The Prisoner in the Oak
In far hills of North Wales, rain had been falling day after day, and the castle of King Uriens seemed to swim in fog and damp. The roads were ankle-deep mud, the fords swollen as rivers rushed down in spate from the mountains, and damp chill gripped the countryside. Morgaine, wrapped in cloak and heavy shawl, felt her fingers stiffening and slowing on the shuttle as she sent it through the loom; suddenly she started upright, the shuttle falling from her cold hands.
“What is it, Mother?” Maline asked, blinking at the sharp sound in the quiet hall.
“There is a rider on the road,” Morgaine said. “We must make ready to welcome him.” And then, observing her daughter-in-law’s troubled look, she cursed herself; again she had let herself slip into the half-trance which women’s work always brought upon her nowadays. She had long ago ceased to spin, but weaving, which she enjoyed, had seemed safe if she kept her wits about her and didn’t succumb to the drowsy trancelike monotony of it.
And Maline was looking at her in the half-wary, half-exasperated way which Morgaine’s unexpected seeings always evoked. Not that Maline believed there was anything wicked or even magical about them—it was just her mother-in-law’s queer way. But Maline would speak of them to the priest, and he would come again and try to be subtle about asking her whence they came, and she would have to put on a meek-woman face and pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. Someday she would be too weary or too unguarded to care, and she would speak her mind to the priest. Then he would really have something to talk about ... .
Well, done was done, and could not be helped now. She got along well enough with Father Eian, who had been Uwaine’s tutor—he was an educated man for a priest. “Tell the Father that his pupil will be here at dinnertime,” Morgaine said, and once again realized that her tongue had slipped; she had known Maline had been thinking of the priest and had responded to Maline’s thought, not her words. She went out of the room leaving the younger woman staring.
All the winter, which had been heavy with rain and snow and repeated storms, not a single traveller had come. She dared not spin; it opened the gates too quickly to trance. Now, weaving was likely to do the same. She sewed industriously at making clothes for all the folk of the household, from Uriens down to Maline’s newest baby, but it was hard on her eyes to do fine needlework; in the winter she had no access to fresh herbs and plants, and could do little with brewing simples and medicines. She had no companion—her waiting-women were the wives of Uriens’ men-at-arms and duller than Maline; not one of them could spell out so much as a verse in the Bible and were shocked that Morgaine could read and write and knew some Latin and Greek. And she could not sit always at her harp. So she had spent the winter in a frenzy of boredom and impatience ...
... the worse, she thought, because the temptation was always there to sit and spin and dream, letting her mind slide away, to follow Arthur at Camelot, or Accolon on quest—it had come to her, three years ago, that Accolon should spend enough time at court that Arthur should know him well and trust him. Accolon bore the serpents of Avalon, and that might prove a valuable bond with Arthur. She missed Accolon like a constant ache; in his presence she was what he always saw her—high priestess, confident of her goals and herself. But that was secret between them. In the long, lonely seasons, Morgaine experienced recurrent doubts and dreads; was she then no more than Uriens thought her, a solitary queen growing old, body and mind and soul drying and withering?
Still, she kept her hand firmly on this household, over countryfolk and castlefolk alike, so that all should turn to her for counsel and wisdom. They said in the country around: The queen is wise. Even the king does nothing without her consent. The Tribesmen and the Old Ones, she knew, came near to worshipping her; though she dared not appear too often at the ancient worship.
Now in the kitchen house she made arrangements for a festal dinner —or as near to it as they could come at the end of a long winter when the roads were closed. Morgaine gave from the locked cupboards some of her hoarded store of raisins and dried fruits, and a few spices for cooking the last of the bacon. Maline would tell Father Eian that Uwaine was expected at the hall for dinner. She herself should bear the tidings to Uriens.
She went up to his chamber, where he was lazily playing at dice with one of his men-at-arms; the room smelled frowsty and unaired, stale and old. At least his long siege with the lung fever this winter has meant I need not be expected to share his bed. It has been just as well, Morgaine thought dispassionately, that Accolon has spent this winter in Camelot with Arthur; we might have taken dangerous chances and been discovered.
Uriens set down the dice cup and looked up at her. He was thinner, wasted by his long struggle with the fever. There had been a few days when Morgaine thought he could not live, and she had fought hard for his life; partly because, in spite of everything, she was fond of him and did not want to see him die, partly because Avalloch would have succeeded to his throne the moment he died.
“I have not seen you all day. I have been lonely, Morgaine,” Uriens said, with a fretful note of reproach. “Huw, here, is not half so good to look at.”
“Why,” Morgaine said, tuning her voice to the broad jesting Uriens liked, “I have left you purposely alone, thinking that in your old age you had taken a taste for handsome young men ... if you do not want him, husband, does that mean that I can have him?”
Uriens chuckled. “You are making the poor man blush,” he said, smiling with broad good nature. “But if you leave me alone all day, why, what am I to do but moon and make sheep’s eyes at him, or at the dog.”
“Well, I have come to give you good news. You shall be carried down to the hall for dinner tonight—Uwaine is riding hither and will be here before suppertime.”
“Now God be thanked,” Uriens said. “I thought this winter that I should die without seeing either of my sons again.”
“I suppose Accolon will return for the Midsummer festivals.” In her body Morgaine felt a stab of hunger so great that it was pain as she thought of the Beltane fires, now only two months away.
“Father Eian has been at me again to forbid the rites,” Uriens said peevishly. “I am tired of hearing his complaints. He has it in mind that if we cut down the grove, then the folk would be content with his blessing of the fields, and not turn away to the Beltane fires. It is true that there seems more and more of the old worship every year—I had thought that as the old folk died off, year by year, it would grow ever less. I was willing to let it die out with the Old People who could not accustom themselves to new ways. But if the young people now are turning back to heathen ways, then we must do something—perhaps, even, cut down the grove.”
If you do, I shall do murder, Morgaine thought, but schooled her voice to gentleness and reason. “That would be wrong. The oaks give pig food and food for the country people—even here we have had to use acorn flour in a bad season. And the grove has been there for hundreds of years—the trees are sacred—“
“You sound too much a pagan yourself, Morgaine.”
“Can you say the oak grove is not the work of God?” she retorted. “Why should we punish the harmless trees because foolish men make a use of them dial Father Eian does not like? I thought you loved your land.”
“Well, and so I do,” said Uriens fretfully, “but Avalloch, too, says I should cut it down, so that the pagans should have no place of resort. We might build a church or chapel there.”
“But the Old Ones are your subjects too,” Morgaine said, “and in your youth you made the Great Marriage with the land. Would you deprive the Old People of the grove that is their food and shelter, and their own chapel built by the very hands of God and not of man? Would you then condemn them to die or starve as they have done in some of the cleared lands?”
Uriens looked down at his gnarled old wrists. The blue tattoos there had almost faded and were no more than pale stains. “Well are you called Morgaine of the Fairies—the Old People could have no better advocate. Since you plead for their shelter, my lady, I will spare the grove while I live, but after me, Avalloch must do as he will. Will you fetch me my shoes and robe, so that I may dine in hall like a king, and not an old dodderer in bedgown and slippers?”
“To be sure,” said Morgaine, “but I cannot lift you now. Huw will have to dress you.”
But when the man had finished his work, she combed Uriens’ hair and summoned the other man-at-arms who awaited the king’s call. The two men lifted him, making a chair between their arms, and carried him into the hall, where Morgaine placed cushions about his high seat and watched as the thin old body was deposited there.
By that time she could hear servants bustling about, and riders in the courtyard ... Uwaine, she thought, hardly raising her eyes as the young man was escorted into the hall.
It was hard to bear in mind that this tall young knight, with broad shoulders and a battle scar along one cheek, was the scrawny little boy who had come to her, like a wild animal tamed, in her first lonely, desperate year at Uriens’ court. Uwaine kissed his father’s hand, then bent before Morgaine.
“My father. Dear mother—“
“It’s good to see you home again, lad,” said Uriens, but Morgaine’s eyes were on the other man who followed him into the hall. For a moment she did not believe it, it was like seeing a ghost—surely if he were really here I would have seen him with the Sight... and then she understood. I have been trying so hard not to think of Accolon, lest I go mad ...
Accolon was slenderer than his brother, and not quite so tall. His eyes darted to Morgaine, one swift furtive look as he knelt before his father, but his voice was wholly correct when he turned to her. “It is good to be home again, lady—“
“It is good to have you here,” she said steadily, “both of you. Uwaine, tell us how you got that dreadful scar on your cheek. Since the defeat of Emperor Lucius, I thought all men had pledged to Arthur to make no further trouble!”
“The usual,” said Uwaine lightly. “Some bandit who moved into a deserted fort and amused himself by preying on the countryside and calling himself a king. Lot’s son Gawaine went with me and we made short work of him, and Gawaine got himself a wife out of it—the lady is a widow with rich lands. As for this—“ He touched the scar lightly. “While Gawaine fought the master I took the man—an ugly bastard who fought left-handed and got through my guard. Clumsy, too—I’d rather fight a good swordsman than a bad, any day! If you’d been there, Mother, I wouldn’t have quite such a scar—the surgeon who stitched it up for me had hands like cabbages! Has it spoilt my looks as much as that?”
Morgaine reached out and gently touched her stepson’s slashed cheek. “You will always be handsome to me, my son. But perhaps I can still do something—there is festering there and swelling; before I sleep I will make you a poultice for it, so that it will heal better. It must pain you.”
“It does,” Uwaine admitted, “but I thought myself lucky not to get the lockjaw from it, which one of my men did. Ai, what a death!” He shuddered. “When the wound swelled, I thought I was for it, too, and my good friend Gawaine said, as long as I could drink wine I was in no danger —and he kept me well supplied, too. I swear I was drunk for a fortnight, Mother!” He guffawed. “I would have given all the plunder of that bandit’s castle for some of your soup—I couldn’t chew bread or dried meat, and I nearly starved to death. I did lose three teeth ... .”
She rose and peered at the wound. “Open your mouth. Yes,” she said, and gestured to one of the servants. “Bring sir Uwaine some stew, and some stewed fruit, too,” she said. “You must not even try to chew hard food for a while. After supper, I’ll see to it.”
“I won’t say no to that, Mother. It still hurts like the devil, and besides, there’s a girl at Arthur’s court—I don’t want her to shrink away as if I were a devil face.” He chuckled. But for all the pain in his wound he ate hugely, telling tales of the court until they were all laughing. Morgaine dared not take her eyes from her stepson, but all through the meal she could feel Accolon’s eyes on her, warming her as if she were standing in sunlight after the winter’s chill.
It was a merry meal, but at last Uriens began to look weary and Morgaine summoned his body servants. “This is the first day you have left your bed, my husband—you must not weary yourself too much.”
Uwaine rose and said, “Let me carry you, Father.” He stooped and lifted the sick man as if he were a child. Morgaine, following, turned back before leaving the dining hall to say, “See to all things here, Maline—I will bandage Uwaine’s cheek before I go to rest.”
Soon Uriens was tucked into bed in his own chamber, Uwaine standing beside him while Morgaine went to the kitchens to brew a poultice for his cheek. She had to prod the cook awake and set him to heating more water over the kitchen fire ... she should have a brazier and a cauldron in her own rooms if she was going to do this kind of work, why had she never thought of it before? She went up and sat Uwaine down so that she could poultice his cheek with the hot cloths wrung in steaming herb brew, and the young man sighed with relief as the poultice began to draw out the soreness from the festered wound.
