priestess of Avalon,” said Gwydion. “Does their coming have anything to do with me?”
“Well, well, do not tell me there is anything you do not know!” said Morgause sharply, then relented. “I do not know why they have come, my dear; I have not the Sight. But it may well be. I want you to hand the wine about, and to listen and to learn, but not to speak unless you are spoken to.”
That, she thought, would have been hard for her own sons—Gawaine, Gaheris, and Gareth were noisy and inquisitive, and it had been difficult to school them to courtly manners. They were, she thought, great friendly dogs, while Gwydion was like a cat, silent, sleek, fastidious, and watchful. Morgaine as a child had been like that. .. Viviane did not well when she cast Morgaine aside, even if she was angry with her for bearing a child ... and why should it matter to her? She herself bore children, including that damnable Lancelet, who has set Arthur’s kingdom so much at havoc that even here we have heard how the Queen favors him.
And then she wondered, why did she assume that Viviane had not wanted Morgaine to bear this child? Morgaine had quarrelled with Avalon, but perhaps that had been Morgaine’s doing and not the Lady’s.
She was deep in thought; and Gwydion touched her arm and murmured in an undertone, “Your guests, Mother.”
Morgause sank in a deep curtsey before Viviane, who seemed to have shrunk. Always before this, she had been ageless, but now she looked withered, her face lined, her eyes sunk into her face. But she had the same lovely smile, and her voice was low and sweet as ever.
“Ah, it is good to see you, little sister,” she said, drawing Morgause into an embrace. “How long has it been? I like not to think of the years! How young you look, Morgause! Such pretty teeth, and your hair as bright as ever. You met Kevin Harper at Arthur’s wedding, before he was the Merlin of Britain.”
It seemed that Kevin too had grown older, stooped and gnarled, like an ancient oak tree; well, that was fitting, she thought, for one of those who consorted with oaks, and felt her mouth move in a little ripple of secret mirth. “You are welcome, Master Harper—Lord Merlin, I should say. How is it with the noble Taliesin? Is he yet in the land of the living?”
“He lives,” said Viviane as another woman stepped from the sedan chair. “But he is old and fragile now, he will not make such a journey as this again.” And then she said, “This is a daughter of Taliesin, a child of the oak groves—Niniane. So she is your half-sister, Morgause.”
Morgause was a little dismayed as the younger woman stepped forward and embraced her, saying in a sweet voice, “I am glad to know my sister.” Niniane seemed so young! She had fair reddish-gold hair and blue eyes beneath silky long lashes. Viviane said, “Niniane travels with me, now I am old. She is the only one except myself dwelling upon Avalon who is of the old royal blood.” Niniane was dressed as a priestess; her fair hair was braided low across her forehead, but the blue crescent mark of a priestess, freshly painted with blue dye, could be clearly seen. She spoke with the trained voice of a priestess, filled with power; but she herself seemed young and powerless as she stood next to Viviane.
Morgause sought to recapture her sense that she was hostess and these were her guests; she felt like a kitchen girl before the two priestesses and the Druid. Then she reminded herself angrily that both these women were her own half-sisters, and as for the Merlin, he was only an old hunchback! “Be welcome to Lothian and to my hall. This is my son Agravaine, who reigns here while Gawaine is away at Arthur’s court. And this is my foster-son, Gwydion.”
The boy bowed gracefully to the distinguished guests, but made only a polite murmur of acknowledgment.
“He is a handsome lad and well grown,” said Kevin. “This, then, is Morgaine’s son?”
Morgause lifted her eyebrows. “Would it avail anything to deny it to one who has the Sight, sir?”
“Morgaine herself told me, when she heard that I rode north to Lothian,” Kevin said, and a shadow crossed his face.
“Then Morgaine dwells again in Avalon?” asked Morgause, and Kevin shook his head. Morgause saw that Viviane too looked distressed.
“Morgaine is at Arthur’s court,” said Kevin. Viviane said, pressing her lips together, “She has work to do in the world outside. But she will return to Avalon at the appointed time. There is a place awaiting her which she must take.”
Gwydion asked softly, “Is it of my mother that you speak, Lady?”
Viviane looked straight at Gwydion and suddenly she seemed tall and imposing—the old priestess-trick, thought Morgause, but Gwydion had never seen it before. And the Lady said, her voice suddenly filling the courtyard, “Why do you ask me, child, when you already know the answer perfectly well? Would you mock at the Sight, Gwydion? Take care. I know you better than you think, and there are still a few things in this world that you do not know!”
Gwydion backed away, his mouth open, suddenly only a precocious child again. Morgause raised her eyebrows; so there was still someone and something which could frighten him! For once he did not try to excuse or explain himself in his usual glib manner.
She took the initiative again, saying, “Come in. All things are prepared to welcome you, my sisters, Lord Merlin.” And as she looked at the red cloth she had set upon the high table, the goblets and fine ware standing there, she thought, Even here at the end of the world, our court is no pigsty! She conducted Viviane to her own high seat and set Kevin Harper next to her. As Niniane was stepping up on the dais she stumbled, and Gwydion was swiftly there, with a ready hand and a polite word.
Well, well, at last our Gwydion is beginning to take notice of a pretty woman. Or is it just good manners or a wish to ingratiate himself because Viviane chided him? She was perfectly well aware that she would never know the answer.
The fish was baked to perfection, the red fish flaking lightly away from the bones, and there was enough of the honey cake for most of the house people to have some; and she had sent for extra barley beer so that each of the people in the lower hall might have something extra to their meal as well. There was plenty of fresh-baked bread and an abundance of milk and butter, as well as cheese made with ewe’s milk. Viviane ate as sparingly as ever, but she was ready in praise of the food.
“You set a queenly table indeed. I would not be better guested in Camelot. I had not looked for such welcome, coming without warning as I did,” she said.
“Have you been to Camelot? Have you seen my sons?” Morgause asked, but Viviane shook her head and her forehead ridged in a scowl.
“No, not yet. Though I shall go thither at what Arthur now calls Pentecost, like to the church fathers themselves,” she said, and for some reason Morgause felt a slight icing of her back; but with her guests she had no leisure to think of it.
Kevin said, “I saw your sons at court, lady. Gawaine had a small wound at Mount Badon, but it healed clean and is hidden by his beard ... he has begun wearing a small beard like to the Saxons, not because he wishes to be like them, but he cannot shave daily without slicing the top from the scar. He may start a new fashion at court! I saw not Gaheris—he is away to the south, fortifying the coast. Gareth is to be made a Companion at Arthur’s high feast at Pentecost. He is one of the biggest, and one of the trustiest men at court, though sir Cai still bullies him and calls him ‘Handsome’ for his pretty face.”
“He should have been made one of Arthur’s Companions already!” said Gwydion jealously, and Kevin looked more kindly on the boy. “So, you are jealous for your kinsman’s honor, my lad? Indeed he well deserves to be a Companion, and he is treated as one now his rank is known. But Arthur wished to show him honor at his first high feast in Camelot, so he will be made Companion with all the ceremony the King can manage. Rest you content, Gwydion, Arthur well knows his worth, even as he knows Gawaine’s. And he is one of Arthur’s youngest Companions.”
Then, even more shyly, Gwydion asked, “Know you my mother, Master Harper? The lady M-Morgaine?”
“Aye, lad, I know her well,” said Kevin gently, and Morgause thought that the ugly little man had at least a speaking voice that was rich and beautiful. “She is one of the fairest ladies at Arthur’s court, and one of the most gracious, and she plays the harp as well as a bard.”
“Come, come,” said Morgause, her lips crinkling up in a smile, and amused at the obvious devotion in the harper’s voice. “It is well to tell a tale to amuse a child, but truth must be served too. Morgaine, fair? She is plain as a raven! Igraine was beautiful when she was young, all men knew that, but Morgaine resembles her not at all.”
Kevin’s voice was respectful but also amused. “There is an old saying in the wisdom of the Druids ... beauty is not all in a fair face, but lies within. Morgaine is indeed very beautiful, Queen Morgause, though her beauty resembles yours no more than a willow tree resembles a daffodil. And she is the only person at court to whose hands I will ever trust My Lady.” He gestured to his harp which had been unwrapped and set at his side, and picking up her cue, Morgause asked Kevin if he would favor them with a song.
He took up the harp and sang, and for a time the hall was perfectly still except for the harp notes and the bard’s voice, and as he sang, the people in the lower hall crept as close as they could to listen to the music. But when he had done, and Morgause had dismissed the house-folk—although she allowed Lochlann to stay, sitting quietly near the fire—she said, “I too love music well, Master Harper, and you have given us a pleasure I shall long remember. But you did not travel all this long journey from Avalon to the Northlands so that I might have feasting with a harper. I beg of you, tell me why you come here so unexpectedly.”
“Not so unexpected,” said Viviane, with a little smile, “for I found you all dressed in your best and ready to greet us with wine and baked fish and honey cakes. You had warning of my coming, and since you had never more than a glimmering of the Sight, I can only imagine it was another not far from here who warned you.” She cast an ironic glance at Gwydion, and Morgause nodded.
“But he told me not why, only bade me prepare all things for a festival, and I thought it was a child’s whim, no more.”
Gwydion was hanging over Kevin’s seat as he began to wrap his harp, and he asked, putting his hand out hesitantly, “May I touch the strings?”
“You may,” said Kevin mildly, and Gwydion plucked a string or two, saying, “I have never seen so fine a harp.”
“Nor will you ever. I think there is no finer one here, nor even in Wales, where there is a whole college of bards,” said Kevin. “My Lady was a king’s gift to me, and she never leaves my side. And like many women,” he added, with a courtly bow to Viviane, “she grows but more beautiful with the years.”
“Would that my voice had grown sweeter as I grew old,” said Viviane good-humoredly, “but the Dark Mother has not willed it so. Only her immortal children sing more sweetly as the years grow longer. May My Lady never sing less beautifully than now.”
“Are you fond of music, master Gwydion? Have you learned anything of the harp?”
“I have not a harp to play,” said Gwydion. “Coll, who is the only harper at court, has now such stiff fingers that he seldom touches the strings. We have had no music for two years now. I play a little upon the small pipe, though, and Aran—he that was Lot’s piper at war—taught me to play a little upon the pipe of elk-horn ... it hangs yonder. He went with King Lot to Mount Badon, and like Lot, he came not back.”
“Bring me the pipe,” said Kevin, and when Gwydion brought it from where it hung on the wall, he rubbed it clean with a cloth, blew the dust from inside it, then put it to his lips and set his twisted fingers to the neat row of holes bored in the horn. He played a little dancing tune, then set it aside, saying, “I have small skill for this—my fingers are not quick enough. Well, Gwydion, if you love music, they will teach you at Avalon —let me hear you play a little upon this horn.”
Gwydion’s mouth was dry—Morgause saw him wet his lips with his tongue—but he took the wood-and-horn thing in his hands and blew carefully into it. Then he began to play a slow melody, and Kevin, after a moment, nodded.
“That will do,” he said. “You are Morgaine’s son, after all—it would be strange if you had no gift at all. We may be able to teach you much. You may have the makings of a bard, but more likely of a priest and Druid.”
Gwydion blinked and almost let the pipe fall from his hand; he caught it in the skirt of his tunic.
“Of a bard—what do you mean? Tell me clear!”
Viviane looked straight at him, “It is the appointed time, Gwydion. You are Druid-born, and of two royal lines. You are to be given the ancient teachings and the secret wisdom in Avalon, that one day you may bear the dragon.”
He swallowed—Morgause could see him absorbing this. She could well imagine that the thought of secret wisdom would attract Gwydion more than anything else they might have offered. He stammered, “You said —two royal lines—“
Viviane shook her head faintly when Niniane would have answered, so Niniane said only, “All things will be made clear to you when the proper time comes, Gwydion. If you are to be a Druid, the first thing you must learn is when to be silent and ask no questions.”
He looked up at her mutely, and Morgause thought, It was worth all the trouble of this day to see Gwydion for once impressed even to speechlessness! Well, she was not surprised; Niniane was beautiful—she looked very much as Igraine had looked as a young girl, or she herself, only with fair hair rather than red.
Viviane said quietly, “This much I can tell you at once—the mother of your mother’s mother was the Lady of the Lake, and from a long line of priestesses. Igraine and Morgause also bear the blood of the noble Taliesin, and so do you. Many of the royal lines of these islands, among the Druids, have been preserved in you, and if you are worthy, a great destiny awaits you. But you must be worthy—royal blood alone makes not a king, but courage, and wisdom, and farsightedness. I tell you, Gwydion, that he who wears the dragon may be more of a king than he who sits on a throne, for the throne may be won by force of arms, or by craft, or as Lot won it, by being born in the right bed and begot by the right king. But the Great Dragon can be won only by one’s own efforts, not in this life alone, but those which have gone before. I tell you a mystery.”