“Oh, but that’s good, Mother—that girl at Arthur’s court wouldn’t know how to do this. When I marry her, Mother, will you teach her some of your craft? Her name is Shana, and she’s from Cornwall. She was one of Queen Isotta’s ladies—how is it that Marcus calls himself king in Cornwall, Mother? I thought Tintagel belonged to you.”
“So it does, my son, from Igraine and Duke Gorlois. I knew not that Marcus thought to reign there,” Morgaine said. “Does Marcus dare to claim Tintagel as his own?”
“No, for the last I heard he had no champion there,” Uwaine said. “Sir Drustan has gone into exile in Brittany—“
“Why? Was he one of the Emperor Lucius’ men?” asked Morgaine. This talk of the court was a breath of life in the deadness of this isolated place.
Uwaine shook his head. “No ... there was talk that he and Queen Isotta had been overfond of each other,” he said. “One can hardly blame the poor lady ... Cornwall is the end of the world, and Duke Marcus is old and peevish and his chamberlains say he is impotent too—hard life for the poor lady, while Drustan is handsome and a harper, and the lady fond of music.”
“Have you no gossip of court save of wickedness and other men’s wives?” demanded Uriens, scowling, and Uwaine laughed. “Well, I told the lady Shana that her father might send a messenger to you, and I hope, dear father, that when he comes you will not refuse him. Shana is not rich, but I have no great need of a dowry, I won goods enough in Brittany—I shall show you some of my plunder, and I have gifts for my mother, too.” He raised his hand to stroke Morgaine’s cheek as she bent over him, changing the poultice for a fresh one. “Well I know you are not such a woman as that lady Isotta, to turn your back on my good old father and play the harlot.”
Her cheeks stung; she bent over the kettle of steaming herbs, wrinkling her nose at the bitter scent. Uwaine thought her the best of women, and his trust was sweet to her, yet there was the bitterness of knowing it unmerited.
At least I have never made Uriens look a fool, nor yet flaunted any other lover in his face ... .
“But you should go to Cornwall, when my father is well enough to travel,” Uwaine said seriously, flinching a little as the heat of the poultice touched a new spot on his festered cheek. “There should be a clear understanding, Mother, that Marcus cannot lay claim to what is yours. You have not shown your face in Tintagel for so long that the common people may forget they have a queen.”
“I’m sure it will not come to that,” said Uriens. “But if I am well again this summer, I will ask Arthur, when I ride to Pentecost, about this matter of Morgaine’s lands.”
“And if Uwaine marries into Cornwall,” said Morgaine, “he shall keep Tintagel for me—would you like to be my castellan, Uwaine?”
“I would like nothing better,” said Uwaine, “except, perhaps, to sleep tonight without forty separate toothaches in my jaw.”
“Drink this,” said Morgaine, pouring one of her medicines from a small flask into his wine, “and I can promise you sleep.”
“I would sleep without it, I think, madam, I am so glad to be in my own home and my own bed, under my mother’s care.” Uwaine bent and embraced his father, and kissed Morgaine’s hand. “But I will take your medicines willingly.” He swallowed the medicined wine and beckoned to one of Uriens’ men-at-arms to light him to his own room. Accolon came and embraced his father, and said, “I too am for my bed ... lady, are there pillows there, or is the room empty and bare? I have not been home in so long, I expect to find pigeons roosting in that old room where I used to sleep and Father Eian tried to beat Latin into my head through the seat of my breeches.”
“I told Maline to be sure you had everything you needed,” said Morgaine, “but I will come and see. Will you need me again this night, my lord,” she asked, turning to Uriens, “or shall I too go to my rest?”
Only a soft snore answered her, and his man Huw, settling the old man on the pillows, answered, “Go, lady Morgaine. If he wakes in the night I’ll look after him.”
As they went out, Accolon asked, “What ails my father?”
“He had the lung fever this winter,” said Morgaine, “and he is not young.”
“And you have had all the weight of caring for him,” Accolon said. “Poor Morgaine—“ and he touched her hand; she bit her lip at his tender voice. Something hard and cold inside her, frozen there since the winter, was melting and she thought she would dissolve into weeping. She bent her head and did not look at him.
“And you, Morgaine—not a word or a look for me—?” He reached out and touched her, and she said between clenched teeth, “Wait.”
She called a servant to fetch fresh bolsters, a blanket or two from the store. “Had I known you were coming, I would have had the best linens and blankets, and fresh bed straw.”
He said in a whisper, “It is not fresh straw I want in my bed,” but she refused to turn her face to him while the serving-women were making the bed up, bringing hot water and light, and hanging up his armor and outer garments.
When they were all away for a moment he whispered, “Later, may I come to your room, Morgaine?”
She shook her head and whispered back, “I will come to you—I can have some excuse for being out of my chamber in the middle of the night, but since your father has been ill, often they come to fetch me—you must not be found there—“ and she gave him a quick, silent pressure of her fingers. It was as if his hand burned her. Then she went with the chamberlain on the last rounds of the castle to make sure that all was locked and secure.
“God give you a good night, lady,” he said, bowing, and went away. She tiptoed through the hall where the men-at-arms slept, moving on noiseless feet; along the stairs, past the room where Avalloch slept with Maline and the younger children, the room where young Conn had slept with his tutor and his foster-brothers before the poor lad had succumbed to the lung fever. In the farther wing were Uriens’ own chamber, one she now kept for herself, another room usually allotted to guests of importance, and at the far end, the room where she had left Accolon. She stole toward his room, her mouth dry, hoping he had had the sense to keep his door ajar ... the walls were old and thick and there would be no way he could hear her at his door.
She looked into her own room; went in, swiftly, and disarranged the bed clothing. Her own waiting-woman, Ruach, was old and deaf, and in the winter past Morgaine had cursed her for her deafness and stupidity, but now that would serve her ... even so, she must not wake in the morning and find Morgaine’s bed untouched; even old Ruach knew that King Uriens was not well enough to share his bed with the queen.
How often have I told myself, I am not ashamed of what I do ... yet she must not bring scandal on her name, or she could accomplish nothing here. But she hated the need for secrecy and furtiveness.
He had left the door ajar. She slipped inside, her heart pounding, and pushed the door shut; felt herself seized in a hungry embrace that waked her body into fierce life. His mouth closed on hers as if he had starved for this as much as she ... it seemed as if the whole winter’s desolation and pain fell away and that she was like melting ice, that she would flood and overflow ... . She pressed her body to Accolon’s and fought to keep from crying.
All her resolve that Accolon was no more to her than priest of the Goddess, that she would not allow any personal tie between them, had gone for nothing in the face of this wild hunger in her. She had felt so much scorn for Gwenhwyfar, bringing the court to scandal and her king into contempt, because he could not keep his wife in order. But now, in Accolon’s arms, all her resolve melted. She sank down in his embrace and let him carry her to his bed.
The night was far advanced when Morgaine slipped away from Accolon’s side. He lay heavily asleep; she ran her fingers over his hair, kissed him softly, and stole from the room. She had not slept—she had feared to sleep too long and be surprised there by day. It was more than an hour before sunrise. Morgaine rubbed her burning eyes. Somewhere outside a dog barked, a child wailed and was hushed, birds chirped in the garden. Morgaine thought, looking out through a narrow slit in the stone wall, In another moon it will be full daylight at this hour. She leaned for a moment against the wall, overcome by memories of the night past.
I never knew, she thought, I have never known what it was to be only a woman. I have borne a child and I have been married for fourteen years and I have had lovers ... but I knew nothing, nothing ... .
She felt a sudden rough hand on her arm. Avalloch’s hoarse voice said, “What are you doing sneaking around the house at this hour, girl?”
He had evidently mistaken her for one of the servant-women; some of them were small and dark with the blood of the Old Ones.
“Let me go, Avalloch,” she said, looking at the dimly seen face of her older stepson. He was heavy and soft, his jowls blurred with fat, his eyes small and set close. Accolon and Uwaine were handsome men, and one could see that once Uriens had been good-looking in his own way. But not Avalloch.
“Well, my lady mother!” he said, stepping back and giving her an exaggerated bow. “I repeat, what were you doing at this hour?”
His hand remained on her arm; she picked it off as if it were a crawling bug. “Must I account for my movements to you? It is my house and I move in it as I will and that is my only answer.” He dislikes me, she thought, almost as much as I dislike him.
“Don’t play games with me, madam,” said Avalloch. “Do you think I do not know in whose arms you spent the night?”
She said, contemptuously, “Now is it you who play with sorcery and the Sight?”
His voice dropped and took on a cozening sound. “Of course it must be dull for you, wed to a man old enough to be your father—but I would not hurt my father’s feelings by telling him where his wife spends her nights, provided”—he put his arm round her and by main force drew her close to him. He bent his head and nibbled on her neck, his unshaven cheek scratching her—“provided you come and spend some of them with me.”
She pulled away from him and tried to make her voice jocular. “Come now, Avalloch, why should you pursue your old stepmother when the Spring Maiden is yours, and all the pretty young maidens in the village—“
“But I have always looked on you as a beautiful woman,” he said, and his hand stole out to caress her shoulder, sliding under the half-fastened front of her robe. She pulled away again and his face twisted into a snarl. “Why play the modest maiden with me? Was it Accolon or Uwaine, or both at once?”
She stared at him. “Uwaine is my son! I am the only mother he can remember!”
“Am I to think that would stop you, lady Morgaine? It was common talk at Arthur’s court that you were Lancelet’s paramour and tried to lure him from the Queen, and that you shared the Merlin’s bed—that you had not stopped at making unlawful love to your own brother, and that was why the King sent you from court, that you might tempt him no more from Christian ways—why should you stop at your stepson? Does Uriens know what kind of incestuous harlot he took for his wife, madam?”
“Uriens knows everything about me that he has any need to know,” said Morgaine, surprised that her voice was so steady. “As for the Merlin, we were then both unwed and neither of us cares anything for the laws of a Christian court. Your father knew and absolved me of that. None but he has any right to complain of my conduct since then, and when he does so I will answer to him, as I need not answer to you, sir Avalloch. And now I will go to my own room, and I bid you do the same.”
“So you throw the pagan laws of Avalon at me,” Avalloch said, his voice a sneering growl. “Harlot, how dare you claim you are so good—“ He grabbed her; his mouth crushed hers. Morgaine stabbed her stiffened fingers into his belly; he grunted and let her go with a curse. She said angrily, “I claim nothing. I need not answer to you for my conduct, and if you speak to Uriens, I will tell him that you laid hands on me in a fashion unseemly for your father’s wife, and we will see whom he will believe.”
Avalloch snarled, “Let me tell you, lady, you may cozen my father as you will, but he is old, and on the day I am made king in this land, be sure there will be no more grace extended to those who have lived on because my father cannot forget that once he wore the serpents!”
“Oh, rare,” said Morgaine scornfully. “First you make advances to your fadier’s wife, and then you boast of how good a Christian you will be when your father’s land is yours!”
“You first bewitched me—harlot!”
Morgaine could not keep back her laughter. “Bewitch you? And why? Avalloch, if all men save you vanished from the earth, I would sooner share my bed with one of the puppies! Your father may be old enough to be my grandsire, but I would sooner lie with him than you! Do you think I am jealous of Maline, when every time you go down to the village at harvest or spring-plowing festival she sings? If I made such an enchantment, it would not be to enjoy your manhood but to wither it! Now get your hands off me, and go back to whoever will have you, for if you touch me again with one fingertip I swear I will blast your manhood!”