Gwydion said, “I—I do not understand!”
“Of course you do not!” Viviane’s voice was sharp. “Even as I said
—it is a mystery, and wise Druids have sometimes studied for many lifetimes to understand less than that. I did not mean that you should understand, but that you should listen and hear, and learn to obey.”
Gwydion swallowed and lowered his head. Morgause saw Niniane smile at him, and he drew a long breath, as if reprieved, and sat down at her feet, listening quietly, for once without trying to make any pert answer or explanation. Morgause thought, Perhaps the training of the Druids is what he needs!
“So you have come to tell me I have fostered Morgaine’s son long enough, and the time is come when he shall be taken to Avalon and schooled in the learning of the Druids. But you would not have travelled yourself by this long road to tell me that—you could have sent any lesser Druid to take the boy into his custody. I have known for years that it would not befit Morgaine’s son to end his days among shepherds and fisherfolk. And where else than Avalon would his destiny be laid? I beg you, tell me the rest— oh, yes, there is more, I see in your faces that there is more.”
Kevin opened his mouth to speak, but Viviane said sharply, “Why should I tell you all my thoughts, Morgause, when you seek to turn all things to your advantage and that of your own sons? Even now, Gawaine is nearest the High King’s throne not only because of blood, but also in Arthur’s love. And I foresaw when Arthur was wedded to Gwenhwyfar that she would bear no child. I thought it only likely that she might die in breeding, so I wished not to meddle with what happiness Arthur might have —then could we have found him, afterward, a more suitable wife. But I let it go on too long, and now he will not put her away, even though she is barren—and you see in that no more than an opportunity for your own son’s advancement.”
“You should not assume she is barren, Viviane.” Kevin’s face was set in bitter lines. “She was pregnant before Mount Badon, and she carried this child a full five months—she might well have brought it to birth. I think she miscarried because of the heat, and the close confinement in the castle, and her own fear of the Saxons ... and it was pity for her, I think, which caused Arthur to betray Avalon and put aside the dragon banner.”
Niniane said, “So it was not only her childlessness, Queen Morgause, by which Gwenhwyfar did Arthur such great harm. She is a creature of the priests, and already she has influenced him too well. If some day it should happen that she bear a child that might live to grow up ... that would be the worst of all.”
Morgause felt as if she would stifle. “Gawaine—“
Viviane said harshly, “Gawaine is Christian as Arthur. He longs only to please Arthur in all things!”
Kevin said, “I know not whether Arthur has any great commitment to the Christian God or whether it is all Gwenhwyfar’s doing, to please her and pity her—“
Morgause said scornfully, “Is that man fit to rule who would forswear his oath for a woman’s sake? Is Arthur forsworn, then?”
Kevin said, “I heard him say that since Christ and Mary the Virgin gave him the victory at Mount Badon, he will not put them aside now. And I heard him say more, when he spoke with Taliesin—that Mary the Virgin was even as the Great Goddess, and it was she had given him the victory to save this land ... and that the banner of the Pendragon was that of his father Uther, and not his own ... .”
“Still,” said Niniane, “he had no right to cast it all aside. We in Avalon set Arthur on his throne, and he owes it to us—“
Morgause said impatiently, “What matters it what banner flies over a king’s troops? The soldiers need something to inspire their imagination—“
“As usual, you ignore the point,” said Viviane. “It is what lives in their dreams and imagination that we must control from Avalon, or this struggle with Christ will be lost and their souls lie in slavery to a false faith! The symbol of the dragon should be always before them, that mankind seek to accomplish, not to think of sin and do penance!”
Kevin said slowly, “I know not—perhaps it would be as well that there should be these lesser mysteries for the fools, and then could the wise be shown the inner teaching. Perhaps it has been made all too easy for mankind to come to Avalon, and so they value it not.”
Viviane said, “Would you have it that I should sit by and see Avalon go further into the mists, even as the fairy country?”
“I am saying, Lady,” said Kevin, deferentially, but firmly, “that it may even now be too late to prevent it—Avalon will always be there for all men to find if they can seek the way thither, throughout all the ages past the ages. If they cannot find the way to Avalon, it is a sign, perhaps, that they are not ready.”
“Still,” said Viviane, in that hard voice, “I shall keep Avalon within the world, or die in attempting it!”
There was a silence in the hall, and Morgause realized that she was icy cold. She said, “Build up the fire, Gwydion—“ and passed the wine. “Drink, will you not, sister? And you, Master Harper?”
Niniane poured the wine, but Gwydion sat still, as if dreaming or entranced. Morgause said, “Gwydion, do as I bade you—“ but Kevin put out a hand and bade her be still. He said, in a whisper, “The boy’s in trance. Gwydion, speak—“
“It is all blood—“ he whispered, “blood, poured out like the blood of sacrifice on the ancient altars, blood spilt on the throne—“
Niniane stumbled and tripped, and the rest of the wine, blood red, went cascading over Gwydion where he sat, and across Viviane’s lap. She rose, startled, and Gwydion blinked and shook himself like a puppy. He said, confused, “What—I am sorry—let me help you,” and took the wineskin from Niniane’s hand. “Ugh, it looks like spilt blood, let me fetch a cloth from the kitchens,” and streaked away like any active lad.
“Well, there’s your blood,” said Morgause with disgust. “Is my Gwydion, too, to be lost in dreams and sickly visions?”
Mopping the sticky wine from her gown, Viviane said, “Disparage not another’s gift because you have not the Sight, Morgause!”
Gwydion came back with the cloth, but as he bent to mop it away, he faltered, and Morgause took the cloth from his hand and beckoned one of the serving-women to come and dry the table and the hearth. He looked ill, but where normally he would have tried to make more of it for her attention, she saw that he turned quickly away as if ashamed. She ached to take him in her arms and rock him, this child who had been her last baby when the others were grown and gone, but she knew he would not thank her for it and held her peace, staring down at her linked hands. Niniane put out a hand to him, too, but it was Viviane who beckoned him, her eyes stern and unflinching.
“Speak the truth to me: how long have you had the Sight?”
He lowered his eyes and said, “I know not—I did not know what to call it.” He fidgeted, refusing to look at her.
She said quietly, “And you concealed it for pride and love of power, did you not? Now it has mastered you, and you must master it in turn. We came none too soon here—I hope we have not come too late. Are you unsteady on your feet? Sit here, then, and be still.”
To Morgause’s astonishment, Gwydion sank down quietly at the feet of the two priestesses. After a moment Niniane put her hand on his head and he leaned against her.
Viviane turned again to Morgause and said, “As I told you before, Gwenhwyfar will bear Arthur no son, but he will not put her aside. All the more because she is a Christian, and their religion forbids a man to put his wife away—“
Morgause shrugged and said, “What of that? She has miscarried once, or it may be, more than once. And she is not so young a woman, not now. Life is uncertain for women.”
“Aye, Morgause,” said Viviane, “once before you sought to trade on that uncertainty of life, so that your son might stand near to the throne— did you not? I warn you, my sister—meddle not in what the Gods have decreed!”
Morgause smiled. “I thought, Viviane, that you lectured me long— or was it Taliesin?—that nothing comes about save by the will of the Gods. If Arthur had died ere he came to Uther’s throne, why then, I doubt not the Gods would have found another to serve their turn.”
“I came not here to argue theology, you miserable girl,” said Viviane angrily. “Do you think, if I had my will, that I would have entrusted you with life or death for the royal line of Avalon?”
Morgause said with silky wrath, “But the Goddess willed it not that you should do your own will, so it seems to me, Viviane. I am weary of this talk of old prophecy ... if there be any Gods at all, of which I am not even certain, I cannot believe they would stoop to meddle in the affairs of men. Nor will I wait upon the Gods to do what I see clearly must be done—who’s to say that the Goddess cannot work through my hand as well as another.” She saw that Niniane was shocked—aye, she was another such ninny as Igraine, believing all this talk of Gods. “As for the royal line of Avalon, you see I have fostered it well.”
“He seems strong and well, a healthy boy,” said Viviane, “but can you swear you have not flawed him within, Morgause?”
Gwydion raised his head and said sharply, “My foster-mother has been good to me. The lady Morgaine cared not much for the fostering of her son—not once has she come hither to ask whether I lived or died!”
Kevin said severely, “You were bade speak only when spoken to, Gwydion. And you know nothing of Morgaine’s reasons or purposes.”
Morgause looked sharply at the crippled little bard. Has Morgaine confided in this wretched abortion, when I had to force her secret from her by spells and the Sight? She felt a surge of wrath, but Viviane said, “Enough. You fostered him well while it suited you, Morgause, but I mark you have not forgotten he stands one step nearer the throne than did Arthur at his age, and two steps nearer than your own son Gawaine! As for Gwenhwyfar, I have seen that she is to play some part in the fate of Avalon—she cannot be wholly without the Sight or the vision, for once she broke through the mists and stood upon the shores of Avalon. Perhaps if she were given a son, and it was made clear that it was by Avalon’s arts and will—“ She glanced at Niniane. “She is capable of conception—with a strong sorceress at her side to keep her from casting forth the child.”
“It is too late for that,” Kevin said. “It was all her doing that Arthur betrayed Avalon and set aside the dragon banner. The truth is, I suppose, that her wits are not in the right place.”
“The truth is,” said Niniane, “that you bear her a grudge, Kevin. Why?”
The harper cast his eyes down and stared at his scarred and twisted hands. He said at last, “True. I cannot even in my thoughts deal fair with Gwenhwyfar—I am no more than human. But even if I loved her well, I would say she is no queen for a king who must rule from Avalon. I would not grieve, should she suffer some accident or mischance. For if she gave Arthur a son, she would think it only the goodness of Christ, though the Lady of the Lake herself stood by her bed. I cannot help but pray she has no such good fortune.”
Morgause smiled her cat smile. “Gwenhwyfar may seek to be more Christian than Christ’s self,” she said, “but I know something of their Scriptures, for Lot had a priest here from Iona to teach the lads. The Holy Writ runs thus, that he is damned who shall put his wife away save for adultery. And even here in Lothian we have heard—the Queen is hardly so chaste as all that. Arthur is away often at the wars, and all men know how she looks with favor upon your son, Viviane.”
“You do not know Gwenhwyfar,” Kevin said. “She is pious more than reason, and Lancelet is so much Arthur’s friend that I think Arthur would not move against them unless he took the two of them together in his bed before all of the court.”
“Even that might be arranged,” said Morgause. “Gwenhwyfar is too beautiful to think that other women would love her much. Surely someone around her could make an open scandal, to force Arthur’s hand—“
Viviane made a grimace of distaste. “What woman would betray a fellow woman like that?”
Morgause said, “I would, if I were convinced it was for the good of the kingdom.”
“I would not so,” said Niniane, “and Lancelet is honorable, and Arthur’s closest friend. I doubt he would betray Arthur for Gwenhwyfar. If we wish Gwenhwyfar set aside, we must look elsewhere.”
“And there is this,” said Viviane, and she sounded tired. “Gwenhwyfar has done nothing wrong that we know—we cannot set her down from Arthur’s side while she keeps the bargain she has made, to be a dutiful wife to Arthur. If a scandal is made, there must be truth in it. Avalon is sworn to uphold the truth.”
“But if there were a true scandal?” Kevin said.
“Then she must take her chances,” Viviane said, “but I will not be party to any false accusations.”
“Yet she has at least one other enemy,” said Kevin thoughtfully. “Leodegranz of the Summer Country has just died, and his young wife and her last child with her, Gwenhwyfar is queen there now; but Leodegranz had a kinsman—he claims to be a son, but I believe it not—and I think he would like it well if he could claim to be king in the old manner of the Tribes, by bedding with the queen.”
Gwydion said, “It is well they have no such custom at Lot’s most Christian court, is it not?” But he spoke softly, so that they could affect not to hear him. And Morgause thought: He is angry because he is being ignored, that is all. Am I to be angry because a puppy bites me with his little teeth?
“By the old custom,” said Niniane, her pretty brow ridging into little lines, “Gwenhwyfar is not wedded to any unless she has borne him a son, and if another man can take her from Arthur—“
“Aye, there’s the question,” said Viviane, laughing. “Arthur can keep his wife by force of arms. And he would do it, too, I doubt not.” Then she sobered. “The one thing we can be certain of is that Gwenhwyfar shall remain barren. Should she conceive again, there are spells to make certain she carries not the child to birth, or past the first few weeks. As for Arthur’s heir ...” She paused, and looked at Gwydion, still sitting like a sleepy child, his head resting on Niniane’s lap. “There sits a son of the royal line of Avalon—and son to the Great Dragon.”