He believed she could do it; that was clear from the way he shrank from her. But Father Eian would hear of this, and then he would question her, and he would question Accolon, and he would question the servants, and then he would be at Uriens again to cut down the sacred grove and put down the old worship. Avalloch would not stop until he had set this whole court by the ears.
I hate Avalloch! Morgaine was surprised that her rage was physical, a scalding pain beneath her breastbone, a shaking through her whole body. Once I was proud; a priestess ofAvalon does not lie. And now there is something about which I must auoid the truth. Even Uriens would see me as a treacherous wife, creeping in secret to Accolon’s bed for her own lusts ... . She was weeping with rage, feeling Avalloch’s hot hands again on her arm and her breast. Now, soon or late, she would be accused, and even if Uriens trusted her, she would be watched. Ah, I was happy for the first time in many years and now it is all spoilt ... .
Well, the sun was rising, soon the housefolk would be waking, and she must make arrangements for the work of the day. Had he been only guessing? Uriens must keep his bed, certainly Avalloch would not disturb his father this day. She must brew some more of the herb medicine for Uwaine’s face wound, and the roots of one of his broken teeth must be dug out, too.
Uwaine loved her—surely he would not listen to any accusation Avalloch might make. And at that, she felt the flooding, surging fury again, remembering Avalloch’s words: Was it Accolon or Uwaine, or both at once.. . ? I am as much Uwaine’s mother as if I had borne him! What kind of woman does he think me? But was that rumor indeed in Arthur’s court, that she had committed incest with Arthur, himself? How, then, in the face of that, can I bring Arthur to acknowledge Gwydion his son? Galahad is Arthur’s heir, but my son must be acknowledged, and the royal line of Avalon. But there must be no further scandal about me, certainly not any hint that I have committed incest with my stepson ... .
And she wondered a little at herself. She had flown into a desperate rage when she knew she was to bear Arthur’s son and now it seemed trivial to her; after all, she and Arthur had not even known themselves brother and sister. But Uwaine—no blood kin to her—was far more her son than Gwydion; she had mothered Uwaine ... .
Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. Morgaine went to the kitchen and heard the cook complain that all the bacon was gone, and the storerooms were near enough empty to make it hard to feed all these homecomers.
“Well, we must send Avalloch to hunt today,” said Morgaine, and stopped Maline on the stairs as she carried up her husband’s morning drink of hot wine.
Maline said, “I saw you talking with Avalloch—what did he have to say to you?” She frowned a little, and Morgaine, reading her thoughts as it was easy to do with a woman as stupid as Maline, realized that her daughter-in-law feared and resented her; thought it unfair that Morgaine should still be slim-bodied and hard when she, Maline, was heavy and worn with childbearing, that Morgaine should have glossy dark hair when Maline herself, busied with babies, never had time to comb and plait her own, and make it shine.
Morgaine said truthfully, but also with a wish to spare her daughter-in-law’s feelings, “We spoke of Accolon, and of Uwaine. But the storerooms are nearly empty, and Avalloch must go hunting for boar.” And then what she must do flashed full-blown into her head, and for a moment she stood frozen, hearing Niniane say in mind and memory, Accolon must succeed his father, and her own voice replying ... . Maline was staring at her, waiting for her to finish what she was saying, and Morgaine quickly collected herself. “Tell him that he must go out after boar, today if he can, tomorrow at the latest, or we shall be eating the last of the flour too soon.”
“Certainly I will tell him, Mother,” said Maline. “He will be glad to have an excuse to be away.” And through Maline’s complaining voice, Morgaine knew the younger woman was relieved that it had been nothing worse.
Poor woman, married to that pig. She remembered, troubled, exactly what Avalloch had said, On the day I am made king in this land, there will be no more grace extended to those who have lived on because my father cannot forget that once he wore the serpents.
This, then, was her task: to make certain that Accolon should succeed his father, not for her own sake or for revenge, but for the sake of the old worship which she and Accolon had brought back to this land. If I had half an hour to tell Accolon all, he would go with Avalloch hunting, and I doubt not that would solve all. And she thought, with cold calculation, Shall I keep my hands clean of this, and leave it to Accolon?
Uriens was old; but he might live another year, or another five years. Now that Avalloch knew all, he would work with Father Eian to undermine any influence Accolon and Morgaine might have, and all that she had done would be undone again.
If Accolon wants this kingdom, perhaps it is he who should make certain of it. If Avalloch dies of poison, it is I who will die for a sorceress. Yet if she left it to Accolon—then would it be all too much like that old ballad, the one which began, Two brothers went a-hunting ... .
Shall I tell Accolon, and let him act in his rage? Troubled, still not certain what she would do, she went up to find Accolon in his father’s room, and as she came in she heard him say, “Today Avalloch goes to hunt boar— the storeroom is near to empty. And I will ride with him. It is all too long since I have hunted in my own hills—“
“No,” Morgaine said sharply. “Stay with your father today. He will need you, and Avalloch has all his huntsmen to help him.”
She thought, Somehow I must tell him what I mean to do, and then she stopped herself. If he knew what she planned—though she was not yet sure herself what form her necessity would take—he would never accede to it, except perhaps in his first anger at hearing what Avalloch had said to her.
And if he did, she thought—though I thought I knew him better than that, still my own hunger for his body might have deceived me, and he may be less honorable than I think him—if he were such a one as would consent to be party to this, then he would be kin slayer and under that curse, and not such a one as I could trust for what lies before us. Avalloch is kin to me by marriage alone; there is no blood tie to dishonor. Only if I had borne Uriens a son would there be blood guilt on me. Now, she was glad she had given Uriens no son.
Accolon said, “Let Uwaine stay with father—if his cheek wound is being poulticed still, it is he that should stay indoors and keep to the fireside.”
How can I make him understand? His hands must be clean; he must be here when the news comes ... what can I say to him to make him understand that this is important, perhaps the most important thing I shall ever ask of him? Urgency, and the impossibility of voicing her inner thoughts, made her voice sharp.
“Will you do as I ask you without argument, Accolon? If I am to tend Uwaine’s wound too, I shall have no leisure to tend your father as well, and he has been left to serving-folk all too often of late!” And your father, if the Goddess is with me, shall have more need of you at his side than ever, before this day is ended ... .
She slurred her words, hoping Uriens would not understand what she was saying. “As your mother I ask it,” she said, but what she was saying to Accolon, with all the force of her thoughts, was, From the Mother I command it.... “Obey me,” she said and, turning a little away from Uriens, so that Accolon alone could see, she touched the faded blue crescent on her forehead. Accolon looked at her—puzzled, questioning—but she turned away, shaking her head slightly, hoping that at least he would understand why she could not speak more freely.
He said, frowning, “Certainly, if you wish it so much. It is no hardship to stay with my father.”
Morgaine saw Avalloch ride out at midmorning with four huntsmen, and while Maline was in the lower hall, she slipped into their bedchamber, searching through the untidy room and through the discarded baby clothes and still unwashed napkins of the youngest. At last she found a small bronze arm ring she had seen Avalloch wear. There were some gold things too in Maline’s chest, but she did not dare to take anything of value which might be missed when Maline’s servant came to sort out the room. As it was, the serving-woman found her there and asked, “What did you want, lady?”
Morgaine feigned anger. “I will not live in a house that is kept like a pig’s byre! Look at all these unwashed napkins, they stink of baby shit! Take them down now, and give them to the washwoman, and then sweep and air this room—must I put on a clout and do all the sweeping myself?”
“No, madam,” said the servant, cringing, and took the fouled cloths that Morgaine heaped in her arms. Morgaine tucked the bronze ring inside her bodice and went down to have the cook heat water for Uwaine’s wound; that must be done first, and somehow she must order things in this house so that she would be idle and alone this afternoon. ... She sent for the best surgeon to bring his tools and made Uwaine sit down and open his mouth so that she could help to find the broken root of his tooth. He endured the probing and pulling stoically (though the tooth broke off in his jaw and again had to be dug for; fortunately it was numb and swollen), and finally when all the tooth was out, she dropped some of her strongest numbing medicine into the wound and poulticed the sore swollen cheek again. Finally it was done and Uwaine sent to bed with a strong dram of liquor inside him; he protested, arguing that he had ridden and even fought when he was in worse case than this, but she firmly ordered him to go to his bed and let her medicines take their full effect. So Uwaine, too, was safely out of the way and beyond suspicion. And since she had sent the servants to do washing, there were none of these, either, so that Maline began to complain. “If we are to have new gowns for Pentecost, and if Avalloch is to have his cloak finished—you do not like to spin, Mother, but I must weave at Avalloch’s cloak, and all the women are heating kettles of water for the washing and getting out their beating paddles—“
“Oh, dear, I had forgotten that,” said Morgaine. “Well, there is no help for it, I must spin then—unless you would have me do the weaving.” Better, she thought, even than the arm ring, a cloak made to his measure by his wife.
“Would you do that then, Mother? But you have the king’s new cloak set up on the other loom—“
“Uriens does not need it so much as Avalloch,” Morgaine said. “I will weave at Avalloch’s cloak.” And when I am done, she thought, a shudder running through her heart, he will never need a cloak anymore ... .
“Then I will spin,” said Maline, “and I will be grateful to you, Mother —you weave better than I.” She came and pressed her cheek to her mother-in-law’s. “You are always kind to me, lady Morgaine.”
But you do not know what I shall be weaving today, child.
Maline sat down and picked up the distaff. She paused for a moment, pressing her hands to her back.
“Are you not well, daughter-in-law?”
Maline said, “It is nothing—my courses are four days late. I am afraid I have gotten with child again, and I had hoped I could nurse the baby another year—“ She sighed. “Avalloch has women enough in the village, but I think he never loses hope I will give him another son to take Conn’s place! He doesn’t care anything for the girls—he did not even weep when Maeva died last year, just before I was brought to bed with the baby, and when she was another girl, he was really angry with me. Morgaine, if you truly know any charms, could you give me a charm so that I would bear a son next time I am brought to bed?”
Morgaine smiled, putting the shuttle to the threads. She said, “Father Eian will not like it, if you ask me for charms. He would tell you to pray to the Virgin Mother for a son.”
“Well, her son was a miracle, and I am beginning to think that if I ever have another son it would be another miracle,” said Maline. “But perhaps it is only this dismal chilly weather.”
“I will make you some tea for that,” said Morgaine. “If you are truly with child, I swear it will not disturb you, but if it is only delay from a chill, it will bring on your courses.”
“Is this one of your magical spells from Avalon, Mother?”
Morgaine shook her head. “It is herb lore, no more,” she said, went to the kitchen and made up the brew over the fire. She brought it to Maline and said, “Drink it as hot as you can, and wrap up in your shawl while you spin, try to keep warm.”
Maline drank up the brew, emptying the little pottery cup, and grimaced at the taste. “Ugh, foul!”
Morgaine said, smiling, “I should have put honey in it, as I do with the brews I make for the children when they have fever.”
Maline sighed, taking up the spindle and distaff again. She said, “Gwyneth is old enough to spin—I could spin when I was five years old.”
“So could I,” said Morgaine, “but I beg you, defer the lesson another day, for if I am to weave in here I do not want noise and confusion.”