Morgause caught her breath. Never once, in all these years, had it occurred to her that it was anything other than the gravest mischance that Morgaine had gotten herself with child by her half-brother. Now she saw the complexity of Viviane’s plan and was awe-stricken by the audacity of it—to set a child of Avalon and of Arthur on the throne after his father.
What of the King Stag when the young stag is grown... ? For a moment Morgause did not know whether the thought had been her own or had come into her head as an echo from one of the two Avalon priestesses before her; always she had had these disturbing, incomplete moments of the Sight, though she could never control when they would come or go, and, truth to tell, had not cared to do so.
Gwydion’s eyes were wide; he leaned forward, his mouth open. “Lady—“ he said breathlessly, “is it true—that I, I am the son of the—of the High King?”
“Aye,” said Viviane, her mouth tight, “though the priests will never acknowledge it. To them it would be sin of all sins, that a son should get a son on his mother’s daughter. They have set themselves up holier than the Goddess herself, who is mother to us all. But it is so.”
Kevin turned; slowly, painfully, with his crippled body, he knelt down before Gwydion.
“My prince and my lord,” he said, “child of the royal line of Avalon, and son to the son of the Great Dragon, we have come to take you to Avalon, where you may be prepared for your destiny. On the morrow you must be ready to depart.”
“On the morrow you must be ready to depart. ...”
It was like to the terror of a dream that they should speak thus openly of what I had kept secret all these years, even during that time when none thought I could live after his birth ... . I could have gone to my death with none knowing I had borne a child to my own brother. But Morgause had got the secret from me, and Viviane knew ... it was an old saying, three could keep a secret if but two of them lay in their graves ... . Viviane had planned this, she had used me as she had used Igraine!
But the dream was beginning to break up now and shift and ripple as if it were all underwater. I fought to keep it, to hear, but it seemed that Arthur was there and he drew a sword and advanced on Gwydion, and the child caught Excalibur from its scabbard ... .
Morgaine sat bolt upright in her room at Camelot, catching at the blanket. No, she told herself, no, it was a dream, only a dream. I do not even know who sits next to Viviane in Avalon, no doubt it is Raven, not this fair-haired woman so like to my mother that I have seen again and again in my dreams. And who knows if such a woman walks the face of this earth or Avalon, or whether she is a confused dream of my mother? I do not remember anyone even a little like her in the House of Maidens ... .
I should be there. It is I should be at Viviane’s side, and I cast it away of my free will ... .
“Look,” Elaine called from the window. “Already there are riders coming in, and it is three full days till Arthur’s great feast!”
The other women in the chamber crowded around Elaine, looking down at the field before Camelot; already there were tents and pavilions pitched there. Elaine said, “I see my father’s banner. There he rides, with my brother, Lamorak, at his side—he is old enough to be one of Arthur’s Companions now. I wonder if Arthur will choose him as one.”
“He was not old enough to fight at Mount Badon, was he?” Morgaine asked.
“He was not old enough, but he fought nevertheless, as did every man old enough to hold a sword, and every young boy too,” said Elaine proudly.
“Then I doubt not that Arthur will make him one of his Companions, if only to please Pellinore,” said Morgaine. The great battle of Mount Badon had been fought a year ago on the day of Pentecost, and Arthur had vowed always to keep this day as a time of high feasting and to greet all his old Companions; on Pentecost, too, he would welcome all petitioners and give out justice. And all the subject kings from the outlying kingdoms would come before the High King to renew their allegiance.
“You must go to the Queen and help her dress,” Morgaine said to Elaine, “and I must be off as well. I have much to do if there is to be a great feast in only three days!”
“Sir Cai will see to all that,” Elaine remonstrated.
“Aye, he will see to the feeding and housing of the multitudes,” said Morgaine cheerfully, “but it is I must provide flowers for the hall, and see to the polishing of the silver cups, and it is likely I must make the almond cakes and sweets too—Gwenhwyfar will have other things on her mind.”
And indeed, Morgaine was glad to have so much to do for the three days of feasting; it took her mind away from the dread and terror of her dream. In these days, whenever Avalon came into her mind in a dream, she shut it out with desperation ... she had not known that Kevin rode north to Lothian. No, she told herself, and I do not know it now, it was only a dream. But once during that day, when she encountered the elderly Taliesin in the courtyard, she bowed to him, and when he put out a hand to bless her, she said shyly, “Father—“
“Yes, dear child?”
Ten years ago, Morgaine thought, I would have been angry that Taliesin speaks to me always as if I were still a child of seven who might crawl into his lap and tug at his beard. Now, obscurely, it comforted her. “Is Kevin the Merlin bound here for Pentecost?”
“Why, I know not, child,” said Taliesin, with a kindly smile. “He has ridden north to Lothian. But I know that he loves you well and that he will return to you when he can. I think nothing would keep him from this court while you were here, little Morgaine.”
Does everyone at this court know that we have been lovers? Surely I have been more discreet than that. Morgaine said waspishly, “Is it common gossip at this court that Kevin the Harper comes and goes at my bidding—when it is not even true?”
Taliesin smiled again and said, “Dear child, never be ashamed to love. And it has meant everything to Kevin, that one so kindly and gracious and beautiful as you—“
“Do you mock me, Grandsire?”
“Why should I so, little one? You are the daughter of my dear daughter, and I love you well, and you know I think you the most beautiful and gifted of women. And Kevin, I have no doubt, thinks you so even more, and you are the only one at this court save myself, and the only woman ever, who can speak to him of music in his own language. If you know not that for Kevin the sun rises and sets where you come and go, then you are the only one at this court who knows it not. You deserve it well that he should turn to you as the starshine of his days and nights. It is not even forbidden to the Merlin of Britain that he should marry, if he chooses. Royal he is not, but he is noble in heart, and will one day be High Druid if his courage fails him not. And on the day when he seeks your hand, I do not think either Arthur or myself would say him no.”
Morgaine lowered her face and stared at the ground. Ah, she thought, how fitting it would be if I could care so for Kevin as he for me. I value him, I love him well, I take pleasure even in sharing his bed, but marriage? No, she thought, no, no, not for all his devotion. “I have no mind to be married, Grandsire.”
“Well, you must do your own will, child,” Taliesin said gently. “You are lady and priestess. But you are not so young, either, and since you have forsaken Avalon—no, I do not reproach you, but I thought it might well be that you wished to marry and have a home of your own. I would not see you spend all your days as Gwenhwyfar’s waiting-woman. As for Kevin the Harper, no doubt he will be here if he can, but he cannot ride as swiftly as other men. It is good that you do not despise him for his body’s infirmity, dear child.”