“Well then, I will tell the nurse to keep all the children out in the gallery,” said Maline, and Morgaine dismissed her from her mind, beginning to run the shuttle slowly through the cloth and making sure of the pattern. It was a pattern of green and brown checkered cloth, not very demanding for a good weaver; so long as she counted the threads automatically, she need not keep her mind on it very long ... spinning would have been better. But she had made her distaste for spinning so well known that if she volunteered to spin this day it would be remembered.
The shuttle slid through the cloth: green, brown, green, brown, picking up the other shuttle every tenth row, changing the color. She had taught Maline to dye this green color, which she had learned in Avalon ... green of the new leaves coming into the spring, brown of the earth and of the fallen leaves where the boar rooted in the forest for acorns... shuttle sliding through the cloth, the comb to tighten each row of threads, her hands moving automatically, in and out and across, slide down the bar, pick up the shuttle from the other side ... would that Avalloch’s horse would slip and fall and he would break his neck and save me from what I must do ... . She felt cold and shivered, and willed herself to ignore it, concentrating on the shuttle sliding in and out of the threads, in and out, letting images rise and go at will, seeing Accolon in Uriens’ chamber playing with his father at draughts, Uwaine asleep, tossing and turning with the pain in his cheek wound even through his slumber, but now it would heal cleanly ... would that a wild boar would fight back and Avalloch’s huntsman be too slow to come to his aid ... .
I said to Niniane that I would not kill. Never name that well from which you will not drink... an image rose in her mind of the Holy Well of Avalon, the water rising from the spring, flooding into the fountain. The shuttle flickered in and out, green and brown, green and brown, like the sunlight falling through the green leaves onto the brown earth, where the spring tides rising within the forest ran with life, sap running in the brown wood ... the shuttle flashing now, faster and faster, the world beginning to blur before her eyes ... Goddess! Where you run in the forest with the running life of the deer ... all men are in your hands, and all the beasts ... .
Years ago she had been the Virgin Huntress, blessing the Horned One and sending him forth to run with the deer and to conquer or die as the Goddess might decree. He had come back to her .. . now she was no longer that Virgin, holding all the power of the Huntress. As the Mother, with all the power of fertility, she had woven spells to bring Lancelet to Elaine’s bed. But motherhood for her had ended in the blood of Gwydion’s birth. Now she sat here with her shuttle in her hand and wove death, like the shadow of the Old Death-crone. All men are in your hands to live or die, Mother ... .
The shuttle flickered, flashed in and out of her sight, green, brown, green like leaves and forest intertwined, where they ran, the beasts ... the wild boar snuffling and grunting and rooting with his long tusks, the sow with the piglets bounding behind her, in and out of a copse ... the shuttle raced in her hands and she saw nothing, only the snorting snuffle of the swine in the forest.
Ceridwen, Goddess, Mother, Death-crone, Great Raven ... Lady of death and life ... Great Sow, eater of your young ... I call you, I summon you ... if this is truly what you have decreed, it is for you to accomplish it ... time slid and shifted around her, she lay in the glade with the sun burning her back while she ran with the King Stag, she moved through the forest, softly, snuffling ... she sensed the life, the hunters trampling and shouting ... . Mother! Great Sow ...
Morgaine knew in a random corner of her mind that her hands continued to move, steadily, green and brown, brown and green, but beneath her lowered eyelids she saw nothing of the room or the threads, but only the new green springing beneath the trees, the mud and dead leaves brown from the winter, trampling, it was as if she rooted on all fours in the fragrant mud ... life of the Mother there beneath the trees ... behind her the little gruntings and squealings of the piglets, tusks tearing up the ground for hidden roots and acorns ... brown and green, green and brown ...
Like a shock to her nerves, as if it ripped through her body, she felt the sound of the trampling in the forest, the distant cries ... her body sat motionless before the loom, weaving brown threads and changing for green, shuttle after shuttle, only her fingers alive, but with the starting thrill of terror and rush of rage, she charged, letting the life of the swine rush through her ...
Goddess! Let not the innocent suffer ... the huntsmen are nothing to you. ... She could do nothing, she watched in dread, trembling, shuddering with the smell of blood, the smell of her mate’s blood ... blood spilled from the great boar, but this was nothing to her, like the King Stag he must die ... when his time was come, then must his blood be shed on the earth ... behind her she heard the squeals of frenzied piglings and suddenly the life of the Great Goddess rushed through her, not knowing whether she was Morgaine or the Great Sow, heard her own high frenzied grunting—as when, in Avalon, she had raised her hands and brought down on her the mists of the Goddess, so she flung her head back, shivering, grunting, hearing the terror of her piglings, making short little rushes, flinging up her head, rushing in circles ... green and brown under her eyes, an irrelevant shuttle in automatic fingers, unnoticed ... then, maddened by the alien smells, blood, iron, strangeness, the enemy rising on two legs, steel and blood and death, she felt herself charge, heard cries, felt the hot stab of metal and red blurring her eyes through the brown and green of the forest, felt her tusks tearing, felt hot blood burst forth and gush as the life went out of her in searing pain and she fell and knew no more ... and the shuttle went on, leaden, weaving brown and green and brown over the agony in her belly and the red bursting through her eyes and her pounding heart, the screams still in her ears in the silent room where there was no sound but the whisper of shuttle and warp and spindle and distaff... she swung silent, in her trance, exhausted ... slumped forward at the loom and lay there, motionless. After a time she heard Maline speak, but she neither moved nor answered.
“Ah! Gwyneth, Morag—Mother, are you ill? Ah, heavens, she will weave, and always it brings these fits upon her—Uwaine! Accolon! Come, Mother has fallen at her loom—“
She felt the woman restlessly chafing her hands, calling her name, heard Accolon’s voice, felt him lift and carry her. She did not, could not, move or speak—she let them lay her on her bed, bring wine to revive her, felt it trickle down her neck, and wanted to say, I am all right, let be, but she heard herself make a frightened little grunting sound and was still, agony ripping her, knowing that in death the Great Sow would release her, but first she must suffer the death throes ... and even as she lay there, blind, tranced, agonized, she heard the hunting horn sound and knew that they were bringing Avalloch home, dead on his horse, slain by the sow which had attacked him within moments after he had killed the boar ... and he in turn had slain the sow ... death and blood and rebirth and the flow of life in and out of the forest, like the winding in and out of the shuttle ... .
IT WAS hours later. She still could not move a muscle without griping, terrifying pain; almost she welcomed it. I should not go wholly free of this death, but Accolon’s hands are clean ... . She looked up into his eyes. He was bending over her with concern and dread, and they were alone for a moment.
“Are you able to speak now, my love?” he whispered. “What happened?”
She shook her head and could not speak. But his hands on her were tender, welcome. Do you know what I have done for you, dear love?
He bent and kissed her. He would never know how close they had come to being exposed and defeated.
“I must go back to Father,” he said gently, troubled. “He weeps and says, if I had gone, my brother would not have died—he will blame me always.” His dark eyes rested on her, a shadow of disquiet in them. “It was you who commanded me not to go,” he said. “Did you know this with your magic, beloved?”
She found a shred of voice through the soreness in her throat. “It was the will of the Goddess,” she said, “that Avalloch should not destroy what we have done here.” She managed, with great pain, to move her finger, tracing out the line of the tattooed serpent on the hand that touched her face.
His expression changed, grew suddenly fearful. “Morgaine! Had you any part in this?”
Ah, I should have known how he would look at me if he knew ...
“Can you ask?” she whispered. “I was weaving in the hall all this day in clear sight of Maline and the servants and the children ... it was her will and her doing, not mine.”
“But you knew, you knew?”
Slowly, her eyes filling with tears, she nodded, and he bent and kissed her lips.
“Be it so. It was the will of the Goddess,” he said, and he went away.
There was a place in the woods where a rushing stream broadened out between rocks into a deep pool; Morgaine sat there on a flat rock overlooking the water and made Accolon sit beside her. They would be unseen here, except by the little ancient folk, and they would never betray their queen.
“My dear, all these years we have worked together—tell me, Accolon, what is it you think we are doing?”
“Lady, I have been content to know you had a purpose,” he said, “and not to ask questions of you. If you had sought only for a lover”—he raised his eyes to her and reached for her hand—“there would have been others than I for that, better suited to such games. ... I love you well, Morgaine, and I have been—glad and honored—that you turned to me, even for companionship and the touch of tenderness, but it was not that which called me to you, priest to priestess.” He hesitated, and sat stirring the sand at his feet with a booted foot. Finally he said, “It has come to me, too, that there was more of purpose in this than the wish of a priestess to restore the rites in this country, or your need to draw down upon us the moon tides—glad I have been to aid you in this and share the worship with you, lady. Lady of this land you have been indeed, especially to the ancient folk who see in you the face of the Goddess. For a time I thought it was only that we had been called to restore the old worship here. But now it comes to me, I know not why”—he touched the serpents which twined about his wrists —“that by these, I am bound to this land, to suffer and perhaps to die if need be.”
I have used him, Morgaine thought, as ruthlessly as ever Viviane did me. ...
He said, “I know it well—not once in a hundred years, now, is that old sacrifice exacted. Yet when these”— again he touched, with a brown fingertip, the serpents encircling his wrist—“were set here, it came to me that perhaps I should indeed be the one called by the Lady for that ancient sacrifice. In the years between, I had come to think of this as no more than a green boy’s fancy. But if I am to die ... ” and his voice faded, like the ripples in the dying pool. It was very still; they could hear some insect making a small dry noise in the grass. Morgaine spoke no word, though she could feel his fear. He must pass the barriers of fear unaided, even as had she ... or Arthur, or the Merlin, or any other facing that last testing. And if he was to face the final test he must go to it consenting.
At last he asked, “Is it exacted of me, then, lady, that I must die? I had thought—if blood sacrifice is demanded—then, when Avalloch fell prey to her . ..” and she saw the muscles in his face move; he tightened his jaw and swallowed hard. Still she said nothing, though her heart ached in pity. For some reason she heard Viviane’s voice in her mind, a time will come when you will hate me as much as you love me now ... and felt again the surge of love and pain. Still she hardened her heart; Accolon was older than Arthur had been when he faced his kingmaking. And while Avalloch had indeed been blood sacrifice, spilled to the Goddess, still another’s blood could not redeem any other, nor could Avalloch’s death free his brother of the obligation to face his own.
At last his breath went out in a harsh sigh. “So be it—I have faced death in battle often enough. I swore unto her, even to death, and I shall not be forsworn. Tell me her will, lady.”
Then at last she stretched out her hand and clasped his. “I do not think it is death that will be demanded of you, and certainly not the altar of sacrifice. Still, testing is needed; and death lies always near to the doors of such testing. Would it reassure you to know that I too have faced death this way? Yet I am here at your side. Tell me: are you sworn, man to man, to Arthur?”
“I am not one of his Companions,” Accolon said. “Uwaine you have seen sworn to him, but not I, though I have fought willingly enough among his men.”
Morgaine was glad, though she knew that she would even have used the oath of a Companion against Arthur now. “Listen to me, my dear,” she said. “Arthur has twice betrayed Avalon; and only from Avalon can a king reign over all this land. I have sought, again and again, to call to Arthur’s mind that oath he gave. But he will not hear me, and he holds still, in his pride, the holy sword Excalibur, the sword of the Sacred Regalia, and with it the magical scabbard I fashioned for him.”
She saw his face turn pale. “You mean it truly—that you will bring Arthur down?”