When Taliesin had gone, Morgaine went on toward the brew house, thinking deeply. She wished she could indeed love Kevin as Taliesin thought she did.
Why am I cursed with this feeling for Lancelet? All the time she prepared scented rose water for washing guests’ hands and flavoring confections, she thought about that. Well, when Kevin was here, at least she had no reason to desire Lancelet—not that it would do her any good, she thought wryly, to desire him. Desire must go two ways or it is worthless. She resolved that when Kevin came back again to court, she would give him such a welcome as he could wish.
No doubt, I could do worse than wed with him ... Avalon is lost to me ... I will think of it. And indeed my dream saw true so far, that he was in Lothian ... and I thought the Sight had forsaken me ... .
KEVIN RETURNED to Camelot on the eve of Pentecost; all that day folk had been streaming into Camelot and the surrounding country, as if it were twice over harvest fair and spring-trading fair. It was the greatest festival ever to be held in this countryside. Morgaine welcomed Kevin with a kiss and embrace which made the harper’s eyes glow, and led him to a guest chamber, where she took his cloak and travelling shoes and sent them with one of the boys to be cleaned, and brought him ribbons to make his harp fine.
“Why, My Lady will be brave as the Queen,” said Kevin, laughing at her. “Do you not bear grudge to your only rival, Morgaine, love?”
He had never called her so before, and she came and stood close to him, her arm around his waist. He said softly, “I have missed you,” and laid his face for a moment against her breast.
“And I you, my dear,” she said, “and when all have gone to rest this night, I shall prove it to you ... why, do you think, have I arranged that you shall have a guest chamber to yourself, when even Arthur’s dearest Companions have had to be housed four to a room and sometimes two to a bed?”
He said, “I thought it was so that none other need share quarters with me.”
“And so it shall be for the dignity of Avalon,” said Morgaine, “though even Taliesin shares his chamber with the bishop—“
“I do not admire his taste,” said Kevin. “I would sooner be housed in the stable with the other donkeys!”
“I would have it that the Merlin of Britain should be lodged in a chamber to himself, even if it is no bigger than a stall for one of those donkeys,” said Morgaine. “But it is large enough for you and for My Lady, and”—she smiled and looked pointedly at the bed—“and for me, I dare say.”
“You will always be welcome, and if My Lady is jealous I will turn her face to the wall.” He kissed her, holding her tight for a moment with all the strength in his wiry arms. Then, letting her go, he said, “I thought you would like to hear—I rode with your son to Avalon. He is a well-grown lad, and a clever one, and has some of your gift for music.”
“I dreamed of him the other night,” she said. “In my dream, I think he played on a pipe—like Gawaine’s.”
“Then you dreamed truly,” said Kevin. “I like him well, and he has the Sight. He will be schooled in Avalon for a Druid.”
“And then?”
“Then? Ah, my dear,” said Kevin, “things must go as they will. But I doubt not he will make a bard and a notable wise man—you need have no fear for him upon Avalon.” He touched her shoulder gently. “He has your eyes.”
She would have liked to ask more, but turned to something else. “The feast will not be till tomorrow,” she said, “but tonight the closest of Arthur’s friends and Companions have been bidden to dine. Gareth is to be made a knight upon the morrow, and Arthur, who loves Gawaine like a brother, has chosen to honor him at a family party.”
“Gareth is a good man and a good knight,” said Kevin, “and I will gladly do him honor. I like not Queen Morgause greatly, but her sons are fine men and good friends to Arthur.”
Even though it was a family party, there were many close kinsmen to sit at Arthur’s table here on the eve of Pentecost: Gwenhwyfar and her kinswoman Elaine, and Elaine’s father, King Pellinore, and her brother, Lamorak; Taliesin and Lancelet, and three of Lancelet’s half-brothers— Balan, son of the Lady of the Lake, and Bors and Lionel, both of whom were sons of Ban of Less Britain. Gareth was there, and as always, Gawaine stood behind Arthur at table. Arthur had protested, as they came into the hall. “Sit here beside us tonight, Gawaine—you are my kinsman, and king in your own right in Orkney, and I like it not that you should stand like a serving-man behind my place!”
Gawaine said roughly, “I am proud to stand and serve my lord and king, sir,” and Arthur bent his head.
“You make me feel like those old Caesars,” he complained. “Need I be guarded night and day even in my own hall?”
“For the dignity of your throne, sir, you are even as those Caesars, and more,” insisted Gawaine, and Arthur laughed helplessly.
“I can deny nothing to those of you who were my Companions.”
“So,” Kevin said in an undertone to Morgaine, where they sat side by side, “it is not hubris then or arrogance, but he wishes only to please his Companions—“
“I think, truly, it is so,” Morgaine said in an undertone. “This he loves best, I think, to sit in his own hall and look upon the peace he has wrought; whatever his faults, Arthur truly loves the rule of order and the kingdom of law.”
Later, Arthur gestured them all to silence, calling young Gareth to him. “Tonight you will watch in the church by your arms,” he said, “and in the morning before mass, whichever knight you choose shall make you one of my Companions. You have served me well and honorably, young as you are. If you wish for it, I will myself make you knight, but I will understand if you wish that your brother should give you this honor.”
Gareth wore a white tunic; his hair was like a golden halo curling around his face. He looked almost like a child, a tall child towering to a good six feet high, with shoulders like a young bull. His face was fuzzy with soft golden down too fine to be shaven. He said, stammering a little in his eagerness, “Sir, I beg you—I mean no offense to you nor to my brother, but I—if he will—could I be made knight by Lancelot, my lord and my king?”
Arthur smiled. “Why, if Lancelet will have it so, I have no objection.”
Morgaine remembered a little child prattling of Lancelet to a painted wooden knight she had carved for him. How many people, she wondered, saw such a childhood dream come true? Lancelet said gravely, “I should be honored, cousin,” and Gareth’s face lighted as if a torch had been set to it. Then Lancelet turned to Gawaine and said, with punctilious courtesy, “But it is for you to give me leave, cousin—you stand in a father’s place to this lad, and I would not usurp your right—“
Gawaine looked awkwardly from one to the other of them, and Morgaine saw Gareth bite his lip—only now, perhaps, did he understand that this might be seen as an offense to his brother, and that the King had done him the honor of offering to make him a knight—an honor he had refused. What a child he was, despite his great strength and height and precocious skill at arms!