“Not so, not unless he refuses still to bring his oath to completion,” Morgaine said. “I shall give him, still, every opportunity to become what he has sworn to be. And Arthur’s son is not yet ripe to the challenge. You are no boy, Accolon, and you are trained to kingcraft, not Druid-craft, in spite of these—“ and she laid a slender fingertip on the serpents encircling his wrist. “Say then, Accolon of Wales, if all other shifts fail, will you be champion of Avalon, and challenge the betrayer for that sword he holds by betrayal?”
Accolon drew a long breath. “To challenge Arthur? Fitly did you ask, Morgaine, if I am ready to die,” he said. “And you speak to me in riddles. I knew not that Arthur had a son.”
“His son is son to Avalon and to the spring fires,” said Morgaine. She thought she had long outgrown shame for this—I am priestess, I need make no accounting to any man for what I must do—but she could not force herself to meet Accolon’s eyes. “Listen, and I will tell you all.”
He sat silent as she told him of the kingmaking on Dragon Island, and what had befallen after; but when she told how she had fled from Avalon and of Gwydion’s birth, he put out his hand and encircled her small fingers in his own.
“He has passed his own testing,” said Morgaine, “but he is young and untried: none thought that Arthur would betray his oath. Arthur was young too, but he came to his kingmaking when Uther was old and dying and men were seeking everywhere for a king of the Avalon line. Now Arthur’s star is high and his renown great, and even with all the powers of Avalon at his back, Gwydion could never challenge Arthur for his throne.”
“How is it that you think I can challenge Arthur and get the sword Excalibur from him and not be slain at once by his men?” said Accolon. “And there is nowhere in this world that I can challenge him where he goes not so guarded.”
“That is true,” Morgaine said, “but you need not challenge him in this world. There are other realms which are not within this world at all, and within one of these realms you may get from him the sword Excalibur, to which he has forfeited all shadow of right, and the magical scabbard which protects him from all harm. Once disarmed, he is no more than any other man. I have seen his Companions—Lancelet, Gawaine, Gareth—disarm him in play at their mock battles. Without his sword, Arthur is easy prey. He is not the greatest of warriors, nor, with that sword and scabbard, did he ever need to be. And Arthur once dead—“
She had to stop and steady her voice, knowing she incurred the curse of kin slayer, that same curse she had hesitated to bring on Accolon when Avalloch died.
“Arthur once dead,” she repeated firmly at last, “I am nearest his throne, and his sister. I shall rule as Lady of Avalon, and you as my consort and duke of war. True, in your time you too will be challenged and brought down as King Stag ... but before that day comes you shall have your day as King at my side.”
Accolon sighed. “I never thought to be King. But if you bid me, lady, I must do her will—and yours. Yet to challenge Arthur for his sword—“
“I did not mean that you shall do so without all the help I can give. For what else have I been schooled all these weary years in magic, and for what have I made you my priest? And there is one greater than I who shall help us both to your testing.”
“Speak you of those magical realms?” Accolon asked her, almost in a whisper. “I do not understand you.”
That surprises me not; I know not myself what I mean to do, nor what I say, Morgaine thought, but she recognized the strange dimness rising in her mind, clouding thought, as that state in which powerful magic was made. I must trust to the Goddess now, and let her lead me. Not I alone, but he who stands at my side, who will take up the sword from Arthur’s hand.
“Trust me, and obey.” She rose, moving through the woods on silent feet, looking for... what was she looking for? She asked, and heard her voice distant and strange, “Does hazelwood grow within this forest, Accolon?”
He nodded, and she followed him to the grove of trees, at this season just bursting into leaf and flower. The wild pigs who roamed here had eaten the last of the nuts; fragments of nut hulls lay scattered on the thick leaf mold of the forest floors. Yet new shoots were springing, too, toward the light, where new trees would rise, so that the life of the forest would never die.
Flower and fruits and seed. And all things return and grow and come to light and at the last give up their bodies into the keeping of the Lady again. But she who works, silently and alone, at the heart of nature, cannot work her magic without the strength of Him who runs with the deer and with the summer sun draws forth the richness of her womb. Beneath the hazel tree she looked across at Accolon, and while part of her mind was aware that this man was her lover, her chosen priest, she knew that now he had consented to a testing beyond what she alone could confer.
Before ever the Romans had come to these hills seeking for tin and lead, the hazel grove had been a sacred place. At the edge of the grove there was a pool, standing beneath three of the sacred trees, hazel and willow and alder—a magic older than the magic of the oak. The surface of the pool was somewhat obscured with dry sticks and leaves, but the water was clear and dark, brown with the clear brown of the forest, and she saw her own face reflected as she bent and dipped up the water in her hand, touching it to brow and lips. Before her eyes the reflected face shifted and changed, and she saw the strange deep eyes of the woman from that older world than this. And something in her crawled in terror at what she saw in those eyes.
The world had shifted subtly round them—she had believed this strange ancient land lay at the borders of Avalon, not here in the remote fastnesses of North Wales. Yet a voice said silently in her mind, I am everywhere, and where the hazel reflects in the sacred pool, there am I. She heard Accolon draw in a breath of wonder and awe, and turned to see that the lady of the fairy kingdom was with them, standing straight and silent in her shimmering garment, the crown of bare wicker-wither above her brow.
Was it she who spoke, or the lady?
There is other testing than the running of the deer ... and suddenly it was as if a horn rang out, far and eerie, through the hazel grove ... or was it the hazel grove? And then the leaves lifted and stirred, and there was the rushing of sudden winds, making the branches creak and sway, and a chill of fear rippled through Morgaine’s body and blood.
He is coming ...
Slowly, reluctant, she turned and saw that they were not alone in the grove. There at the edge between the worlds, he was standing ...
Never did she ask Accolon what it was that he saw ... she saw only the shadow of the antler crown, the bright leaves of gold and crimson where they stood in a wood gilded with the first buds of spring, the dark eyes ... once she had lain with him on a forest floor like this, but he had not come for her this time, and she knew it. Now she, and even the lady, must step aside. His step, light on the leaves, still somehow raised the wind that kept thrusting floods of air through the grove, so that her hair blew about on her forehead and she felt her cloak flapping with it. He was tall and dark, and he seemed at once to be clothed in the richest garments, and in leaves, and at the same time she would have taken oath that his flesh gleamed smooth and naked before them. He gestured, raising one slender hand, and as if compelled, Accolon moved slowly forward, step by step ... and at the same time it was Accolon that she could see crowned and robed with leaves and antlers, glimmering in the strange motionless light of fairy. Morgaine felt herself buffeted, struck and battered by the wind; in the grove, she knew, were forms and faces she could not clearly see; this testing was not for her, but for the man at her side. It seemed that there were cries and horn-calls; were the riders within the air, or did the beating of their hooves drum on the forest floor with this great noise that drowned out thought? She knew Accolon was no longer at her side. She stood clasping the bark of the hazel tree, her face hidden; she did not know, she would never know, it was not for her to know what form Accolon’s kingmaking should take ... that was not in her power to give or to know. She had invoked the powers of the Horned One through the Lady, and he had gone where she could not follow.
She never knew how long she stood there, clutching at the hazel bark, her brow pressed painfully against the bole of the tree ... and then the wind died and Accolon was with her. They stood together, alone in the hazel grove, hearing only the beat of thunder from a dark and cloudless sky where the sun’s rim glared like hot metal behind the moon’s dark eclipse disk, and the stars burned against the unfallen night. Accolon’s arm was around her. He whispered, “What is it, what is it?”
“It is the eclipse.” Her voice was steadier than she could have believed. She felt her heartbeat quieting to normal at the touch of his arms, warm and alive, holding her. The ground was quite steady under her feet again, the solid earth of the hazel grove, and when she looked down into the pool she saw fragments of broken boughs from the uncanny wind that had ravaged the grove. Somewhere a bird complained at the sudden dark, and at their feet a small pink piglet rooted in the dead leaf mold. Then the light began to steal so brightly that she saw the shadow passing away from the sun. She saw Accolon staring at the brightness and said sharply, “Turn away your eyes—you can be blinded now the darkness is gone!”
He swallowed and lowered his face to hers. His hair was awry with a wind that was not of this world, and clinging to his hair was a crimson leaf which made Morgaine shiver as they stood beneath the just unfolding buds of the hazel.
He said in a whisper, “He is gone ... and she ... or was it you? Morgaine, did it happen, was any of it real?”
Morgaine, looking into his dazzled face, saw something in his eyes, something that had never been there before—the touch of the nonhuman. She reached out and plucked the crimson leaf from his hair, holding it out to him. “You who bear the serpents ... need you question?”
“Ah—“ She saw the shudder run right through him. He struck the crimson leaf from her hand with a savage gesture, letting it fall silent to the forest floor, and said, with a gasp, “It seemed that I rode high above the world and saw such things as come never to mortal man ... ” and then he reached for her, with blind urgency tearing at her dress and pulling her down to the ground. She let him do as he would and lay stunned on the damp ground as he thrust blindly into her, driven by a force he hardly understood. It seemed to her, as she lay silent beneath that driving strength, that his face was shadowed again with antlers or with crimson leaves; she had no part in this, she was only the passive earth beneath rain and wind, thunder and lightning bolt, and it was as if the lightning struck through her into the earth beneath ...
Then the darkness receded and the strange stars shining forth by day were all gone, and Accolon’s hands, tender and apologetic, were helping her to rise, to arrange her disordered dress; he bent to kiss her, to stammer some half-explanation, some word of excuse, but she smiled and laid her hand across his lips. “No, no—it is enough—“ The grove was silent again, and around them were only the normal sounds of the quiet day.
She said calmly, “We must go back, my love. We will be missed, and everyone will be shouting and crying out about the eclipse, as if it were some strange marvel of nature ... ” and smiled faintly; she had seen something far stranger than an eclipse this day. Accolon’s hand was cold and solid in hers.
He whispered, as they walked, “I knew never that you ... you look like her, Morgaine ... .”
But I am she. However, Morgaine did not speak the words aloud. He was an initiate; he should have been better prepared, perhaps, for this testing. Yet he had faced it as he must, and he had been accepted by something beyond her own small powers.
Then cold struck at her heart and she turned to look at his smiling, beloved face. He had been accepted. But that did not mean he would triumph; it meant only that he might attempt the final testing for which this was only the beginning.
I felt not like this when as Spring Maiden I sent Arthur—whom I knew not to be Arthur—forth for his testing. Ah, Goddess, how young I was then, how young we both were ... mercifully young, for we knew not what we did. And now I am old enough to know what it is that I do, how shall I have courage to send him forth to face death?
On the eve of Pentecost, Arthur and his queen had bidden those guests with family ties to the throne to dine with them privately. Tomorrow would be the usual great banquet for all of Arthur’s subject kings and his Companions, but Gwenhwyfar, dressing herself carefully, felt that this would be the greater ordeal. She had long accepted the inevitable. Her husband and lord would by his act tomorrow make public and irrevocable what had long been known. Tomorrow, Galahad would be made knight and Companion of the Round Table. Oh, she had known it for years, yes, but then Galahad had been only a fair-haired little boy growing up somewhere in King Pellinore’s lands. When she had thought of it, she had even been pleased; Lancelet’s son, by her own cousin Elaine—now dead in childbed —was a reasonable heir for the King. But now she felt him a living reproach to an aging queen whose life had been without fruit.