Gawaine said gruffly, “Who would be made knight by me when Lancelet would consent to do it?”
Lancelet flung an exuberant arm around each of them. “You do me too much honor, both of you. Well, go, lad,” he said, releasing Gareth, “go to your arms, I will come and watch with you after midnight.”
Gawaine watched as the boy loped away, with his long awkward stride, and then said, “You should be one of those old Greeks, as it was told in that saga we read when we were boys. How was he called—Achilles— whose true love was the young knight Patroclus, and neither cared anything for all the fine dames of the court of Troy—God knows every lad in this court worships you as their hero. Pity you have no mind to the Greek fashion in love!”
Lancelet’s face turned dusky red. “You are my cousin, Gawaine, and can say such things to me—I would not hear such things from any other, even in jest.”
Gawaine laughed loudly again. “Aye, a jest—for one who professes devotion only to our most chaste Queen—“
“You dare!” Lancelet began, turning on him, and gripped his arm with strength enough to break his wrist. Gawaine struggled, but Lancelet, though he was the smaller man, bent his arm backward, growling with rage like an angry wolf.
“Here! No brawling in the King’s hall!” Cai thrust himself awkwardly between them, and Morgaine said quickly, “Why, Gawaine, what then will you say to all those priests who profess devotion to Mary the Virgin beyond all things on earth? Would you have it they all have a scandalous carnal devotion to their Christ? And indeed, we hear of the Lord Jesus that he never married, and that even among his chosen twelve there was one who leaned on his bosom at supper—“
Gwenhwyfar gave a shocked cry. “Morgaine, hush! Such a blasphemous jest!” Lancelet let go of Gawaine’s arm; Gawaine stood rubbing the bruise, and Arthur turned and frowned at them.
“You are like children, cousins, squabbling and bickering—shall I send you to be beaten by Cai in the kitchens? Come now, be friends again! I heard not the jest, but whatever it was, Lance, it cannot have been so serious as all that!”
Gawaine laughed roughly and said, “I jested, Lance—all too many women pursue you, I know, for what I said to have anything at all of truth,” and Lancelet shrugged and smiled, like a bird with ruffled feathers.
Cai chuckled. “Every man at court envies you your handsome face, Lance.” He rubbed the scar that pulled his mouth up tight into a sneer, and said, “But it may not be all that much of a blessing, eh, cousin?”
It dissolved into good-natured laughter, but later Morgaine, crossing the court, saw Lancelet still pacing, troubled, feathers still ruffled.
“What is it, kinsman, what ails you?”
He sighed. “I would that I might leave this court.”
“But my lady will not let you go.”
“Even to you, Morgaine, I will not talk of the Queen,” he said stiffly, and it was Morgaine’s turn to sigh.
“I am not the keeper of your conscience, Lancelet. If Arthur does not chide you, who am I to speak a word of reproach?”
“You don’t understand!” he said fiercely. “She was given to Arthur like something bought at market, part of a purchase in horses because her father would have kinship with the High King as part of the price! Yet she is too loyal to murmur—“
“I spoke no word against her, Lancelet,” Morgaine reminded him. “You hear accusations from yourself, not from my lips.”
She thought, I could make him desire me, but the knowledge was like a mouthful of dust. Once she had played that game, and beneath the desire he had feared her, as he feared Viviane herself; feared her to the edge of hatred because of that desire. If his king commanded he would have her, but would soon come to hate.
He managed to look directly at her. “You cursed me, and—and believe me, I am cursed.”
And suddenly the old anger and contempt melted. He was as he was. She clasped his hand between her own. “Cousin, don’t trouble yourself about that. It was many, many years ago, and I don’t think there is any God or Goddess who would listen to the words of an angry young girl who thought herself scorned. And I was no more than that.”
He drew a long breath and began to pace again. At last he said, “I could have killed Gawaine tonight. I am glad you stopped us, even with that blasphemous jesting. I—I have had to deal with that, all my life. When I was a boy at Ban’s court, I was prettier than Gareth is now, and in the court of Less Britain, and like enough in other places, such a boy must guard himself more carefully than any maiden. But no man sees or believes any such thing unless it touches him, and thinks it only a slightly vulgar joke made about other people. There was a time when I thought it so too, and then a time when I thought I could never be otherwise ... .”
There was a long silence, while he stared grimly at the flagstones of the courtyard.
“And so I flung myself into experiment with women, any woman— God help me, even with you who were my own mother’s fosterling and pledged maiden to the Goddess—but there were few women who could rouse me even a little, till I saw—her.” Morgaine was glad he did not speak Gwenhwyfar’s name. “And since that moment there has been no other. With her, I know myself all man.”
Morgaine said, “But she is Arthur’s wife—“
“God! God!” Lancelet turned and struck his hand against the wall. “Do you think that does not torment me? He is my friend; if Gwenhwyfar were wedded to any other man who dwells this earth, I would have had her away with me and to my own place—“ Morgaine saw the muscles of his throat move as he tried to swallow. “I do not know what will become of us. And Arthur must have an heir to his kingdom. The fate of all Britain is more important than our love. I love them both—and I am tormented, Morgaine, tormented!”
His eyes were wild; for a moment it seemed to Morgaine that she saw some hint of madness. Ever after, she wondered, Was there anything, anything I could have said or done that night?
“Tomorrow,” Lancelet said, “I shall beg Arthur to send me out on some difficult quests—to go and make an end forever of Pellinore’s dragon, to conquer the wild Northmen beyond the Roman wall—I care not what, Morgaine, anything, anything to take me away from here—“ and for a moment, hearing in his voice a sadness beyond tears, Morgaine wanted to hold him in her arms and rock him at her breast like a babe.
I think I came near to killing Gawaine tonight, had you not stopped us,” Lancelet said. “Yet he was only jesting, he would have died with horror if he knew—“ Lancelet turned his eyes away and at last said in a whisper, “I know not if what he said is true. I should take Gwenhwyfar and be gone from here, before it becomes a scandal to all the courts of the world, that I love the wife of my king, and yet ... yet it is Arthur I cannot leave ... I know not but what I love her only because I come close, thus, to him.”
Morgaine put out her hand to stop him. There were things she could not bear to know. But Lancelet did not even see.
“No, no, I must tell someone or I shall die of it—Morgaine, know you how first I came to lie with the Queen? I had loved her long, since first I saw her on Avalon, but I thought I would live and die with that passion unspent—Arthur was my friend and I would not betray him,” he said. “And she, she—you must never think that she tempted me! But—but it was Arthur’s will,” he said. “It came about at Beltane—“ and then he told her, while Morgaine stood frozen, thinking only, So this is how the charm worked ... I would that the Goddess had stricken me with leprosy before ever I gave it to Gwenhwyfar!
“But you do not know all,” he whispered. “As we lay together— never, never had anything so—so—“ He swallowed and fumbled to put into words what Morgaine could not bear to hear. “I—I touched Arthur —I touched him. I love her, oh, God, I love her, mistake me not, but had she not been Arthur’s wife, had it not been for—I doubt even she—“ He choked and could not finish his sentence, while Morgaine stood utterly still, appalled beyond speech. Was this then the revenge of the Goddess—that she who loved this man without hope, should become the confidante of both him and the woman he loved, that she should be the repository of all the secret fears he could speak to no one else, the incomprehensible passions within his soul?
“Lancelet, you should not say these things to me, not to me. Some man —Taliesin—a priest—“
“What can a priest know of this?” he demanded in despair. “No man, I think, has ever felt such—God knows I hear enough of what men desire, they talk of nothing else, and now and then some man reveals something strange he may desire, but never, never, nothing so strange and evil as this! I am damned,” he cried out. “This is my punishment for desiring the wife of my king, that I should be held in this terrible bondage—even Arthur, if he knew, would hate and despise me. He knows I love Gwenhwyfar, but this not even he could forgive, and Gwenhwyfar—who knows if she, even she, would not hate and despise me—“ His voice choked into silence.
Morgaine could only say the words she had been taught in Avalon. “The Goddess knows what is in the hearts of men, Lancelet. She will comfort you.”
“But this is to spurn the Goddess,” Lancelet whispered, in frozen horror. “And what of the man who sees that same Goddess in the face of the mother who bore him ... I cannot turn to her.... Almost I am tempted to go and throw myself at the feet of the Christ. His priests say he can forgive any sin, however damnable, as he spoke words of forgiveness to those who crucified him ... .”
Morgaine said sharply that she had never seen any sign that his priests were so tender and forgiving with sinners.
“Aye, no doubt you are right,” said Lancelet, staring bleakly at the flagstones. “There is no help anywhere, till I am slain in battle or ride forth from here to throw myself in the path of a dragon ... .” He poked with his shoe at a little clump of grass that was growing up through the stones in the courtyard. “And no doubt sin and good and evil are all lies told by priests and men, and the truth is only that we grow and die and wither even as this grass here.” He turned on his heel. “Well, I will go and share Gareth’s vigil, as I promised him ... he at least loves me in all innocence, like a younger brother or my son. I should fear to kneel before that altar, if I believed one word of what their priests say, damned as I am. And yet— how I wish there were such a God as could forgive me and let me know myself forgiven ... .”
He turned to go, but Morgaine caught at the embroidered sleeve of the festival gown he had put on. “Wait. What is this of a vigil in the church? I knew not that Arthur’s Companions had grown so pious.”
“Arthur thinks often of his kingmaking on Dragon Island,” said Lancelet, “and he said once that the Romans with their many Gods, and the old pagan folk, had something which was needed in life, that when men took on some great obligation, they should do it prayerfully, and be in mind of its great meaning and dedication. And so he spoke with the priests, and they have made it so in ritual, that when any new Companion, not seasoned by battle—where he is tried by the very confrontation with death—when an unblooded man joins with the Companions, there is this special testing, that he shall watch and pray all night by his arms, and in the morning confess all his sins and be shriven, and then be made knight.”
“Why, then, it is a kind of initiation into the Mysteries that he would give them. But he is no maker of Mysteries, he has no right to confer the Mysteries on another or give initiation, and all garbled in the name of their Christ God. In the name of the Mother, will they even take over the Mysteries?”
Lancelet answered defensively, “He consulted with Taliesin, who gave countenance to it,” and Morgaine was startled that one of the highest Druids would so compromise the Mysteries. Yet there had been a time, so Taliesin said, when Christian and Druid worshipped in common.
“It is what happens in the soul of the man,” said Lancelet, “not whether it is Christian or pagan or Druid. If Gareth faces the mystery in his heart, and it makes him a better man in his soul, does it matter whence it comes, from the Goddess or from Christ or from that Name the Druids may not speak—or from the very goodness within himself?”
“Why, you argue like Taliesin’s very self!” said Morgaine sourly.
“Aye, I know the words.” His mouth twisted with terrible bitterness. “Would to God—any God—I could find something in my heart which believed them, or some such comfort as that!”
Morgaine could only say, “I would that you might, cousin. I will pray for you.”
“But to whom?” Lancelet asked and went away, leaving Morgaine sorely troubled.
It was not yet midnight. In the church she could see the lights where Gareth and now Lancelet kept vigil. She bent her head, remembering the night when she herself had kept watch, her hand automatically going to her side for the touch of a little crescent knife that had not hung there for many years.
And I cast it away. Who am I to speak of profaning the Mysteries?
Then the air suddenly stirred and swirled like a whirlpool before her, and she felt she would sink down where she stood, for Viviane stood before her in the moonlight.
She was older and thinner. Her eyes were like great burning coals set beneath her level brows, her hair almost all white now. She looked on Morgaine, it seemed, with sorrow and tenderness.
“Mother—“ she stammered, not knowing whether she spoke to Viviane or to the Goddess. And then the image wavered and Morgaine knew that Viviane was not there; a Sending, no more.
“Why have you come? What do you want of me?” Morgaine whispered, kneeling, feeling the stir of Viviane’s robes in the night wind. About her brow was a crown of wicker-withes like to the crown of the queen of the fairy country. The apparition stretched forth her hand, and Morgaine could feel the faded crescent burning on her brow.
The night watchman strode through the court, the light of his lantern flaring; Morgaine knelt alone, staring at nothing. Hastily she scrambled to her feet before the man could see.
She had lost, suddenly, all desire to go to Kevin’s bed. He would be waiting for her, but if she did not come, he would never think of reproaching her. She stole quietly through the hallways to the room she shared with Gwenhwyfar’s unmarried maidens, and into the bed she shared with young Elaine.
I thought the Sight forever gone from me. Yet Viviane came to me and stretched out her hand. Is it that Avalon has need of me? Or does it mean that I, like Lancelet, am going mad?