“You are distressed,” said Arthur, watching her face as she set the coronet about her hair. “I am sorry, Gwenhwyfar—I thought it would be the way to get to know the lad, as I must if he is to have my throne. Shall I tell them that you are ill? You need not appear—you can meet him at some other time.”
Gwenhwyfar tightened her mouth. “As well now as later.”
He took her hand. “I do not see Lancelet very often anymore—it will be good to speak with him again.”
Her mouth moved in something she knew was not the smile she had intended. “I wonder you will have it so—do you not hate him?”
Arthur smiled uneasily. “We were all so much younger then. It seems as if it all was in another world, and Lance no more than my dearest and oldest friend, almost my brother, as much as Cai.”
“Cai is your brother too,” said Gwenhwyfar, “and his son Arthur is one of your most loyal knights. It seems to me that he would make a better heir than Galahad ... .”
“Young Arthur is a good man and a trusty Companion. But Cai’s blood is not royal. God knows, in all these years I have wished often enough that Ectorius had in truth been my own father... but he was not, and there’s an end of it, Gwen.” After a moment, hesitant—he had never spoken of this, not since that other dreadful Pentecost—he said, “I have heard that—the other lad, Morgaine’s son—is in Avalon.”
Gwenhwyfar put out a hand as if to avoid a blow. “No—!”
“I will arrange it so that you need never meet him,” he said, not looking at her, “but royal blood is royal blood and something must be done for him. He cannot have my throne, the priests would not have it—“
“Oh,” said Gwenhwyfar, “and if the priests would have it, I suppose you would proclaim Morgaine’s son your heir—“
“There will be those who wonder that he is not,” said Arthur. “Would you have me try to explain it to them?”
“Then you should keep him far from the court,” said Gwenhwyfar, thinking, I did not know my voice was so harsh when I was angry. “What place at this court has one who has been reared in Avalon as a Druid?”
He said dryly, “The Merlin of Britain is one of my councillors and has always been so, Gwen. Those who look to Avalon are always my subjects too. It is written: Other sheep have I which are not of this fold. ...”
“A blasphemous jest,” Gwenhwyfar observed, making her voice gentler, “and hardly suitable for the eve of Pentecost—“
Arthur said, “Before Pentecost there was always Midsummer, my love. At least, now there are no Midsummer fires lighted, not even on Dragon Island, or, so far as I know, anywhere within three days’ ride of Camelot —except on Avalon itself.”
“The priests have set wards on Glastonbury Island, I am sure,” said Gwenhwyfar, “so that there shall be no coming and going from that land ... .”
“It would be a sad day if it should be lost forever,” Arthur said. “As it is sad for the peasant folk to lose their own festivals... town folk, perhaps, have no need of the old rites. Oh yes, I know, there is only one name under Heaven by which we may be saved, but perhaps those who live in such close kinship with the earth need something more than salvation ... .”
Gwenhwyfar started to speak, then held her peace. Kevin was no more than a misshapen old cripple, and a Druid, and the day of the Druids now seemed to her as far away as the time of the Romans. And even Kevin was less known at court as the Merlin of Britain than as a superb harper. The priests did not hold him in reverence as a good and kindly man, as once with Taliesin; Kevin’s tongue was quick and ungentle in debate. Yet Kevin’s knowledge of all the old ways and the common law was greater even than Arthur’s, and Arthur had come into the way of turning to him when it was a question of old law and custom which could not be set aside.
“If this were not so strictly a family party, I would command that the Merlin perform for us tonight.”
Arthur smiled and said, “I can send to ask of him, if you will, but such music as his is not to be commanded, even by a king. I can bid him dine at our table, and beg him to honor us with a song.”
She smiled back and said, “So the King begs of a subject, rather than the other way around?”
“There must be a balance in all things,” he said. “It is one of the things I have learned in my rule—in some matters, a king cannot command but must sue. Perhaps that was why the Caesars fell, because they fell into what my tutor used to call hubris, thinking they could command outside the legitimate sphere of a king... . Well, my lady, our guests are waiting. Are you sufficiently beautiful?”
She said, “You are making fun of me again. You know how old I am.”
“You are scarcely older than I,” said Arthur, “and my chamberlain tells me I am a handsome man still.”
“Oh, but that is different. Men do not age as women do.” She looked at his face, which was only faintly lined with the years—a man in the prime of his life.
He said, taking her hand, “It would little beseem me to have a maiden at my side for my queen. You are suited to me.” They moved toward the door; the chamberlain approached and spoke in a low voice, and Arthur turned to Gwenhwyfar. “There will be other guests at our table. Gawaine sent word that his mother has come, and so we cannot but invite Lamorak as well, since he is her consort and travelling companion,” said Arthur. “I have not seen Morgause in many years, God knows, but she is my kinswoman too. And King Uriens and Morgaine with their sons ... ”
“Then it will be a family party indeed.”
“Yes, with Gareth and Gawaine—Gaheris is in Cornwall and Agravaine could not leave Lothian,” said Arthur, and Gwenhwyfar felt pricked with an old grievance ... Lot of Lothian had so many sons. “Well, my dear, our guests are assembled in the little hall. Shall we go down to them?”
The great hall of the Round Table was Arthur’s domain—a man’s place, where warriors and kings met. But the little hall with the hangings she had ordered from Gaul and the trestle tables and benches—that was where Gwenhwyfar felt most a queen. She was growing daily more shortsighted; at first, though there was still plenty of light, she saw only stripes of color from the ladies’ gowns and the brilliant indoor robes worn by the men. That huge figure there, well over six feet with a great shock of sandy hair, that was Gawaine—he came to bow before the King and then, rising, to embrace his cousin in a great bear hug. Gareth followed him, more modestly, and Cai came to clap Gareth on the shoulder, to call him Handsome in the old way, and to ask after his brood of children, still too young to come to court—the lady Lionors was, he said, still abed after their latest, and had stayed in their castle northward by the Roman wall. Was that eight now, or nine? Gwenhwyfar had seen the lady Lionors only twice, because always, according to Gareth, she was breeding or lying-in or still suckling her latest. Gareth was no longer pretty-faced, but good-looking as ever, and as Arthur and Gawaine and Gareth grew older, the resemblance between them all grew ever stronger. Now Gareth was being embraced by a slender man with dark curling hair streaked with grey, and Gwenhwyfar bit her lip; Lancelet changed not at all with the years, save to grow yet more handsome.
Uriens had none of that magical immunity to time. He looked at last really old, though he was still upright and strong. His hair was all white, and she heard him explaining to Arthur that he had but recently recovered from the lung fever, and had that spring buried his oldest son, savaged by a wild pig.
Arthur said, “So you will be King of North Wales one day, sir Accolon? Well, so it shall be—Ood giveth and taketh, so it says in Holy Writ.”
Uriens would have bent to kiss Gwenhwyfar’s hand, but she leaned instead to kiss the old man on the cheek. He was foppishly dressed in green, with a handsome cloak of green and brown.
“Our queen grows ever younger,” he said, smiling with good humor. “One would think you had dwelled in the fairy country, kinswoman.”
Gwenhwyfar laughed. “Perhaps I should paint lines in my face then, lest the bishops and priests think I have learned spells unseemly for a Christian woman—but such jesting is uncanny on the eve of a holy day. Well, Morgaine”—for once she could greet her sister-in-law with a jest— “you seem younger than I, and I know you are older. What is your magic?”
“No magic,” said Morgaine in her rich low voice. “It is only that there is so little to occupy my mind, in that country at the end of the world, that it seems to me that time does not pass there, and so, perhaps, that is why I grow no older.”
Now she looked closer, Gwenhwyfar could indeed see the small traces of time in Morgaine’s face; her skin was still smooth and unmarred, but there were tiny creases around her eyes and the eyelids drooped a little. The hand she gave Gwenhwyfar was thin and bony, so that her rings hung loose. Gwenhwyfar thought, Morgaine is at least five years older than I. And suddenly it seemed to her that they were not women in middle life, but those two young girls who had met in Avalon.
Lancelet had come first to greet Morgaine. Gwenhwyfar would not have believed that she could still be torn with this raging passion of jealousy ... now Elaine is gone ... and Morgaine’s husband is so old he surely cannot look to see another Christmas. She heard Lancelet speak some laughing compliment, heard Morgaine’s low sweet laughter.
But she does not look at Lancelet like a lover ... her eyes turn to Prince Accolon—he is a goodly man too ... well, her husband is more than twice her age ... and Gwenhwyfar felt a stab of self-righteous disapproval.
“We should go to table,” she said, beckoning to Cai. “Galahad must go at midnight to watch by his arms; and perhaps, like many young men, he would like to rest a little beforehand so he will not be sleepy—“
“I shall not be sleepy, lady,” the young man said, and Gwenhwyfar felt again the pain. She would so gladly have had this fair young man as her son. He was tall now, broad-shouldered and big as Lancelet had never been. His face seemed to shine with scrubbing and with a calm happiness. “This is all so new to me—Camelot is such a beautiful city, I can hardly believe it is real! And I rode here with my father—all my life my mother spoke of him as if he were a king or a saint, quite beyond mortal men.”
Morgaine said, “Oh, Lancelet is mortal enough, Galahad, and if you come to know him well enough, you will know it too.”
Galahad bowed politely to Morgaine. He said, “I remember you. You came and took Nimue from us, and my mother wept—is my sister well, lady?”
“I have not seen her for some years,” Morgaine said, “but if it was not well with her, I would have heard.”
“I remember only that I was angry with you for telling me I was wrong about everything—you seemed very certain, and my mother—“
“No doubt your mother told you I am an evil sorceress.” She smiled —smug as a cat, Gwenhwyfar thought—at the transparent blush that covered Galahad’s face. “Well, Galahad, you are not the first to think me so.” She smiled to Accolon too, who returned the smile so openly that Gwenhwyfar was shocked.
Galahad said bluntly, “And are you a sorceress, then, lady?”
“Well,” said Morgaine, with that cat-claw smile again, “no doubt your mother had reason to think me so. Since now she is gone, I may tell you all—Lancelet, did Elaine never tell you how she begged and besought me for a charm that would turn your eyes on her?”
Lancelet turned to Morgaine, and it seemed to Gwenhwyfar that his face was stricken, tight with pain. “Why make jests about days that are long gone, kinswoman?”
“Oh, but I jest not,” said Morgaine, and for a moment she raised her eyes to meet Gwenhwyfar’s. “I thought it time you stopped breaking hearts all through the kingdoms of Britain and Gaul. So I made that marriage, and I do not regret it, for now you have a fine son who is heir to my brother’s kingdom. If I had not meddled, you would have remained unwed, and still be breaking all our hearts—would he not, Gwen?” she added audaciously.
I knew it. But I did not know Morgaine would confess it so openly ... . But Gwenhwyfar took a queen’s privilege to change the subject. “How does my namesake, your little Gwenhwyfar?”
“She is pledged in marriage to Lionel’s son,” Lancelet said, “and will be Queen of Less Britain, one day. The priest said the kinship was overdose but a dispensation could be had—I paid a great fee to the church for that to be set aside, and Lionel paid one, too—the girl is but nine and the wedding will not be for another six years.”
“And your elder daughter?” asked Arthur.
“Sire, she is in a nunnery,” Lancelet said.
“Is that what Elaine told you?” Morgaine asked, and again there was the flash of malice in her eyes. “She is in your own mother’s place in Avalon, Lancelet. Did you not know?”
He said peacefully, “It is all one. The priestesses of the House of Maidens are much like to the nuns of holy church, living lives of chastity and prayer, and serving God in their own way.” He turned quickly to Queen Morgause, who was approaching them. “Well, Aunt, I cannot say you are unchanged by time, but the years have treated you kindly indeed.”
She looks so like Igraine! I have heard only the jests and have laughed at her, but now I can well believe that young Lamorak is beglamoured by her for love and not ambition! Morgause was a big woman, and tall, her hair was still rich and red, flowing in loose braids, over her green gown—a vast expanse of brocaded silk, embroidered with pearls and golden threads. A narrow coronet set with shining topaz twinkled in her hair. Gwenhwyfar held out her arms and embraced her kinswoman, saying, “You look much like Igraine, Queen Morgause. I loved her well, and still I think often of her.”
“When I was younger that statement would have had me frantic with jealousy, Gwenhwyfar—I was maddened that my sister Igraine was more beautiful than I, and had so many kings and lords at her feet. Now I remember only that she was beautiful and kind, and I am glad to know I resemble her still.” She turned to embrace Morgaine, and Gwenhwyfar saw that Morgaine was lost in the bigger woman’s embrace, that Morgause towered over her ... . Why did I ever fear Morgaine? She is just a little thing after all, and the queen of an unregarded kingdom ... . Morgaine’s dress was a simple dark wool, and she wore no ornament but a silver torque about her throat and some kind of silver bracelet about her arms. Her hair, dark and rich as ever, was simply braided and wound around her head.
Ardiur had come up to embrace his sister and his aunt. Gwenhwyfar took Galahad’s hand in hers. “You shall sit by me, kinsman.” Ah, yes, this was the son I should have borne to Lancelet—or to Arthur ... . She said, as they sat down, “And now you have come to know your father, have you discovered, as Morgaine said, that he is no saint but merely a very lovable man?”
“Ah, but what else is a saint?” asked Galahad, his eyes shining. “I cannot think of him as only a man, lady, he is surely more than that. He is the son of a king too, and I am sure that if they chose the best rather than the eldest son, he would reign in Less Britain. I think that man is happy whose father is also his hero,” he said. “I had some time to speak with Gawaine—he despised his father and thought little of him, but no man has ever spoken of my father save with admiration!”
“I hope, then, that you see him always as a hero untarnished,” said Gwenhwyfar. She had placed Galahad between herself and Arthur, as befitted the adopted heir to the kingdom; Arthur had chosen to seat Queen Morgause next to him, with Gawaine beyond, and next to him, Uwaine, who was Gawaine’s friend and protege, as Gareth had been Lancelet’s when they were younger.
At the table next to them were Morgaine and her husband, and other guests; they were all kin, but she could not see their faces clearly. She craned her neck and squinted to see, reproving herself—squinting would make her ugly—and rubbed at the right wrinkle beneath her brows. She wondered suddenly whereby her old fear of open spaces when she was a girl had simply come from being so shortsighted? Had she feared what the world was like only because she could not really see?
She asked Arthur across Galahad, who was eating with the hearty appetite of a healthy boy still growing, “Did you bid Kevin dine with us?”
“Aye, but he sent a message that he could not come. Since he could not be in Avalon, perhaps he keeps the holy day in his own fashion. I bid Bishop Patricias as well, but he keeps the vigil of Pentecost in the church —he will see you there at midnight, Galahad.”
“I think that being made a king must be a little like being made a priest,” said Galahad clearly; there was a lull in the conversation that made his young voice audible from one end of the table to another. “They are both sworn to serve man and God and to do what is right—“
Gareth said, “I felt something like that, lad. God grant you see it always so.”
“I have always wanted my Companions to be men dedicated to the right.” said Arthur. “I do not demand that they be godly men, Galahad, but I have hoped they would be good men.”
Lancelet said to Arthur, “Perhaps these youngsters may live in a world where it is easier to be good,” and it seemed to Gwenhwyfar that he sounded sad.
“But you are good, Father,” said Galahad. “All up and down this land it is told that you are King Arthur’s greatest knight.”
Lancelet chuckled, embarrassed. “Aye—like that Saxon hero who tore the arm from the Lake monster. My works and deeds have been made into song because the true tale is not exciting enough to tell by the fireside in winter.”
“But you did slay a dragon, did you not?” Galahad said.
“Oh, yes—and it was a fearful beast enough, I suppose. But your grandsire did as much as I in killing it,” said Lancelet. “Gwenhwyfar, my lady, we dine never so well as at your table—“
“Too well,” said Arthur cheerfully, patting his middle. “If feasts like this came often, I would be as fat as one of those beer-guzzling Saxon kings. And tomorrow is Pentecost, and another feast for even more folk—I do not know how my lady does it!”
Gwenhwyfar felt a small glow of pride. “This feast is mine, that of tomorrow is sir Cai’s pride—for that one the beeves are already roasting in their pit. My lord Uriens, you are eating no meat ... ”
Uriens shook his head. “A wing of one of those birds, perhaps. Since my son was slain, I have vowed never again to eat the flesh of swine.”
“And your queen shares your vow?” said Arthur. “As always, Mor-gaine is all but fasting—no wonder you are so small and spare, my sister!”
“It is no hardship for me not to eat swine’s flesh.”
“Is your voice sweet as ever, my sister? Since Kevin could not join us, perhaps you would sing or play—“
“If you had told me you wished it, I would not have eaten so well. I cannot sing now. Later, perhaps.”
“Then you, Lancelet,” Arthur said.
Lancelet shrugged and gestured to a servant to bring the harp. “Kevin will sing this tomorrow—I am no match for him. I made the words from a Saxon poet. I said once I could live with the Saxons, but not with what they called music. Then, when I dwelt among them last year, I heard this song and wept when I heard it, and tried in my poor way to put it into our tongue.” He left his seat to take the small harp. “It is for you, my king,” he said, “for it speaks of what sorrow I knew when I dwelt far from court and from my lord—but the music is Saxon. I had thought, before this, that all their songs were of war and battle and fighting.”
He began to play a soft, sorrowful melody; his fingers were not as skillful as those of Kevin, but the sad song had a power of its own, which gradually quieted them. He sang, in the husky voice of an untrained singer:
“What sorrow is like to the sorrow of one who is alone?
Once I dwelt in the company of the king I loved well,
And my arm was heavy with the weight of the rings he gave,
And my heart weighed down with the gold of his love.
The face of the king is like the sun to those who surround him,
But now my heart is empty
And I wander alone throughout the world.
The groves take on their blossoms,
The trees and meadows grow fair,
But the cuckoo, saddest of singers,
Cries forth the lonely sorrow of the exile,
And now my heart goes wandering,
In search of what I shall never see more;
All faces are alike to me if I cannot see the face of my king,
And all countries are alike to me
When I cannot see the fair fields and meadows of my home.
So I shall arise and follow my heart in its wandering
For what is the fair meadow of home to me
When I cannot see the face of my king
And the weight on my arm is but a band of gold
When the heart is empty of the weight of love.
And so I shall go roaming
Over the fishes’ road
And the road of the great whale
And beyond the country of the wave
With none to bear me company
But the memory of those I loved
And the songs I sang out of a full heart,
And the cuckoo’s cry in memory.
GWENHWYFAR BENT HER HEAD to hide tears. Arthur’s head was lowered, his eyes covered by his hand. Morgaine was staring straight ahead and Gwenhwyfar could see the stripes of tears making wet streaks down her face. Arthur rose and came around the table; he put his arms round Lancelet and said in a voice that was not steady, “But you are again with your king and your friend, Galahad.”
The old bitterness stabbed at Gwenhwyfar’s heart. He sang of his king, not of his queen and his love. His love for me was never more than a part of his love for Arthur. She closed her eyes, unwilling to see them embrace.
“That was beautiful,” said Morgause softly. “Who would ever think that a Saxon brute could write music like that—it must have been Lancelet, after all—“
Lancelet shook his head. “The music is theirs. And the words only a poor echo of their own ... .”
A voice that was like an echo of Lancelet’s said gently, “But there are poets and musicians among the Saxons, as well as warriors, my lady,” and Gwenhwyfar turned toward the voice. A young man in dark clothing, slender, dark-haired, a blur beyond her sight; but the voice, accented softly with the tones of the North country, still sounded like Lancelet’s, the very pitch and timbre of his.
Arthur beckoned him forward. “There sits one at my table I do not know—and at a family party, that is not right. Queen Morgause—?”
She stood up in her place. “I had meant to present him to you before we went to table, but you were busy talking with old friends, my king. This is Morgaine’s son, who was fostered at my court—Gwydion.”
The youth came forward and bowed. “King Arthur,” he said, in the warm voice that was like an echo of Lancelet’s. For a moment a dizzied joy struck through Gwenhwyfar; this was Lancelet’s son, surely, not Arthur’s —and then she recalled that Morgaine’s aunt, Viviane, was Lancelet’s mother too.
Arthur embraced the youth. He said, in a voice too shaken to be audible three yards distant, “The son of my dearly beloved sister shall be received as a son at my own court, Gwydion. Come and sit beside me, lad.”
Gwenhwyfar looked at Morgaine. She had spots of crimson on her cheek, as bright as if they were painted, and she was worrying her lower lip between her small, sharp teeth. Had Morgause not prepared her, then, to see her son presented to his father—no, to the King, Gwenhwyfar reminded herself sharply; there was no reason to think the boy had any idea who his father was. Though if he had ever looked in a mirror, no doubt he would come to believe, whatever anyone might say, that he was Lancelet’s son.
Not a boy, after all. He must be near enough to five-and-twenty; he was a man.
“Your cousin, Galahad,” Arthur said, and Galahad impulsively put out his hand.
“You are closer kin to the King than I, cousin—you have a better right than I to be where I am now,” he said, with boyish spontaneity. “I wonder you don’t hate me!”
Gwydion smiled and said, “How do you know I do not, cousin?” and for a moment Gwenhwyfar was jolted, until she saw the smile. Yes, he was Morgaine’s son, he had the cat-smile she could show sometimes! Galahad blinked, then decided the words were meant as a jest. Gwenhwyfar could follow Galahad’s transparent thoughts—Is this my father’s son, is Gwydion my bastard brother by Queen Morgaine? He looked hurt, too, like a puppy whose playful proffer of friendship has been rebuffed.
“No, cousin,” Gwydion said, “what you are thinking is not true.” Gwenhwyfar thought, her breath catching in her throat, that he even had Lancelet’s sudden breathtaking smile that transformed a rather dark and somber face into an overwhelming brilliance, as if a ray of sun had come out and transformed it.
Galahad said defensively, “I was not—I did not—“
“No,” said Gwydion, kindly, “you did not say anything, but it is all too obvious what you are thinking, and what everyone in this room must be thinking.” He raised his voice, just a little, that voice so like Lancelet’s, although overlaid with the soft North-country accent: “In Avalon, cousin, we take our lineage from the line of the mother. I am of the old royal line of Avalon, and that is quite enough for me. It would be arrogance for any man to claim to be father to the child of a High Priestess of Avalon. But of course, like most men, I would like to know who fathered me, and what you thought has been said before—that I am the son of Lancelot. That likeness has been remarked upon before this—especially among the Saxons where I spent three years learning to be a warrior,” he added. “Your reputation among them, lord Lancelet, is still much remembered there! I could not count how many men said to me that it was no disgrace to be the bastard son of a man like you, sir!” His low chuckle was like an eerie echo of the man he faced, and Lancelet looked uneasy too. “But in the end I always had to tell them that what they thought was not true. Of all the men in this kingdom who could have fathered me, one I know is not my father. And so, I must inform them that it is only a family likeness, no more. I am your cousin, Galahad, not your brother.” He leaned lazily back in his chair. “Will it embarrass you too much—that everyone who sees us will think so? After all, we cannot go around telling everyone the truth!”
Galahad looked confused. “I would not have minded if you were truly my brother, Gwydion.”
“But then I should have been your father’s son and perhaps the King’s heir, too,” Gwydion said, and smiled—and it struck Gwenhwyfar suddenly that he actually took pleasure in the discomfort of the people around the table; that he was Morgaine’s son, if only in that touch of malice.
Morgaine said, in that low voice which carried so clearly without being loud, “It would not have been displeasing to me, either, if Lancelet had fathered you, Gwydion.”
“No, I suppose not, lady,” Gwydion said. “Forgive me, lady Morgaine. Always I have called Queen Morgause my mother—“
Morgaine laughed. “If I seem an unlikely mother to you, Gwydion, you seem just as unlikely a son to me. I am grateful for this family party, Gwenhwyfar,” she said. “I might have been confronted with my son tomorrow at the great feast, without warning.”
Uriens said, “I think any woman would be proud of such a son, and as to your father, whoever he may have been, young Gwydion, it is his own loss that he did not claim you for his own.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Gwydion said, and Gwenhwyfar thought, watching the small flicker of his eyes toward Arthur, He may say for some reason that he does not know who is his father, but he is lying. Somehow that made her uncomfortable. Yet how much more uncomfortable it would be if he were to face Arthur and demand to know why he, the son, was not also the heir.
Avalon, that accursed place! She wished it would sink into the sea like the lost land of Ys in the old tale, and never be heard of again!
“But this is Galahad’s special night,” Gwydion said, “and I am taking attention away from him. Are you to watch by your arms this night, cousin?”
Galahad nodded. “It is the custom for Arthur’s Companions.”
“I was the first,” Gareth said, “and it is a good custom. I suppose it is the nearest a layman can come to being a priest, to take vows that he will always serve his king and his land and his God with his arms.” He laughed and said, “What a fool of a boy I was—my lord Arthur, have you ever forgiven me, that I refused your offer to knight me with your own hands, and instead asked that Lancelet might do so?”
“Forgiven you, lad? I envied you,” Arthur said, smiling. “Do you think I did not know Lancelet was the greater warrior of us two?”
Cai spoke for the first time, his somber scarred face twisting in a smile. “I told die lad then that he was a good fighter and would make a good knight, but he was certainly no courtier!”
“And so much the better,” said Arthur heartily. “God knows I had enough of those!” He added, leaning forward, speaking directly to Galahad, “Would you prefer that your father should knight you, Galahad? He has knighted enough of my Companions ... .”
The boy bowed his head. “Sir, it is for my king to say. But it seems to me that this knighthood comes from God and it does not matter who bestows it. I—I do not mean that quite as it sounds, sir—I mean, the vow is made to you, but mostly to God—“
Arthur nodded, slowly. “I know what you mean, my boy. It is much the same with a king—he vows to rule over his people, but the vow is given not to the people but to God—“
“Or,” said Morgaine, “to the Goddess, in her name, as token of the land the king shall rule.” She looked directly at Arthur as she spoke and he shifted his eyes, and Gwenhwyfar bit her lip ... Morgaine reminding Arthur again dial his allegiance had been given to Avalon—damn her! But that was past and Arthur was a Christian king ... under no authority but that of God.
“We will all be praying for you, Galahad, that you make a good knight, and that one day, you will make a good king,” said Gwenhwyfar.
“So, as you make your vows, Galahad,” said Gwydion, “you are making, in some form, the same kind of Sacred Marriage to the land that the King used to make in the old days. But you will not, perhaps, be so hard tested.”
The color rose in the younger boy’s face. “My lord Arthur came to the throne proved in battle, cousin, but there is no way I can now be so tested.”
“I could think of a way,” said Morgaine softly, “and if you are to rule over Avalon as well as the Christian lands, one day you must come to that, too, Galahad.”
He set his mouth firmly. “May that time be far—surely, my lord, you will live many, many years—and by then all those old folk who still believe they must give allegiance to the pagan ways will have gone.”
“I trust not,” said Accolon, speaking up for the first time in that company. “The sacred groves still stand, and in them, the old ways are done as they have been done from the beginning of the world. We do not anger the Goddess by denying her worship, lest she turn upon her people and blight the harvests and darken the very sun that gives us life.”
Galahad was startled. “But this is a Christian land! Have no priests come to you to show you that the evil old Gods among whom the Devil had sway have no more power now? Bishop Patricius has told me that all the sacred groves have been cut down!”
“Not so,” said Accolon, “nor will be while my father lives, or I after him.”
Morgaine opened her mouth to speak, but Gwenhwyfar saw Accolon lay his hand on her wrist. She smiled at him and said nothing. It was Gwydion who said, “Nor yet in Avalon, while the Goddess lives. Kings come and kings go, but the Goddess shall endure forever.”
What pity, Gwenhwyfar thought, that this handsome young man should be a pagan! Well, Galahad is a good and pious Christian knight, who will make a Christianfang! But as she reassured herself with that thought, a faint shiver went through her.
As if Gwenhwyfar’s thoughts disturbed him, Arthur leaned forward to Gwydion, and his face was troubled. “Have you come to court to be one of my Companions, Gwydion? I need not tell you that the son of my sister is welcome among my knights.”
“I admit I brought him here for that,” said Morgause, “but I did not know that this was Galahad’s great ceremonial. I would not steal the luster from this occasion. Surely another time will do as well for that.”
Galahad said ingenuously, “I would not mind sharing my vigil and vows with my cousin.”
Gwydion laughed. “You are too generous, kinsman,” he said, “but you know little of kingcraft. The King’s heir must be proclaimed without any to share that moment. If Arthur should knight us both at the same time, and I am so much the older, and resemble Lancelet so much more—well, there is gossip enough about my parentage; it should not shadow your knighthood as well. Nor,” he added, laughing, “my own.”
Morgaine shrugged. “They will gossip about the King’s kin, whether or no, Gwydion. Let them have some morsel to chew on!”
“Yet another thing,” Gwydion said lightly. “I have no intent ever to watch by my arms in any Christian church. I am of Avalon. If Arthur will admit me among his Companions for what I am, that will be well, and if not, that too will be well.”
Uriens raised his knotty old arms so that the faded serpents could be seen. “I sit at the Round Table with no such Christian vow, step-son.”
“Nor I,” said Gawaine. “We won our knighthoods, all of us who fought in those days, and needed no such ceremonial. Some of us would have been hard put to it, had knighthood been fenced about by such courtly vows as now.”
“Even I,” Lancelet said, “would be somewhat reluctant to take such vows, such a sinful man as I am. But I am Arthur’s man for life or death, and he knows it.”
“God forbid I should ever doubt it,” said Arthur, smiling with deep affection at his old friend. “You and Gawaine are the very pillars of my kingdom. If I should ever lose either of you, I think my throne would split and fall from the very top of Camelot!”
He raised his head as a door opened at the far end of the hall, and a priest in white robes, with two young men dressed in white, came in. Galahad rose, eagerly. “By your leave, my lord—“
Arthur rose too, and embraced his heir. “Bless you, Galahad. Go to keep your vigil.”
The boy bowed and turned to embrace his father; Gwenhwyfar could not hear what Lancelet said to him. She reached out her hand and Galahad bent to kiss it. “Give me your blessing, lady.”
“Always, Galahad,” Gwenhwyfar said, and Arthur added, “We will see you to the church. You must keep your vigil alone, but we will come a little way with you.”
“You do me too much honor, my king. Did you not keep vigil when you were crowned?”
“He did indeed,” said Morgaine, smiling, “but it was far other than this.”
AS THE WHOLE PARTY MOVED toward the church, Gwydion dropped back until he was walking at Morgaine’s side. She looked up at her son—he was not as tall as Arthur, who had the height of the Pendragons, but at her side he seemed tall.
“I had not expected to see you here, Gwydion.”
“I had not expected to be here, madam.”
“I heard that you had been fighting in this war, among Arthur’s Saxon allies. I knew not that you were a warrior,”
He shrugged. “You have had little opportunity to know much of me, lady.”
Abruptly, not knowing what she was going to say until she heard herself saying it, she asked, “Do you hate me that I abandoned you, my son?”
He hesitated. “Perhaps—for a time when I was young,” he said at last. “But I am a child of the Goddess, and this forced me to be so in truth, that I could look to no earthly parents. I bear you no grudge now, Lady of the Lake,” he said.
For a moment the path blurred around her; it was as if the young Lancelet stood at her side ... her son steadied her gently with his arm.
“Take care, the path here is not smooth—“
She asked, “How is it with all in Avalon?”
“Niniane is well,” he said. “I have few ties with any other there, not now.”
“Have you seen Galahad’s sister there, the maiden called Nimue?” She frowned, trying to remember how old Nimue would be now. Galahad was sixteen—Nimue would be at least fourteen, almost grown.
“I know her not,” said Gwydion. “The old priestess of the oracles— Raven, is it?—has taken her into the silence and into seclusion. No man may look upon her face.”
I wonder why Raven did that? A sudden shudder went through her, but she said only, “How does Raven, then? Is she well?”
“I have not heard that she was otherwise,” said Gwydion, “though when I last saw her at the rites she seemed older than the very oaks. Still, her voice was sweet and young. But I have never had private speech from her.”
Morgaine said, “Nor has any man living, Gwydion, and few women. Twelve years I spent there as a maiden, and I heard her voice but half a dozen times.” She did not wish to speak or to think of Avalon and said, trying to keep her voice commonplace, “So you have had battle experience with the Saxons?”
“True, and in Brittany—I spent some time at Lionel’s court. Lionel thought me Lancelet’s son and would have had me call him Uncle and I told him nothing contrary. It will do Lancelet no harm to be thought capable of fathering a bastard or so. And, even as with the good Lancelet, the Saxons around Ceardig gave me a name. Elf-arrow they called him—any man who accomplishes anything gets a name from those folk. Mordred, they called me —it means in our tongue something like to ‘Deadly counsel’ or even ‘Evil counsel,’ and I think not that they meant it as compliment!”
“It takes not much craft in counsel to be wilier than a Saxon,” she said, “but tell me, then, what prompted you to come hare before the time I had chosen?”
Gwydion shrugged. “I felt I might well see my rival.”
Morgaine glanced fearfully around her. “Say that not aloud!”
“I have no reason to fear Galahad,” he said quietly. “He looks not to me like one who will live long enough to rule.”
“Is that the Sight?”
“I need not the Sight to tell me it would take one stronger than Galahad to sit on the throne of the Pendragon,” Gwydion said. “But if it will ease your mind, lady, I will swear to you by the Sacred Well, Galahad will not die by my hand. Nor,” he added after a moment, seeing her shiver, “by yours. If the Goddess does not want him on the throne of the new Avalon, I think we may leave it to her.”
He laid his hand for a moment on Morgaine’s; gentle as the touch was, she shivered again.
“Come,” he said, and it seemed to Morgaine that his voice was as compassionate as a priest’s giving absolution. “Let us go and see my cousin to his arms. It is not right that anything should spoil this great moment of his life. He may not have many more.”